The Goblin Gate (26 page)

T
HE BRANCHES OF THE TREE
outside the Hierarch’s window quaked under Jeriah’s weight, and the bark scraped his palms. Cogswhallop slithered through the tangled leaves in near silence—unlike Jeriah! But there were no broken branches to mark his passage when he finally dropped to the terrace, and the guards who stood at the Hierarch’s door would swear under a truth spell that Jeriah hadn’t left…as long as he was back before Nevin returned with the council.

Cogswhallop was still grumbling as Jeriah snatched up the blanket he’d dropped from the window and wrapped it hastily around the goblin before lifting him into his arms. The goblin objected to being carried, but it was the fastest way to get both of them to the spring room, so Jeriah had ignored his protests.

Praying he wouldn’t meet anyone who’d remember seeing him, Jeriah raced around the terrace, the awkward bundle clutched to his chest. Things were no longer going according to plan—time to improvise!

“How much of this charmed iron is there?” he asked softly.

“We can’t get close enough to tell.” The fabric muffled Cogswhallop’s voice, but his words were clear enough. “It makes sense when you think about it, that they’d take extra precautions around the vault.”‘

A pair of tipsy revelers wandered through the dim inner corridor. Jeriah slowed his headlong pace—they’d surely notice a running man.

“You haven’t even got
in
yet?” he muttered.

“I told you, it’s spelled so no goblin can go near it.” Cogswhallop’s voice was now so soft Jeriah could barely hear him. “I could hardly drag you off the dance floor, and after that you were attending the old man. Keep your skin on. It’ll take young Brallorscourt a while to gather up the council.”

“Unless they’re all still at the dance.” Jeriah turned a corner and hurried toward the spring room—no one in sight now. “Unless he settles for a few of them. Unless—” He shifted the bundle into one arm to turn the knob, then ducked through the low door. “We’re in!”

The moment the latch clicked shut, Jeriah dropped the blanket and started down the ladder, leaving the cursing goblin to fight clear of the fabric on his own. The bottom of the shaft was invisible in the darkness, but Jeriah knew how deep beneath the fourth level it ran. He was hurtling down, almost running, when his foot missed a rung and slid off into space.

Jeriah’s hands clamped on the poles as his body slammed into the ladder. He dangled, sobbing under his breath, till his feet found the rung once more and then clung to the ladder, shaking, horribly aware of the drop below.

When Jeriah began to descend again he moved more slowly. He was still trembling when he reached the bottom, but his sense of urgency had returned. He grabbed the crowbar and headed for the culvert.

“Wait!” Cogswhallop called.

“What?”

“We’ve no more clothes for you—best put the muddy ones back on.”

“But…” He was right. Jeriah dropped the crowbar, tore off his clean clothes, and pulled on the dirty britches, swearing as the wet cloth clung to his skin. Forget the rest of it. He had no time to spare.

Thrusting the crowbar through his belt, Jeriah scurried into the culvert like a rat. He counted off patches of light till he reached the sixth grating, where Daroo crouched.

“Tell her to start now,” Jeriah hissed. “I’ll be making a racket down here any minute.”

“Aye!” The small goblin scampered across Jeriah’s legs as he crawled onward, and his whisper echoed down the culvert. As Jeriah passed the next shaft, he heard Senna calling that she was sick, she really was. She needed help. A stone clanged on iron.

She might be a bad liar, but Senna always came through
when it mattered. Thank the Bright Gods for clever assistants. He couldn’t imagine how the knights in tales got along without them.

Shortly after he passed the spot where he’d pried out the grate, the sewer shafts stopped, but Jeriah saw a faint glow in the culvert ahead of him. Since there were no openings to carry light to the surface, one of the goblins had lit a candle. There must have been a score of them perched above the shallow water. Jeriah didn’t stop to speak as he splashed between them, but he heard Cogswhallop murmur something to Master Hispontic.

Jeriah’s only concern was the charmed iron, and soon he saw it: half a dozen slim strips, arching against the culvert wall like a snake’s ribs. Three spikes held each strip in place.

How long did he have before Nevin returned with his witnesses and found Jeriah gone? Not enough time for silence, that was certain. He’d have to rely on Senna to cover the noise. And pray this second disruption didn’t arouse the guards’ suspicion. If Jeriah’s plan failed, it would certainly rouse Master Lazur’s.
So don’t fail!

Jeriah flung himself down by the first strip, inserted the crowbar, and pried it off the wall. Iron squealed and spikes snapped, but he didn’t care. It was taking too long. Even when the last strip was free he had to waste precious time hauling the charmed iron farther down the culvert so the goblins could approach.

They were already chiseling through the wall when Jeriah returned, tapping at the mortar with rag-wrapped wooden hammers that were…well, relatively quiet. Cogswhallop and another goblin were conferring over the builder’s drawing.

“You’ll have to hurry,” Jeriah told them. “If Lord Brallorscourt gets suspicious—”

“Aye, we know. Best way to keep him lulled is for you to get back where you’re supposed to be. And hero, wash your hair. It’s full of mud.”

Jeriah swore and crawled away. He opened a tap from the cistern and washed his hair, arms, legs, and feet, shuddering at the cold water. He dried himself roughly with the blanket, which Cogswhallop must have carried down, and threw on his clothes. The ladder’s rungs clanged under his feet. It was easier to go fast climbing up.

Jeriah did take the time to peek out and make sure the corridor was empty. He didn’t think anyone had noticed him on the way down, and it would be stupid to risk his alibi now.

No one in the spring room corridor, or the one beyond. If he could make it up the tree without being seen, the guards would swear he’d been with the Hierarch all the time Nevin had been gone. Jeriah ran lightly to a servants’ stairs that would take him to the third level, then froze with his foot on the bottom step.

“This way is quicker.” Nevin’s voice, coming down from
the stairs above him. Nevin’s voice and dozens of shuffling feet. The council was ahead of Jeriah, blocking the servants’ stairs. They’d reach the Hierarch’s room in minutes!

Jeriah ran back toward the terrace. He had to take the main stairs to the third level, then get up the tree and into the Hierarch’s room before they did—and Nevin was right, the servants’ stairs were quicker.

The corridor seemed to stretch beneath Jeriah’s racing feet. He skidded onto the terrace and dashed up the open stairs, skidding again as he shot onto the third level and ran for the tree.

Miraculously, he hadn’t passed anyone. The court was still dancing, but even so…
Please, St. Cerwyn, help me now
.

Jeriah climbed the tree faster than he’d climbed the ladder, swarming through the branches like a squirrel, heedless of the leaves that lashed his face.

He’d left the shutters open. Jeriah glanced into the room—no one had come in! The Hierarch slept peacefully. Jeriah leapt through the window, tripped on the sill, and fell painfully to the floor. He had no time to nurse his bruises; Nevin was demanding entrance from the guard.

Staggering to his feet, Jeriah ran his hands over his hair and clothing, straightening, searching for leaves. He found three, plucked them off, and tossed them out the window. He was pulling the shutters closed when the latch clicked.

“Please be quiet, my lords,” Nevin said softly. “The Hierarch is asleep.”

No reason to close a window on such a mild night
. Jeriah opened the shutters and turned, trying to control his breathing.

One glance at their grim faces told him the landholders had more on their minds than an open window. They filed silently into the room. Of the fourteen lords of the council Nevin had gathered ten, along with his father and Master Zachiros. Nevin was carrying the jars from Master Lazur’s cabinet.
Good!

Most of the landholders looked first at their sleeping ruler, but Lord Brallorscourt’s eyes went straight to the table where Jeriah had prepared the drugged tea, observing everything. A chill crept down Jeriah’s spine. He was glad he’d been opening the window when they came in, glad he’d thought to search for leaves, to slow his breathing. It looked like Lord Brallorscourt already knew about the drug. This was the man who held the evidence against Jeriah’s father, and he was far too intelligent. Jeriah shivered.

“Bring those things,” Lord Brallorscourt told his son. “We’ll talk in the sitting room.”

They filed out again. Jeriah followed and stood by the bedroom door, not saying a word. Just an innocent bystander. Lord Brallorscourt glanced at him, then looked away.

It was Lord Brallorscourt who took charge of the questioning, trying to control the situation, Jeriah supposed. But as Nevin revealed his findings, the landholders’ outrage soon carried the situation beyond anyone’s control. When Nevin told how Chardane had spilled the drug on him, Lord
Brallorscourt held up his hand for a moment’s pause and went to the door.

“You,” he said to one of the curious guards. “Find the herb-healer Chardane, and bring her here.” Then he gestured for Nevin to continue.

The landholders’ shock at learning that the Sunlord was being drugged was almost equaled by their anger when Nevin told them about finding the jars hidden in Master Lazur’s office. It was the first time Jeriah’s name had come into the story, and Lord Brallorscourt’s gaze became very sharp. Several landholders testified that they’d witnessed Nevin taking the jars from Master Lazur’s cabinet. Jeriah, heart beating in his throat, simply confirmed what Nevin said.

Lord Brallorscourt’s attention returned to Nevin, and there was a hint of baffled fury in his expression. It would be maddening to have your own son bring your schemes to naught. But it worked to Jeriah’s advantage; even a man as cynical as Lord Brallorscourt wouldn’t want to believe his son was being manipulated.

Chardane hadn’t arrived by the time Nevin finished his tale. Jeriah began to worry, and had to restrain himself from fidgeting under Lord Brallorscourt’s observant eyes. What could be keeping her?

The landholders chattered like starlings—most of them denying any association with Timeon Lazur as fast as they could. Lord Brallorscourt watched Jeriah, who stayed where
he was and said nothing.

A light tap sounded on the door and Chardane hurried into the room. She wore a night robe, and her braided hair hung down her back.

“Is he ill?” She was moving toward the Hierarch’s bedroom as she spoke. “What are the symptoms?” She became aware of the council’s presence and stopped, looking from one of them to another. “What’s going on?” It was a beautiful performance. Jeriah could have kissed her.

“You took a long time coming here,” said Lord Brallorscourt. “What kept you?”

“It likely took a while for the guard to find me. I was in the dungeon, tending a prisoner who’d taken ill.”

Lord Brallorscourt waved it away. “Do you recognize these?” He pointed to the jars.

Chardane went to the table, sniffed one of them, and stiffened—her shock was so realistic, for a moment Jeriah feared something else had gotten into the jar.

“Bright Gods!” Her eyes went to the Hierarch’s door and widened. “He hasn’t been taking this stuff, has he?”

“What is it?” Brallorscourt demanded.

“It’s…it smells like green vervallen. No, I’ve worked with enough of it lately to know; it is green vervallen.”

“My son tells me your workshop is full of this poisonous stuff.
Healer.
”

Oh Bright Ones, it could be taken as a sign of Chardane’s guilt! He hadn’t thought—

Chardane snorted. “I told you that myself. I ordered a bag of it three days ago, and you know very well why—you were one of the ones who asked me to find a drug to use against the barbarians.”

Master Zachiros stepped forward and laid a hand on Lord Brallorscourt’s arm.

“Mistress,” said the secretary gently, “why this drug?”

“Because the biggest problem with using poisoned water as a weapon is that as soon as the first fall ill, no one else drinks it. Green vervallen doesn’t kill, it just fuddles the wits. I thought we might get the lot of them with it.”

“It wouldn’t kill them?”

“Not until they went into battle unable to form a sensible plan, or to decide whether to duck or strike back—then it’d kill a fair few.”

Brallorscourt shook himself free. “How do we know the drug in these jars didn’t come from your workroom?”

“Well, there’s two ways. I only have one sack, and I haven’t used much—if you dumped what’s in all those jars on top of my vervallen, you wouldn’t be able to close the sack. But you don’t need to bother with that.”

“Why not?”

“My vervallen was picked fresh, a few days ago. This stuff is long dried.” She held out a handful, but no one looked at it. “What could Kerratis be thinking, giving him this?”

“Kerratis?” said Lord Brallorscourt sharply.

“Who else could order medicine for him?”

The landholders broke into impassioned comment, but Nevin’s voice overrode them. “It’s true, it was Kerratis who ordered it. But what was it doing in Master Lazur’s cabinet?”

Jeriah’s heart plummeted.
Could Master Lazur put the blame on Kerratis?

Lord Brallorscourt glared at his son. “We’ll ask them. Guard, bring Master Kerratis and Master Lazur here.”

While the landholders questioned Chardane about the drug’s effect, Brallorscourt paced, looking first at his son, then at Jeriah. Nevin was intent on Chardane’s answers. Jeriah pretended to listen, but he was always aware of Lord Brallorscourt, as if the man were a buzzing wasp.

Soon he heard Master Kerratis’ voice in the corridor. “I saw the Hierarch at dinner, and there was nothing wrong with him but normal weariness. I demand that you tell me who summoned me. I demand—”