Dwyrin was curled into as small a space as he could manage, well back in the little recess on the side of the chamber of candles. He practiced being invisible, his breathing faint, his thoughts concentrated on stone, rock, and tile. In the chamber, the dead man Khiron was sitting quietly, staring at the little table and the items upon it. From time to time he would reach out a gray hand and shuffle the items about, making little tinkling sounds. So he had been since Dwyrin had awoken. The air in the chamber seemed close and heavy. The dead man had not taunted the boy, or brought him any food or water. The ache in Dwyrin’s stomach was growing, but there was nothing to be done about it. Dwyrin watched the dead man out of the corner of his eye.
Suddenly Khiron stood, brushing his long cloak back from the little chair. He strode to the heavy doorway that led outside, to the long corridor, and paused as if listening. When he turned back, his face was drawn and grim. Then suddenly it stretched into the rictus of a smile.
“An arrangement has been made for you, boy,” he said, his voice gravelly.
A tremor of fear rippled through Dwyrin and his eyes began to smart with tears. He scrunched himself smaller and pressed against the rough stone at the back of the recess. Khiron ignored this and unlocked the grate, reaching in and dragging the boy out with a long arm/ He stood the Hibernian up and dusted him off.
“I will miss you, little mouse,” the dead man said, his voice light, like flayed skin flapping in the wind.
“Come, it is time to meet your new master.”
At the top of the long flight of stairs from the cistern, Nikos and Thyatis stood on opposite sides of the iron-bound door that closed off the top of the steps. One of the men, Ulfgar, stood before the door, carefully attired in the garb of the dead boatman. Anagathios had finished daubing color on his face and carefully smearing it to make an even surface. Done, the Syrian packed his small wooden case with precise, unhurried motions and then slipped back down the stairs. Thyatis nodded at Ulfgar and then quietly unshipped her shortsword from the sheath slung over her back. With the blade free in her left hand, she drew the fine-meshed silk veil of her hood over her face with her right. On the other side of the door, Nikos shook out a length of wire that had been threaded through a medium-length copper tube with knurled ends. His head, too, was shrouded in a hood of fine black silk.
Ulfgar swallowed and then rapped sharply on the door. There was no answer. He rapped again, louder. A few grains passed and then there was a metallic scraping sound beyond the door and a small window swung open. A smoky yellow light shone through and Ulfgar raised his own lantern, illuminating his face.
“What is it?” a heavy voice snarled in Walach. Through the edge of the small window, Thyatis could see part of a small room, lit by more than one lantern. A murmur of voices echoed off the walls-two, perhaps three more men.
“Let me in,” Ulfgar said, his voice sounding tired and worn. “I’m tired of sitting in this cold pit.”
The man in the window sneered and rubbed the top of his bald head, saying: “Too bad for you. You’re supposed to stay with the boat.”
Ulfgar scratched the side of his eye with a finger of the hand holding the lantern and raised an amphora.of wine with the other.
“I’d rather not drink this alone,” he said, mouth twisted to the side in a half grin. The eyebrows of the guard inside raised. Some kind of thought pattered through his head and he came to a decision.
“Pass that through and we’ll take care of it,” he said, smiling.
Ulfgar snorted and tucked the amphora under his arm. “Alone and cold I may be, but I’m not stupid.” He turned and began making his way down the steps. The guard in the window looked after him and sighed.
“All right!” he called, laughing after the retreating back of the Saxon. “You and your wine are welcome!” There was a sliding sound of metal on metal, then the door opened a crack and the guard inside stepped partway out into the little landing at the top of the stairs.
Nikos was quick, like a snake, and the wire loop was over the guard’s head, around his throat, and being dragged savagely tight before the Walach could as much as take a breath. Nikos held the copper tube in one hand and had yanked the end of the wire, which was wrapped around a short crosspiece of old oak, with the other. Thyatis blurred past the choking guard with the crushed trachea and the blood bubbling out of his nose and was into the guardroom before the three men seated around the stone table could more than look up in mild amusement at the antics of their friend.
The nearest one was looking over his shoulder at the doorway. His eyes widened as she rushed in. Her short-sword speared through his half-open mouth, cracked its point through the back of his skull, and then whipped back out like a bloody snake. He was still sliding sideways out of his chair, his spinal cord cut neatly in half and his mouth in ruins, when she ran past the man seated on the right side of the table and rotated her torso. The blade, spattering blood and white bits of bone across the room, rotated with her and sheared through the throat of the second man, carrying him and his chair over backward to sprawl across the floor with a clatter of wood.
The third man had sprung up out of his campstool and had lunged toward the spears on a wooden rack next to the rear door of the guardroom. Thyatis, nearly turned all the way to her right by the follow-through of her swordstroke, plucked a throwing knife from the bandoleer at her belt with her free right hand, cocked and threw in one smooth, effortless motion. The heavy-tipped blade sank into his back below his right shoulder, hilt deep, even as two black-fletched arrows, fired through the doorway, punched into the side of his chest from the opposite angle. He crashed into the wooden frame holding the spears and other gear. It collapsed with a great clatter of wood and metal.
Thyatis leapt over the body at her feet and to the far door. It was bolted on her side, which gave her pause for a thousandth of a second, and then she slammed the bolt open and rolled out into the passageway beyond. It was dark, and broad, with a musty smell. She glanced each direction and saw and heard nothing. The two Turks scuttled through the doorway behind her and took up positions facing each direction. Thyatis stepped back inside the guardroom.
Anagathios and one of the Greeks were dragging the bodies of the dead guardsmen out of the room as she entered. Nikos had cleaned off his strangling loop and had slid the copper tube back into the holder slung over his back.
Anything! he signed.
No, she answered, also in finger-talk, a crossways corridor, empty and dark. We must be in the cellars of the building. Take your team and find the roof or a window. Alert the Imperials and then head for the fighting. I’ll take my team into the main part of the building and find the Persian agent.
Nikos nodded and then gathered the three Greeks, Anagathios, and Ulfgar to him. After a moment of silent discussion they faded off into the corridor outside and headed off to the left. Thyatis took stock of the room and then joined her team, comprised of the two Turks, a Yueh-Chu exile named Timur, and a hulking Goth named Fredric.
Can you smell a kitchen? she signed at Jochi.
The Turk smiled broadly, revealing a mouth filled with snaggly yellow teeth under a lank black mustache. He pointed to the right and up.
Let’s go, she gestured. The two Turks led off, their bows out and arrows on the string. Thyatis followed, with Timur behind her and Fredric at the rear. They trotted up the corridor.
This time, when Khiron dragged the foul-smelling leather bag off Dwyrin’s head, they were not in the study. Instead they stood on a raised wooden deck that overlooked a garden of pale-white flowers and dark bushes with long narrow leaves. Above them arched a roof of iron slats with mottled glass between each support. A huge yellow-green moon wavered down through the glass. A heady scent filled the air. Dwyrin knelt on a thick rug. Sitting in wicker-backed chairs were the Bygar, the whiskered man, and the dark thing in flesh. Again, Khiron stood just behind Dwyrin and to one side, the fingers of one hand resting lightly on the boy’s shoulder.