The Empire Stone (29 page)

Yasin broke off, raked the back of his hand across the strings, laughed harshly. There’d been a stir when Yasin began the song: Peirol’d seen two men at a table near the door get up and leave.

Yasin sang a dozen other songs somewhat listlessly, ending to scattered applause. He came back to the table. “There,” he said. “I suppose that’s done it. Tonight I am drunk enough not to give a shit about the Men of Lysyth. Now, do you want me to show you where the Empire Stone is hidden?”

• • •

“At least,” Yasin said as they came into the clean night air, “it’s a nice walk to where the Stone’s hidden, and no strain on the heart. I found out where it is from that certain old man. I wasn’t supposed to learn that secret, or any of the others of the Order, until I’d grown gray in its service, and knew nothing else and wanted nothing else.”

Strangely, his drunkenness had vanished as he left the tavern.

“We’ll just stroll along, and I’ll point things out,” Yasin said, “and you’ll curse yourself for being a thickheaded foreigner, not realizing where it was all the time, and then you can buy nie another — ”

They swarmed in from the night. Peirol had time to pull his pistol and fire it into the mass; a man yelped, went down. Someone knocked him rolling, and when he came up the pistol was gone, but he had his dagger in one hand. A man swung with a broadsword, and Peirol went under the blade, put his knife up into his heart, danced free as he fell.

He heard Yasin whoop, and a man went down.

A mist that he later remembered as red, but it couldn’t have been, came across his eyes. He headbutted another attacker, had a free moment, and drew his sword. He feinted with the blade, drove his dagger into his opponent’s groin, found the scream like music. Someone shouted in anguish and there was a man there, sword pulled back for a killing stroke, back to Peirol. Peirol spitted him through the back of the neck. The man spun, pulling the sword from Peirol’s hand, and the dwarf saw the reddened blade sticking out of the man’s mouth as he went down.

Someone cut at Peirol, took him in the arm, but it was a superficial wound, and he ducked around another attacker, pushed him into the first. The two stumbled back, and Peirol cut the first’s throat, grabbed a pistol from the man’s belt, and shot the second man in the face.

He saw another pistol on the ground, had it, and there was another man coming at him, a man bleeding, breathing hard. Peirol pulled the serpentine and the weapon fizzed, misfiring on damp powder. A blade burned through his thigh. He yelled in pain, reflexively struck with the haft of his knife, thumbed the man’s eye, and he roiled back. Peirol killed him with his dagger, scooped his sword from the ground, not knowing how he knew it to be his, and there was no one left to kill. He heard the footsteps of men, more than one, running away.

Peirol saw Yasin lying on the ground, a broken sword blade in his chest. The dwarf picked up an unfired pistol, held it ready as he knelt over the singer.

“Fughpigs,” Yasin moaned. “Should’ve known they would’ve been watching.”

Peirol wondered whose set of fughpigs it’d been.

“I’ll wager,” Yasin said, breathing hard, “you being a bright dwarf, educated and all, you’ll figure out — ”

He was quietly dead. Peirol got to his feet. He was swallowing hard. He found his pistol, reloaded it, found another, still charged, looked around at the corpses.

One — he supposed the man he’d shot when the fray began, since he was a distance from the corpse-scatter — wore a brown habit. Your fughpigs, not mine, he thought. But there were two others he saw, well dressed for back-alley thugs, and he wondered once more. Maybe the fughpigs teamed up.

Yes, he thought. Yes, Yasin. I
have
figured out where the Empire Stone is. Now all I have to do is steal it before they kill me.

The oldest godsdamned trick in the book, Peirol thought, staring up at the octagonal brown stone tower commemorating the Battle and Order of Lysyth. Hide something in plain sight. Then he wondered how many people would want the damned Empire Stone, anyway.

The tower was about a hundred feet in diameter, three hundred feet tall. There was a small, barred entrance, and he assumed winding steps upward on the inside, guarded by some evil monster or other. At the moment, his bloodlust still unslaked by the battle, he wouldn’t mind encountering a monster or two — or better, a Man in Brown. He rubbed his hastily bandaged thigh, hoped the superficial wound wouldn’t make muscles stiffen any more than they already had.

Pick the lock, and — and he saw the two sentries standing next to the entrance, completely motionless in the shadows. He hoped they were drowsing, rather than professional and extremely watchful. Perhaps he should cast a pebble, wake them, and have them do their duty and make a sweep around the tower, which was about a hundred feet in diameter. Then he saw the roving patrol — another pair of men — come into sight, and muttered unhappily.

Peirol stayed in the alley mouth, thinking for a time. His best chance, he knew, would’ve been to make an immediate assault on the tower, before a hue and cry could be set for a murderous dwarf. But it didn’t seem possible, without certain pieces of equipment and considering the guards were most alert.

The sky was graying, and Peirol moved farther into hiding, staring hard at the tower, wishing he had a telescope to examine every inch as if he were next to it. Then he spotted a way in. Or hoped he did, at any rate. It was just a bit chancy.

Better to escape Restormel, find his boat, and sail west. To face what? Abbas’s wrath if he made it back to Sennen or, more likely, a sea monster he’d send the moment he found out Peirol’d abandoned his quest?

Besides …

Besides, this would be the theft of the century. Peirol thought about all the deaths, all the weary miles, all the pain, and bristled. The
hells
he’d even think about giving up. He’d be back. At nightfall. Peirol slid away, toward his store and quarters, to secure gold for the purchases he’d need.

• • •

But the Men in Brown weren’t entirely dilatory. Two patrols, ten men each, of armored horsemen, a cowled monk or priest at their head, were patrolling at a walk through his district. Cautiously he went to a building close to his store, climbed upstairs to its roof, and peered across. The ornate crossbeams had already been nailed over his door, and the brown parchment sign flapped in the early morning wind. Peirol hoped his clerk hadn’t been grabbed by the Men of Lysyth to scream his life out in their torture chambers, knowing nothing of Peirol.

He thought perhaps he could go through the alley and chance climbing the drain spout into his apartment, but he decided to watch for a while. It was well he did, for a man appeared at the window for a minute, then ducked away. But that minute had been long enough for Peirol to identify him as Damyan, the Man of Lysyth who’d first accused him of heresy.

One sanctuary gone. Peirol thought of his lost tools, his gold and silver, the gems cut and uncut, shrugged, forgot them. Jewels, gold, and such can be replaced.

A life cannot.

• • •

The blacksmith looked at him oddly but took his silver without question. Peirol tucked what he’d had made into the burlap sack containing his other acquisitions. He’d found a store, bought drab gray clothing, gone across Restormel using alleys whenever he could.

Peirol wondered why there was no hue and cry, then realized the Men of Lysyth would hardly want someone other than the “proper authorities” to take him, possibly thought an alarum would send the dwarf fleeing into the wilderness. No doubt all city exits and the ferry boarding points were well watched. Peirol didn’t know how he’d escape Restormel after … if … he got the Empire Stone. He would worry about that when the time came.

There were other problems. It was several hours until darkness, and a blond-haired dwarf wandering the streets was sure to be seized. Peirol wiped away sweat. The day was still, muggy. He considered where he could go to ground, remembered a tavern he’d wandered into by accident, gone back out of much more quickly.

• • •

He was halfway to his destination when the ground shook a little. He thought it was a heavy freight wagon passing, saw no such vehicle. A pair of rats scuttled out of a building, stood in the middle of the street, looking at him, unafraid.

The shaking came again, and across the street a flowerpot in an upper window fell, shattering on the cobblestones.

• • •

The sign was in very discreet script:

Under it was a tiny rendering of a cat-o’-nine-tails. Peirol saw he was unobserved, entered.

A young man, quite muscular, stood inside. He wore leather breeches and was bare-chested and shaven-headed.

“You desire?”

“A quiet, curtained booth. Iced water. Do you have food?”

“Later there’ll be a roast.”

“I’ll be here for a time, so I’ll eat then.”

“You know we have facilities in the rear if you prefer greater privacy. And other arrangements can also be made.”

Peirol tossed the man two gold coins, followed him down a long line of snugs. The young man’s breeches lacked a seat.

Peirol glanced into the occupied booths as he passed. Only one held a woman, and she too wore leather. A thumbscrew sat on the table in front of her. The other patrons were all men, some dressed as soldiers, some as seamen, one bold one as a Man of Lysyth. Their tools of romance were on the tables, advertising: a whip, twisted ropes, long pins, tiny vises, leather straps, rubber devices.

The young man showed Peirol to his booth. Peirol drew his dagger, put it on the table. The young man glanced at the knife, shuddered, but said nothing.

The hours dragged past. Three or four times men walked by, eyed the dwarf with interest, saw the dagger, passed on quickly. Occasionally he heard a scream or a laugh from other booths or from the rear of the building.

The roast, when it came, was quite rare, which fit well with the surroundings. He had little appetite but forced himself to eat. He wanted wine, knew better, and three hours after sunset dropped two more gold coins on the table, left unhurriedly.

• • •

Peirol watched the guards around the tower, counted the time of their tour three times. Then, when they moved out of sight again, he darted across. He had a count of a little over three hundred to become invisible. He’d tied the burlap sack so it fit like a knapsack over his shoulders, and it held his sword, his pistols, and his purchases. A small hammer was stuck into his sword belt.

The tower was built of well-fitted large stones. Peirol, when he’d studied the building, thought the spaces between the stones deep enough for finger holds. They were. It wouldn’t be the easiest climb he’d made, but it wouldn’t be the hardest. The ground shook for an instant, and he thought he heard a distant rumbling. Perhaps a summer storm in this strangely humid fall night. Alley cats wailed in mournful anticipation of the storm.

He pulled off his shoes, stuffed them in the pack, took a breath, and started up the vertical wall.

He climbed slowly, rhythmically, body well away from the stone, fingers and toes finding niches, moving upward. The stone wore on his skin, and he knew he’d be bloody by the time he reached the top. By the count of three hundred, he was invisible, twenty feet above the ground. He heard the slight shuffle as the guards passed beneath, froze, climbed on, still counting, pausing when it came time for the patrol to pass underneath.

Twice he stopped, clinging by his toes and the fingers of one hand while he reached in the burlap pack, took out one of the steel spikes he’d had the blacksmith make, tapped it softly into place, put another above it, climbed up, and used that for a foothold. He’d need them for another purpose on the way down.

Peirol started once, as dogs howled below. But no shouts of alarm came, and he climbed on, not looking up, not wanting to know how much farther he had to go, not looking down, not wanting to know how far he would fall. Then his upreaching hand touched smooth stone and metal. The top of the tower was also octagonal, set equidistant from the main tower angles. Eight windows, with eight sides, appeared to give entrance. There was a guardrail across them. Peirol eeled over the rail, forcing himself not to rest until he peered through the dusty smoked windows and saw nothing of an interior guard.

Of course not, he thought. Magical beasts never materialize until their prey’s at hand.

He sagged against the stone, dug into his pack for his sword and a small flask of brandy-flavored water, drank deeply. He allowed himself a count of a hundred to rest, then considered a window. He saw no way it could be opened, clambered around the tower, saw no catches on the other panes.

Why should there be? Jewels don’t need a view.

He hadn’t thought there’d be glass, had seen no reflection, so hadn’t brought putty or a cutter. He tapped gingerly with the butt of his dagger, felt the pane yield.

Glad of that. It’d be like these bastards to put in panes thick as their arms.

He tapped once, twice, struck hard, and the glass shattered, tinkling down to stone a foot below on the inside. Peirol waited for an alarm, broke out the rest of the glass.

This is easy. Far, far too easy.

Sword in one hand, dagger in the other, he slid inside. He could see in the dimness a domed pedestal, which would reach to the chest of a man but was head-high for him, in the center of the room.

Peirol started toward it, and as he moved, the world changed. There was light, but he knew no one could see it but him — a dimness. It was as if he were walking underwater, or better yet, under oil, for his vision was clouded. He stepped slowly, each motion deliberate, unable to move faster. He felt pressure in his ears, not unpleasant. Then he’d reached the pedestal.

He leaned his sword against it, sheathed his dagger, and somehow knowing what he should do, carefully lifted the top of the dome away.

The Empire Stone was there, just at eye level. As he stared into it, it began to glow, to refract, and he felt a humming within his bones.

He picked up the Empire Stone, turned it about.

“Double the size of both m’fists.”

Bigger, really.

“A clear stone that catches and reflects colors, many colors, not just the six we know, but colors that aren’t like any others on this earth.”

The Stone was alive, and colors that Peirol had never known, had no names for, knew no artist could label, shot out against the stone walls around him.

“Round, cut perfect. They say it’s got a thousand facets …”

Nothing came from the shadows to attack him.

I guess the Magical Guardian that any self-respecting evil gem’s got must have gone out for a glass of wine or a human sacrifice
, he thought to himself. He tried to keep from laughing, tucked the Stone under his arm, picked up his sword, and, moving as slowly as before, walked deliberately to the broken window and stepped through it.

A cat yowled below him, then more across Restormel. He paid no mind to the noise, any more than he did to the exultation of his mind.

We’re only half there
, he thought.
Now for the escape.

He took the Stone out, was about to put it in his pack, then reconsidered. Again, he looked deep into the Stone, and again the colors, many colors, flared. He was looking down, at the square and buildings below. There were guards there … there … over there … half a dozen hiding inside that building. He knew their orders, could, if he wanted, have told their names.

Peirol lifted his gaze, looked across the city heights, at the royal palace almost a league distant. He saw the young king turn in his sleep, dreamed with him, dreams of fear and death. In another chamber, a fat woman sat awake, though her thoughts might have been dreams, too: of a processional, and the Supreme Priest, and a diadem lowered onto her head.

Peirol brought his mind back across the distance, knowing the thoughts, the dreams, of the people sleeping below him in shack or manor. He turned away. What he’d heard of the Stone was no more than the truth. A tiny part of him lusted after the knowledge it would give, but the rest screamed in horror, welcoming ignorance or innocence. That was for Abbas. Let him have the Empire Stone if he wanted it. Peirol wanted only peace and his life.

He hastily stuffed the Stone in the burlap sack, wrapping it in the toweling he’d brought. Peirol took rope out of the sack, ran it through the railing. He sheathed his sword, shouldered the sack, then looped the doubled rope over his shoulder, down his back, up between his legs and over one thigh. Then he began walking, backward, down the face of the tower, moving slowly. He’d seen men try to go down fast, seen them slip and fall to their deaths.

Simple, simple, my gods, how simple this was …

A shout: “Hey! Look! Up there!”

Another shout: “Son of a bitch! That’s him!”

He saw his shadow, as lanterns and torches came to life. There was a bang, and a musket ball whined off the stone three feet away. Another musket fired, and the ball went who knows where.

“For the love of the gods, shoot him down!”

Peirol knew that voice for Baron Agar. A volley rattled, and balls sang around him. He felt pain flash in his side, almost let go of the rope, knowing he’d been shot, then realized it was a bit of stone, flung off by a ricochet.

There was nothing else but to keep moving downward. His foot found one of the spikes he’d driven in, then the next one. Quite methodically he pulled the rope down from the rail above, redoubled it over the upper peg, went on. At the last peg, he decided, he’d turn, chance a jump down into them, and hopefully be able to break through the melee and escape. Or at least take some with him, starting with Baron Agar.