There was light enough for them to see the end of the passage before they walked into it. Parno Lionsmane signaled, holding up his left hand with the first two fingers extended. Tek passed the signal back to his guards. The Lionsmane stuck the cresset into a bracket to the left of the wall in front of him and ran his fingertips over the bricks, feeling for the one glazed smooth. Tek saw him take a deep, quiet breath and let it out slowly, before he ran his hands over the bricks again.
“Should I hold the light?” Tek said.
Lionsmane shook his head. “The maps say the brick won’t show, no matter where we hold the light, that only-here it is.” Tek put out his hand and the Lionsmane guided it until Tek could feel the smooth glazing for himself. It was one of the smaller tying-in bricks, he thought smiling, placed sideways to the others both to create a pattern and to strengthen the double-layered wall. Unless you knew what to look for, the smooth surface was too small to draw attention to itself.
The Mercenary braced his fingers and pushed the smooth brick with his thumbs. “Lord Tarkin, your hands under mine, please.” Even straining as they all were, Tek heard nothing, and it wasn’t until they released the catch that Tek felt the wall give, shuddering slightly under their hands. According to the instructions that had been handwritten on the map, this section of wall was cantilevered, and they should be able to swing it open by pushing on the left-hand side.
Lionsmane drew his sword, and motioned Jessen and Tonal forward, showing them with the point of his blade where he wanted their hands. “I’ll go through first and to the left; the Tarkin behind me and to the right. Guards, you follow up the middle. Scholar, stay out of the way of the blades.” When everyone was in position, the Mercenary nodded and the two guards pushed against the wall to the left of the trigger brick. As promised, the wall opened, so quietly that without the change in light Tek wouldn’t have been sure that it had happened.
“Who’s been keeping this oiled?” he whispered as he followed the Mercenary through the narrow space into the dressing room and stepped to the right. Lionsmane threw him a glance that made Tek’s ears burn. Of course. The Brotherhood maintains the tunnels.
When Tek was growing up, this room had been filled with his father’s robes of state, the Tarkin’s coronet and the spear and sword, symbols of the Tarkin’s office. Tek preferred less ceremony, and had always used the room as a private salon, where he could retreat to rest and refresh himself without technically leaving the throne room, or to send petitioners to wait for a more private audience. A thick rug covered the stone floor, with two comfortable chairs placed near a table covered with an embroidered cloth, tall enough to serve for either writing or dining.
As Tek stepped to the right out of the opening, he glanced down at this table. It held the cut-glass inkwell that Zella’s sister Alliandra had sent him from Berdana’s new glassworks. The ink had dried, and inkwell, pens, and embroidered cloth were all covered with a fine layer of dust. Tek tightened his grip on his sword and felt a chill trickle up his spine. His whole life he’d lived in the Carnelian Dome, and he’d never before seen dust on the furniture.
Lionsmane waited until everyone had come out of the secret passage before he swung the wall shut behind them. The paneling was decorated with an inlaid pattern, and with a tap of his forefinger, he drew their attention to the piece of inlay that marked the door’s trigger from this side. When Tek and his two guards had nodded, the Mercenary turned to look at the room.
“Does that door open directly into the throne room,” he asked, his voice a quiet growl, “or is there another, connecting room?”
“I’m surprised you don’t know,” Tek said, smiling to take the sting out of his words. Well, he thought, first you kill the wolf, then you worry about the holes in the fences. He would deal with the extent of the Mercenaries’ knowledge when they lived through this. “Not a room, but a connecting passage,” he continued. “Go immediately right. The door on the left wall at the other end is the entrance to the throne room proper. The entrance will bring us out to the right of the Throne itself. The door opens toward us and will lay flat against the far wall.”
Parno Lionsmane nodded, his eyes still on the door.
“Your best guess as to the number of guards in the room, Lord Tarkin.”
“There are always two standing at the throne itself. This is not the normal time for audiences…” Tek turned to look at the Scholar, looking all the paler for a streak of dirt on his face, standing close to the hidden opening, as if he would like to go back through.
“He’s there,” the boy said. “Or the Green Shadow is.”
Tek nodded. “Then there may be more guards. We should be able to hear voices through the second door.”
“Very well,” Parno said. “Keep the same formation, but come out striking.”
Twenty-one
ON THE COUNT of three, Parno dove out through the door held open for him, tossing throwing stars to the right and left and making an automatic count of the men in the room as he rolled up onto his feet. Five against each side wall, two flanking the formal entrance. None close to the throne. Twelve. Not so bad, if he didn’t have Tek-aKet to worry about. But with luck there should be Brothers only minutes behind him in the tunnels, and Dhulyn only steps away. Between them he and his Partner could handle twelve easily, even while keeping the Tarkin and his guards alive. Tek-aKet had already followed him into the throne room and was engaging one of the guards standing against the right wall, with Tonal and Jessen running up to help.
Three guards in Tenebro colors approached him warily as Parno straightened to his feet and lifted his sword, already deciding which he would gut first. Just as he shifted his weight to make the first move, he was grabbed in a bear hug from behind, clamping his arms to his sides.
Idiot! he thought, cursing both himself and his assailant. He should have been aware of his own back, not watching for Tek’s. As for the fellow who’d grabbed him, he must have been unarmed-otherwise why waste time with wrestling moves? Even as he was thinking this, Parno squatted, bracing his legs and bending forward to tip the man off-balance. The guard was not unskilled, however, and he countered Parno’s shift of weight by thrusting his own leg forward between Parno’s braced legs. The man was barrel-chested, the strength in his arms astonishing, and Parno felt his lungs close down, refusing his next breath. But he had some experience of his own, and this was no simple wrestling match, skill against skill alone, undertaken for money or glory, and over when one man was pinned to the ground. Years of Schooling allowed Parno to ignore the burning in his lungs, the pounding in his blood, and focus on distribution of weight, on leverage, angles, and cutting edges. Still squatting, he turned his dagger a few degrees of arc, stabbed back and upward, felt the hot gush of blood as he severed the artery in the man’s thigh, took a deep welcome breath of air and shrugged his way out of the man’s suddenly limp grasp.
As he straightened, Parno lifted both his blades, swinging his sword through the arm of the Tenebro guard who was closing in on Tonal. Of the three who had been approaching him, only two were left and Parno leaped to engage them, forcing them back toward the throne itself. Lok was standing, a sword in his hand, looking out at the men fighting like an owl sitting on a perch, turning this way and that, watching for prey.
The part of him that was Lok-iKol recognized the golden-haired man with the Mercenary badge as soon as he stood up out of his roll. The surge of adrenaline that passed through the body was unpleasant, burning and leaving a metallic taste in the mouth. There was some fear, but also something he had come to recognize as hope. Lok-iKol thought there was something this man could do for him, and there was something… the body’s heart rate increased. Where this golden-haired man was, he understood, the Seer would not be far away. He stepped forward and around two men fighting, lifting his hand to TOUCH the man, when another body stepped into his way. This dark-haired, bearded man was no stranger to Lok-iKol, though it took a moment to recognize him, bearded and disheveled as he was. Another surge of emotion, this time colder, bitter. Their swords met with a clash and he fell back, making the dark, bearded man follow. The golden man called out, “No, Tek,” and began cutting through the wall of men preventing him from coming to the dark one’s aid.