Tides of Rythe trt-2 Page 21

  He blinked, and felt the first drops of rain on his face. He sat up, but could only spare a frown at Renir’s concerned and amazed face.

  “Surrounded by stupidity,” he grumbled. “It’s a wonder the world hasn’t ended already.”

  “Welcome back,” said Renir. “Nice of you to put a rosy tint on things. I feel so much better now.”

  Drun merely growled at him. He rose, shook his cloak out, and stalked off to get out of the rain.

  Renir coughed and turned his face upward to the sky. Drun might be surrounded by stupidity. Renir was surrounded by grumpy old curmudgeons.

  At least with just the rain for company things were simple for a change. Then the lightning streaked the sky, and lit Renir’s face. For once, he looked happy and at ease. He stared lazily out to sea. Cold and alone, rain ran in rivulets from his beard. He smiled, closed his eyes, and waited for the storm to break.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Night fell slowly, laying long shadows along Beheth’s confusing streets. As always, Tirielle followed a new route to the library in the hope that no assassin could lay in wait. The Protectorate patrols were now concentrated in the west of the city. She gave them no thought. Roth had done its deadly work well.

  Typraille followed behind, making no pretence at concealment. The Sard hoped open protection would deter any attacker — Carth followed their back trail, Unthor strode along a parallel street, keeping them in sight only occasionally through refuse strewn alleyways and across hunched bridges. Tirielle would have preferred to have them all at her back, but it would have to be enough. They could not afford to leave the inn unprotected. She could not afford to leave the Seer alone. As much as she had grown to love the girl, she could not fool herself. The Seer could prove to be a great ally in days to come. She could not lose her. She would not.

  Whatever her motivations for protecting the Seer, it was still possible that the assassin, whoever it might be, would wait for them at the Great Tree Inn. He could be hiding on the rooftops, or biding his time until he could send a bolt or arrow through their window come early morning. The Sard thought few assassins would be bold enough to strike in the daylight, but Tirielle knew better. Bitter experience had taught her to expect the unexpected when it came to dealing with those that dealt only in death. It was no game. There were no rules. The choices were simple; be killed, or kill.

  If she knew from where the threat came she could have struck early and hard, removing the threat before it had a chance to sneak up on them. But assassins were impolite by nature — they kept you waiting.

  Guessing, going over the angles in her mind, Tirielle had been forced to split the Sard. They were at their most effective when they fought together, but only against a vastly significant force. Against a lone man, one trained in the art of subtle murder, they could only protect her as well as she could protect herself.

  She was watchful. She trusted the Sard with her life, but would not relax. Not this night. Not when she was hunted from the shadows. She put her trust in vigilance. Hers, and that of the Sard. Only in harmony would they succeed.

  Heart pounding in her breast, ears attuned to the night, she walked carefully, as swiftly as she dared. Haste could mean a sign missed, a sound unheard over her own footfalls. She wished Roth could be with them, but it was simply more logical for it to guard the inn. If it were seen now (however unlikely that was) the Protectorate would come in force. All its work would be for nought, and the last thing they needed this night was additional interference. It was too great a risk.

  Wishes were meaningless, but she wished, nonetheless. Roth was an accomplished assassin in its own right. It thought the way an assassin thinks — without rules. Anything might be a weapon. It might come as a friendly face, or a missile from the rooftops. Assassins rarely worked in groups, but that, too, was a possibility she could not dismiss.

  Cats screeching from behind an alley wall startled her into drawing her daggers, but j’ark seemed unperturbed. He merely strolled on, shoulders rolling with his easy, self-assured gait. A long bladed knife hung from his belt, underneath the grey cloak he wore. The heat was prohibitive, but hard questions would be asked if a Protectorate patrol stopped them in the darkness. This night was too important to be delayed. Everything rested on their success, or gods forbid, their failure.

  Time was as much their enemy as the faceless assassin. If they failed tonight, they would be without a guide, lost on the wrong continent. Tirielle would not allow that to happen. She had allies fighting the same fight, and she would not let them down. If someone relied on her, she would fight to the last to aid them. She would do so because she expected nothing less from her friends. The Sard had fought for her, and, although she had never met them, and knew nothing of the men across the ocean other than their fate, they were doing the same for her. Together, their battle might be small, but they fought for the greatest prize of all — the freedom of every human on Rythe.

  Failure was not an option. Fail, and she might as well be dead. Already she had staked her life on her quest, and the lives of everyone who followed her.

  How could she risk any less?

  “It seems we have company,” said j’ark in subdued tones, startling her again. Her heart skipped a beat. “Don’t look up.”

  She hid her face in her hair and stared at the ground. She did not think her lips could be read in the growing darkness, but there was still a little light lingering in the air.

  “Where?”

  “On the rooftop to our left. The house with the nested eves. I saw nothing but a silhouette.”

  “Just one?”

  j’ark nodded his head.

  “No,” said Typraille, just behind them. He spoke quietly, and Tirielle had to strain to hear him. “There’s another to the right. I saw a strangely shaped huddle in the alleyway we just passed. I think they are just watching. He could have loosed an arrow before I noticed him, but he stayed where he was.”

  “Let us hope you are right, but we should not count on it. Perhaps they work together, and wait to kill us all at once. Signal Carth. Tell him to take the man in the alleyway. We can do nothing about our rooftop watcher.”

  Typraille nodded, although j’ark was not looking at him. Behind his back the willing warrior formed signs with his hand. Tirielle imagined he wished he could take the battle to the enemy. It was not Typraille’s way to stand aside while a fight was in the offing.

  Typraille did not have to look to know that Carth had moved down the alleyway. They heard no sounds of a struggle. Carth was soft spoken in all his dealings.

  A tense few minutes passed, Tirielle occasionally asking j’ark if their silent observer was still there, j’ark answering in the affirmative each time. Tirielle found her shoulders bunching, waiting for an arrow to pierce her neck, or her back…but to convince herself of the possibilities was foolish. She made herself relax, and concentrated on reaching the door, now in sight, unscathed. In this, she had to trust j’ark’s reflexes, and his instinct.

  No arrow came. They reached the door unharmed. Tirielle knocked, and waited, and itch between her shoulders.

  “Open, damn it,” she whispered between clenched teeth.

  “Relax, Lady. I have our watcher in sight.”

  It was unspoken, but Tirielle believed j’ark meant to snatch any missile from the air with his bare hands. She almost believed he could do it.

  As she rapped on the door again, it opened a crack. She pushed harder than she intended to. The door swung wide as she shouldered her way inside. J’ark stepped in and pushed her away roughly.

  “Back!” he said. She moved instantly, recognising her mistake. J’ark stepped around the door in one fluid motion, checking the blind spot, but only found a bewildered reader rubbing a sore shoulder.

  Typraille stepped inside more calmly, watching their backs.

  “Sorry, old chap,” said Typraille, closing the door on the night and their unwelcome observer. “Sudden chill. Couldn’t wait to be inside.
”

  “It’s not the kind of behaviour we condone,” said the reader, hurt, as j’ark pulled him to his feet. “Lady Belvoire,” he stated, as he rose. “Lord Resnor.”

  There was little respect in his voice, the simple statement of their assumed names sounded more like an admonishment.

  “My apologies, master reader, for the brutal entry,” said Tirielle, and by way of consolation offered him a dazzling smile.

  He melted under the heat of that smile, even though for him it must have been somewhat muted, considering his myopic eyes.

  “Well, I suppose it was just a mistake.”

  “Just that, my good man. Our coin, for the night, and a little donation. I hope that makes up for this…mishap.” Typraille tossed the man a gold coin, which the reader fumbled and bent to pick up. When his back straightened, Tirielle and her guard for the night were already striding into the depths of the library.

  They stopped when they reached the cloistered passage to the rear rooms, containing priceless scrolls. The architecture differed subtly from the rest of the library. Erosion worked mystery into the carvings. Forgotten faces that peered from the stone — perhaps patrons, or lords, or figures out of legend — were worn thin, blurring what once had no doubt been fine features. Vines were carved into the archways, what looked like Orwain leaves, and three-dimensional bulbs that looked like rough fruits. The marble floor was no longer smooth, but pitted and dimpled with wear.

  Typraille dumped the pack he had been carrying unceremoniously on the stone floor, and said, “Time’s wasting. Shall we?”

  Tirielle nodded with a smile. “Why not?” she said, and loosened the drawstrings to draw out a candle, and a ladylike pick. They lit their candles from one burning at the reading tables, and began their search.

  Tirielle wandered off on her own, her features as blurred as the carvings in the dull flickering glow of candlelight. She walked slowly one way around the hall, while j’ark followed the line of the other wall. Typraille stood guard, ensuring none of the readers disturbed them. He would concoct a story to dissuade them from entering the back rooms — failing that he would knock them insensible. With regret, Tirielle knew, but without hesitation.

  The candle roamed across the wick almost as if it had a will of its own. From a study of the outside of the library, and comparison to the inside, it seemed as though the wall she examined was unnaturally thick. There were no windows, so no one would ever notice this disparity from inside or out…but something was there. She just had to find it. If only the candle would remain still. There was such a draft in the building she was unsure if she would even notice if she found a hidden opening.

  Scrolls in leather tubing were stacked on shelves all along the wall, tagged with their title, or subject, date and author if known. She would have loved to take the time to peruse them. It was amazing to her that so much had survived the years. But peace had a way of preserving knowledge. In the years before peace had come to Lianthre, in the age of dissent, much had been lost. For a thousand years or more, much more had been preserved. Unfortunately, none of it would be of any use in the hunt for the red wizard. Tirielle was sure that if mention remained, the Protectorate would have expurgated it from the records. The red wizard could be their undoing, and the Protectorate allowed no threats.

  She almost forgot the candle she was supposed to be watching. It had gone out and for the last few minutes she had been searching by distant candlelight only.

  She returned to the tables and relit her candle, then walked her own trail through the library, this time watching the flame and holding it close to the shelves. The readers would be sore if they could see what she was doing, but not for long.

  The candle flickered and she felt a breeze against her cheek. She tried to hold in her excitement.

  She held the candle out in front of her and examined the area. It took a while to see, but there was a curved scratch leading outward from the edge of the bookshelf closest to her. She wet a finger and held it close to the join between wall and shelf. It was definitely cooler. The candle flickered more strongly. She shielded it with her free hand, and peered along the join. There was no gap, nothing out of the ordinary. But there would be no scratch if it did not move. The join provided no purchase for fingers. She searched the inside of the shelving, pushing aside priceless scrolls with increasing excitement.

  Finally, she found what she was looking for. A plain brass handle, carefully concealed behind a dusty scroll. She thought of calling her guard over, but what danger could lay behind the secret door?

  She pulled, gently at first, and then with gradually increasing strength. She had to put one foot against the wall, but it inched wider. She could see the hole behind it now, but she did not have the strength to open the gap further.

  “j’ark!” she whispered urgently. He hurried over, taking care to shield his candle. Seeing the gap his eyes widened. With dark shadows around his eyes, it made him look like a surprised badger. Tirielle covered her smile quickly.

  “You found it!” he exclaimed, taking her shoulder in a friendly embrace. She wished he would just once forget himself and kiss her, even if it was only on the cheek.

  “I can’t open it any wider,” she said, setting aside her daydreams. “I’m not strong enough.”

  “Here, let me,” he said, and bunched his shoulders, pushing against the shelf instead of pulling. It slid out easily, and Tirielle could finally see the door behind it.

  They looked at each other for a moment.

  “Let’s see what’s in there, shall we?” said j’ark with a smile. “After you.”

  She blushed at his smile, as she often did. He never noticed. She pulled the crumbling tapestry covering the secret passageway aside, and pushed a creaking, small door set into the wall inward. The darkness inside was pitch. Her candle did little to illuminate it. She stepped carefully inside, and looked around.

  Candles, rich in dust and cobwebs, were set into sconces in the wall. She lit each as she passed, and descended worn stone stairs. She wondered how long it had been since anyone had walked these stairs. Surely none of the readers still living. It had been long forgotten, this passageway. She reached the bottom of the stairs, facing another door, and looked back to make sure j’ark had followed her. She could easily make out his reassuring smile now that the stairway was well lit.

  She took a deep breath and turned a rusted handle on the door, pushed and stepped inside.

  She clapped her hands in unashamed delight.

  “We found it!” she capered for a moment, and then coughed when she saw j’ark watching her, a small smile playing on his lips. “Well, I’m happy,” she explained, unnecessarily.

  “As am I,” said j’ark, still smiling slightly, and turned to look around the room.

  It was a large room, the size of a Lady’s bedchamber, with one chair and one desk set in the centre. A glint of gold told them that the scroll they were looking for was in the room — somewhere. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust, cobwebs, too, which shimmied in a breeze from an air grate set in one wall. No doubt the grate led outside. It was too small for anyone to crawl through.

  It would be so easy to become trapped down here, never found…she panicked for a second, until she remembered that the doors all opened inward. They could not be blocked from outside. Besides, she told herself, Typraille covered the only entrance to the old section, and he would let none pass.

  “Light the candles,” she said to j’ark, “and let’s find what we came for.”

  Wordlessly, he complied, setting candles aglow from his own light. The room brightened, and she finally understood what the room was for. It was to keep the most important of texts from all the ages from the eyes of the Protectorate. It was a treasure trove of knowledge — she looked at the aged tomes adorning the shelves and felt her heart quicken. Some questors might hunger for gold and jewels, or ancient, strangely alien bones, perhaps armour and weaponry long forgotten by the people of the curr
ent age. But this, surely, was worth more than any of those other things. The secrets of an age, she thought, looking at the title of one book bound in some strange leather from no beast she had ever seen. It was a reliquary, but the relics were books.

  She pulled books and scrolls from the dusty shelves at random, her pulse throbbing wildly in her neck. Revelations, legends, scriptures, scrolls, tomes…there was so much here! She could spend a lifetime just reading. She could find the history of world before the Protectorate culled it all. Such secrets these books could hold!

  Here were banned works, preaching heretical religions of love. The discoveries of the inventors Mor Abalzoth and Sethram Cabe, the philosophies of cadence (hinted at but never fully known), the religious heresies of Trithlasa the Runt…her head sang with the possibility, and she almost found herself in tears to be among such ancient gods — to be among them and to have to leave them behind!

  There was papyrus that nearly crumbled to her touch, scrolls written in forgotten languages, parchment, vellum, dark works on human skin, beautifully illustrated. From her own knowledge of books she knew that such works must have taken more than twenty years to complete. Many she flicked through were so huge that they had never been completed. Some were even written in what could only be the languages of beasts, in strange petroglyphs and hieroglyphs that she could not begin to understand, images that shifted under the gaze, trying to escape being read.

  But she was looking for one in particular, as j’ark reminded her with a gentle, stilling hand upon her shaking shoulder. She realised she was crying. Her shoulders shook.

  “I’m fine,” she told him, putting down a book that was uncomfortably heavy. She sat with a sigh in the chair.

  “It seems criminal, to walk away from the revelations of ages past,” he said, echoing her private thoughts.

  She was glad she was not forced to explain her tears. He understood much more than she gave him credit for. He was more than a mere warrior. All of the Sard were, more priest than man, more silk than steel.