The Man In The Wind

Under the watchful eye of an almost-full moon, the frozen plains of Volikar glittered as though they were covered in diamonds. From her position at the base of the castle’s western wall, the cat-thief Iris surveyed her barren surroundings. A trail of small, nimble footprints led out from the drift in which she stood knee-deep, but snow was still falling in big, lacy flakes. It would all be covered over in the morning.

       And by then, she’d be long gone.

       The wall was made of ancient stone blocks, each one rough and full of pockmarks where the elements had worn it down. Smiling, the girl slipped her hands into a pair of metal braces that were hanging at her waist. They lined her slender hands with spikes. When she swung, her palms stuck firmly in the uneven surface of the weather-softened stone. Perfect.

       She had planned it so the castle itself would shield her from the probing rays of the moon. As it was, her precautions turned out to be needless. Not a soul was present to see the thief’s quick shadow pulling itself up toward a high, narrow window. Below, the snowdrifts gleamed blue in the dark.

       Although she was only of medium stature, Iris Deleone was astoundingly strong. She wore no spikes on her boots, relying only on the powerful muscles of her arms and shoulders to propel her upward. She climbed like a lioness stalking upon the ground, green-grey eyes fixed intently upon the sill that was her target. Her body didn’t seem to register the cold; in the weeks she had spent casing the fortress, she’d become inured to the inhospitable climate. At the moment, exertion was enough to keep her warm. There was no sound except the whistle of the wind and the thin crunch of her crampons biting into iced-over stone. She did not look down.

       As soon as she hooked her arms over the outside window ledge, Iris paused to rest, hanging nonchalantly, fifty feet above the ground. The air burned in her lungs, and it wasn’t long before she pulled herself deftly onto the perch. It would only take a few minutes for the frigidity to settle into her bones, and if that happened, she’d be at a severe disadvantage. Crouching beside the casement with one hand against the glass, she slipped the other from its brace and withdrew a small felted mallet from a pouch on her belt.

       For a moment, she turned the instrument over in her hands. It wasn’t the most elegant method she’d ever employed, but it was certainly the simplest, and the weather conditions on Volikar created optimal circumstances for its use. Against the howling wind, the sound of the padded hammer would be nothing more than a wind chime. Still, she thought, I’d better not overdo it. With careful grace, she cocked her arm back and swung, at a relatively low speed. But it was enough. There was a dull crunch, followed by a shower of bright splinters into the gloom of the chamber beyond. Iris picked shards daintily from the edges of the hole, and then she put her hand through, feeling for the latch on the other side. A smile spread across her rapidly numbing features as it clicked open.

       “Hallelujah,” she whispered. The left panel swung out. She eased herself down over the sill, mindful of the glass on the floor. Standing in the shadows, she put her tool away and glanced at her surroundings; only a few boxes, an old chair, and a dilapidated bed frame occupied the space. The girl crossed softly to the barred wooden door, listening.

       Nothing. Once again, her entry had gone off without a hitch. Not that she hadn’t specifically prepared for perfection, but it still made her proud. She knew from her notes that the king’s rooms were on the direct opposite end of the complex, and that there was no conceivable way he could have been awoken. It was the servants she had to worry about, and so she remained motionless behind the door for a good long time, just in case. Assured by the unbroken quiet, she eased the heavy slab open onto a hall lit with flickering torches. As she left the tower room behind, she noted with some amusement that the walls were barren, almost primitive. Let it be known that Serberos, King of Volikar, wastes no time on interior decorating.

       The dim torches made the space feel close and cold, like a tomb. Although Iris had perfected the silent step of the criminal, it seemed like she could hear herself for miles. She walked slower. The corridor was full of winding twists and turns, so that she had to sidle deliberately around every corner. It was rather tedious, but there was no room to complain—she’d known the risks.

       And she knew exactly where she had to go.

       Iris had learned of the treasure room through her father, an exceedingly rich auctioneer who sometimes acquired his pieces through less orthodox methods. He had just happened to know that several rare antiques were kept within that room, and he’d come to her to enlist her services.

       “Just imagine the rewards if some of those items were to fall into our possession,” he’d said, a sparkle in his eye. “Just imagine.”

       That was a month ago, and now she was creeping through the dank passages of Serberos’ castle, the knife edge of the wind on her face replaced by a chill, almost subterranean mist. Every so often, she’d wipe it off her brow and frown. Thanks, Daddy.

       The hall was long and snakelike, its arched ceiling lost in the murky shadows. If Iris paused, she could sometimes hear things scurrying along in the bands of darkness between the frail pools of torchlight. Clearly, Serberos didn’t care too much for housekeeping. Or maybe his servants were forbidden access to this part of the castle. Her vivid imagination jumped with the possibilities, but she quelled the fantastic thoughts immediately. There was no time for speculation. She was here to do business. She smiled to herself. In a manner of speaking.

       It was just as well. No amount of wondering could have prepared her for what she would find.

       As she turned yet another corner, the thief was relieved to see the end of the path in front of her, marked by a musty-looking stairwell. She stopped, cocked her head, and then, hearing nothing, jogged lightly the rest of the way. The flight of stairs was unkempt, laced with cobwebs. She furrowed her brow. Was there no cleaning at all around this place? And why hadn’t she heard anything? She wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, but never before had she experienced a silence this extreme. All the stories she had heard of Serberos described him as cantankerous and paranoid, deathly afraid of individuals just like her who might break in and take away his gold. So why hadn’t she run into any security?

       The wheels in her mind began to turn, well-oiled by the thick stillness. First the abandoned chamber, then the labyrinthine walkways, and now there were clear signs of abandonment. As she tried to discern what all the evidence could mean, her keen eyes lit upon a detail so crucial she could hardly believe she’d almost missed it.

       In the layer of dust upon the steps, there were the light imprints of feet, pointing toward her own. She looked over her shoulder. There wasn’t enough accumulation on the floor beyond the staircase for the trail to continue, but she saw a tiny gap just wide enough for a person to squeeze through at the intersection of the walls, where the corner should have been. Her brows lowered. Is that what he’s hiding?

       A dilemma overtook her. She knew from her father’s intel that the treasury was all the way at the bottom of the building, ensconced in an underground vault. But that, at least in her social circle, was common knowledge. No one seemed to have any information about this new area; she couldn’t even recall seeing it on any of the maps she’d so thoroughly committed to memory. She glanced down the stairs, but only briefly. Her desire for adventure was too great. Daddy will forgive me, she thought, as she turned and walked toward the barely noticeable crevice. Slender as she was, it was easy for her to slip through.

       The tiny gangway was too narrow for torches to be safely employed, and so Iris was forced to rely on the overspill from the main corridor to light her way. She kept her back to the wall, one hand out in front of her in case she should run into anything undesirable—not that she’d be able to make a quick getaway in any case. But her curiosity had bloomed into something that was almost beyond her control. She moved forward as if in a trance, until finally her fingers brushed something that felt worn and rough. Blinking, she brought her face close to the object and found it to be an old wooden door. Her hand automatically felt for the knob.

       It was locked. Of course. No great obstacle for a master thief, however. She put her hand inside her coat and withdrew a booklet of silver lock picks, of which she selected one, and set to work on the dingy padlock clamped through the mechanism. It was slightly more difficult in such low light, but her nimble fingers were well-practiced. The hasp sprung free with a small, yet infinitely satisfying click. One brisk turn of the now-unrestricted handle, and she was in.

       A watery stream of moonlight poured onto the bare floor from a window higher than the one she’d broken, and about the size of a postcard. Even though the space was small, the illumination didn’t quite reach into all the corners. If she looked hard, she could make out the edge of a shapeless pallet on the floor. She took a step forward. Then, she swore her heart stopped, just for a moment.

       Someone was sitting on the mattress. As she stared in mute horror, he—his gender betrayed by the broad, masculine shoulders—opened his eyes, and the piercing blue stare cut straight through the gloom. She understood that it was far too late to back out now. But as her image registered, he seemed more confused than anything. She waited for him to say something. He didn’t.

       Iris bought herself some time by looking around the slovenly little room. Like the rest of what she had seen so far, it was poorly maintained. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that someone, much less a person of his apparent size and stature, inhabited the area, but that’s certainly what he seemed to be doing. After a few moments of scrutiny, acting as if she were a health inspector who’d just happened to stop by in the dead of night, she returned her gaze to him. “Do you live here?”

       Was it a stupid question? Yes, immeasurably so. Did she have anything else to say? Absolutely not. She hoped the query, inane as it was, would keep him occupied long enough for her to think of something else. She was disappointed.

       Instantly, the man adopted an expression that was half wry amusement, half persistent confusion. She watched him rise from the shabby bed, noting with some displeasure how tall he was—much taller than her. He stepped forward, into the pathetic spot of light, and the next thing she noticed was the extreme pallor of his complexion. He was almost too pale. In contrast with his long, disheveled hair, which was so black it looked blue, he seemed like a corpse come to life. And yet, there were no bags underneath his eyes, no strange blemishes or collections of blood beneath the skin. If he had counted among the dead, he was perfectly preserved.