A Fate Worse Than Dragons Page 12

  Damn, thought Roland. He did recognize her. He knows she’s a cook.

  I need a plan, decided Gloria. It didn’t take her long to come up with one. Her first step was to grab a candleholder off the table, smash a pane out of one of the French doors leading to the balcony, and feel around the outside of the lock to see if there was a key, or perhaps an outside latch. There wasn’t, of course. She was on the third floor. She could think of no reason why anyone would want to lock a balcony door from the outside. But she checked it anyway, because architects do many weird things, and she would have felt like a damn fool if she broke down the door only to find that she could have opened it with a key.

  Okay, so the door to the outside was locked, and the door to the inside was also locked. She felt over the frames on both doors, and under the carpet in front of each, in case someone had hidden a spare key. She didn’t find one, and didn’t expect to, but, of course, she had to check first. Fine, she thought. No surprises there. She examined the hinges. Both doors had them on the inside—could she pry them out with a teaspoon? No, the pins were covered with decorative knobs that needed a special tool to remove. Could she force the knobs off? Eventually, but she saw no need to be subtle. There was a quicker way. She looked at the table.

  She carefully set the teapot, one cup, and a plate of finger sandwiches on the floor, in a corner of the room. She then flipped off the tablecloth, watching with no small amount of satisfaction as the rest of the Count’s expensive china hit the floor. The carpet prevented it from shattering, but there were enough chips, cracks, and broken handles to make the set useless. Beneath the cloth, the table was made of ornately wrought iron, with a round marble top. It was heavy. Very heavy. It was perfect.

  It was so heavy she had to crouch beneath it and put one shoulder under the edge to tip it over. It went over with a resounding thunk. Chips of marble flew off the edge. She hesitated a bit, listening carefully at the door, wondering if the noise had attracted attention. No one came in. So now all she had to do was roll the table against the door. Once, and the door bent. Most of the glass panes cracked. Twice, three times, and the wood frame splintered around the lock. The glass shattered and fell out with little tinkly sounds. Once, twice more, and the table broke through the door.

  Cold wind whipped the curtains when she pulled the door back and stepped through. She found herself standing on a narrow balcony with a railing of wrought iron, facing a long stretch of open lawn. Behind it lay cultivated fields, now brown, with the remains of the harvest left on them, and beyond those a dark wall of forest. She nodded. That was her goal. If she could get to the trees, she could hide. She looked down, careful not to show too much of her head. She was on the third floor. Too high to jump. It wouldn’t be a fatal fall, but she’d certainly break a leg or ankle, or even a couple of each. There were a lot of people below, standing guard, working, or going in and out of the building. It didn’t seem possible to get across the lawn and the fields without being seen.

  No matter. Terry would rescue her. He would come out of the forest on a charging stallion, his armor gleaming, his sword held high. He would sweep away any opposition, take her in his arms, and carry her to safety. He might even have a white horse. They were very popular with guys in the knighthood game.

  She told herself that she wasn’t just indulging in a schoolgirl fantasy. She was a damsel in distress. Terry was a knight. He did this sort of thing all the time. Except for weekends. He liked to take those off, but he’d probably make an exception for her. Right this very minute he could be on his way to rescue her. He knew she was in Bornewald. He’d find Baron Wayless. He’d find her. She was sure of it. All she had to do was get down to him.

  She stepped back inside and pulled the doors closed, bunching up the curtains to block the broken panes. From the corner she retrieved a cup of tea, which she sipped while eyeing the curtains and tapping her foot thoughtfully. No, they wouldn’t do. Too thin, too sheer. Not strong enough.

  That left the tablecloth. She set her tea aside while she examined it. It wasn’t large, a square piece of natural cream linen with a Colmcille knotted pattern. While it was thicker than the curtains, it still wasn’t particularly strong. But she decided that three strips braided together ought to make a rope that could hold her weight. She could then tie the braided pieces together. Although braiding would make the pieces shorter, she estimated she could get twelve feet of rope. Allowing a foot to tie off to the balcony, and if she climbed down and hung from her fingertips, she would drop—hmm—about ten feet. Yes, ten feet should be safe enough, even on hard ground.

  She opened her knitting bag, extracted a pair of embroidery scissors, and got to work cutting the tablecloth into strips. This took quite a while, as the tiny scissors were not made for this job. After that the braiding went fairly quickly, but she had no idea how much time had passed. There was no clock in the room, and the sky had clouded up, concealing the sun. I have to hurry, she thought. Terry will be here soon. She didn’t know how he would find her, but she was certain he would. Perhaps he would even find the trail of lace that she had left. In the back of her mind, doubts about this tried to surface. She ruthlessly pushed them back down. Of course he’d rescue her.

  She finished the rope about the same time she finished the sandwiches and tea. She tested it by tying one end to the hall door handle and leaning back on it with all her strength. Satisfied that it would hold her weight, she untied it from the hall door, eased the balcony doors open, crept outside, tied off one end of the makeshift rope to the iron railing, and sneaked a look over the top. And there he was.

  Yes! She congratulated herself. Did she have perfect timing or what? She stood up and waved her arms. Terry was streaking across the brown fields on a fast horse, sword held back and low, his other hand wrapped in the reins and guiding the horse carefully. He came to an irrigation ditch and jumped it smoothly, without even jerking his sword, and then came to a low stone wall separating the fields from the lawn and jumped that. A hole opened up in the clouds, long enough to briefly bathe him in sunlight. Gloria thought he had never looked so dashing. She made a mental note that when she got home she would commission an artist to paint this scene.

  By now Terry had attracted the attention of Count Bussard’s small force of guards, who were riding out in a jagged line. Terry swept his sword forward as the first one met him, and the wind carried the clashing of swords to Gloria. She was a little surprised to hear that the swords actually rang when they clashed, not musically like church bells but a clanging sound like cowbells. The blow unseated the guard from his horse, tumbling him off onto the damp grass. Terry didn’t slow down. He parried a blow from another guard and rode right through the line, straight for the castle. The guards turned their horses around and followed him.

  Gloria waved her arms some more. “Terry! I’m over here!” He apparently didn’t see her. He reached the castle doors, where more men on foot were running out with staves and pikes. Terry rode past and slashed the air in front of them. They drew back. The horsemen behind him closed in. The knight turned his steed parallel to the castle walls and rode directly under Gloria’s balcony. She could look right down at him. Her homemade rope nearly brushed his head. He still didn’t see her. “Terry! Up here!” Her words were drowned by the thunder of hooves from the pursuing guards. Terry rode around a corner of the castle, disappearing from her sight. The guards followed him. All was silent.

  Gloria ran inside and threw her weight on one set of white chiffon curtains. The curtain rods tore out of the wall and came down on her. She carried the curtains onto the balcony, held the curtain rod at one end, and waved the cloth like a big white banner. But her grip wasn’t strong enough, and a sudden strong gust of wind took them away from her, blowing them across the lawn. “Damn.” She ran back and got the other set, holding them more tightly this time. The cloth billowed out from the walls of the castle, like a flag indicating surrender or a really big sale on wedding veils. Either way it was impossib
le to miss.

  But he did miss it. The thunder of hooves announced that the riders were coming back around the other side of the castle. Terry appeared first, leaning low over his horse’s neck. His sword was in its sheath. The guards were in a tight pack now, close behind him and getting closer. Gloria hung over the railing and waved the banner frantically. “Over here, Terry!” But he didn’t even look up. To Gloria’s shock, he spurred his horse and turned it back toward the woods. A few minutes later he vanished into the maze of black trunks. The gray guards disappeared with him. Gloria was left with only the cold wind for company.

  She let the chiffon banner slip from her grasp. “He left me,” she said unbelievingly. “He ran away and left me.” For a long time she stood dully at the balcony rail, staring at the distant woods but not seeing them, her thoughts turned inward. She didn’t even notice the fluttering of wings over her head, or the black shadow that suddenly enveloped her.

  The manor was in turmoil, but it was organized turmoil. Scorn, in a remarkably short time, got his guards together, while also assembling a cadre of footmen and stableboys to get them armed, armored, and mounted. Muchluck was standing at a first-floor window, watching them ride out with an ornate brass spyglass, when Bussard hurried past. “You two!” the Count said, stopping and pointing a finger. “What are you standing around here for? Don’t you realize we’re under attack! Scorn said he wanted every man out there!”

  Thursby shifted his feet uncertainly. He looked to Muchluck for guidance. Muchluck spoke without taking his eye from the spyglass. “Yes, Sire. The lieutenant gave us his orders.”

  “Then why are you standing—where did you get that spyglass?”

  “From your desk, Sire.”

  “Give that to me!” Bussard snatched it out of his grip.

  “We’re not under attack, Sire,” Muchluck continued. “One man is not an attack. It’s that same knight who was at the Baron’s manor.”

  “A knight? A knight of the realm! My God, one of the king’s men?” Bussard fumbled with the spyglass, trying to capture the action outside.

  “They hire themselves out for private work, Sire,” explained Thursby. “We think that’s what happened here. We can’t think of any reason why the king would send a knight to Bornewald. You keep it all nice and quiet.” He took Muchluck’s place at the window. “Huh. The Lieutenant is almost on him.”

  “Yes,” said Bussard. “I mean, no. I mean yes, there’s no reason why the king would be angry with me. None at all. He has no reason to send a knight. What’s he doing here?”

  “Diversion,” said Muchluck. “That guy is a pro. He isn’t really going to attack a building like this single-handedly. He’s trying to draw off our men while someone else sneaks in from the side. That’s why Thursby and I decided to stay back.”

  “He’s down!” said Thursby. “The Lieutenant is down!”

  “Injured?”

  “No.” Thursby said resignedly. “He’s getting up again.”

  “We’ll check all the doors. And, Sire? Tell the servants to latch and shutter the windows. That won’t keep anyone out for long, but we’ll hear them breaking in.”

  “There are already a couple of kids in here.”

  “What! I mean, I beg your pardon, Sire?”

  “Alison Wayless and her boyfriend. They showed up here only half an hour ago. After all that trouble we went through trying to grab her, she knocked on the front door.”

  Muchluck had already been moving toward the drawing room. He stopped dead. “Sire? You let the Baron’s daughter come inside? Then who is the girl that we brought to you this morning?”

  “No one! Just some girl who happened to be hanging about the Wayless manor. She’s nobody.”

  “But a nobody that the king sent a knight to protect.”

  “Nonsense! We don’t know that. It’s just a coincidence.”

  “And the Wayless girl, who hates you, shows up with some strange guy, and you let him in, too.”

  “I was trying to act normal.”

  Had Count Bussard not been of higher social class, Muchluck would have given him a withering look. Instead he tugged on his sword belt and asked, “Is the boyfriend armed?”

  “He has a court sword.”

  Muchluck turned and walked away so fast the Count had to run to keep up. “Thursby and I will take that away from him. While we’re doing that, Count Bussard, I suggest that you detain the girl.”

  “Agreed.” The Count reached the door to the drawing room. He paused while he allowed Thursby to open it for him. Before he could turn the knob, Muchluck put a hand on his shoulder and gently drew Thursby aside, then bent low and put his eye to the keyhole. Not seeing anything, he silently motioned for Thursby to pull the door open. With his sword drawn, Muchluck went in first. Thursby was right behind him. The Count followed them both. Roland and Alison were nowhere to be seen.

  The moment a charging, sword-waving knight appeared out of the woods, there was a great rush to the back of the house. The Count, the guards, and the servants sped to the doors and windows. There was a good deal of shouting orders, slamming doors, and stamping hooves, with plenty enough hustle and bustle to leave Roland and Alison alone and temporarily forgotten. It happened exactly as Terry planned it, something none of them had really expected. Roland had to remark on it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a plan work so well,” he said, looking around the empty drawing room. “It seemed so unlikely when he described it.”

  “The plan also called for us to find Gloria,” said Alison. “We’d better start looking. They’ll come back for us pretty quickly.”

  “Upstairs, then.”

  It was a mystery to Roland why Count Bussard, or anyone else for that matter, would require a 147-room house, especially as a good many of the rooms were to quarter the numerous servants required to maintain the other rooms. It proved to be quite impossible to search in any reasonable amount of time. They trotted up the grand staircase to the second floor, looked both ways, and arbitrarily chose to search the east wing first. Roland drew his sword. Alison dug the crossbow out of her shoulder bag. At first they crept along on tiptoe, stealthily trying doors. Rooms opened into other rooms. They also had to open large cupboards and wardrobes in case Gloria had been stashed inside. A good many doors were locked. After they searched a half dozen unlocked suites they gave up all attempts at stealthiness and simply flung doors open, glanced inside, and raced to the next one. Finally, Roland said, “This is taking too much time.” He found a bellpull and rang for a servant. “I suggest there is a simpler way.”

  It took less than a minute for a maid to appear, although to Alison it seemed an eternity. She was a very young woman who, judging from the looks she kept casting toward the windows, was much more interested in the spectacle outside than service upstairs. No doubt it was her lack of seniority that caused her to be sent to answer the bell when everyone else was watching the action. “Sir?” she said.

  “Pardon me, my dear girl,” said Roland. “Did you happen to notice if the Count has another guest staying with him? A young woman, medium height, fair-haired, well dressed, bound and gagged in a sack?”

  “No!” said the girl instantly. Her eyes went wide with fright. “I didn’t see her at all. Nobody noticed a thing! We were all busy elsewhere when they brought her in, so we don’t know anything about it. Especially me. I don’t know who she is or where she is and . . . and . . . that’s not real, is it?”

  “It certainly is,” said Roland. He had produced a gold coin and was rolling it between his fingers. “And it’s all for you, if you’ll just lead us to her.”

  The girl’s eyes fixed on the coin like a robin tracking a worm. Gold has that effect on some people. “I can’t, I can’t,” she whispered. “The Middle-Aged Man of the Mountains. We dare not anger him.”

  “He’ll never know about it.” Roland had no idea what she was talking about. “He’s out of town this week, attending a convention of sorcerers in Angostura.” He put the
coin in her hand. Her fingers automatically closed around it. “There you go. Just show me the way, then you can be off.”

  “Take us to her,” said Alison “Don’t waste our time.”

  Something about hearing the order from a woman in a designer dress seemed to reassure the girl. They were nearly at one end of the second floor of the house. She led them down the hall in the opposite direction from where they had been searching, to the west wing of the castle, where she opened a door to a short side corridor. At the far end was a stairwell. “She’s up there,” said the maid.

  “Ah, this the service stairs, correct?” said Roland, looking up the dim shaft. “I’d really prefer it if you could show us . . .”

  “Just go,” said Alison, giving him a little push. “I’ll stay here and guard the door.” She hefted the crossbow.

  “You don’t need me, miss,” said the girl. “Go up the stairs, and she’s in the room at the end of the hall on the left. I have to go.” She pushed past Alison and ran away, the gold coin clutched tightly in her fist.

  Alison looked after her until the maid turned a corner. She switched her view to the grand staircase in the center of the castle, where she saw shadows moving. She pulled her head back inside and closed the door. “Someone else is coming,” she whispered. “Quick, go.” Roland hurried up the service stairs. Alison pressed her ear to the closed door, listening for footsteps, hoping they would pass by. The thick door and carpeted floor prevented her from hearing anything—there are times when quality construction is a drawback. She looked for the keyhole, but this door did not have a lock. Nothing happened for several minutes. She reflected that there were a lot of rooms to search. It might be a while before they got to this one. The temptation to take a peek outside got the better of her. She put down the crossbow, pressed her eye to the crack in the door, and gently turned the knob. She was about to pull the door open a bit when she felt the knob move under her hand. Hastily she jumped back and scrabbled for the crossbow. She just got it into position when Count Bussard entered.