He suddenly became very still.
Miach knew this because he could see a sliver of a reflection of the man in the enormous mirror hanging over the hearth. Droch ran his hand over his books, stopped, then turned and looked in the mirror.
Miach knew it wasn’t possible that Droch could see him, not even through the slit left by the partially open wardrobe door, but even so his heart began to pound forcefully. He knew it was only in his own ears that it sounded so appallingly loud, but there was no comfort in that.
Droch walked over to the hearth and hauled his servant to his feet. The boy woke with a squeak.
“Aye, milord?”
“Has anyone been in here?” Droch demanded.
“Nay, milord,” the lad gasped. “Nay, not a soul.”
“Are you certain?”
“Aye, milord. My life upon it, milord. I just laid down but a moment ago.”
Droch took the boy by the scruff of the neck and shoved him away. “Begone. I want privacy.”
The serving lad scrambled with all due haste across the chamber. The door was wrenched open, then pulled shut behind him with a bang. Miach listened to Droch wander about the chamber, investigating corners and patches of dark that gave way to his werelight only reluctantly. He paused, then walked back over to his table and studied the books there. Miach had sensed no spell covering any of them—well, other than the usual bit of vileness that crawled over whatever tome contained Olc. Surely nothing that should have given his own presence away.
The master of the art came to a stop in front of his solar door. Miach could no longer see him, but he could hear him as he moved again, his boots very light against the stone of the floor. He walked to a spot directly in front of the wardrobe and stopped.
Miach was suddenly so overcome by the desire to fling open the door, he almost caught his breath. He wasn’t sure if it was his own will faltering or if it were some sort of wretched spell that Droch was casting silently. That he couldn’t tell spoke volumes, no doubt.
Droch stepped back suddenly, out of sight again. Miach didn’t dare hope that would be the end of it. Morgan’s fingers in his back didn’t relax either, so perhaps she had the same thought. He closed his eyes and listened to Droch pace about the chamber several more times, pausing each time to linger in front of the wardrobe. Miach supposed they wouldn’t be fortunate enough for Droch to wear himself out, then go have a little rest on that sofa long enough for them to escape.
Droch suddenly walked in the direction of the door. Miach didn’t have to wonder for long what he intended, for he heard the words of a spell clearly enough. In time, he saw something begin to form itself in the middle of the chamber. Droch clapped his hands and the pile of what he’d created began to first shimmer, then take shape.
“That should take care of any vermin that might have slipped in unnoticed,” Droch drawled. “And what an unpleasant way to die.”
Miach closed his eyes and cursed silently as Droch left the chamber, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it. Unpleasant wasn’t the word he would have used, but perhaps he would think of a better one when he had gotten Morgan safely away from what was now a mass of writhing, twisting snakes there in the middle of the chamber. He supposed it might have been prudent to wait a bit longer and see if Droch had merely pretended to leave, but he didn’t think they would have that luxury. Consequences be damned. He and Morgan had to get out before those snakes warmed enough to slither about and find what they’d been instructed to seek.
Anything that moved.
Alarm bells began to ring in the distance. Miach swore, then flung open the armoire door and hurled the first thing he put his hand on across the chamber. The cloak he’d thrown landed on top of the nest of vipers, covering them temporarily.
He bolted for the window and worked on the latch with the knife Scrymgeour Weger had gifted him. Perhaps it possessed a magic he hadn’t felt, for it cut through the spells there as if they’d been naught but tender flesh. He shoved open the window, boosted Morgan up, then jumped up himself.
“Miach!”
He looked down and flinched at the sight of fangs that were a fingerbreadth from his leg, stopped only by that same bit of steel he was holding in his hand.
Morgan said nothing else, but her knife flashed suddenly in the light from the fire. The viper’s head and its body fell back to the floor separately.
Miach followed Morgan out onto the ledge, then jerked the window shut behind him. He wiped the venom off the knife and onto his boot, then carefully resheathed his knife. The venom of the Natharian viper was instantly fatal if it found home in flesh. He wasn’t sure how long after the fact it remained potent, so keeping his hands away from his boots would probably be quite wise.
“We’ll have to find somewhere inside the keep to hide,” he said, feeling a little breathless.
“Are you mad?” Morgan exclaimed. “Surely they’ll find us.”
“We have no other choice. They’ll be looking for us to go back over the outer walls. We’ll climb up to the roof, join the hunt for a bit, then make our way somewhere safe.”
She shot him a skeptical look, but followed him just the same. He wasn’t any more eager to remain inside the keep than she was, but he saw no other alternative. Best to hide out for a bit and slip out when the masters had tired of the chase and gone to bed.
Within moments, they were running through the halls, mixing with hooded figures that were running about frantically as well. Miach considered where they might go, then settled for the library. Even in the middle of the night it wasn’t unheard of for students to be laboring over texts. Given the evidence of untoward activities he and Morgan had left just inside Droch’s window, he didn’t think that simply hiding behind ale kegs in the kitchen would be any protection against discovery. Best that they appear to be about some sort of useful and ordinary labor.
Morgan made no comment as he led her swiftly through passageways, and down finally into the bowels of the keep. He walked into the library as if he had every right to, nodded deferentially to the librarian, then made his way back into the shelves. He hadn’t but rounded the corner into a darkened row before he heard a voice behind him.
Droch’s servant, unfortunately.
“Master Reudan, my master Droch said he feared an intruder was inside the keep!”
Miach took Morgan’s hand and pulled her along with him deeper into the rows of shelves before he had to listen to the librarian’s answer. He reached for a random volume and shoved it into her arms.
“Feign interest,” he advised.
“Miach, behind you!” she whispered harshly.
Miach turned around—but too quickly for he caught the edge of his hood on a particularly large tome that protruded from the shelf. He yanked his hood back up but not before the man facing him had caught his breath.
“Excuse me,” Miach said in a very low voice.
The other man’s face was hidden in a deep cowl; determining his expression was impossible. He didn’t seem particularly inclined to move out of their way. Instead, he reached out and put his hand on Miach’s arm.
Miach looked down, then inhaled sharply. The hand that held on to his sleeve was horribly disfigured, as if it had been crushed under an unforgiving weight, then pulled free at great cost. Miach tried to see the man’s face, but he pulled back farther into the shadows.
“Follow me,” he rasped.
“But—” Miach protested.
The man kept his hand on Miach’s arm, turned, and tugged.
Miach considered balking, but something stopped him. At least the man wasn’t shouting for aid, or loudly announcing a neatly executed capture. Perhaps this was a gift from an unexpected source. If so, he would be a fool to spurn it. He wished he’d had a knife up his sleeve to loosen, but since he didn’t, he would merely be wary.
Their guide led them through stacks of books to a chamber near the back of the library. Within moments, Miach found himself sitting on a stool with
a needle and binding thread in his hand in a darkened corner of what was obviously a private workroom. Morgan was sitting on the floor next to him, hidden for the most part from anyone who might be looking inside from the doorway. He reached over and tugged her hood closer around her face, then put his hand briefly on her head before he moved his stool more fully in front of her. They were as inconspicuous as possible. There was nothing else to be done.
The man who had offered them sanctuary said nothing; he simply went about his work as if nothing were amiss. He was grappling with a set of shears when the door opened and guardsmen burst inside.
“Oh,” said one of them, shivering and backing away immediately. “I thought the chamber was empty.”
“Nay,” said their rescuer in a voice that was as ruined as his hand. He pointed the shears toward the men. “ ’Tis my chamber, so be on your way.”
Miach stole a glance at the lads who had backed out of the chamber itself but still hovered in the half-open doorway. He couldn’t see their faces, but the shuffling of their feet bespoke serious discomfort.
“And those two there—” one of them ventured.
“My servants,” the man rasped.
“I see,” the guard said, shoving his companion behind him back out into the library itself. “We’re looking for a lad who slipped over the walls tonight and we thought that perhaps . . .”
The man only made a sound that reminded Miach of the branches of a winter-hardened tree scraping against a glassed window. He supposed it had been a laugh.
“You thought he would dare come here?” the man asked.
The guards shook their heads as one, turned, then fled.
Their host shut the door, then put his ear against it and listened for some time in silence. Miach looked at Morgan. She was absolutely still, but he could see the dull gleam of steel in her hand. He nodded slightly, then turned back to watch their host.
The man remained where he was so long, Miach wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Before he dared say anything, the other pushed away from the door, turned, and walked across the chamber. He hooked a stool with his foot and dragged it over to the opposite side of the table. He sat stiffly, then set his shears down with a clatter. He tucked his hands inside the opposite sleeves of his robe.
“We’ll seek the kitchens later. Lads will be coming in and out near dawn.”
Miach nodded. He didn’t dare ask him any of the questions that he so desperately wanted to, beginning and ending with why did you help us? He simply hoped the charity would last long enough to see them set outside the walls in the morning.
He didn’t want to think about the alternative.
Several hours later, Miach found himself rather dirtier than he’d ever been before, trailed by an equally filthy Morgan of Melksham through a long passageway that led from the kitchens to the street outside the keep. He was carrying a basket of rotten flesh guaranteed to have everyone in Beinn òrain avoiding him willingly. He was fairly certain the basket of spoiled greens Morgan was carrying was even more pungent. Their host was leading the way with his arms full of much the same stuff. Miach promised himself a deep breath later, when he was sure it wouldn’t fell him prematurely.
It had been a less-than-comfortable night, but he hadn’t complained. Their host had said nothing, asked no questions, spared Morgan not so much as a look. He’d merely sat there with them save for the handful of times he’d risen and walked across the chamber to put his ear to the door. Miach had finally resorted to keeping himself awake by flipping through the randomly chosen book he’d given Morgan. It hadn’t yielded any more answers than their silent host.
Their brief stop in the kitchens had been almost as risky as he’d suspected it might be, what with a cook who was far more inquisitive than he should have been and kitchen lads who were just as curious. Fortunately, their rescuer was not unknown—nor was he apparently very welcome—which had left them avoided by association. Miach had been profoundly grateful.
It was growing light outside when he followed their guide over to a row of compost heaps, happily deposited his burden in the appropriate place, then turned to look at the man who had saved their lives. He wasn’t sure how to go about repaying the gift—or how to ask if the man might be willing to forget that he’d seen them.
“Thank you again,” he said, settling for the simpler of the two.
The man brushed off his hands carefully, then nodded. “Be well,” he said, his voice barely audible. “My lord Archmage.”
Before Miach could respond, the man had melted back into the shadows of the keep and disappeared. Miach would have continued to gape after him, but Morgan elbowed him sharply in the ribs.
“You said your thanks,” she said briskly. “Let’s go.”
“Think he’ll keep it all to himself?” Miach asked, feeling a little winded—and not just from Morgan’s elbow.
“Does it matter? Let’s be off whilst we can.”
He didn’t protest when she pulled him after her down the hill, away from the keep but in a different direction from their lodgings. There was sense in that. The sooner they were able to blend in with the seedier elements near the docks, the better off they would be.
Half an hour later, he pulled her into a deserted alleyway and caught his first decent breath in hours. He almost wished he hadn’t.
Morgan wrinkled her nose as well. “We stink.”
“And thankfully we’re alive to do so,” he said, with feeling.
She smiled, apparently in spite of herself, then looked around her. “Do we dare have a dip in the river?”
“The Oan is filthier than we are,” he said with a shudder. “Perhaps we should just wait until we’re back at the inn. I imagine there’s water in the garden.”
“I don’t think they’ll let us in the garden.”
“I’ll bribe them. ’Tis a certainty your grandfather won’t let us in that luxurious chamber I provided for him if we don’t clean up first.” He took a ginger breath, then looked at her. “How are you?”
“I’m not sure what was more unpleasant, hiding in that wardrobe and wondering when that horrible wizard would find us, or hiding in that horrible little chamber and wondering when guards would burst back in and leave us fighting our way out.”
He couldn’t have agreed more. It had been a thoroughly unpleasant night.
“What now?” she asked.
Back inside Droch’s solar for another go was the first thing that came to mind, but he didn’t suppose it would serve either of them for him to voice that thought given that he had no intention of taking Morgan with him. He merely picked a particularly rotten piece of spring salad off her shoulder and smiled. “Let’s think about it later, when we can breathe again.”
“I’m for that, at least. And quickly, if you don’t mind.”
He didn’t mind at all. Half an hour and a substantial bag of gold in the cook’s hand later, he was slightly cleaner and walking up the back stairs to the upper floor of the Uneasy Dragon. He ran into Morgan’s uncle at the top of the stairs before he realized Sosar was waiting for them.
“You smell,” Sosar said pleasantly.
“Thank you,” Miach said with a grunt. “It was worse before, believe me.” He steadied himself with a hand against the wall. “Any trouble?”
“Outside of my father raging half the night that he had changed his mind and planned to slay you?” Sosar asked with a smile. “Nay, it was very quiet. I heard a bell or two ringing inside the walls, though.”
“I imagine you did,” Miach agreed. “They’re a busy lot, those wizards.”
“No doubt.” Sosar nodded down the passageway. “I’ve food waiting, which you can thank me for later. You’d best eat it. I imagine you won’t have much appetite when you learn where we’re lunching.”
Miach blinked in surprise. “Where?”
“At Buidseachd. It would seem that Father was caught down at the stables very early this morning with your brother. Turah blurted out some ridiculous t
ale about having come to see a man about a sword, which my father says was completely unbelievable.”
“Who saw them?” Miach asked, dragging his free hand through his hair. “One of Master Ceannard’s lads?”
“Nay, the one who sent you this message a quarter hour ago.” Sosar held out a note, pinched between as little of his thumb and forefinger as possible. “I couldn’t bring myself to read it for you.”
Miach opened the missive. Words of Olc slithered down the page to wind themselves around his fingers. Next time alert me to your arrival, and I’ll make certain to leave my door unlocked.
The note burst into flames and Miach dropped it with a curse. He ground the smoking rubbish under his boot, then stared down at the ashes. Well, whatever else his faults might have been, Droch was no fool—and he had a knack for being able to tell who was behind him without looking over his shoulder. Perhaps there had been spells laid across the doorway or over the books that he hadn’t seen. He looked at Sosar. “I suppose we’d best have a decent breakfast.”
“As I advised,” Sosar agreed. “I’ll go now and see to clothes for this historic visit. You can find your own baths, though. I’m sure my father will aid you when he catches a whiff of your fragrant selves.”
Miach cursed Sosar briefly as he slipped past them, then he took as deep a breath as he dared. “This is a boon,” he said to Morgan with forced cheerfulness. “Perhaps I might even be invited into a few interesting chambers this time.”
“Who was the missive from?”
He thought about attempting to dodge the question, but discarded the idea. If Morgan was going back inside Buidseachd with him, she had best know what they stood to face. “It was from Droch.”
“He knows we were there, doesn’t he?”