"I'll have the chamberlain put out traps." A small sigh escaped Rietta's patrician nostrils. "I fear I've been gone too long for propriety and must return to the great hall. Concerning Guerrand, you must do as you think best, my husband."
Rietta wore a tight-lipped, triumphant smile as she watched her husband's port-fogged mind ponder her words. She knew he would do it, had already decided to, but would not admit it to her so readily. She knew all too well how to persuade her husband to do what she wanted. She had but to provide and plant the seed. Cormac himself, with the aid of port as fertilizer and desperation as sunshine, would make the notion grow.
As she slipped from the room and donned her well-rehearsed expression of grief, Rietta only hoped Cormac would do it soon, before Berwick had time to pursue other avenues.
Hurry, hurry, hurry! Kirah screamed inwardly, as if willing her feet to move faster in the cramped confines of the crawl space outside Cormac's study. Kirah knew as Rietta did that Cormac would do as his wife suggested. The young girl had gasped aloud when she'd realized it. Thank Habbakuk they'd attributed the sound to rats. She'd started crawling when Cormac headed with purpose toward the door of his study. She knew with certainty that he was not en route to the privy.
This is a thousand times worse than I'd feared! Kirah's fevered brain cried. I'd hoped he'd be safe because he was still unsuitable. Grieving, guileless Guerrand wouldn't even suspect why he was being summoned to Cormac's study again until it was too late to escape.
Scrappy Kirah had known from the moment she'd heard of Quinn's death that it was only a matter of time before Cormac and Rietta cooked up some other plot to regain Stonecliff. That was why, even more than her overwhelming grief, she'd disappeared. She'd spent as much of the last three days as possible in the tunnel outside Cormac's study, listening, leaving only to filch food from the kitchen.
Kirah had hoped that Berwick would produce an unheard-of son to marry to Honora. She knew now that she'd only fooled herself, because it was what she wanted to think. Besides, she hadn't thought about Cormac having to pay a dowry.
It had been a most informative, if uncomfortable, couple of days. Cormac had allowed the DiThon finances to decline further than he'd led anyone to believe. A lot further. The normal costs of running a castle were high enough, but Cormac's taste for fine wines and brandies, and the wedding preparations, had stretched the household budget even more. Only yesterday, Kirah had heard Cormac in a dreadful argument with the chamberlain over the cost of Quinn's funeral.
Scrambling on her hands and knees around a turn, still in the same clothes she'd been wearing when the news of Quinn's death arrived, Kirah caught her shift on a sharp rock. Cursing, she gave the loose-fitting dress a yank, heard it tear free, and she was off again. Three days in the tunnels had left her feeling grubbier than even she found comfortable. Her nails were torn, the cuticles bloodied by scraping along the stone tunnels. She could scarcely imagine what she must look like with wisps of cobwebs poking from her greasy mop of hair and her smudged face. A fright doll came to mind. She didn't care.
Right now, Kirah cared only about reaching the viewing room before Cormac, or his messenger, could get there. The problem was, no direct route led through the network of tunnels within the castle. The stairway outside Cormac's study dropped almost directly into the foyer near the great hall, but the tunnels wound around the outside walls before exiting beneath the main staircase.
Reviewing the maze in her mind, Kirah decided to take a chance. She could cut the time significantly if she exited in the dining room, crossed that room in the open-even though there was a chance she might be spotted-then entered a second passage that led to the great hall.
Scrambling quickly down the narrow chimney that passed between floors, Kirah planned what she would do when she got to the great hall. First, she'd pull Guerrand into the tunnel, kicking and screaming if necessary. She knew he hated the small, spider-filled tunnels. Kirah didn't care about that now, either. She had to get him out of that death room.
After that she resolved to tell him what she'd overheard. It would not be difficult to persuade him to run away with her to Gwynned, like he'd always wanted to. Guerrand could finally study his magic, and she would, well, she'd do something! Learn to pick pockets, if I have to, Kirah thought. The young woman had a talent for it, and a certain amount of skill at thievery already. Possessions had been disappearing from the rooms of visitors to Castle DiThon for years. Thus far, it had only been a bored girl's game, but she felt certain it could easily become a profession.
The more Kirah thought about it, the more she liked the idea. Guerrand could even use his magic to help her pilfer the biggest purses. She and Guerrand would become runaways like the characters in her favorite tales. Guerrand himself had sent her off to sleep countless times with bedtime stories about notorious mountebanks and swindlers and rogues, traveling adventurers who lived by their wits and magical skills rather than force of arms. Even honest, moral Guerrand couldn't help but see that it was their fate.
She knew the highest hurdle to overcome would be Guerrand's ever-ready sense of guilt. He would definitely feel guilty about running away. Kirah wouldn't. She had no time for such a useless emotion. Guilt was an excuse used by people who were afraid to do what they wanted. She'd learned the hard way that if you didn't grab what you wanted, no one was likely to give it to you. She'd told Guerrand that before, and she'd tell him again and again until he finally understood it.
Kirah came to a section of tunnel that was taller than average, though still narrow. She raised up from her crablike position and took off at a shambling run, trying to gain time. But then she came to a skidding stop. Abruptly, as she'd expected, the tunnel took a sharp left around a chimney. Ten more steps and she'd have to leave the tunnel through an air grate between the legs of a ponderous sideboard and take the chance of crossing the formal dining room. With any luck there would be only servants present, preparing the hall for the funeral feast later that day.
Castle DiThon's servants had witnessed her comings and goings for years and never spoken of it beyond the kitchen, far preferring the scrappy little miss to their lord. They would not have lied directly for her-punishment for that would be swift and brutal for the servant's entire family. But Cormac never thought to ask them. He considered the servants to be as mute and mindless as mice, further evidence of Cormac's unsuitability to run a castle. As if she needed proof. Kirah scoffed, amused that she knew more about what went on in the keep than did her brother, Rietta, or their doddering old chamberlain.
Narrow, flickering swatches of torchlight danced across the tunnel before her. Kneeling within the light, Kirah wrapped her thin, pale fingers around the bars of the grate and pushed gently. Feeling the weight of the heavy bars as they came loose from their resting place, she struggled the grate to the side, to lean against a leg of the sideboard. Doubled up into a ball, Kirah thrust her head through the very narrow opening between two ornately carved legs. She hated to take the time to replace the grate, but she couldn't bear to leave a trail.
Kirah gritted her teeth as she swung the heavy iron vent back into place. Swiveling around on the ball of one foot, she peered out from beneath the sideboard. No one looked to be about. The servants must be between deliveries of platters, she thought. Kirah sighed heavily at the scent of food already placed above her for the feast. Her stomach reminded her painfully that she'd eaten too little for several days.