Skull Gate (7 page)

“Get over here!” she said to Ashur, who stood by watching. The unicorn meekly obeyed. “I think you're laughing at me! I ought to smack your nose!"

She climbed the saddle again, and this time gained the post without difficulty. It was wide enough to stand on if she was careful. She undid her rope. The top of the wall was about fifteen feet higher. She prayed she could reach it. She'd taken Oona's only rope, a short one, not daring to purchase another in Shadamas. Enough time had passed for the smallest towns to know she was fugitive.

She checked the knots to make sure the log was secure. It was stout enough to hold her weight if she could snag the parapets overhead. With a three- or four-pronged grapple, it would have been easy. With a log, she worried.

She listened. No sound of any sentry above. She knew they patrolled the wall but had no idea of their schedule. Her first toss missed. The log was heavier than she thought. She threw again.

Four attempts later, the log caught but made one hell of a clatter. She froze, expecting shouts and the rattle of weapons, soldiers bearing lances to appear over the wall, more soldiers to come charging through the gate below.

Nothing happened.

She'd stormed cities before amid the crash and clang of steel and the shouts of warriors and Gath's own chaos raging all around. Doing it silently was something quite different, and she cursed every little sound, every creak of the rope, every scrape of her boots on stone as she climbed. At last she gained the top, pulled herself over, and dropped in a deep crouch onto a broad walkway.

She touched the pouch on her belt to make sure she hadn't lost it.

Far down the walkway she spied a pair of torches. Sentries about their rounds, she guessed. She wasted no time but gathered up the log and the rope, coiled it tightly, and stashed it behind a rain barrel. In the darkness, she was sure no one would find it. The torches drew nearer. She heard voices but could distinguish none of the words. She moved quickly, found the stone stair that took her down to the street level, and dived for the nearest shadow.

She cowered there for long minutes, unmoving, listening. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her breath came quick and shallow.

Now, it was time.

She reached into the pouch and extracted the Hand. The skin of it was dry and brittle to touch except for the fingers, which were slick with a fine oil. It exuded an awful odor of decaying meat and strange herbs. Even in the darkness, the bones and bloated veins showed. She shivered again, recalling the thing's making.

Her hand dipped into the pouch again, and she brought out a small vial of thin black powder. Before opening it, she rubbed her hands on her trousers, wiping away any traces of the oil that coated the dead fingers that might have spread to hers. Then she unstoppered it and sprinkled a small quantity on the tip of each digit.

A tiny flame ignited where powder and oil made contact, five fingers and five flames. Frost felt a tingle spread from the Hand through her hand along her arm and all through her body to join with a different tingle that crept up her spine. The shadow where she crouched vanished. It no longer mattered.

She rose and stepped into the open, holding high her Hand of Glory.

The voices on the parapet continued for a moment, then ceased.

She bit her lip and stared at the five-fingered candle. The man was guilty, then. But of what? she wondered. Debt? Theft? Murder? She shifted the Hand of Glory to her right hand, laid her left on her sword's hilt. She wouldn't need the sword, though; it was just for reassurance.

She started down the street, walking slowly, using the Hand to light her way. Her heart thumped with every step, the blood pulsed in her veins. The flames danced and flickered, casting her shadow behind her, creating shadows before.

A window opened, a head poked out sleepily and stared at her. Her step faltered, then she passed on, watching the man over her shoulder. He didn't move at all, just stared, unseeing.

He would stare that way until the sun wakened him at dawn, as would anyone who gazed on the Hand's light. But that was only part of its power. Any who were already asleep would remain so, unable to waken for any reason until the first light of day. Some would awaken in mess and damp beds.

Only Frost and Oona, the Hand's makers, were immune, and the power of the Hand extended throughout the city. She set a straight course for the palace.

Another wall surrounded the palace, separating it from the rest of the city. It spanned half as high as the outer wall, but no sentry walked its narrow top. Only a north and south gate allowed entrance. The northern was reserved for ceremonials, such as visits by outland royalty or state ambassadors, or for the ritual entrances of the elite palace guard. It was an iron drop-gate and heavily patrolled. She chose the southern.

No drop-gate this, but two great oaken doors. She had no rope to scale this wall. Perhaps she would not need one. Two sentries stood constant guard inside this gate, she knew. There was a small, shuttered portal in one gate. She went to it and knocked softly.

“Who's there?"

The portal cracked slightly. She leaped back, holding the Hand well out of sight.

“Let me in!” she said, putting as much urgency as she could manage into her voice.

“On what business?"

She could not see the guard's face; the portal showed no sign of opening farther. What business could she have that would make him open the gate at so late an hour?

“The woman,” she whispered, “the one who killed the queen? I have information!"

“Come back in the morning!” The portal shut.

She pounded on it until it opened again. Again she leaped out of sight, holding the Hand's light where it couldn't be seen. “I have to talk to Commander Sur'tian tonight! Let me in!"

“Let me see you,” the guard said.

What to do now? The guard might recognize her even in the darkness. And if she got close, the Hand's power would see to it that he never opened the gate.

“No!” she croaked. “Don't! Get away!” She slammed her weight against the massive doors, whipped out her sword, and brandished it before the portal. “I'm unarmed!” she screamed at her make-believe attacker. She swung the sword again, taking a chip from the old wood. “Aggghh! You've killed me! Help!"

Then silence. She waited, hidden. Moments passed and the gate did not open. Had her little drama failed to convince? The gate creaked open an inch, then more. A helmeted head poked out.

“Over here,” she said.

The sentry turned to gaze on the Hand of Glory.

She heard a noise, then a voice. The other sentry, she remembered. There were two. She gave the first a push; he toppled over in a heap.

“Help him!” she called. “He's hurt!"

The second guard popped through the gate, nearly tripping on his comrade's body. Sword drawn, he'd also fetched a shield. It did him no good. He peered over its edge into the preternatural light and fell instantly asleep. She gave the shield a little shove and the two sprawled side by side.

Within the palace grounds, she made her way around to Aki's rose garden, taking no effort to conceal herself or move quietly. She wanted to be seen. More important, she wanted the Hand to be seen.

There were guards on duty in many parts of the grounds after dark. They were all statues by the time she got to their individual positions, for the Hand's light could be seen long before anyone got close enough to recognize her.

There was a door that led into the palace's lower levels. She had used it often with Aki when the little queen wanted to spend time among her flowers. It was not often used by anyone else, and it was away from the palace mainstream. Once inside, she needed to be more selective about who fell under the Hand's spell. Probably it was too late. If Tras Sur'tian were already asleep, nothing would wake him until morning. But if he were not, she wanted to see him. As for Thogrin Sin'tell, it would be nice if he were still awake. It would save her the trouble of carting his body out of the city, but she had no hope of that.

She found the door and stepped inside. The Hand lit the way for her like any common torch. She moved swiftly and quietly, maneuvering the narrow corridors with the precision of experience. When they joined to the main corridor, she hesitated. She was near the tower. There should be a guard at the foot of the stone steps.

She moved into the hall and faced the tower entrance. Yes, there he was. He regarded her down the long passage, proud in his polished armor, stiff of bearing, unblinking of eye.

“Good night,” she whispered, and turned away.

She made it to the reception hall without encountering a soul. There were no sentries there this time of night, as no business was conducted at this hour.
Except my business
, she thought, and pushed back the doors.

The reception hall was ominous in the darkness. Even the light from the Hand seemed to cast only a tiny pool of amber, which was quickly swallowed by the chamber's vastness. She moved among the carven images of legend, suddenly feeling small and insignificant. Despite herself, she walked with a lighter tread, drew a softer breath.

One by one, she climbed the ivory stairs to the throne. The emeralds encrusted in the royal seat glittered and gleamed as she approached, and the many jewels diffracted the Hand's light a thousand times. She moved past the throne to the tapestry that hung on the wall behind. Careful to keep the flames away from the ancient draperies, she pushed them aside and exposed the bare stone.

There it was, the chipped one. Aki had shown it to her only days after choosing her for champion and guardian. Frost laid her palm against it and pressed.

A section of the wall slid away. She stepped into the hidden tunnel, releasing the tapestries, and tripped the reversing mechanism that closed the secret door.

The tunnels were as old as the palace itself and smelled it. They led to all major parts of the palace, including the kitchens and the stables. More important, they led to all the private chambers, including the spacious royal suite, which all the rulers before Aki had occupied for hundreds of years. After becoming queen, Aki had kept her own private quarters in the tower rather than sleep in the same bed where Aleppan spies had murdered her father.

Frost gambled that Thogrin Sin'tell would have no such qualms about claiming the most luxurious rooms in Mirashai, indeed in all Korkyra.

She knew the way and moved surely, silently along, holding the Hand out for light and using her sword to cleave the cobwebs that hung strewn across her path. Inside the tunnels, the doors whose outer sides were hidden, were easily identified. She paused at a couple of them and listened. Hearing nothing, she moved on.

She kept track of their number. When she came to the fourteenth she stopped.

She almost smiled at how easy it had been to get here. Yet the smile faded before it fully formed. Making the Hand had not been easy. It had exacted a great toll on her and a greater toll on Oona, who was no witch and had never dabbled in anything more dangerous than her own healing art. She would remember forever the look in the old woman's eyes when the making was over.

But the Hand had done its work. Now she had only to get Thogrin's body out of the city and to a private place where she could question him. He'd wake in chains, and she'd make him talk if she had to strip every scrap of flesh from his living body.

A small spy-hole was set conveniently in the door. Replacing her sword in its sheath, she placed her eye to it. The hole itself offered a very limited field of vision, but a dressing mirror of highly polished metal was cleverly mounted on the wall directly opposite the hole, providing a view of the suite's central chamber.

She nearly gave a shout. Thogrin Sin'tell was awake! Candles and lamps burned brightly in the room. Thogrin himself sat at a great desk with documents piled high all around him. He set his seal to a paper, picked up another, and settled back to read.

If she were careful, she wouldn't have to bear the burden of his fat carcass.

She set the Hand of Glory carefully on the floor. The fingers were half-burned through. She might not be able to use it escaping the city. As the flesh was consumed, the power of the Hand began to wane. For now, though, it was still quite potent, and Thogrin must not be allowed to look on it. She turned away from it, satisfied there was nothing around that the flames might ignite.

Her sword slid silently from the sheath again, and she pressed the mechanism that opened the door. Soundless gears moved the stone. She sprang through and over the carpeted floor. Quick as she moved, a draft of musty air from the tunnels moved quicker. Thogrin sniffed and turned to find the point of her sword hovering at his throat.

His eyes went wide and bright with fear, but the warning finger she pressed to her lips and the hard look she gave him were enough to stifle any outcry. Half out of his seat, he sat back and trembled.

The sword's point lightly touched his chest. Frost reached past him for a document and the quill pen. The tip was wet with ink, and she wrote at the top of the paper.
You have guards—send them away
. She gestured for him to move to the door that opened into the main corridor.

He got up slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. His velvet-slippered feet made no sound on the thick carpets, and though in boots she moved as quietly. As he reached for the iron ring that opened the door, the blade jabbed him sharply in the ribs, not hard enough to wound. He understood her meaning, though. She flattened against the wall as he opened the door.

The guards turned. She heard the clink of their armor and weaponry.

“No, don't come in,” Thogrin said. “You may retire for the evening. Your service is unnecessary at this hour in such a secure city. Find some wine, share a woman, enjoy yourselves."

Frost held her breath. When the sentries assented she allowed a tiny smile. Then she saw the way Thogrin rolled his eyes and the subtle gesture he made with his hand.

A snarl parted her lips. She kicked Thogrin in the stomach and shouldered his folding bulk roughly away from the entrance. Then she jerked the door wide and her sword licked out twice. Two bodies fell, spilling blood on the floor-stones. She stepped over them to check the corridor. Only these two, no other witnesses.