“So it is,” Avery replied, somewhat embarrassed, “but I thought you would be pleased to learn that Rufo here, and I, have arrived in town. We shall be staying at the inn, just four doors down from you, across from the stairway.” The portly headmaster glanced that way, his expression clearly revealing an invitation for the young priest.
Cadderly nodded then winced again as another drop of imaginary blood ran the length of his forearm.
Avery didn’t miss the sour expression. “Is something wrong, lad?” the headmaster asked with compassion.
“Nothing,” Cadderly replied curtly. He mellowed immediately, guessing that his demeanor would inspire further curiosity. “I’m just tired. I was sleeping.”
“My pardon,” Avery said, straining to be light-hearted, “but you are not sleeping now.” He took a step forward, as though to push his way into the room.
Cadderly shifted to block the door. “I will soon be sleeping again,” he said.
Avery stepped back and for the first time since he’d arrived, regarded Cadderly with a less than appreciative glint in his puffy eyes.
“Still stubborn?” Avery asked him. “You tread on dangerous ground, young priest. Your absence from the library might be overlooked. Dean Thobicus has promised that he will allow you to make up your missed duties and studies.”
“I do not care for his promises.”
“If you continue on your wayward path,” Avery went on, his voice a growl against Cadderly’s biting remark, “then you may move beyond the order all together. I am not certain even kind Thobicus could forgive your transgressions against Deneir.”
“What do you know of Deneir?” Cadderly asked.
In his mind he saw Avery again, lying dead across the table, but he shook the dark thought away, realizing how much he loved the man who had been a surrogate father to him. “And why would you care for me? Did you not once call me a Gondsman?” Cadderly asked, referring to the order of inventive priests who created without conscience, without regard to the implications of their creations.
His tirade exhausted, Cadderly looked at the headmaster, the father he had just terribly wounded with his impertinence. Avery couldn’t respond to his last statement and seemed more on the verge of tears than an explosion of anger. Behind him, Kierkan Rufo wore an almost amused expression of disbelief.
“I-I’m sor—” Cadderly stammered, but Avery put a large hand up to halt him.
“I’m tired, that’s all,” Cadderly tried to explain. “I’ve had some terrible dreams of late.”
Avery’s expression shifted to one of concern, and Cadderly knew his apology had been accepted, or soon would be.
“We are but four doors down,” the portly headmaster reiterated. “If you feel the need to talk, do come and join us.”
Cadderly nodded, though he knew he wouldn’t go to them, and shut the door the moment Avery had turned away. He fell back against the door, thinking how flimsy a barrier it was against the doubts and confusion of the outside world. He looked at his table by the window, to the open tome. When was the last time that book had been closed?
Cadderly couldn’t even muster the strength to go to it. He slipped over to his bed and collapsed, hoping that he had put the night’s bloody dreams behind him.
Bogo Rath released his spell of clairaudience and cracked open the common room’s door. The room was on the southwestern wing of the inn’s second level. Almost directly across from him, over the hearth room, loomed Cadderly’s door, closed once more. Avery and Rufo rounded the corner diagonally to Bogo’s right, moving toward the door directly opposite the wide staircase. The hearth room had grown quiet and Bogo could clearly hear their conversation.
“His surliness has not relented one bit since he passed through the library,” Rufo said in an accusatory tone.
“He appeared weary,” Avery answered with a resigned sigh. “Poor lad—perhaps Danica’s arrival will brighten his mood.”
They entered their room then, and Bogo considered using his eavesdropping magic to hear the rest of their discussion.
“Who is Danica?” came a quiet, monotone question from behind Bogo. The young wizard froze then slowly managed to turn around.
There stood Ghost, in the otherwise empty common room. The puny man held no weapon and made no move toward Bogo, but the wizard felt vulnerable nonetheless. How had Ghost come in so easily behind him? There was but one door to the room, and it had no outside balcony, as did the more expensive private rooms.
“How did you get in here?” Bogo asked, managing to steady his voice.
“I have been ‘in here’ all along,” Ghost replied. He turned and pointed to a pile of blankets. “There, awaiting your return from the hearth room.”
“You should have told me.”
Ghost’s wheezing laughter mocked him and showed him how ridiculous he had sounded.
“Who is Danica?” the dark little man asked again.
“Lady Danica Maupoissant,” Bogo replied, “from Westgate. Do you know of her?”
Ghost shook his head.
“She is Cadderly’s dearest friend,” Bogo went on, “a beautiful wisp of a woman, by all descriptions, but formidable.” Bogo’s expression and tone grew grave. “This is not good news. Lady Maupoissant has been a terrible foe to Castle Trinity in the fight thus far. If she arrives soon, then you would be well advised to finish your business with Cadderly promptly and be gone from here.”
Ghost nodded, considering the warning. “From where will she come?” he asked. “The library?”
“That would seem likely,” Bogo replied. He flipped his brown hair to one side and smiled slyly. “What are you thinking?”
Ghost’s glare stole the wizard’s mirth. “That is none of your concern,” he rasped with sudden anger, pushing past Bogo to the door. “If you’re thinking of making any move against Cadderly on your own.…” He let the implication hang in the air.
“Well, let us just say that the consequences of failure can be terrible indeed,” Ghost finished, and he started away. He turned back immediately, though, his gaze directing Bogo to the pile of blankets that had hidden Ghost. “Do watch your back, young wizard,” Ghost said then he coughed a wheezing laugh and went to his room, in the corner of the north wing, halfway between Cadderly’s room and the room occupied by Avery and Rufo.
“From the library, from the mountains,” Ghost mused, closing the door behind him. “Well, we shall see if Lady Maupoissant follows her path all the way to Carradoon.” Ghost sat on his bed and summoned the Ghearufu. Using its powers, he sent his thoughts out to Vander, in the distant farmhouse.
Ghost felt the firbolg’s typical revulsion and knew from its depth that Vander was angry both with the situation at the farm and with Ghost’s intrusion.
Let me in, Vander, the wicked man teased, confident that the firbolg could not deny access even if he tried. Vander was Ghost’s chosen victim, his special target, and with Vander alone, Ghost could make the body transfer from almost any range. He felt the sharp, burning pain as his spirit stepped out of his body, and he was floating, flying on the winds, propelled straight for the firbolg’s shell. As he entered the giant body, he knew that Vander had entered his, back in the room at the Dragon’s Codpiece.
Do not leave the room, Ghost instructed telepathically through the continuing mental link. Admit no visitors, particularly not that foolish wizard, Bogo Rath!
Ghost willed away the Ghearufu and considered his surroundings. Curiously enough, he was in a barn, surrounded by stabled horses and cows. The man in the firbolg’s body shook his head at Vander’s continuing surprises and made his way to the large door.
The farmyard was quiet under the light of the westering moon, and the house was dark. Not a single candle burned in any window. Ghost made his way across to the porch and heard a shuffle from up above.
“It’s only the master,” he said to the unseen guards. “Gather the others and come into the barn, all of you. The time has come to tighten our noose
.”
Just a few moments later, the entire band of nineteen remaining Night Masks assembled around their leader. Ghost noted that one of his henchmen was missing, but he said nothing about it, realizing that Vander probably knew what had happened to the man and that he might confuse them all by questioning the absence while wearing Vander’s form.
He drew a quick map on the ground in front of him. “I have word that a woman is on her way to Carradoon from the Edificant Library,” he said, indicating the location of the mountain structure. “There are only a few trails down the mountains, and they all exit in this general area. She should not be hard to find.”
“How many should we send?” one of the assassins asked.
Ghost paused as much to consider the angry edge to the man’s tone as to consider the question itself. Perhaps the missing Night Mask had met an unfortunate demise at Vander’s impulsive hands.
“Five,” Ghost said at last. “The woman is to be killed, as are any who travel beside her.”
“It could be a large and formidable band,” the same assassin argued.
“If so, then kill only the woman and be gone from there,” Ghost snapped back, his firbolg-strength voice resounding off the barn’s walls.
“Which five?” asked one of the group.
“Choose among yourselves,” Ghost replied, “but do not take this woman lightly. She is, by all reports, formidable indeed.
“Another group of five is to strike within the town,” Ghost went on. “Our information was correct. Cadderly stays at the Dragon’s Codpiece. Here,” he said, extending his map to show the lakeside section of Carradoon and indicating the lane running along the shore, “on Lakeview Street. Secure positions near the inn, where you will be at my—at Ghost’s call. But take care to be far enough out of reach so as not to arouse suspicion.”
“With five stringers to open a line of contact to the group within the city?” the same questioning assassin put in.
“That is our usual method,” Ghost answered.
“That will leave only four here at the farmhouse, excluding yourself,” the angry assassin reasoned. Ghost didn’t understand the problem. “If we’re forced to maintain a continual guard over the girl—”
“The girl?” Ghost didn’t mean to sound so startled.
The assassin and several others cocked a curious eye. “The girl that Mishalak died for,” he said with open contempt.
Ghost saw a problem building, and he scowled to force the upstart back on the defensive.
“I don’t question your decision to let her live,” the assassin quickly explained. “Nor do I deny that Mishalak deserved death for drawing a weapon against you, the taskmaster. But if only four of us remain to guard the farmhouse, the girl becomes a threat.”
It all made perfect sense to the cunning impersonator. Vander’s soft heart had caused problems before. Oftentimes the firbolg was too intent on honor, placing that foolish notion above his duties. Ghost spent a moment considering how he might punish the giant then smiled as a typically fiendish idea came into his head.
“You are correct,” he said to the assassin. “It’s time for you to end that threat.”
The man nodded eagerly, and Ghost’s smile widened. The wicked little wizard thought how furious Vander would become, and how helpless, impotent, the firbolg would be. The proud giant would hate that most of all.
“And end it tonight,” Ghost purred. “But first, you and your friends may have your way with her.” All around the ring, the assassins smiled. “After all, we cannot survive on duty alone!”
That brought a cheer from the group.
“Go for the mountains tonight, as well,” Ghost continued. “I don’t know how many days away this Lady Maupoissant is from Carradoon, but she cannot be allowed to enter the town.”
“Maupoissant?” one of the assassins, an older killer with salt-and-pepper hair, piped in.
“You know the name?”
“Nearly a decade ago we killed a wainwright by that name,” the man admitted, “along with his wife. And we were paid handsomely for the task, I must say.”
“The name is unusual and she is, by my informant’s words, from Westgate,” Ghost reasoned. “There could be a connection.”
“Good,” said the man, drawing a dagger and running the flat of the blade slowly along his bony cheek. “I always like to keep it in the family.”
The nineteen Night Masks were pleased to see their unpredictable firbolg taskmaster joining in the laughter, the giant’s heartfelt roars smothering their own. They were nervous. The time to kill was drawing near, and adding this “Lady Maupoissant” to the victim list was akin to smearing icing on an already delicious cake.
TEN
PROFESSIONALS
What time is it?” Ivan asked, rolling out of his blankets and giving a profound stretch.
“Hours past dawn,” Danica answered, privately berating herself for being foolish enough to take the last watch.
“Ye should’ve woked me up,” Ivan complained. He started to sit then changed his mind and fell back into the bedroll in a heap.
“I have,” Danica muttered, though the dwarf was no longer listening. “Six times!
“But not again,” the fiery woman whispered.
She was prepared. Danica took up two small buckets filled with the icy cold water of a nearby mountain stream. Stealthily, she slipped up to the dwarves, their bedrolls having merged from their typically wild slumber during the night into a single large tangle. Danica sorted out the mess and moved the blankets aside enough to reveal the backs of hairy necks.
Pikel’s presented the most problem, since the dwarf wore his beard pulled back over his ears and braided with his long hair, which he had recently re-dyed forest green, halfway down his back. Gently Danica moved the tousle aside, drawing a semiconscious “Hee hee,” from the snoozing dwarf, and lifted one of the buckets.
The next thunderous roars resounding from the camp sent animals for nearly a mile around scurrying for cover. Even a fat black bear, out to catch some morning sunshine, raced through a tangle and up the side of a thick oak, sniffing the air nervously, fearfully.
The dwarves ran around in circles, crashed into each other several times, and threw their blankets into the air.
“Me weapon!” Ivan cried in distress.
“Oo oi!” Pikel wholeheartedly agreed, unable to locate his tree-trunk club.
Ivan calmed first, noticing Danica standing next to a tree, her arms folded across her chest and her grin spreading from ear to ear. The dwarf stopped running all together and regarded her with dart-throwing eyes.
He should have looked out for his brother instead.
Pikel hit him broadside, and the two flew away into some brambles. By the time they extricated themselves and had stomped back into the camp, their beards were thrown wildly about and their nightshirts seemed almost furry with burrs.
“Yerself did that to us!” Ivan shouted accusingly at Danica.
“I wish to be in Carradoon no later than tomorrow,” the woman replied just as angrily. “I welcomed your company, but didn’t know it would mean holding camp until after noon each day. I thought dwarves were industrious.”
“Oooo,” Pikel moaned, ashamed of his perceived laziness.
“Not our fault,” Ivan muttered, also on the defensive. “It’s the ground,” he blurted. “Yeah, the ground. Too hard and comfortable for a dwarf to want to get himself up in the morning!”
“You have forfeited breakfast,” Danica scolded.
“When halflings shave their feet!” Ivan roared, and Danica suspected—correctly—that she was overstepping her bounds. Throwing ice-cold water down the backs of sleeping dwarves was one thing, but denying them food was something all together different, something downright dangerous.
“A quick meal then,” she conceded. “Then we’re off.”
Sixteen trout, four tankards of ale—each—half a sack of biscuits and three bowls of berries—each—later, the dwarf b
rothers gathered their belongings and skipped off down the mountain trails behind Danica. Impresk Lake was clearly visible whenever they came to an open ridge, and Carradoon soon came into sight as well, far below.
Despite Danica’s desire for haste, the trio took all caution in their trek. The Snowflake Mountains were a dangerous place, even in their southern reaches, where the charges of the Edificant Library dominated the region. With war brewing in the north and battles continuing back to the west, in Shilmista, the companions had to assume that the trails would be more dangerous than ever.
Danica led the way, bending low to inspect every track, every bent blade of grass. Ivan and Pikel bobbed along behind her, Ivan in his deer-antlered helmet and Pikel wearing a many-dented cooking pot for lack of any formal headgear. Even though Danica continually searched the ground as she traveled, the speedy monk had little trouble outpacing the dwarves and forced them to scurry along just to keep up.
Danica slowed considerably, and Ivan and Pikel nearly ran her down.
“Uh-oh,” Pikel muttered, seeing Danica’s curious expression.
“What’d ye find?” Ivan asked, pulling his brother along behind him.
Danica shook her head, unsure. “Someone has passed this way,” she declared.
“Avery and Rufo,” Ivan replied.
“More recently,” Danica said, standing straight again and taking a long, hard look at the nearby brush.
“Coming, or going?” Ivan pressed.
Danica shook her head, unable to decide. She was confident that her guess had been correct, but what bothered her was the nature of the tracks, the scratching marks made over the apparent boot prints. If someone had crossed their trail earlier that morning then they had gone to great lengths to conceal their tracks.
Ivan looked down at the unremarkable ground, and scratching at his yellow beard, produced yet another stubborn burr. “I don’t see any tracks,” he huffed.