K M Frontain, page 7
“Fine by me,” he said, reasoning that this just meant the journey down would be shorter, if tighter.
“Just keep your head and you’ll be fine,” Kehfen said softly. “Listen before you go into the open. If you see no one in the room, open the window.” He took another rope from off his shoulder and fashioned a halter for Kehfrey’s small frame. “Look for the ward sign first, mind!” he added.
“I’m not—!”
“An idiot,” his father ended. He gave Kehfrey a quick peck on the cheek. “Remember; keep your head. I’m here to haul you up if you need it. Three sharp tugs. Don’t panic when you reach the damper.”
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“I remember. Stop fussing.”
The boy waved smoke from his face and endeavoured not to cough while his father wound the other end of the line around the chimney.
Once done, Kehfen fished inside his pocket, pulled out a vial and unstoppered it.
“Drink. And don’t choke on it no matter what,” he instructed.
“Is it bad?” Kehfrey said, taking the vial gingerly.
“It’s disgusting. But if you don’t swallow it all, the smoke will asphyxiate you and the fire will burn you next. Usually we get the boys to practice downing disgusting brews beforehand, but we hadn’t the time with you. Not much call for the potion in the summer months.”
Kehfrey grimaced. “What was that word? Ass-fix-ee what?”
“Asphyxiate. Drink, you bothersome brat. Grit your teeth no matter what.”
The boy pinched his nose and swallowed in one gulp. Despite his resolve, he almost vomited the noxious fluid back up. His father clamped a hand over his mouth and chin. Another hand shoved down on his head and locked his jaw shut. Thinking his father seemed very accustomed to the potion’s effect on younger thieves, Kehfrey gritted his teeth with a will. It wasn’t so bad. He’d smelled and tasted worse in the back alleys, worming his way into messes of which he didn’t dare tell his mother.
When it looked as if he would keep the concoction down, his father released his mouth and eyed him worriedly. “Well?” he demanded.
“Dee-licious!”
Kehfen grinned at him. “Right. Absolutely best tasting potion you’ll ever have.” He lifted him up and set him on the lip of the smaller chimney. “Down you go.”
Kehfrey slipped inside the hole and hung by his fingers alone when his over-anxious father decided last minute advice was necessary.
“Remember! Three tugs if you need help. Use the flare at the window when you’re down,” Kehfen whispered in a rush.
“I got it! Just let me work, gods bust it! What do you take me for?
Some sort of half baked baby that’s about to ooze out of this cruddy hole?”
He thought he saw his father grin, but it might have been a grimace.
Of a sudden, he noticed the smoke no longer interfered with his 51
breathing. He could smell it, but it didn’t make him want to cough.
Shrugging off his wonder over this mysterious effect, and ignoring the fear shivering in his guts where bread smells had earlier made him feel hollow, he braced his feet and shoulders against the sides of the chimney and crept down the dark cavity.
He spent the initial half-minute working his way downward in the pitch-blackness until he met the first obstruction. He' was expecting it.
He’d descended to the damper. This portion of the chimney had been designed to create the proper draft, a simple mechanical flap with a lever outside to adjust it.
Just beneath, firelight flickered. Oddly, he felt no heat whatsoever.
He was, in fact, feeling the coolest he’d been in days. As well, the fear in his guts had decided to settle. All in all, he was pretty damned comfortable for a boy on his first job, down in one of the narrower chimneys of a brooding manor scoured of its festive ivy.
Distractedly, he wondered who the figure in the other window on the opposite side had been. Possibly it had been this mysterious owner, but the shape had seemed small for a man, almost childlike. Mayhap the fellow had children?
He listened quietly before he forced the metal damper. Hearing nothing, he pressed the flap open with a foot. It creaked ominously and he paused to listen again. After a minute of perfect silence, he shoved at the metal further. The flap opened fully, dividing the flue in half. He sent his father two warning tugs. Then, careful not to make any noise, he worked himself around the narrowing.
The chimney immediately widened. He’d arrived at the smoke dome and could no longer use both sides of the structure to press against. His father supported his entire weight now, but that was no matter. He was too little to count for much, just a tad over three stones, hardly a bother for his father’s solid musculature. With nary a jerk, Kehfen lowered him down until he had found a small ledge at the lower throat of the dome.
Kehfrey perched on this small shelf, propped by one hand on the damper. The rope looped down past his shoulder and he gave his father a second set of warning tugs. His father pulled the slack until the line tautened.
Peering down at the fire, Kehfrey noted glowing coals with only one log freshly placed on the andiron. Flames leapt around the wood, but he felt no heat. He waited and listened for noises in the chamber. A minute 52
of caution followed. He tugged the rope once and his father lowered him down the remaining distance.
Heading straight for the burning log, he made a hasty shove against the slanting wall. He thumped down at the back of the hearth and stared out at the darkened room like an imp glaring from a hellhole, the pupils of his eyes having caught the light of the fire and turned him into a soot covered demon child.
A crackle and snap from the fresh log caught his attention. He began to recoil, but froze with his arm above the flames. The fire licked at his clothing and fingers, but his shabby garments did not burn, nor did his skin singe. He blinked at his sleeve. For a second, he’d seen a glow that wasn’t fire, a glow that lit upon his arm, green and extraordinary, but he’d blinked and the aura had vanished. The arm was once again an ordinary arm, but for the fact it should be roasting in the heat.
“Hells pop my eyes,” he murmured. He dismissed the conundrum and looked out at the room again.
Having been in near darkness up until then, the room seemed bright to him. It was a bedchamber, from the looks of it unused. Dust coverings made a mystery of many of the furnishings. For another long minute, he eyed the sheets suspiciously. His father tugged on the rope, signalling for attention. Kehfrey gave him one tug in answer. Everything was fine. He was inside.
He crept into the room, straightened and stared at the open door.
The hallway beyond was dark. One hand in his breeches pocket, he approached the doorway. He paused just before it, listening again. He heard nothing and crept further forward to peek out. A single wall mounted candelabrum lit one end, and this barely cast any light. He spotted no one in the corridor.
He was about to retreat, when he paused to stare at the candelabrum again. It didn’t hold candles. There were blown glass glow sticks in the sconces. Damn. The target had to be rich as all the heavens to afford such things. Kehfrey had only seen glow sticks through storefront windows in the past, and only in the shady times of the day, when the light of the sun wouldn’t destroy the biotic liquid in the interior of the glass tubes. But there were never any in the windows after dark when the shops had closed. The storekeepers always locked them up for the night, to deter thieves hoping for an easy pinch.
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Kehfrey stared at the wondrous objects for another pent second, and then pulled back into the room. He withdrew behind the door, where he dipped into his other pocket and pulled out a small bottle of oil with a glass pipette inside. Stoppering one end with his finger, he lifted the filled pipette and dropped the oil on every hinge he could reach.
He wasn’t tall enough for the last one and played with the idea of dragging a chair over, but decided against it. The chairs looked heavy beneath the cloths, and would certainly scrape on the floor were he to move any. He would just have to shut the door and hope it didn’t squeak.
He tucked the bottle away and shoved the wood with prudent slowness.
He was lucky, for the hinges were already well oiled, and the door closed softly. He discovered no key in the lock, so dug into his pocket again, this time for a wooden wedge that he lodged under the door. This measure wasn’t meant to keep anyone out for a protracted length of time, only long enough for him to get back up the chimney.
He at last went to the window. It was built of multiple panes, so well crafted that the firelight reflected off each surface and made perfect compound images of everything in the room, including him. He’d never seen such flawless glass before, only poorly blown, opaque, and warped panes that made everything beyond cloudy. And he’d thought the owners of these wonders wealthy. The man who owned this place was richer by far. Perfect glass panes and glow sticks. Rich man. Very rich man. Must eat pie every day, for breakfast, lunch and supper. And for snacks, too.
He stepped onto the ledge to look the casement over and quickly found the signs of warding placed by a priest. The marks decorated the wood near the latch, one on each side of the mullion dividing the window in twain. He stared suspiciously at the glyphs, for they didn’t look right to him. They seemed different than the holy marks he’d been shown whilst in training.
After a moment, he shrugged, thinking the symbols must change depending on who made them. He rubbed the chalk off with his finger and afterward worked at the latches. Both were stiff, but he managed to move one. He opened that side of the window and stepped down off the casement. He took a flare from his pocket, swiped the magic end across the ledge and watched it glow a faint green. Did it have inside it the same stuff as the glow sticks? He wasn’t certain. The colour wasn’t quite the same and also not as bright, and it came in a tube made of dried intestine.
Use once and toss; that’s what his father had said. It would burn your hands otherwise.
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He waved the flare before the window and thought he heard in response a muffled curse from below. He grinned. Hiswil didn’t like climbing.
His task accomplished, he tugged once on the rope, waited a few seconds and tugged once again. An answering set of jerks vibrated down the line not long after and then the rope went limp. Kehfrey returned to the chimney, tossed the fading flare in, and commenced to wind the rope into a coil. Interestingly, the hemp didn’t burn as he pulled it though the fire, and he figured it must share his magical protection so long as it touched his body.
His father arrived first, using the rope already attached to the roof.
Kehfen peered in cautiously and crept over the sill. He undid Kehfrey’s halter and set the coiled rope to the side of the window.
“Why didn’t the rope burn? Or my clothes?” Kehfrey whispered.
“It’s how the magic works.”
“Tells me shit, that does.”
“How should I cruddy know?”
“There was a glow.”
“Shut your gob, Kehfrey,” his father hissed. “Now’s not the time.”
Lips sealed in a thin line, Kehfrey looked away. There’d been a glow.
Likely it had been on the rope as well, but it was too late to check. His father mightn’t know, but it seemed to Kehfrey the magic had spilled from his pores and set a glow on everything he’d contacted.
Mur poked his head above the sill not long after and glowered at them both. “Why the damned upper floor?” he demanded.
“The lower floor is suspiciously dark,” Kehfen said, to which Mur nodded in concession. Kehfen helped him into the room. Olomo, then Hiswil, followed his ascent, leaving one man below to see after the prisoner they planned to lower down. Hiswil didn’t bother asking about the upper floor. He seemed to have already guessed why Kehfen had sent his son into it.
“I want Kehfrey out of the house now,” Kehfen said.
Kehfrey scowled, little liking the idea of deserting his father, but he saw Hiswil’s answering nod and resigned himself to the short exile. In any case, hiding in the bushes beat getting skewered by a crossbow bolt, didn’t it?
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The father jerked his head peremptorily, and the boy climbed out the window. Kehfrey crept down the wall, pausing once to the side of a window on the lower floor. For a moment he listened with his ear pressed to the stone, but heard nothing. As his father had stated, it was suspiciously dark inside the room. Cautious he did not reveal his silhouette to anyone who might be inside, he continued downward. He settled to the grass, immediately putting his hand into his pocket for reassurance. The stone was still there, cool and comforting. He turned about, looking for the fourth adult of their team. He blinked at the darkness. A massive surge of alarm filled his guts, for he saw no sign of the rear man.
He didn’t wait an instant. He snatched the rope and climbed. He arrived at the upper window within seconds. “Hi there!” he hissed.
The three men whirled toward him. Olomo stood at the fore, in front of the opened doorway. Kehfen rushed back to his son.
“What are you about?” he whispered. “Get back down!”
“Man below is gone!”
Kehfen hauled him in at once. Looking down after, he discovered the fourth member of their team had indeed vanished. He pulled back in and looked at Hiswil in shock. “Ofmen is missing!”
Hiswil waved him forward. “We find a room on the opposite side and get out now!”
With a quick glance to either end of the hall, Olomo rushed out and ducked into a room on the other side. Hiswil dashed after him. Kehfen looked carefully at both ends of the passage, and then pushed Kehfrey toward the opposite room and hurried after his son. Mur, cursing beneath his breath, delayed not at all and crossed on his heels. He’d had the foresight to fetch up Kehfrey’s discarded wooden wedge. He shut the door and shoved the wedge beneath.
“We’re bloody buggered,” he said. He dug into his pocket and worked the lock with a pick, for once trying to do the opposite of his standard practice. He was locking it. He succeeded and crept backward toward them.
Olomo had already opened the window. Hiswil set his grappling hook against the sill and tossed the rope down.
“It’s on the front side, but we have no choice,” he whispered. With his chunky body pasted to the wall, he risked a cautious look out. The 56
expansive driveway lay below, curving toward the entrance from the main gate, which was far to the fore of the mansion and nearly hidden by trees and shrubbery. The yard, fortunately, was not lit. Even so, Hiswil snarled a nasty expletive as he set himself over the sill and started down.
“You go next,” Olomo said to Kehfen. “I will watch the boy.”
Kehfen looked at him nervously and then nodded. He didn’t want Kehfrey going down to another surprise. He peeked out. Hiswil had almost reached the ground. Kehfen heaved himself over the edge and began the descent.
Mur shifted apprehensively behind Olomo, glancing at the door with baleful eyes, for he thought he had heard something. He stepped back, inadvertently shoving the dark man.
At that moment, the door burst inward. A strange flash of power sundered the panels and nearly blinded them. Wood fell from frame and hinges, and black-garbed men rushed into the room, a reek of sulphur arriving with them. A snapping noise sounded. Mur cried out. Seeming to have appeared there magically, a quarrel transfixed his throat. He gurgled and fell to the floor, choking to death. Olomo threw a dagger at the attacker. It hit the man in the chest and the victim slumped to the side. A second dagger toppled an enemy revealed behind.
“Out, Kehfrey!” Olomo ordered.
The little boy had apparently frozen in shock. Olomo threw a third dagger and put out an arm to shove the child toward the window, but Kehfrey thudded against the windowsill and slid down it. Only then did Olomo perceive the deathly stillness of the boy. A trail of blood traced the downward path of his body. A red blemish spread upon his chest.
The eyes stared sightlessly.
Hesitating no longer, Olomo dove out the window, grabbing the rope as he passed. He slammed against the outer wall. The impact forced a grunt from him, but he made no sound of pain sliding down, though he burned raw his hands from the rapid descent.
“Where’s Kehfrey?” Kehfen said when Olomo slid within earshot.
“Dead!” Olomo barked, thumping down beside him.
The boy’s father stared at him, white-faced, and then grabbed the rope, clearly intending to climb back up it. Olomo whacked him on the head with the haft of a dagger, heaved the limp body up and raced off 57
into the shadows. He found Hiswil at the large pond and shoved Kehfen’s unconscious body at him.
“Take him home. His boy is dead. Mur is dead.”
“He’s your friend!” Hiswil said. “You take him!”
“I go back,” Olomo said resolutely.
“What? What the hells for?”
“The men who attacked are my kind.”
“What?” Lerny said. “Dark-skinned men?”
“No. Assassins. Whoever the enemy is, he has bought men of my trade for this task. I must go to them.”
“And again, what the hells for?” Hiswil demanded.
“They are what my quest is about. I will find Ishpaäf now. The small, flame-haired thief has led the way as foretold.”
“Ishpif? Ishpof? What’s that?” Lerny said. “Here now, Hiswil! Let the great giant man go! I’m out of here! Poor Kehfen! His poor little boy!
Help me get the man on a horse!” He went to the unconscious thief and, with Hiswil’s help, placed Kehfen athwart a mount.
Hiswil cursed upon looking back. Olomo had disappeared. “Bloody buggering hells. We’re in for shit.”
“He won’t talk,” Lerny said. He clucked at the horse to set it in motion. “He’s never talked before.”
Hiswil emitted a noncommittal grunt. He tied the reins of the remaining horses, pommel to pommel, and took up the lead. It was still too dark to ride. Distressed over the deaths of Mur and the boy, he glared fearfully at the darkened patches beneath the trees.
