The Palace (Bell Mountain Series #6) (25 page)

“Once we get to Obann,” the Abnak said, “it’s liable to be tricky, getting out again.”

“Gallgoid will know how to help us,” Gurun said.

Under the walls of Obann, in grassy fields beside the river, workmen planted carved posts to which brightly colored streamers would be attached and drove stakes, connecting them with twine, to plot the location of various tents and pavilions that would soon be erected. Some of the biggest would shelter outdoor kitchens to feed the celebrating multitude—all at no charge, proclaimed the ruling council. “Pies and meats and sweets for rich and poor alike!” was the slogan. And off to one side, turfs and sod were being piled and tamped into an enormous green platform where the king’s throne would be set and where the crown would be placed upon his head.

All throughout the city, streets and alleys were being cleared and cleaned, doors and shutters freshly painted, the vast ruins of the Temple roped off, all for Coronation Day.

“The expense is staggering,” Gallgoid’s informant on the council told him, “but Merffin expects to get it all back in new taxes, once the king is crowned.”

Goryk Gillow would arrive well before King Ryons, the councilor said. “And between his arrival and the coronation, Lord Orth will be cast out and this tool of the Thunder King installed as First Prester. Orth hasn’t been in office long enough for the people to become attached to him. And his insistence on a new Temple not built with hands, but consisting only of God’s word and God’s people everywhere—well, that’s a bit too much for most people to swallow. They want a Temple they can see.”

“Even if it’s in Kara Karram where most of them will never see it,” Gallgoid mused. But he had little interest in theological considerations.

He was spending most of his time, these days, in neglected corners of the palace. Up above, he’d found a set of chambers that must have been the living quarters of some great personage, untold centuries ago. Here he hoped to hide Orth before any harm could come to him. Under deep layers of dust, the walls and ceiling were a pale blue decorated with lively hunting scenes by a master artist, his name long ago forgotten, whose hounds and harts and huntsmen seemed to leap around the room. The floor was tiled in white marble. Gallgoid cleaned the place with his own hands. The furniture left behind had all rotted into fragile sticks, so he jammed it into an unused storeroom and brought in a new bed, chairs, and table from places where they wouldn’t be missed. Orth would find his new quarters plain but comfortable. Best, the door could be locked on the outside and the chambers were so remote from the inhabited regions of the palace that no one would hear Orth if he yelled for rescue.

Below, among cellars used and unused, Gallgoid had discovered, blazed, and mapped a passage that led away from the palace, connected to another passage leading from the Temple, and terminated in a secret door opening by the riverbank, outside the walls to the east. You could enter the passage from the oligarchs’ old assembly hall, but that was too conspicuous. Gallgoid searched until he found another entrance in a seldom-used armory—so there would be weapons to grab on the way out.

This was the escape route that he planned for Gurun, the boy, and the old Abnak—and Orth, too, unless it seemed more needful to keep him hidden in the palace.

Merffin Mord fought off a perverse desire to boast of his ingenious plan for disposing of the king and queen. If only he could reveal it to his fellow councilors! As it was, even taking only Aggo the wine king into his confidence was to take a risk. But he would need Aggo’s help to carry out the plan—and if he didn’t tell someone, then no one would appreciate his genius.

They met in Merffin’s private study, with strict orders to the servants to come nowhere near it until summoned. It would cost them dear to be caught in disobedience.

“The so-called king in Lintum Forest isn’t coming to the coronation,” Merffin began. “We’ve received no answer to our invitation. So we now know he’s just a pretender, as I’ve always suspected. But the king in Durmurot is already on his way here, with Prester Jod himself leading the procession. Nothing could be better for our plan!”

“It’s only your plan, so far,” Aggo said.

“Well, I’ve invited you here to let you in on it—so listen.” Aggo got under Merffin’s skin, but the man was shrewd: you had to give him that.

Merffin laid out the plan for him. He would have liked to have heard some admiring remarks, but Aggo didn’t offer any. As patiently as he could, Merffin set out all the details.

“Well?” he said, when he was finished.

“Well what?” said the wine king. “It’s sound enough, I suppose—if we can find the right men for the work. It’s hard to find men who will carry out orders without making a hash of it, and who won’t talk afterward. All it takes is one fool bragging to a crony in a tavern or whispering secrets to his wife in bed, and the whole thing comes undone.”

“I fancy that between us we can find such men!”

“They say Lord Reesh had quite a few of them in his service. But I don’t.”

“Nor do I,” Merffin said—“but Goryk Gillow does! And he’ll be here well before the king. So there’ll be three of us to get the deed done.”

“But you haven’t discussed it with him yet.”

“It’s not the kind of thing you can put in a letter!” Merffin restrained himself from accusing Aggo of nay-saying the plan because he himself hadn’t thought of it. “Help me with this, Aggo! You want the Oligarchy restored as much as I do.”

“I’ve never murdered anyone.”

“Oh, if you’re going to be squeamish—”

Aggo held up a hand. “Don’t lose your temper, Merffin. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. But if you bring this up before the rest of our council, I’ll oppose you.”

Merffin took a deep breath. It was no good, getting upset with Aggo. He was an annoying sort of man, and that’s all there was to it.

“We don’t need the rest of the council,” he said. “It’ll be our secret, Aggo. Just help me, that’s all I ask. It’s for the good of Obann, in the long run.”

Aggo grinned at that.

CHAPTER 26

The End of a Long Walk

Of course Baron Roshay Bault sent out men on foot, on horseback, and on boats to try to find his daughter. The first patrols were out on the river before Nelligg even got back to Ysbott’s camp. The baron also had a gallows built outside the gate. He would have liked to have gone with the patrols, but he had to stay put to receive news and give commands. Harder than staying put was to keep a tight rein on his temper. He managed it, just barely.

He didn’t sleep that night, didn’t even go to bed. And early the next morning Sergeant Kadmel and his men came in with a prisoner.

“We found him running through the cornfield on Will’s farm, Baron—practically ran right into our arms. He says Ellayne’s escaped, but I don’t know whether to believe him.”

“It’s true! It’s true!” cried the outlaw, a stubby little man who looked like he’d run through more than one briar patch without paying much attention to it. “She made a witchcraft on us, she did! It was terrible! Struck us deaf and blind—”

Roshay glared so hard at the man that he fell silent instantly.

“Are you accusing my daughter of witchcraft, fellow? Mind what you say! There’s a noose all ready for you.”

The outlaw stuttered unintelligibly. Roshay was not so blinded by anger that he couldn’t recognize a genuinely terrified man when he saw one.

“Stop babbling,” he said, “and tell us everything that happened. Your only chance to live is if you tell the truth.”

It was a very strange story that came out of him—much too strange, the baron thought, to have been invented by such a fool. Roshay cautioned him to tell only what he’d seen and heard. “I don’t want to hear what you thought of it.”

So it seemed that Ellayne and Enith had indeed escaped, Ellayne having given the snatchers a thumping good scare that sent them scattering into the woods like rabbits. Roshay knew his daughter: she was quite capable of making up a fanciful story and persuading poor, ignorant louts to believe it. But he couldn’t begin to imagine how she’d actually done what the terrified knave swore he saw her do.

“Shall we hang him, sir?” Kadmel said.

“No, not for the time being. Lock him up. If we catch any of the others, we’ll see what kind of tale they tell. The girls are out there now, somewhere, and they’ve got to be found. They can’t be very far away.”

“We’ll find them,” Kadmel said. “Everybody’s looking.”

Wytt was settling down for a nap in the underbelly of the wagon when a faint whiff of something caused him to wrinkle his flat nose and tense his muscles. It was so faint that it would have passed unnoticed, even by him, had he been sleeping. You or I would have thought we had imagined it and just gone to sleep. But Wytt didn’t imagine things.

He dove from the wagon and dashed across the road into the tall grass. No one noticed him. He didn’t care whether the men saw him or not; he just kept going as fast as he could. No matter how far he went, he knew he could always find the wagons again. He also knew, although he couldn’t have told you how, that he wasn’t far from Ninneburky. Anyone riding atop the wagons would see the thin line of trees that marked the river, just a few miles to the north. The grass kept Wytt from seeing much of anything, but he didn’t need to see. He was following a scent, and every moment brought him closer to its source.

Ellayne and Enith were resting in the shade of an inkberry bush, screened by grass and heather, about a mile from the road. They were thirsty and tired, but Ellayne still hoped to reach the road before sundown. “Once we’re on it,” she said, “we’re bound to meet someone who can help us.”

“I sincerely hope so!” Enith said. “I can’t go on much farther. I’ve never walked so far in all my life.”

“The farther we get from the woods, the less chance those men will have of catching us again.”

“They won’t have to catch us if we die of thirst.”

Well, what else could you expect from a city girl? Ellayne resolved not to be too hard on Enith, who was doing the best she could. She remembered the first day she and Jack spent on their way to Bell Mountain. They thought their legs were going to fall off, and they didn’t seem to be getting anywhere.

“We won’t die of thirst,” she said. “We must be pretty near the road by now.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a nice, ripe melon!”

“You’re just going to make yourself hungrier and thirstier, going on like that.”