The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (19 page)

Chapter Forty-Nine

The
snow turned to sludge underfoot. The Thane of Kar tested the ground with a
stick. It was no longer frozen. Further north would still be in the grip of
winter, but in the weeks it would take to march an army there, and pick up more
support along the way, it would be thawed. Spring would be in full bloom. If
all went to plan the capital would be his by summer.

            He
was prepared for a long siege. By all reports the Stewards were preparing for
war. He didn’t expect to keep his activities secret for long, and he knew
rumour travelled swiftly, irrespective of the snow.

            The
men arrayed before him bowed as he passed. At last, he thought, some respect.

            The
crown helped. He was no fool.

            Savan
Retrice touched his sleeve deferentially.

            'What
is it?' snapped the Thane.

            'The
weather will be steady. We should march in the morning.'

            'Are
the men ready?'

            'To
a man.'

            The
Thane nodded. 'Then bring me the captains. I will give the order tonight. We
will dine in my tent. Make sure you are there.'

            'Of
course, my lord.'

            The
Thane of Kar smiled. At last, even the strange spy was showing him some
respect. Fear was a useful tool. The man had seen his power and respected him
and feared him, as he should, for soon he would be the most powerful man in
Sturma.

*

Chapter Fifty

Winter
had been hard and long. The ground had frozen, as had the lakes and rivers.
Snow blizzards seemed to come every week. The land huddled in frozen misery.
People stayed in their homes and stacked fires high with seasoned logs.

            Many
died in the winter. It was the coldest in living memory. So cold that livestock
was found frozen stiff in the mornings and trees cracked when their sap froze.

            Underground,
it was warmer.

            A
thief saw the first melt of snow trickling down through the spy holes in the
ceiling of his cell. At last, a hint of daylight.

            With
it came no hope. His beard was long, his nails uneven where he had been forced
to file them on the stone he sat on. A chill had seeped into his bones, but the
Thane of Ulbridge had not wanted him to die. He had fed him well and given him
blankets to keep from freezing to death.

            Even
so, the thief’s hands were always numb.

            Hope
had fled for good. No rescue was coming. He was in the deepest of dungeons…his
body and his mind.

            The
shackles clinked, he drew a breath, and finally gave up on what hopes he had.
Would death be release? Would it hurt if he just refused to eat anymore? What
would Tarn have thought if he just gave up and ended it all?

*

Chapter Fifty-One

Roskel
awoke as the last of the meagre light fled from his cell. There was a candle
burning somewhere outside, where he had heard guards going about their
business. They played cards and swore and occasionally cursed the prisoners in
the cells. There were other hopeless men and women in these cells. They would
never see the light of day, either.

            But
when Roskel woke it was with a strange sense of hope. He had not felt like this
since he had come to the cell in shackles.

            The
dream had been puzzling. A dream of Tarn. In the dream his friend had told him
to be ready.

            Ready
for what?

            All
hope was not lost, his dream vision claimed.

            Was
it just a dream? Why would he dream of Tarn on a day like today? What could
possibly be special about a day in late winter, when a man was shackled like a
dangerous animal, his hair matted and infected with lice, his beard long enough
to chew.

            And
yet… He thought the dream had power. Tarn was still a towering man even in
spirit. His words demanded attention.

            Be
ready.

            But
for what? Was he just deluding himself? Did it matter? By his reasoning, he had
nothing better to do.

            Slowly,
painfully, for his behind was a mass of sores, he pushed himself off the ground
so that he was standing. His legs shook at first, and then the pain started. It
felt as though someone was poking daggers into his legs, fire burning from toe
to hip.

            His
arms were now by his side. Slowly, an unpleasant tingling started in his
fingertips. It worked its way to his shoulders. His whole body was now on fire.
He flexed his hands and his feet, stamped on the ground, desperately trying to
get the blood to flow again.

            He’d
been happier when everything was numb. But what could it hurt? Not so long ago
he’d been fantasizing about death. Now he was wondering, did dreams come true?

            He
could not afford to fail. If there was to be a chance of escape, he had to make
himself ready. He would be no good if his limbs were numb. He needed to be able
to grab a guard, in case they got careless. Slim chance, but so what if he died
in the attempt? Better to die on his feet than huddled against the wall.

            So
he gritted his teeth and worked his sleeping muscles. He was no match for a fit
and healthy man. But he knew a few tricks. If he got the chance, he could blind
someone with his thumbs, or crack a windpipe.

            If
he just got the chance.

            Instead
of praying for death, he prayed for a little luck and just a chance to live out
his life under the air.

*

Chapter Fifty-Two

The
ground froze once more as the Dow finally slunk out of sight over the western
horizon. In the dim twilight, the cowled man was a long shadow sliding from
alleyways and dark corners, creeping unseen toward the home of the Thane of
Ulbridge.

            He
knew it was time. Once more the dream had come to him. The dead king, proud and
tall in his sleeping mind, speaking strange words for a king.

            What
dreams did the thief have? The Drayman was not privy to the dreams. But the
king’s visitation assumed success in this venture. He asked much of the
bladesinger, but offered nothing in return. The dead king seemed to rely on his
honour to see him through. Perhaps he realised that to offer riches or reward
would have sullied the bladesinger further.

            He
had failed once. Now, he would die for honour, for another man to see him as
one he could trust.

            He
had waited long for his chance to show Roskel that he had not been abandoned.
He had not been forgotten. The bladesinger had thought about little else during
the winter save how to free his friend. Perhaps in success would come
salvation. Should he fail, then at least he would know release from his
crushing burden.

            But
think not of failure, he cautioned himself as he stood before the front gates.
Think of success, and glory in evil vanquished.

            Were
the guards evil men? He did not know. Perhaps they just served for the money.
He would not kill them unless they gave him no choice. If they offered battle
then their death would be merciful.

            He
expected resistance. Now was the best chance he would ever have. He had been
watching, as had the Thieves' Covenant, and he knew that the garrison stationed
here was at half-strength, many of the able men stripped from duty for the
march to the north.

            That
was a worry for later.

            Concentration
was paramount.

            He
walked to a side wall of the compound and heaved a rope around an overhanging
tree down a side street. No one was in sight. He clambered up the rope and
dropped over the side. He expected getting in to be easier than getting out. He
would have the thief in tow, and he didn’t know what kind of state he would be
in. There was no doubt he would be weak, but had he been tortured? Was he still
whole?

            The
Drayman couldn’t  know. If he had to, at least he could give the thief release
and exact revenge on his enemies.

            Crouching
low against the wall, hidden from the guards at the front entrance, he sidled
along like a crab, aiming for the rear entrance. Roskel’s allies in the Thieves'
Covenant claimed that there was an old entrance to the cellars at the rear, and
a secret entrance to the maze.

            He
hoped they were right. He reached the shadows of the four level mansion and
broke into a sure footed run over the grassy garden. He heard footsteps coming
round the corner and dived behind a hedge. He counted as two guards passed by,
unaware of the killer in their midst. When they had reached the corner, the
Drayman knew how long their rounds would take.

            He
resumed his path, creeping silently, trying to avoid confrontation on the way
in to increase his chances of success.

            He
reached the rear of the building and saw the storm shutters over the cellar. He
crouched down. They were barred from within. He peered through and could just
make out what he thought was a wooden barrier.

            The
Drayman slid his sword through the gap and swept it up with all his might. The
wood was sliced cleanly in two. He pulled on the handle and the door came up.
Still, he had made minimal noise. He crouched within the cellar for a few
moments, just to make sure that nobody came to investigate. He could use the
song to send them away, but that would only work if one came. He could not
befuddle two men so easily, and once a sword thrust had begun he would not be
able to turn it aside with song. Then it would come down to skill and speed. He
trusted his abilities, but he was reluctant to kill a servant or a cook. There
was no honour in killing an unarmed man or woman.

            Nobody
came to investigate. He descended into the depths of the cellar.

            It
was vast. It sat underneath the huge mansion and spread wide. No candle burned.
He listened for the music of another living being, the subtle song of their
breath or movement in the near pitch darkness, but he heard nothing. He hummed
a tune himself, and the air brightened just enough for him to see by.

            Now,
it was all down to luck.

            He
examined the floor methodically, searching for an entrance. The search took
valuable time.

            But
there was nothing. No tell tale sign. No sign of passage. The dust was
disturbed around an entrance leading to what he imagined was the kitchens
above. That was where most of the barrels were stored, and bottles of wine,
some covered in dust, some fresh. He listened to the commotion above, no doubt
preparations for a dinner. Perhaps the Thane was entertaining for a final time
before joining the march north for glory or failure.

            Failure,
the Drayman hoped. He did not care about the politics of these people, but he
recognised evil by its song, and the one who led in all but name was pure evil.
He thought the people of Sturma would soon suffer under that alien yoke.

            He
turned from the cellar entrance and resumed his search. He hummed again, but
this time a different tune. He turned slowly, toward each corner of the vast
cellar…there! Something different about the echo…he continued with his melodic
humming and walked toward the discrepancy. The closer he got, the surer he was.
This was the secret passage.

            It
was covered in bricks, but the bricks, he saw, were different to the other
brickwork. It was newer, for one thing, and the workmanship was shoddy. It
looked to be a temporary measure that had never been finished.

            He
sniffed and there was a mild breeze from beyond the makeshift wall. After a
moment’s consideration, he kicked a corner…then again, and again.

            Eventually
a brick tumbled through the opening and he began pulling other bricks from the
entrance. It was the work of minutes once the corner of the brickwork was
exposed.

            Behind
the wall was a dark tunnel, stretching off into the distance.

            Now
came the test. The ultimate test of his abilities. He needed to hear the song
of Roskel’s breathing within the maze to find his way. It would be a remarkable
feat, if he could do it.

            He
set off into the darkness. He padded on silent feet, listening for the
slightest hint of movement.

*