Dragon Weather (20 page)

Then a thought struck him. He didn't really want the keg at all; he wanted what was in it. Suppose he were to knock the bottom in, take out the gold, and leave the empty keg where it was? A real keg of wine would make a mess, but gold wouldn't leak out on the floor.

He had no tools to stave it in, but there would probably be something down there to tap the barrels of ale, after all.

He prodded his bundled belongings with one toe. He had only a tiny purse, one intended for a woman, that Sweet had given him; that would surely not be big enough for the booty he was after. He had no proper sack or chest, but he ought to be able to find something he could wrap the gold in quickly. One of his shirts, perhaps.

If he knotted the sleeves, then tied the collar shut—or just used the sleeves as sacks …

That might work. He might not be able to fit all the gold at once, if the keg were actually
full
—but that hardly seemed likely.

Then another, better thought struck him. He had another pair of stockings, in addition to those he wore. He could use those as sacks. They might not hold very much, but then he didn't know how much was there.

He just needed to get into the right part of the cellars, and to be left alone there for a moment or two.

He considered the crowds, then knelt, opened his bundle, found the hosiery, and tucked it into the waistband of his breeches. Then he rolled his belongings back up and replaced the belts.

The next step was to hire an accomplice. He stood again and scanned the crowd. Then he stepped back to the door and looked out at the plaza.

He saw no promising candidates inside, but outside there were several children scattered about, in various attire. Some were helping load wagons, or running back and forth, but a few were merely standing and watching.

Arlian made his way toward a group of these—three of them, two girls and a boy, the oldest no more than ten, all three of them wearing little more than rags. As he drew near one of the girls happened to glance in his direction, and he caught her eye and beckoned.

She quickly slipped away from the others and came near him—but stopped out of reach and looked up at him warily. She was no more than eight, he judged, and woefully thin and dirty.

“Good evening,” Arlian said cheerfully. “Would you be interested in earning a little money?” He held out one of his coins.

She nodded enthusiastically.

Arlian knelt, bringing himself down to her level, as he fished two more coins and added them to the first.

“In a few minutes,” he said quietly, holding out the coins, “I'm going to go into the inn. After I do, I want you to count as high as you can—can you count to a hundred?”

She nodded again.

“Good. Then count to a hundred, or even more if you like. Then go to the back door of the inn and find someone who works there, and tell him that a man named Lord Inthior wants to speak to the proprietor
right now.
He can't leave his wagon so he hired you to send the message. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Can you do that? Can you remember that, and say it?”

She nodded.

“Let me hear you say it, then.”

“Lord Inthior's at his wagon and he wants to talk to the innkeeper
right now,
and he's really mad about something!” she piped, in a high, clear voice.

Arlian smiled. “Very good.”

“And I count to a hundred first, or more, so you have time to get somewhere.”

The girl was clearly not stupid or naive.

“And when the proprietor comes out, you don't see Lord Inthior anywhere, he must be gone.”

“I guess he got tired of waiting,” she agreed.

He handed her the three coins. “Do this, and you'll have three more later tonight. Fair enough?”

She nodded.

“And in case you're thinking this might be too dangerous and you'd be better with just the three, here's the best part,” Arlian said. “If anyone suspects anything and gets mad, you can tell the truth and say I paid you. I'm Lord Inthior's cousin. I'm not going to steal anything; I just want to check something while the proprietor's not looking.”

She smiled broadly, obviously relieved—until then her expression had been utterly serious. “Oh, good,” she said. “Thank you, my lord; I'll do what you said.” The three coins disappeared; Arlian didn't see what she did with them.

“Good,” he said, getting back to his feet. “I'm counting on you.”

She nodded; he smiled at her, then turned away and headed for the inn.

Once inside it took longer than he liked to find the proprietor of the Blood of the Grape; the staff was busy, and not sure just where their employer was at any given time. At last, though, he found himself face to face with a formidable old woman.

“Lord Kuruvan sent me,” Arlian said. “You may have heard about a recent disturbance in Westguard?”

“I might have,” the innkeeper agreed.

“Well, there was a disturbance,” Arlian said. “And as a result of that incident, my uncle is concerned about his investments.”

“Everything's fine here,” the woman said. “It's busy tonight because of the Lorigol expedition, but we've had no trouble. You can tell your uncle he'll have his rent on time.”

Arlian hid his surprise and quickly revised what he had planned to say; it had not occurred to him that Kuruvan might own the inn, but of course it made sense. What better place to leave his cache than on his own property?

And that explained how Kuruvan could be sure the innkeeper wouldn't get curious and investigate what was really in the keg—Kuruvan had probably brought the keg here himself when the innkeeper wasn't around, and as the owner he would have had free access to the cellars—or anywhere else. The innkeeper probably didn't even know the keg was there, let alone what was in it.

That should make Arlian's job easier.

“Of course,” he said. “He was never in any doubt of that. However, he asked me to look around and make certain that everything is in order.”

The innkeeper—not actually the proprietor at all, Arlian now realized—frowned. “Look where? At the accounts?”

“No, no—he wouldn't trust me to do that. Just to see that everything here is as it should be. He asked me particularly to make sure that no one's hiding in the cellars—I understand some scoundrel had concealed himself most cleverly in Westguard, and my uncle is concerned lest that be repeated here. If you would permit me to see the cellars for a moment, I can satisfy myself that his fears are groundless and be on my way.”

“Hiding in the cellars?” She plainly thought the idea was ridiculous.

Arlian shrugged. “This fellow reportedly hid in an attic for several days in Westguard.”

The innkeeper looked him in the eye, then glanced over his clothing.

“You're Lord Kuruvan's nephew?”

“Well, yes,” Arlian said. “My name is Lanair.”

“Do you have a letter, or other credentials?”

Arlian shook his head. “No. But I'm not going to take anything, or look at the accounts; I just want to poke around the cellars enough to satisfy Lord Kuruvan.”

She stared thoughtfully at him.

He sighed theatrically. “I know my appearance is a disgrace, and I
should
have a letter,” he said. “But I don't. My uncle insisted I come here
immediately,
lest the villain escape.”

“Well, come on, then,” she said. “I don't have time to argue about it. You'll have to leave that with one of my staff, though.” She pointed at his bundle.

“Of course,” he agreed.

When that was arranged, she led the way to the cellar door. They had to step aside as a serving wench emerged with a tray of brimming mugs of ale, but then the innkeeper led the way down worn stone steps into the cool, lamplit gloom.

For a moment, as they reached the bottom and stepped onto stone pavement, Arlian felt an unreasoning rush of terror; the stone walls and lamplight were so reminiscent of the mines that on some level he felt himself flung back in time, trapped and enslaved again. Then he recovered and looked about with interest at the barrels that lined either side of a passage ahead.

In addition to wall-mounted fixtures, a shelf mounted between two barrels held four brass lamps similar to those used in the mine, all lit; the innkeeper took one of them down and led the way along the passage between the two rows of barrels. “Beer and ale and cider on that side,” she said, waving to the left, where a dozen huge tapped barrels were racked side by side against a stone wall. “Then the ordinary red and white over here,” she continued, indicating the right, where nine or ten smaller barrels, only two of them tapped, formed a barrier separating the passage from the unlit remainder of the cellars. Two gaps in the row provided access to that dark space beyond.

Arlian nodded as he maneuvered past a serving maid drawing ale from a barrel, noting that a tap, a corkscrew, a hammer, and a crowbar hung from hooks below the shelf of lamps, each tool on a leather thong. He stooped to glance under the framework supporting the barrels, acting out his ruse of searching for a concealed fugitive.

He had expected the innkeeper to turn to the right and take them through one of those gaps in the line of barrels, into the main part of the cellars, but she did not. At the end of the passage stood a heavy wooden door; the innkeeper marched directly up to it. She transferred the lamp to her left hand and fished a key from her pocket with the right to unlock it.

“The superior wines,” she said as the door swung wide.

The room beyond was unlit, perhaps fifteen feet square, with only the single entrance. All four walls were lined with wine racks, most of them full; some of the bottles were clean and new, others gray with dust and cobwebs, and others at every stage between. Wooden cases holding more bottles were stacked chest-high in the center of the room, leaving only a narrow walkway around the sides.

“No one in here,” the innkeeper remarked.

Arlian, still acting out his role, insisted on stepping inside and tapping on the walls and floor and several of the boxes; the innkeeper waited impatiently while he played out the charade.

They emerged from the wine vault; Arlian waited while the innkeeper carefully locked it. Then they turned aside, stepping between the wine barrels and into a maze of side passages, past vegetable bins and root cellars. Servers continued to fetch wine and beer, providing a constant background of moving shadows and the sound of footsteps and splashing beverages.

As the search continued Arlian began to wonder whether that little girl had decided to settle for just the three coins after all. He tried to steer toward the northeast corner, but felt compelled by his role to poke at the produce and tap walls at every opportunity.

Then a boy came stumbling down the stairs calling, “Madam Innkeeper!”

Arlian waited politely, a few steps away, as the boy told her that Lord Inthior wanted to see her outside
right now.

The innkeeper glanced at Arlian unhappily.

“I'll just look around a little more,” he said. “I won't disturb anything. And I'll wait for your return.”

“Very well,” the innkeeper agreed. She followed the boy up the stairs.

There was a temporary break in the stream of barmaids; no one wanted to be in the innkeeper's way as she climbed the stairs. Arlian took advantage of this and snatched the hammer and crowbar from the hooks; he tucked them under his shirt and held them with one hand while he lifted a lamp with the other and made his way quickly back through the line of wine barrels, and through the labyrinth of pillars, bins, barrels, and boxes to the northeast.

At last he reached a dead end, with solid stone walls ahead of him to both the north and the east.

This corner was among the darkest and dustiest he had yet discovered. Three kegs stood along the north wall, one stacked atop the others.

The top keg was open, and held nails; Arlian lifted it off and set it aside.

The others were sealed. One was unmarked; the other had faint lettering, drawn with charcoal. It was too dusty to read, but Arlian thought it
could
say “sour wine.” He tipped it, listening closely.

Nothing sloshed, and the weight did not shift like liquid.

He turned it over and attacked it with hammer and crowbar. His mining experience came in handy; he was able to knock in the end quickly.

He thrust in a hand, squeezing it between the broken lid and the side, and grabbed. Then he pulled it out into the lamplight.

Gold coins glittered in his palm.

He smiled, pulled the stockings from the waistband of his breeches, and began stuffing them.

When the stockings were full he tucked a few more coins into his tiny purse, then returned the keg to its place, the open end on the bottom where it wouldn't be noticed as readily.

The keg was still mostly full; he wished he had some way to get the rest out, but could not think of any way to smuggle it past the innkeeper and her staff.

All the same, once he had secured the full stockings he had several pounds of gold hidden under his shirt, and that would have to do. He hurried to replace the keg of nails, then to put the hammer and crowbar back where they belonged.

He was waiting at the foot of the stairs when the innkeeper returned.

“I took the liberty of investigating further while I waited,” he said. “I'd say my uncle's fears are groundless, Madam. I congratulate you on the efficiency and good order of your cellars.”

She stared doubtfully at him, then looked at the door to the wine vault—still securely closed, of course.

“Would you by any chance have a bed available, or has this throng taken all of them?” Arlian asked.

She laughed harshly. “Oh, all of them and more, my lord,” she said. “I could rent you a space on the floor, if you have bedding.”