The Bone Mask Trilogy: (An Epic Fantasy Boxed Set), page 32
With a flourish he removed his mask and threw back his hood.
Sofia let out a sob.
Tantos.
***
Another explosion rocked the city.
Notch ran to the courtyard door. The street outside remained empty, dawn light filtering down, but that would soon change. “Damn it,” he shouted. He only hoped Seto’s men weren’t too close. “Feel that? We were too slow.”
“We did our best,” Seto said from across the room. His face was drawn, but he’d returned from the inn as vowed, a light burning in his sunken eyes. He said nothing of Tulio or what he found there, but there was blood on his boots and traces on his hands. A blade still swung at his side. Notch did not ask.
“I don’t know if we did.”
The old man didn’t reply.
Pistorio waved from his wagons. “Nearly done, Notch.”
“All right.” Notch didn’t move. His chest no longer troubled him, not after being rewrapped and having taken a dose of lenasi. “You owe me for this, Notch,” Pistorio told him. “It isn’t cheap.” The explosion had rattled the whole building and already the screams were starting. He slammed a fist into a wall. He should have acted sooner. They’d known about the bathhouse and the latest store of acor. But they’d been too slow, even with Seto’s men. Notch shouldn’t have let the Shields, nor Seto’s grief push it from his mind. More people were dead; who knew how many? Worse, Pevin wouldn’t be able to help with many other locations.
He rolled his wrists, hand straying to his hilt. It was a problem for another day.
Sofia first.
Pistorio and Flir were reloading the wagons, making enough room for extra boxes to be slid into the beds. Each box would contain a surprise cargo. Notch, Flir, Luik and Wayrn would slip inside the palace within one of the smith’s deliveries.
“I could just as easily walk in,” Wayrn said, during the discussion, “but meeting up with you would be difficult. Biagio has been upset at some of my lengthy absences lately.”
Flir had favoured simply breaking in, but there was no way even her strength could open the palace gates. Notch had never seen anything like them, in any other city he’d seen in his years as a mercenary. The colossal gates were a singular achievement.
“Isn’t there a better way?” Flir had one foot in a box. She wore her tunic and pants, no disguises this time. Masquerading as Mascare in the palace was too risky.
“Probably,” Notch said. He jogged to his own case and gave a shudder. It was not unlike a coffin. Wonderful. A rough ride in a narrow box. “But Vinezi’s already acting.”
“Fine.” She lay down, grumbling to herself.
“Just do it, Flir,” Luik called from the nearest box, voice muffled.
Notch hopped into the wagon bed then the wooden box. He lay down, scabbard and sword in hand. How were Luik and Wayrn faring now? They’d been in their boxes for some time. After a moment, Pistorio appeared above him, holding a lid. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
The top slid over and into place, a mere finger’s length from his nose, bringing darkness. The smell of pine was everywhere. He placed his hands on the lid and hefted. The pine rose and Pistorio chuckled. “I won’t nail it down, don’t worry – but I will add something heavy to keep it down.”
“Good idea.”
“Here’s Seto, too,” he said.
Notch waited while the horses were hitched, Seto and Pistorio conversing. Their voices were muffled and once the wagon pulled out of the smithy, there was only the grind of wheels on stone.
By the time they stopped, hopefully at the gates, he was glaring at the wood. The bumpy ride seemed to have shaken his body into separate pieces. Indistinct voices drifted down from the front of the wagon. He held his breath. If the guards decided to search the wagon, things would become unpleasant. Quickly. Pistorio vowed that such searches were rare. After years of service, he was trusted. He was also one of the few artisans from the Second Tier with a pass. Everything would work out.
Unless Notch happened across Otonos.
Though there was little chance of that. If the man was as gravely ill as rumoured, he’d not be stalking the halls. And Sofia was counting on him. No time for personal scores to be settled. Besides, he should have settled it years ago. On the black sands in Medah.
Just as Father said.
Long moments passed and Notch tensed. He reached for his knife. It was the only thing he could get a grip on, sword on his chest. The new blade came courtesy of Pistorio, a much finer weapon than he’d been forced to use of late. For a change, he wasn’t eager to use it. Shields weren’t the enemy.
The wheels started rolling again and he exhaled. From the gates, the wagon would travel up to the outer buildings of the armoury and be unloaded, usually by Pistorio’s men. Much rested on whether the quartermaster would offer to help. The blacksmith’s livelihood, even his life, counted on delivering Notch and the others without being discovered. And that was exactly what Notch wanted. No-one else needed to die.
The wagon came to another halt and Notch strained his ears. Pistorio’s voice. Tone reasonable. Someone answered. Silence. Finally, something slid along the surface of his lid.
Who would it be?
The wood lifted and light flooded in, Pistorio’s face above him. Notch released a breath.
“Quickly.”
He hopped out and into an open loading bay. Stacks and boxed supplies lined the stone walls. A broad set of double doors were closed.
“Where’s the quartermaster?” Notch asked as he slid bushels of unfletched arrows from one of the boxes.
“He’s gone to fetch men to help me. He won’t be long.”
Notch removed the lid and pulled Flir out. She jumped to work on the next box.
Once everyone was free, Notch sent them around the building and out of sight, thanking Pistorio before joining them. He crouched in a corner, avoiding a pair of windows and using the shrubs to shield him from the distant wall. Across the neat lawns was a sentry path, but as yet, no-one had appeared. It would be some time before the newly rising sun banished long shadows from the palace grounds.
“Where’s Seto?” Flir asked.
“Looking for the best way in.”
Luik rolled his shoulders. “Hope it’s not another box.”
“He’ll have something good,” Notch said. He turned to Wayrn to ask if he could stand watch, but the man had already crept toward the edge of the building. “And remember. Any interference, try not to kill.”
They both nodded and Notch was relieved that Flir didn’t fight him. He switched his sword between hands while he waited. If Sofia was still unhurt, he wouldn’t have failed her. She would be restored and his name cleared. Even Seto would be happy then, he’d have his ship. What exactly that meant to the old man Notch couldn’t fathom. But if it was important Notch would help. Just as Seto helped him.
“Someone comes,” Luik said.
Moving along the wall in the distance, a figure kept low to the ground. Seto. Notch waved Wayrn back.
The old man paused to catch his breath when he arrived. “Two buildings along is the guest wing. I recall that a passage eventually connects it to the royal rooms. If we are swift, we can be in through a window while maids air one of the rooms.”
“Lead on,” Notch said.
Seto took them along the gardens by the building, pausing at the rear of a temple yard. A low stone fence was set with skulls in small, silver cages at regular intervals. Names were carved into the stone beneath the skulls – immortalised, or trapped, on the walls to their temple.
“Hurry.” Flir pulled him along.
Beyond the temple stood the end of the guest wing, which stretched above them, shining balconies catching the sun. On the ground floor waited an open window. Someone’s hands flapped a rug out the window, dust flying. Seto slowed when another set of hands appeared and a second rug snapped in the air.
By the chatting voices, they were Braonn women. One was running off a list of derogatory phrases directed at their masters. At a particularly loud curse-word, both girls giggled.
Once they left, Seto crept closer and peered over the sill. Sliding back down, kneeling in the garden bed, he waved Notch forward. “Be quick, they may return.”
Notch followed him in and padded through the empty bed chamber to the door, closing it gently. From the next room he heard a window slide open and voices resumed. Flir was already in the room and Luik followed. Wayrn leapt inside after and Seto raised a finger to his lips. Footsteps. Had a maid forgotten something?
The handle turned and a young girl entered, giving a jump. Notch snatched her before she could scream, placing a hand over her mouth. “We won’t hurt you,” he said. “But you can’t cry out.”
Flir shook her head. “No, tell her to call her friend.”
Seto moved over and smiled at the girl. “Call for your friend, dear. I promise no-one will hurt you, and no-one will be angry either.”
Her wide eyes bulged and Notch started to remove his hand. She made no sound so he finished. “Go on.”
“Rhia, I need some help,” she called in fair Anaskari.
“All right.” The other maid’s voice carried from next door. The moment she stepped inside, Flir had her. Rhia struggled, chest heaving where she stood, locked into position by Flir’s arms.
“Now, we’re going to leave,” Seto told the girls. “If you scream, we will be back and you won’t like that. But if you say nothing, you will never see us again. How does that sound?”
The girl Notch held nodded, but the other had slumped in Flir’s arms.
“Ah, I think you’ve held her too tight,” Wayrn said.
Flir removed her hand and carried the maid to the bed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise. She’s all right,” she added after a moment.
“Can you care for your friend?” Notch asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Find her some water.”
“And say nothing of us,” Seto said as he slipped from the room. Notch waved the others after him and gave an apologetic smile.
“Sorry again.”
The girl gaped at him.
He caught up to the others. Flir was shaking her head. “Seto, do you think that was wise?”
“Having you half-smother one of them?” He was counting doors as he strode along the quiet halls.
“No. Leaving them.”
“By the time any of them says anything, if they do so, our work will be done.” He stopped by a door that appeared the same as any other. “Ah-ha. Locked, but we go in here. Flir?”
Notch stood back. Flir gave the door a thump, shattering the lock and splintering the door and frame. She burst inside, but Notch saw only an empty room over her shoulder. The bed looked newly vacated but other than that, no clues remained to its owner.
“I meant for you to pick the lock,” Seto said.
“I know.”
“Can’t you be more careful?” Notch said. “Anyone could have been in here. Not to mention the noise.”
“Fine.”
Seto had already opened a passage that resided beyond a seemingly plain piece of wall. Taking a lamp from the room, he lit it and led them into the dark tunnels. They walked through a series of turns and twists. Sometimes shafts or spots of light slipped through the walls or from the rooms, but mostly it was only the lamplight and Seto’s back guiding him. He brushed cobwebs from his face several times, and lost his sense of direction halfway in.
Twice Seto stopped to inch open a door or peer through a hole, before moving on. “My memory is not immaculate,” he said the second time.
He soon slowed. An argument was in full force somewhere, many voices adding to the clamour. Seto crept further along the passage and waited for a swell in the voices before sliding a door open.
A bedchamber was revealed in the dim light. From beyond, in an adjoining room, came the voices. Notch followed. A young woman was shouting.
Sofia.
He leapt for the handle but Seto stopped him.
“Wait. Listen first. Wait for the right moment,” he breathed. Those in the room argued on until a rich voice laughed.
“Now,” Seto whispered.
Chapter 40
“You were dead,” Sofia shouted into the silence.
He spun. Time had changed little – and much. His eyes were still dark but they were lined now and streaks of grey marred his black hair. His smile stretched over a gaunt jaw, skin pale. “I’m still dead, little sister.” His voice was no longer theatrical, but quieter – more like his own, more like Father’s.
“No.” The room spun but she charged him. Her leg was as new, only the ungainly shape of the splint slowed her as she crashed into him, beating his chest. “How? Everything you’ve done.”
He caught her arms, giving her a shake. “I could do much more.” To the audience he spoke over her protest, “And now to your concerns, which, I assure you all, are as dust before me. I’ll say it again. Swear fealty to me. Work with me. Save your city. Become heroes in their eyes by stopping the explosions.”
“He’s lying.” Sofia tore her arms free momentarily, aided by the sweat slicking them. “He’ll betray you. He’ll betray you just as he betrayed his house.”
He caught her hands again, squeezing until she slumped against him with a cry. How did he live? And who had he become?
Tantos hissed. “I was the one betrayed, Sofia.” To the council, “Well?”
Somewhere in the room Vinezi giggled. Sofia’s stomach turned. Father needed to know. She had to tell Tantos how hard it was to take his place. She needed to kill Lupo, to strangle the Wolf with his own hair for what he’d done to her, to Father, to her house, to the helpless people of the city. He had to die.
Her brother had to die all over again.
Words stuck in her throat. What would she tell her father, if she killed Tantos? If she was even able? She stopped struggling when Solicci stood, staring at a point beyond Tantos. “I will swear.”
“Traitor.” Oson snarled as he rose, cutting off a council member. “After all we achieved, you’re going to give in to this, this... ghost of a man? We can refuse him, Osani is close, I know it. Once we –”
Solicci roared. “Imbecile – didn’t you see it? He has Osani.”
Oson gaped. Sofia looked up at Tantos. His expression was expectant only. Just how long had he been in the city?
A councillor rose, arms crossed. “I will swear.”
“Fine.” Oson appeared to have recovered, though Sofia noted a tremor in his voice. He glared at them before turning back to Tantos, teeth clenched. “Give me a sword. I will challenge you for the throne.”
“No,” the girl beside him cried. Oson ignored her, standing tall.
Tantos laughed. “I have no need. I can merely –”
He broke off at commotion from an adjoining room. Sofia barely had time to enjoy Oson’s outrage, the defeat on his face, when Notch burst into the room. He grinned at her, just a moment, then a mask of concentration fell over his face and he swung his sword at the first imposter who ran to meet him.
The council scattered as Flir and Luik charged in on his heels, spreading out to engage the men around the walls. Hope surged up her throat, choking her cry of joy. Tantos kept his grip tight but Flir was already closing in, even as Notch was pushed back. He roared her name, sword flashing, but Flir was closer. She hammered one man aside with a single backhand blow, sending him crashing through the window. A second man she tore in half with her blade, the torso sliding to the ground.
Sofia fought as Tantos dragged her back with one arm, the other replacing the mask. He spoke a single word and the room went dark. A woman cried out, a long cry that grew silent – as if something had stepped between her and the sound. Sofia struggled on. While her leg seemed healed, she wasn’t strong enough to break his grasp. His mask glowed above her. It was swallowing the light, bringing about a darkness so complete that even the dawn outside had disappeared.
He pulled her into a stumbling run, away from the shouting and into a quiet place. “Make no sound if you want to live.” His voice was flat.
She swallowed a retort, struggling to keep up as he dragged her along what might have been a passage, the sound of her feet on stone enough to let her know they’d left the king’s sitting room with its deep carpet, carpet now doubtless covered in blood. Who had cried out? Was it Flir? Was Notch alive?
Tantos gave another tug on her arm. When had he become a monster? He had to be stopped. And more, he owed her an explanation.
“Stop, Tantos.”
“No.”
“Then tell me how you live? Your ship was lost.”
No answer. A glow from Osani lit the passage walls. Webs climbed to dark corners and filtered light flashed by. Tantos paused at an intersection, his fingers still cutting into her wrist.
“Tantos, you owe me, be damned. You owe Father. He searched for you.”
He flung her into the dark.
Sofia’s head bounced off stone and she cried out, sliding to the ground, hands clutching her head. A wetness grew in her hair.
“I owe our father nothing, Sofia, do you hear me?” His voice echoed in the passage and his breath rasped in his throat. He was Lupo again, barely contained violence slipping out.
“I hear you,” she shouted back. “But you make no sense. You’re mad. Can you even see it?”
He hauled her up. “Be silent now.”
Again he was off, tugging at her arm, cursing when she tripped, until he finally stopped and broke apart the splint, casting it away. She kept up well enough, but by the time he threw open the door to a well-appointed room, lit by a single lamp, the muscles in her leg were aflame. It only added to the sopping heat that wracked her body.
“Where are we going? Tell me that at least.”
He heaved a chest across the ground and stepped over it, kicking through the wall. A soft covering made to resemble the palace interior crumbled to the floor. From inside, he tore a wooden box free and glanced at her, the black holes of his mask somehow bright.
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