Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 10] - Lanterns (41 page)

Warrington closed his eyes briefly, then knelt, and reached
out to
help. Together, they strained and shoved, and at last the bottom of the
step gave, and folded inward. Lying flat, Diccon could discern a heavy
iron chain, but no sign of a secret chamber. He gripped the cold, rusty
links, trying not to hear the grinding screeches from the gallery. The
chain moved, but it was stiff, as if caught up somewhere, and the
effort was exhausting. He glanced up, dashing sweat from his eyes. "Any
sign of—a door?"

Warrington was kneeling, gazing up at the looming bulk of the
gallery as if hypnotized, his face white with fear. "It's coming down!
We'll all be crushed!"

"Not if we move fast! I think this chain is jammed somehow.
Help me, will you?"

Warrington drew back, shaking his head.

Diccon swore and tugged mightily.

A loud crack, and a stair rail snapped, sending shards of wood
flying in all directions. Diccon ducked instinctively, heard a choking
scream and caught a glimpse of Warrington galloping back across the
hall.

The chain gave suddenly and moved smoothly. The floor under
Diccon's
knees began to jerk open. So the priest's hole was underground. Praise
God for that, because if the door had opened from the side in some way
it would likely have been blocked by the buckling steps. He heaved at
the chain and the opening widened, a stone slab rolling back to reveal
a black aperture.

A hoarse, shaking voice arose from the gloom. "I knowed you'd
come… Sir G'waine! I
knowed
you'd come!"

Peering down into that dark hole Diccon couldn't see the boy.
Over
the lump in his throat he called, "That's the spirit, comrade! Can you
come here?"

A muffled sob. "He… he tied me up. He said it was a game, but…
I don't like it. Please g-get me out."

"Right away! I'm coming—"

An ear-splitting rumble; another rain of debris. Diccon
wrapped his
arms about his head and lay flat, waiting helplessly for the gallery to
smash onto him.

A blinding lightning flash. He still lived!

Arthur quavered, "D-Diccon… I'm very frighted. Am I goin'
to-to be dead?"

"Not if I can help it," said Diccon through his teeth. He
swung down
into that black hole, and groped about. "Where are you, old Detestable
Dag?"

"Here! Here I am. Oh, D-Diccon, thank you for—"

Chunks of stone and wood cascaded down. The darkness became a
ravening greyness. Arthur screamed. Frantic, Diccon cried, "Are you
hurt, lad?"

A moment, then came that quavering but dauntless little voice,
"Not
very… bad. What happened? I can feel the wind and—and I'm—getting wet."

"So am I. The wall's dropped off I'm afraid." Diccon could see
the
boy now, lying on a rough iron bed frame, his small hands and feet
tied. 'Poor little devil,' he thought. He indulged a second's
blistering evaluation of his step-brother but said lightly, "I think
we'd better get out of this."

With a gallantry that wrung his heart the wan little face
tried a
smile, then the big eyes looked past him and widened. "What's…
that?"

Diccon turned his head. His bones seemed to melt. The gallery
was
directly above now, the broken beam hanging from it like a splintered
battering ram. As he gazed numbly, it lunged downward.

He grabbed the child. "Don't worry about that mess up there.
I'm
going to push you through now. I'll come after you, but don't wait for
me. Roll as far away as you can."

He had swung the boy high when the floor heaved upward,
knocking him
off his feet. Arthur was torn from his arms. Sound was a continuing
roar and more and heavier debris rained down, several chunks striking
him. Sure that this was death, he scarcely felt their impact and strove
desperately to reach the boy. He was unable to move. Something very
heavy was across his legs. The priest's hole was filled with bellowing
wind that was blowing the dust away. Blinking dazedly he saw that the
entire south wall was no more. Part of the ceiling of the priest's hole
had been ripped off and the opening where the trapdoor had been was
bigger now. The minstrel gallery still hung over them, leaning at a
crazy angle. It was much closer, but at least the stairs were holding
the weight. There was enough space left that he could hoist the boy
through, if he could get up, but the severed supporting beam was poised
above, as if aimed straight at them. His mouth felt dry. He knew that
Arthur watched him and his shouted enquiry elicited a trembling and
barely audible, "I'm… all right."

He wouldn't be all right for long, thought Diccon grimly.
Investigating, he found that a plank, probably from the floor of the
gallery, had fallen across his legs. It shouldn't be this heavy. He
tried to lift it, but it gave not an inch, and then he realized that
the end was buried under what had been the slab of the trapdoor. He
tried again, exerting all his strength until the blood roared in his
ears and his eyes dimmed. But it was useless. Panting, he rested for a
second.

"Oh, Diccon! Oh,
Diccon
! You can't
move
it! Is that tree coming… down on me?"

The beam was inching closer. Inexorably, inevitably, it would
fall
and crush them. How infuriating that he'd come so close to getting the
boy to safety, only to—

"
Diccon
? Where are you? Diccon?"
Marietta's dear voice.

"Down here," he wheezed. "Don't come too near."

He heard running footsteps, and then her sudden appalled cry.

"Arthur's here," he shouted.

She peeped in at them. He saw stark terror in her eyes, and
called, "I'm afraid I'm not much use. Can you—get help?"

She wasted not an instant but nodded and was gone. And
watching the
slow advance of that murderous beam, he knew the help would have to be
very fast and very sure.

"If ever I saw a man so in the habit of getting himself into
tight
spots!" Jocelyn Vaughan, pale and ill-looking, was gazing down at him.

He managed a grin. "Stand there another minute or two, and
you'll be pushed in here with me, you block!"

"Mac's coming with the troopers. We've signalled him to
charge." Vaughan disappeared.

There followed shouts and a scrambling noise. Then another
outburst
of shouts; angry now, half lost in a roll of thunder, but definitely
angry. He thought in exasperation, 'Of all times to get into a brawl!'

"Sir G'waine… ?"

"Yes, Detestable?"

"When I get to heaven… will I see my mama?"

He couldn't answer at once, then said huskily, "If the lady is
watching you now, she must be very proud." He stretched out and was
able to touch the cold cheek. "Courage, Sir Lancelot."

"I'm awful glad you're with me, Sir—" The words ended in a
shriek.

Diccon jerked his head around. The jagged end of the beam was
sliding straight down; not at him, but at Arthur.

He shouted, "No! Damn you!
No!"
and in a
burst of rage
dragged himself onto his side, threw his left arm across that terrified
little face, and took tight hold of the iron bed frame now lying on its
side behind the boy. "Turn your head the other way, lad!
Turn
your head!"

Arthur's face whipped to the side.

Peering about desperately for something to use as a brace,
Diccon
was momentarily unable to breathe as the beam grazed past his face and
jolted onto his outstretched arm. With an effort of will that left him
drenched with perspiration he managed not to cry out and to keep his
hold on the bed frame.

He heard Marietta's voice from a great distance, raised in a
gasping
scream, "It's fallen through the trap! Oh, my dear God! We must hold
it, Joss! We
must!
Oh,
why
don't they come?"

Vaughan called breathlessly, "Hang… on, Trader! We're holding
it… back, best… we can."

So that was why it hadn't smashed through bone and sinew.

His love and his friend were fighting for them. God grant the
help came fast.

A deep and familiar rumble. His heart sank. 'Not now, Ti Chiu!
Have some sense… can't fight you now!'

Vaughan roared, "Get the hell away from there, you great… Ow!"

The pressure increased savagely. Gritting his teeth, Diccon
hung on to the iron frame and consciousness.

"You are down there, Small Cockroach?"

"Come to… gloat… have you?" panted Diccon.

Arthur sobbed, "It's me, Mighty… Warrior."

A deep, amused chuckle.

Her voice shrill with grief and hysteria, Marietta exclaimed,
"You
wicked
—evil great
brute
!
Go away and let us try to—"

The beam slid again. Diccon heard a soft, sickening crack and
could not keep back a cry of anguish.

Arthur gulped, "You're bl-bleeding all over me, Sir G'waine!
Oh, Etta!
Help
him!
Please
,
Etta!"

"You just wait, Cockroach," growled Ti Chiu.

Lightning glared, throwing the tiny room into sharp relief,
but to
Diccon the details were blurred and indistinct. He couldn't endure this
hideous agony much longer… Something in his arm had broken, that was
sure… but he mustn't let go. If he could just hang on till Mac came
with the troopers… Just long enough to keep the boy from being crushed.
'Please God… don't let me fail him!' Hang on… Must hang on…

"My name is Avebury." The voice was cool and businesslike, the
face,
with its ruddy cheeks and splendid side-whiskers, more suited to a
country squire than to a doctor. But the hand that dabbed a cool rag at
Diccon's face was gentle, and the grey eyes were kind. "From what they
tell me, you've done magnificently," he went on. "I'm afraid we're
going to have to make you a trifle uncomfortable for a little
while, but I expect you're accustomed to us doctor-chaps."

Diccon blinked at him and wondered why he was in his former
room in
the dower house, and how he'd come here. He had a very vague
recollection of being lifted, and of Joss complaining that no one would
guess he weighed so much, but that was all. His left arm hurt horribly
and with pain came memory. He asked in a voice that sounded far away,
"How… ?"

"A jolly great Chinese fella held the beam back, so they tell
me, till your friends got you out."

"The boy?"

"Is bruised and shaken, poor little lad. And won't leave your
door. Ah, the arm pains you, of course. I'm very sorry, but…"

"But you're going to… amputate."

Avebury nodded gravely. "It's quite hopelessly shattered. I
thought
you might want to talk to, er—someone, before we get started."

Diccon felt a chill of fear. "You mean, I may want to say my
farewells? Don't… hide your teeth, Avebury."

That brought a faintly admiring smile. "You're a soldier. You
know
the rules of the game. You're in fine condition, but you've had a great
shock and lost a lot of blood, and now, unfortunately, I must—put you
through the wringer again."

"Yes. What are my chances?"

The doctor hesitated.

Startled, Diccon said, "As bad as that? I want the truth,
please."

Avebury said reluctantly, "I'd guess—about seventy-thirty."

"Against? I see." He took a deep, steadying breath. "In that
case—you're right, sir, and… I thank you. There are things I want to
say. I'd like to see Miss Warrington for a minute."

The doctor nodded, and went out.

Diccon closed his eyes wearily. Seventy-thirty. Arthur was
safe,
thank God! And he meant to beat those odds. But he wondered in a
detached fashion how he would play his violin with one hand.

There was a gentle fragrance on the air. He looked up.
Marietta sat
beside the bed, smiling down at him. Her eyes were red, and her lips
trembled a little. She said, "I wonder if you can imagine how much—"

He lifted his right hand, and found it quite an effort. "Yes,
but it's not necessary. You know how I feel… about the boy. Eric?"

She flinched and blinked tears away. "He—ran. I doubt we shall
see
him again. And knowing him, I doubt he will ever forgive himself. Papa
is—is hit hard, I'm afraid. Diccon—"

He lifted his right hand again, and it was caught in her quick
vital
clasp. He said, "There is something I must explain. I really haven't—"
He broke off, holding his breath and praying.

Marietta bathed the white, haggard face, and fought against
weeping.
When his eyes opened he looked dazed, and she lifted his good hand and
pressed a kiss on it. "You need not now—or ever—explain anything to
me," she said huskily. "You are—are the bravest of the brave, and I
shall always—"

"I must tell you."

His voice was weaker and once again she was pierced by the
lance of terror. "Whatever you wish, my very dear."

"I want you to know that—that I really didn't—kill my mama.
But I
did… steal her. I could be hung or—or transported for kidnapping, do
you see?"

She bathed his face tenderly. "I think I have always known
that if you did such a thing, it was for a good reason."

To speak was a great effort, but he persisted doggedly. "Sir
Gavin
forged my mother's signature and—and took my inheritance from—from my
grandmama. My mother found out. He was afraid she'd tell her friends,
so he kept her isolated and… told everyone she was mad. He hired
doctors to… treat her. Terrible treatments that nigh killed her. We'd
never been very close, but… she is my mother. She was able to smuggle a
letter to me, pleading most piteously that… I come and rescue her away,
but…" He closed his eyes.

Marietta said gently, "Poor lady. How dreadful. Now please do
not
talk anymore. I can guess what happened. He was her husband, her next
of kin, so legally your hands were tied."

"Yes. He simply cannot bear any scandal, so he wanted to have
her legally"—he sighed—"legally declared insane."