The Pool of Two Moons (58 page)

stand that woman—that
uile-bheist
— to rule! She has killed Jaspar, as surely as she killed Donncan and Feargus, as surely as she has tried again and again to kill me!"

Jay, who knew nothing about the Lodestar and did not care, started forward, his voice shrill, "What are ye all blabber-mouthing for! Do ye no' understand Finn is in the hands o' the Awl?" Finn opened her eyes cautiously. There had been no sound for well over ten minutes. Though every sense warned her of danger, she could not wait any longer.

She was lying on a velvet couch in a dimly lit room. On the table near her foot a chess game was set out, the players engaged. She let her eyes rove over the room and then noticed a thin, white hand lying amongst the crimson velvet thrown over the chair opposite. Her heart hammering, she raised her eyes and saw a high-templed, white face, heavy-lidded, thin-mouthed, smiling. Amongst all the dull crimson, there was only the white of his face and hand and stiff ruff.

"So ye have decided to wake, Fionnghal."

"Why do ye call me that?" She lifted her hand to her throat. "Give me back my charm!" He smiled and said nothing. She launched herself from the couch, nails raking, but he caught her throat in his thin, white hand and bore her to her knees. He gripped so hard she could barely breathe. Her small hands caught at his, but he did not relent. She knelt, quiescent. "Wild as an elven cat, ye are, Fionnghal." She jerked under his hand and he looked at her, puzzled. "That moves ye, I see. I wonder why." He looked her over, a smile-sneer on his face at her rags and general filth. "The MacRuraich would no' be so proud if he could see ye now, would he?"

She tried to speak, but her throat was paralyzed. He clenched a little closer, then threw her down. She lay still, swallowing air as if it were wine. He sat back, and his hand on his thigh was so still it was like marble.

"Ye slipped Glynelda's leash. A bad time ye gave her, ye and that red-haired wench. And auld Kersey dead, one o' the best bounty-hunters there ever was. Completely ruthless and corruptible. Just the way we like them. Did ye kill him, Fionnghal? I doubt he treated ye well. Did he hurt ye, Fionnghal?"

"Why do ye call me that?" she whispered.

"It is your name. A beautiful name. It means 'fair one,' and indeed ye are fair now, Fionnghal. When last I saw ye, ye were a dark imp, a wee goblin.' Again she startled involuntarily, and his gaze sharpened.

'Ye prick to the most unexpected barbs, Fionnghal. Ye intrigue me. I wonder what ye are doing here. We had tracked ye down to a gang o' filthy beggar bairns, stealing moldy bread from trash heaps and playing at intrigue. Where are they now, your friends? Where is the lad with the healing hands? Ye ken such sorcery is evil, Fionnghal? Ye ken such evil enchantments need to be cleansed by the fire? Ye ken the penalty for treason and witchcraft is death, Fionnghal?"

She lay still, watching him, waiting. He sat back. His hand smoothed his velvet coat, lifted to the tiny button at his throat, the first button of twenty-four. She saw his tightly tailored coat bulged slightly over one hip. He had something in his pocket. Something round. She lifted her eyes to his face.

"Death by fire, Fionnghal."

She gave a little whimper and lifted her hands to her throat. "Ye hurt me," she said piteously.

"Where are your friends, Fionnghal?"

"Please, can I have some wine? To soothe my throat?"

He poured some wine, red as his velvet. As she drank, he talked, startling her with his knowledge. He knew the King of Thieves had helped them escape, that the boy who lead the beggar children had a puppy with a black-patched face.

"Please, I feel faint. I do no' understand what ye mean. My head is spinning. I need something to eat," Finn moaned. At last he rang a bell. His servants brought them bread, white and soft as the cheese, and ripe red bellfruit on a tray, with a curved silver knife and linen napkins. She took her time over it, pretending to fumble in drunken clumsiness.

He laughed sardonically. "Only twelve and a cub unto her father! No wonder the family is weak, with a taste for the demon drink."

"Wha' do ye mean?" Finn mumbled. "All this mysterious . . . mutter!" He watched her, suspicious. "I hope the supper is to your liking, my lady Fionnghal. Surely better than what ye are accustomed to."

"Indeed 'tis," she slurred and knocked over the pepper pot with her elbow, so pepper poured out. Babbling apologies, she tried to scrape it back into the crystal container. He glanced at her sharply, and she gave him a drunken smile and burped loudly. Finn had spent half of her life with Kersey Witch-Sniffer, a man who was drunk more often than not—she could mimic every expression, belch and stammer. The seeker looked away, disgusted. With a quick fling of her wrist, she threw the pepper straight into his face. He sneezed violently, his eyes streaming. Before he could cry out she had brought the heavy silver tray crashing down on his head. He crumpled and slid to the ground. She retrieved her medallion and knotted it round her neck again, then dragged down one of the curtains and carefully rolled him up in it. It should muffle his cries and restrict his movements for quite some time. When he was as neatly swaddled as any baby, she smiled and gave a little jig.
Now to get out o' here!

Meghan and most of the ringleaders were still in the sitting room, finalizing their plans. Anghus burst in, shouting for men, for arms, for directions. It took some time to work out what was wrong. Anghus was keeping his temper on a tight rein, but was unable to stand still in his impatience. At last he shouted,

"That's it, I am going! Stay, ye cowards! I care no'."

A thin young man called Culley stood up, yawned and stretched. "I know how to get into the palace unseen, my laird. I will take ye for a price."

"We are to wait for the signal," another said. "Culley, ye ken we were told to lie low until the signal came."

"Stow it, Lunn. The man wants his daughter, I want his bag o' gold. Seems like a fair bargain to me." Meghan stood up, draping her plaid about her. "I will go with ye too, Anghus. I am uneasy in my heart. Too much has happened to alter my plans and I am no' there to steady my young hotheads. Ye plan to enter through the sewers, Culley?"

"Aye," he said, awed.

"Do ye ken the way or is it just bravado?"

"I have marked many o' the most important turns."

"But no' all o' them? Then I will call Ceit Anna. It will no' suit my plans to be lost in the sewers under Lucescere, no, indeed."

"I do know the way, my lady. I have used it several times."

"Very well, then, but let's be quick about it."

Within minutes they were in the boulevard, and Cul-ley was pulling up an iron manhole to climb down below street level. With twenty rebels to help guard them, they clambered down into the reeking darkness.

Through endless passages they hurried, illuminated only by the light of their candles, gagging at the foul stench. Culley found his way by checking for scratch marks on the wall. He told them the story of Tomas the Healer, and how he had helped the King of Thieves and his followers escape the dungeons of Lucescere Palace. They had been led through this maze of ducts and drains by a nyx. Culley-had not trusted the black-winged faery and so had scratched his mark here and there on the wall in case the nyx left them somewhere to rot. Realizing the usefulness of the underground system, he had spent time in the following few months exploring the sewers and marking key turnoffs. His foresight had paid off later when he had been arrested again and had managed to escape through the sewers a second time. They had just begun to climb an upward sloping drainpipe, wading through storm water, when Anghus suddenly cried, "No!"

"What be wrong, my laird?"

"I've lost the connection! Something has happened— I canna feel Fionnghal any more!" They looked at each other in foreboding.

"What could have happened?" Casey whispered.

"Did ye no' say it was a spell on her medallion that prevented ye from sensing her?" Donald said placidly.

"Happen she has just put it back on."

Anghus nodded, trying not to think about what else it could mean. He was tense and undecided, the others waiting to see what he thought was the best course of action. After a moment he said, "Let us push on. It will be much harder to find her now, but I canna leave her there another minute. We shall just have to track her down with our mere human senses."

Finn thought swiftly. There would be guards beyond the door. It was a miracle they had not heard her scuffles already. She wrapped the cloak about her and climbed out the palace window, closing it gently after her. It was dark, the rain beating against her back. She moved cautiously along a ridge of decorative stone, came to an open window and crawled inside. It was too dangerous to be hanging out there in that rain, particularly when the hour to midnight was already trickling away.

She tiptoed through the sleeping palace, came at last to the great staircase, and leant over the marble balustrade. Four floors below her was the entrance hall. She could see soldiers, stiff-backed and straight-speared. She ducked back, thinking furiously. There must be a servants' staircase, and at this time of the night it was likely to be empty. All she had to do was find it, slip down it and out through the kitchens into the garden.

Desperately she hoped Goblin had stayed with Jay, that Jay and Dillon and the others had returned safely to the tower, that they would do nothing rash. Surely they knew she could look after herself?

As if her thought of Goblin had summoned her, Finn saw the tiny cat poke her black nose through the front door of the entrance hall. Finn closed her eyes.
No, Goblin,
she prayed.
They will see ye, go
back.
Then she opened them again, desperate to see what was happening. The cat had slinked around the perimeter of the hall, almost invisible in the shadows, and was now bounding silently up the stairs. She was very black against the white marble. Finn could see her clearly, but the soldiers were all staring in front of them and did not notice.

The little black cat pranced up the final flight of steps, her tail raised high. She bounded into Finn's arms, kneaded her neck painfully, then demanded to be put down with one of her high-pitched, almost silent mews.

Clever kitty!
Finn said, dropping her on the ground.
Let's get out o' here.
Ten minutes later she had reached the western wing of the palace, the one closest to the gardens. She had to hide behind some curtains as a group of men passed by, talking in low voices, their heads bent together. They were richly dressed, in doublets and embroidered hose. She wondered what they were doing, wandering the palace in the wee small hours.

She followed the men, unable to help speculating about what they were up to. Their expressions had been so serious, the air of furtive excitement so intriguing, that Finn thought she should take advantage of being in the palace to find out what she could. Besides, they were going in the direction she wanted to, and surely it could not do any harm to see what they were up to.

The corridor was dimly lit, lanterns casting an occasional pool of light. She had wrapped herself well in the cloak, keeping the hood pulled forward. The cloak protected her against the cold, and she felt safer with her face hidden. Conscious of time running away, she began to hurry, turning a corner without first checking to see if the hall beyond was empty. She came to an abrupt halt, terror beating through her. Four soldiers stood only a few feet away, talking in low voices. One was facing her, and as she stared helplessly, he raised his eyes and stared straight at her.

Terror held her motionless. She waited for the inevitable shout. Nothing happened. The soldier's eyes passed over her as if she was not there, even though the light from the nearest lantern must have fallen upon her.

He made a gruff comment and touched his fingers to his helmet. Then he and his companion wheeled away and came down the hall toward her. Finn stood still, unable to believe they did not see her when she could see them so clearly. They passed within a foot of her, saying something about the Righ, and disappeared around the corner. Finn did not move. The other two soldiers talked a while longer, then marched off, somehow not noticing the cloak-shrouded little girl pressed against the wall in full view. Trembling with reaction, she waited a full minute before slowly and carefully continuing. She reached the end of the wide corridor and carefully peered around the corner. Her heart hammering, she whipped her head back. Two guards stood outside a grand door, spears at the ready. Another two were standing at the top of the marble staircase opposite.

Her only thought now was to get back to the tower but she could hear voices behind her, and the beat of marching feet. She picked up the elven cat, tucked her into the cloak's capacious pocket, pulled the hood further over her head and tiptoed across the corridor to the door opposite. Within was a bedroom, thankfully empty. She put back the hood so she could look about her. It was a lofty room, its ceiling painted with clouds and suns and the delicate shape of dancing nisses. In the center of the room was a wide bed with carved and gilded posts. The satin brocade curtains were blue and silver, fringed with gold.

In one corner was a gilded mirror on a stand. Thoughtfully Finn went to stand before it. To her disappointment she could see herself clearly. She was about to turn away when, on an impulse, she lifted the hood over her head. A thrill went down her spine, electrifying her. She was invisible. She had simply disappeared. She could see the room behind her reflected in the mirror, but there was no image of her at all. She pulled the hood away, and there she was, a small, black figure in the cloak, her face rather white, her eyes glittering with excitement.

Realizing the mantle she had found in the tower's relic room was a cloak of invisibility made her escape from the palace a much easier proposition. Smiling, she looked about her consideringly. There was a set of double doors in the right-hand wall, standing slightly ajar. She slipped through, careful not to move the doors, and found herself in a dressing room. By the richness of the gowns she knew she was in the quarters of one of the aristocracy, and wondered where the lady was.
Probably gone to visit her
amour,
Finn thought with a grin. Beyond was a lady's boudoir, daintily furnished and quite empty. She went quietly through the next set of double doors and found herself in a room lit only by the flickering flames on the hearth. Glancing about she saw someone asleep in the chair by the fire, Gita curled on her lap. The firelight played over her copper-red curls. "Iseult!" Finn cried. "Wha' are ye doing here?" She threw back the hood of her cloak and shook the sleeping girl vigorously. The redhead woke and stared at Finn with bemused blue eyes. "What?" she said sleepily. "What's wrong?" Then her eyes opened wide and she sat up hastily. "The Righ! Has he taken a turn for the worse?" She got to her feet, setting the donbeag back down on the chair. Finn stepped away, feeling scared. As soon as she had heard the girl's voice, she knew it was not Iseult. She saw now the girl was wearing a plain gray gown with a white apron, quite unlike Iseult's white leather jerkin and breeches. As the girl yawned and stretched, she saw one hand was tightly bound up with bandages.