Dragon Weather (56 page)

Of course, Shamble might also be elsewhere, or dead, he thought as he stood with one foot wedged into a second-floor window and stretched his hand upward, scrabbling for purchase on the third floor.

This was hardly the time to think of that, though, and he might well find some other damning evidence here—if not a witness, then a diary or journal of some sort …

The rough, damp stone was cold against his cheek as his fingers finally curled over the edge of a third-floor sill; he braced his free foot against the side of a window-slit and pushed upward, and got his hand solidly into position.

The edge of the roof was not as far above the third-floor windows as those windows were above the ones on the second floor, but the foot or so of overhang made the reach much trickier; Arlian could not keep himself pressed against the wall as he stretched upward, but instead had to twist halfway around and lean out.

He was able to reach the underside of the overhang, and crawl his fingers outward before making a final lunge and grab. If he missed, he would fall thirty feet onto stone pavement …

But he didn't miss; instead he dangled from the overhang, both hands gripping the outermost tiles. He swung his leg up, trying to hook his foot up; his sword rattled in its scabbard. His foot missed, but the shifting weight let him throw one elbow up on the wet tiles.

Another swing, and the toe of his boot lodged between tiles, and he was able to pull himself up.

He paused for a moment to catch his breath and survey the situation.

He was crouched upon the tile roof, safe for the moment—but he had a spectacular view of the Upper City, from the Citadel to the Black Spire; he could peer into the windows of a dozen palaces.

And that meant he was visible to anyone who happened to look
out
any of those windows. He wasted no further time in clambering up the slope, looking for an opening.

When he reached the ridgepole and peered over he saw that there was indeed a courtyard, and the windows looking into it were no mere slits; he hurried over the top and half crawled, half slid down the other side. Ten minutes after starting his climb he dropped onto a third-floor balcony and tried the door there.

It was locked—but the broad casement beside it was not; he pried it open and clambered quickly inside.

He was in a lavishly appointed bedchamber, but one that had an unused air about it. He ran a finger across the bowl of the washbasin by the bed, and the tip came away gray with dust—no one had slept here in days, he was sure.

He relaxed slightly—for the first time since he reached the alley behind the house he faced no immediate risk of discovery. On the other hand, he was trespassing, and at best Lord Enziet would know the moment he set foot through his gate that his sorceries had been broken. He might know even sooner; he might already have sensed their disruption. That depended on what his wards had been, and how successful Thirif had been in matching his skills against Enziet's—Thirif was a powerful magician, but Enziet had centuries of experience and Thirif was working in an unfamiliar climate with limited tools.

Enziet might well be on his way home right now, to seek out the intruder. And while he was sworn to do Arlian no mortal harm, he could not be expected to tell his servants not to kill a burglar. Arlian had no time to waste. He opened the door to the passageway cautiously, and looked up and down the corridor. He saw no signs of life.

He slipped out into the hall and closed the door behind him, noting its location. Then he tried another door, and found another empty bedchamber. The next door was locked; the one beyond that was a storeroom full of linens.

That brought him to a corner stair, but he passed it by, moving on into the next passage.

A door at the far end was barred; curious, Arlian passed by the rooms along either side and crept up to this barrier.

Whatever lay beyond, Lord Enziet obviously didn't want it to get out; the oaken bar was as thick as Arlian's arm, and held by immense brackets of black iron. Arlian put his ear to the heavy wooden door.

He could hear nothing—or at least, not with any certainty; he was unsure whether there had been some faint sound.

This could scarcely be Shamble's room, but Arlian found himself irresistibly curious about what Lord Enziet felt obliged to confine this way. He stepped back, drew his sword in case the room's occupant was dangerous, then stepped forward and lifted the bar—it pivoted upward and fell against a waiting support. He tried the latch.

The door was locked.

Arlian frowned. He knew he should probably leave well enough alone; he might have very little time, and Shamble would not be here. Still, he wanted to know what was behind that lock. He ran his free hand along the top of the door frame and scanned the surrounding wall, but found no key; he wished the light were better, but the only illumination came from a single slit over the stairs at the far end of the corridor, and the day outside was still gray and overcast.

He fished his own keys from his pocket and tried a few, and to his pleased surprise the third one, its one tooth a simple T designed to pass a single ward, worked.

But then after all, he asked himself, why would anyone bother with an elaborate lock here? He was probably going to find nothing but dust and old boxes beyond; the door had probably been barred from habit.

As the lock opened, though, he thought he heard a sob, but he was unsure where it came from; he raised his sword, lifted the latch, and pulled the massive door open.

The smell hit him first—the smell of human waste, blood, and sweat, a thick, earthy smell. Then he saw her.

Sweet sat cross-legged on a straw-tick mattress in the center of a bare stone floor, staring at him. She was naked; yellow and purple bruises covered her arms and belly. Her thick black hair was a tangled, filthy, ropy mess; her face was smeared with dirt and tears.

Still, it was Sweet. Arlian's heart leaped, and he smiled broadly, while at the same time tears filled his own eyes. It was all he could do to keep from shouting.

She stared up at him with no sign of recognition or joy. Her face showed only despair and resignation. Arlian's smile vanished. He stepped into the room cautiously; he held a finger to his lips, signaling for silence.

She sat, waiting.

He hesitated, but decided against closing the door—that bar on the other side would be a serious obstacle, and he had no desire to join poor Sweet as a prisoner.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

She looked puzzled. “I don't understand,” she said.

Arlian glanced uneasily at the open door, then looked around the room.

The room was large and mostly bare. The mattress was almost the only thing resembling normal furniture; a heavy table of rough wood splotched with dark stains stood to one side. Iron bolts were set in one of the stone walls, chains dangling from them, and two large padlocked chests were pushed up against another. Two wooden boxes stood atop one of the chests. A cracked chamberpot sat in one corner. The plank floor was bare, and stained in several places with various things; a fireplace occupied much of one end, but held only embers and ash.

It was obvious that Enziet had not pampered his captives as Kuruvan had.

“Are you seriously injured?” Arlian asked. “I know you can't walk—can you move?”

“I can move,” Sweet replied, clearly confused by the question. She uncrossed her legs, showing the stumps of her ankles. “What did you want me to do?”

Arlian stared at her, unsure how to answer. What he wanted her to do was to be safe and warm and happy, back at the Old Palace and away from this cold, harsh, malodorous place, away from Enziet and his ilk—but she didn't even recognize him!

Then he remembered the glamour he wore.

“Sweet, it's me,” he said. “Triv.”

“What?” She looked up at him, more baffled than ever.

“It's a disguise,” he explained. “It's really me. Don't you know my voice?”

She blinked at him. “Triv?” Arlian thought he heard a note of comprehension—but he still heard no hope.

“I've come to rescue you,” he said.

He hadn't, of course; he had come looking for Shamble. Rescuing Sweet would be stupid and reckless—but he couldn't leave her here after seeing her like this.

“I don't understand,” she said again.

What had Enziet
done
to her? Arlian felt his chest tighten. “I've broken in here to rescue you,” Arlian said. “I have a safe place for you—Hasty and Kitten and Lily and Musk are already there. Do you know where Dove is?”

“There,” she said, pointing at the larger wooden box atop the chest.

Now it was Arlian's turn to be baffled. He looked at the box.

Coaxing an explanation out of Sweet in her present condition might be difficult; instead he crossed the room and tugged at the box's lid.

It was locked; he drew his swordbreaker, slid the point into the crack, and pried. The lock snapped and the lid flew up.

The box was full of bones—a human skull, half a dozen curving ribs, a broken chunk that might have been a human pelvis, and a litter of smaller bones. A brown something was stuffed down among them, and Arlian pulled it out.

It was a woman's dried scalp, covered with brittle brown hair—hair the exact color of Dove's hair.

“By the dead gods,” Arlian whispered.

“That's Dove,” Sweet said. “Or most of what's left of her.”

Arlian glanced at Sweet, at the flat, calm expression on her face, then opened the smaller box—it was unlocked.

It contained two rolls of oddly textured parchment, a cake of soap, and a jar half full of something yellowish orange—grease or tallow …

“That's the rest,” Sweet said.

Arlian slammed down the lid.

“I have to get you
out
of here!” he said. “Now!”

47

A Belated Rescue

Arlian had not come prepared to carry a naked woman through the streets of Manfort. He had expected to march Shamble out at swordpoint, if all went well, but not to carry anyone.

Still, he had to get Sweet away. His search for Shamble suddenly seemed unimportant by comparison. He swept her up in his arms.

“Do you have anything here you care about?” he demanded.

She stared at him blankly.

“Forget it,” he said. “Hold on.” He slung her over one shoulder and trotted to the door.

The hallway was empty. He hurried for the stairs without thinking.

He made it down the first flight safely, but halfway down the second he heard footsteps below; he backed up a few steps.

He felt Sweet's body tense, and he whirled, thinking she had seen someone behind them. Turning so fast on the stairs, with Sweet's weight on his shoulder—not that she was heavy; she was pitifully light—threw him off balance; he held Sweet with one arm across her thighs as he stumbled, and caught himself with the other hand, the fist holding his sword whacking the wall. The blade slapped against the stone with a metallic clang.

The footsteps below paused briefly, then proceeded, fading away down the corridor.

Naturally, in a house protected by sorcery, the occupants would not seriously worry about intruders. Whoever had been down there must have assumed the sound was the doing of one of the other servants, and none of his business.

But Sweet was squirming now; he lowered her to the step and looked up the stairs, but still saw nothing.

“What is it?” he whispered, looking at her.

Her face was different now, more alive—not the old, playful Sweet he remembered, but not the listless thing he had spoken with in that ghastly room on the third floor. She stared up at him. “You're
really
Triv? You're really rescuing me?” she asked.

“Yes, of course!” he said. “I'm only sorry it took so long, and that I couldn't be here in time to save Dove.”

“But you can't! He'll kill you!”

“Lord Enziet has sworn, before witnesses, to do me no mortal harm within the walls of this city.”

“But I … but you can't!”

“I can't leave you
here!
”

Sweet looked back up the stairs, and seemed to collapse inward, back into the beaten creature he had first seen on the mattress upstairs. “You're right,” she said. “
Anything
is better than that.”

“Do you know a way out of here?” he asked, suddenly hopeful. “A way we won't be seen?”

“No.” She shook her head, the tangled hair falling unheeded across her face. “I haven't been outside that room in … in I don't know how long. Since I was brought here.”

“Bleeding gods and goddesses,” Arlian growled. He looked around warily, but still saw no one. “I can't take you over the roof, can I? And the front gate's impossible, which leaves the postern…”

“Why can't you take me over the roof?” Sweet asked. “Is that how you came in?”

“Well, because…” He stopped. Why
couldn't
he take her over the roof? After all, it wasn't as if she could walk, and it couldn't be any more difficult than fighting his way out the postern gate while carrying her. The postern was locked and barred; he had seen that from outside. At least the roof was open.

She couldn't climb—she simply wasn't tall enough to stretch the necessary distances—but he could wrap her up, lower her to the ground …

He lifted her back to his shoulder and marched back up the stairs, toward the unused bedchambers.

She watched from the bare bed of the room with the balcony as he stripped sheets and curtains and knotted them together into makeshift ropes.

He was not sure just what he would need for the job; he had not been planning on anything like this when he came in. He had expected to use Shamble as a tool or hostage to exit by one of the gates, so he hadn't bothered to take note of exact distances, or the location of useful chimneys or other protrusions he might tie things to. He therefore intended to bring as much of his “rope” as he could.