Kushiel's Chosen (52 page)

Wrapping Fabron's keys in a fold of my gown to stifle their jangling, I made my way to the foot of the stairs that led away from the dungeon.

Well and good, there must be a key on Fabron's ring. I unfolded them from my gown and sorted through them by touch in the dim light cast by the lantern in the corridor behind me. There were three that were larger than the others, and one smaller. I tried one of the larger, then a second, and that one unlocked the door. Muffling the keys once more, I worked the latch and opened the door a crack, peering through the gap.

Beyond the wardroom lay what would have been the great hall in any other fortress this size. Only a few torches lit it, and those guttered low. I gazed cautiously around the corner of the arched entryway. A fireplace at one end, cold and bleak, and a long table; only a few chairs. There were hallways at either end. From the entrance at the far right came lamplight and the sound of voices.

Lack of knowledge is deadly. I left the wardroom and followed him, keeping to the shadows. Even if I had not known how to move silently, my bare feet made no sound on the cool flagstones.

The hallway branched, a broader corridor leading to the left, a narrower one lying ahead. Light spilled out of a room to the right on the narrow way, and that was where the voices came from. Feeling dreadfully exposed, I crept near enough to hear.

"... no answer from the watchtower, warden sir!" the guard I'd followed was reporting, an urgent strain in his voice. "We gave the signal three times, sir, as ordered!"

There was a small alcove holding a statue of Eshmun on a black marble plinth; a smiling youth crowned with a grain wreath. I had no other choice. Whispering a plea for for giveness to the slain deity, I slipped into the alcove, hud dling crouched in the shadow of his plinth.

Jogging footsteps sounded in the hall, a rattle of sticks. I dared not look, keeping my head down lest my face catch the light. Spears, I thought, or torches; somewhat from a storeroom. Intent on his errand, the guard passed me by unseeing, and I heard the even pace of his steps fade down the corridor.

I could not go back that way. What lay ahead? Storerooms and what else? Willing my pounding heart to steady, I concentrated my attention, straining my ears. Fool that I am, I nearly forgot my own advice and ignored my other senses. Fixed on listening for danger, I muttered a silent curse against the distractingly sharp odor of fresh-cut onion coming from somewhere beyond me.

Onion. The kitchen. I had learned from Tito that the guards took turns at cooking duty, for better or worse. The garrison fed itself with foodstuffs provided as tribute by the mainlanders; the prisoners ate their leftovers.

If there was one place on the island that would be deserted that night, it was the kitchen.

I don't think, then, I even dared to hope. Whatever it was, whoever, however—I had walked the bridge to La Dolorosa, swaying above the killing sea, while the sentries waited at the end, hand-axes poised above the hempen ropes. I could not imagine anyone crossing it in stealth. Partway, mayhap; even half or better, but there was no way to cross the whole of it unseen. So I did not dare hope or even plan, only sought, like a trapped creature, any avenue of escape.

By the dull glow of the embers, I explored the kitchen. It reeked of fresh onion and the stale odors of a thousand bygone meals. There were kettles and pots, a set of knives, and a stack of the trays used to bring food to the prisoners. Nothing more. Beyond a low archway lay the pantry. Here no light penetrated, and I was forced to explore blindly. Rashers of salt-cured bacon hung from the ceiling, easy to detect by smell. There were sacks of grain stacked along the walls, lentils and coarse-ground flour. I found baskets of aubergines, smooth-skinned and firm to the touch, and an other of ripe gourds. They did not eat so poorly, the garrison of La Dolorosa, although from the leftover fare I'd been served, I could not give much credit to their culinary skill.

It was big enough to admit a sack of grain. I could fit through it.

My fingers trembled as I undid the knotted fold of my dress and removed Fabron's keys, fumbling for the small one. It had to be! My lips moving in silent prayer, I fitted the key into the padlock. It took me three tries, my hand shook so.

But it fit.

With a faint click, the padlock opened. I removed it care fully and stooped to lay it on the floor. With agonizing slow ness, I drew back the bar and then pressed my ear to the wooden shutters, listening.

On the far side, I could hear the pounding sea, and naught else. No way to know but to try it. How much worse could it be, if they caught me?

A great deal. I knew that already. But that would happen anyway. Swallowing my fear, I drew open the shutters.

Night air blew in and the wail of Asherat's grief filled

The night skies were clouded, no moon or stars to betray me. Even if they were looking—and they were not, they were seeking an intruder, not watching the fortress—they would not see.

I could not stay. Above me, the service window gaped open, a breach waiting to be discovered. I gathered my wits, assessing my position. I was on the inland side of the for tress, furthest from the cliffs. To my left lay the rear of the fortress; to my right, the front, and the steep, rocky path to the bridge.

I had to gain the bridge. There was nothing else for it.

When we were children, Delaunay would set up courses for Alcuin and me, mazes that we must negotiate blindfolded, until we could move silently and swiftly in the dark. I dreamed then of exploring the quarters of some wealthy patron while they slept, searching out Elua-knows-what dire secrets. I never used those skills, then, but I used them now, making my way around the base of the looming fortress.

The guards were nervous, I could hear it in their low voices. "... grandfather saw it, and never spoke another word," one of them was muttering. "If you ask me, nothing
human
could cross that sodding bridge without being seen."

"Pascal saw it," the other said shortly. "It ran off before it finished him, and he was still alive when Gitto found him. He died trying to say what he saw. It didn't come
over
the bridge, it crawled
under
it."

"Yar, like a giant sodding spider!" the first retorted. "I tell you, whatever we're looking for, it's not human. No man could do that."

Don't dare to hope, I told myself, watching the torches recede; don't even think it! It was too much, too impossible. How could he have even found out where I was? It must be something else, some political coup, enemies of Marco Stregazza launching an attack on one of his strongholds. Who knew what intrigues lay behind the other prisoners of La Dolorosa? It must be, and I dared not dream otherwise.

It was empty. They were all empty, even mine, which I knew by the guano on the ground outside the window where I'd fed the seagulls. The light came from the corridor beyond the open cell doors, where I'd left the lantern. I stood up and moved away from the cell windows, into the deeper shadow of the fortress wall.