I suppose, Nicholas thought. He smelled a trap. Perhaps it would be best to spring it. They crossed the silent street and Nicholas said, "He didn't see us, but still he knew he was being followed."
"Yes, dammit," Reynard said. "Someone could have warned him, but the only time he was out of our sight was when he went up to his hotel room. I suppose he could have been warned through that mirror thing you found, but how would they know about us?"
"If it was a sorcerer-a real sorcerer and not a damn fool like Octave-he'd know." And only a real sorcerer could have created that mirror. Nicholas had deliberately staged the meeting at Lusaude's to keep Octave from having any time to plan or prepare or think, but someone hadn't needed time.
They reached the side alley and went down it, ignoring the mud and trash their boots disturbed. The door was a small one, set into a slight recess in the stone wall. It was almost too dark to see it, the distant street lamps providing little illumination in these depths. Nicholas touched the door lightly, with the back of his hand, but felt nothing. He did the same to the metal handle, again without effect. I wish Arisilde were here, he thought, and slowly tried the handle.
He exerted just enough pressure to find that it turned. He stopped and stepped back. "It's not locked," he told Reynard. "Fancy that."
"Oh, dear. The good doctor does have a gift for the obvious."
"But he set this trap under instructions from someone else. It's that person I worry about." Nicholas rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then felt in the various pockets of his suit and greatcoat, mentallyinventorying the various tools he had brought with him. Whoever had arranged this trap hadn't had much time; he knew it took hours, often days for the casting of the Great Spells, even if the sorcerer already knew the architecture he was trying to create. And that would be a terrible amount of work simply to eliminate us. Especially when they have other resources at their command.
He found what he was looking for, a small holiday candle, ideal for causing mass confusion in snatch robberies in crowded places. "Step back," he told Reynard. "And watch the door."
Nicholas took out a box of matches and lit the candle. It sparked in the dimness, lighting the alley around them, its white light casting stark shadows on the dark walls. Then he flung the door open and tossed it inside.
The candle sparked, sputtered and burst, emitting dozens of tiny flares that lit up a dingy foyer, floorboards thick with dust and spiderwebs depending from the mottled plasterboard. It also cast reflections into a dozen pairs of eyes, some crouched near the floor, some hanging from the ceiling or apparently perched halfway up the wall.
Nicholas heard Reynard swear under his breath. He heartily agreed that they had seen enough. He yanked the door closed, took out a short metal bar used for prying at reluctant locks and thrust it through the handle to wedge it against the wooden frame. It wouldn't last long, but they only needed a short head start.
As they reached the street Nicholas thought he heard the door burst open behind them and a frustrated snarl. That might have been his imagination. He knew the pairs of eyes, arrested by the brilliance of the sparking candle, had not.
The house was in an old carriage court called Lethe Square, off Erin Street across the river. It was only two stories and seemed on the verge of tumbling down. Surrounded by busy tenements with small shops crammed into the lower floors and right on the edge of a better district, it was an area where there were comings and goings at every hour of the night and the residents didn't pay much attention to new faces in the neighborhood.
The coach let Nicholas and Reynard off at the top of the alley, then headed for the stables at the end of the street. The infrequent gas lights turned the rising ground fog to yellow and cast odd shadows against the walls. There were other people in the street or passing through the alley to the courts beyond: tradesmen or day workers hurrying home, a few prostitutes and idlers, a group that was obviously down here to slum among the cabarets and brandy houses, despite their dress and attempts at aping the manners of the working class. Why don't they go to Riverside if they're so interested in seeing how the lower orders live, Nicholas thought, as he and Reynard hurried up the alley. I'm sure our neighbors across the river would love their company. . . . The answer of course was that this was a safe slum, filled with the working poor and those living in genteel poverty. Riverside was something else altogether.
They crossed the old carriage court, one side of which was occupied by a lively brandy house and the others by closed shops. Nicholas stopped at the stoop of the little house and knocked twice on the door.
After a moment it opened and Cusard stepped back to let them enter. "Any luck?" he asked.
"Yes and no," Nicholas answered, heading down the short hallway.
"Yes, we're still alive, and no, he didn't lead us anywhere useful," Reynard elaborated. "It was a trap."
Cusard swore under his breath as he locked the door behind him. "We've done a bit better. You won't believe what we been hearing from this poor bastard.""I'd better believe it, for his sake." Nicholas opened the parlor door.
Inside was a small room, lit by one flickering lamp on a battered deal table. There was one window, shuttered and boarded over on the outside. Madeline was here, leaning against the dingy wall with her arms folded, still in male dress. She met his eyes and smiled grimly.
Lamane stood near the door and Crack, who was cleaning his fingernails with a knife, near the prisoner. Octave's driver sat in a straight-backed chair, blindfolded, his hands bound behind the chair back.
Reynard pulled the door closed and Nicholas nodded to Madeline. She said, "Tell us again. Who killed the people we found at Valent House?" Her voice was low and husky. Nicholas would not have recognized it as hers, or even as female, if he hadn't known her. Sometimes he forgot how good an actress she really was.
"The doctor's friend." The driver's voice was hoarse from fear. Nicholas recognized it as the voice of the man who had driven Octave's coach last night, who had climbed down from the vehicle to search for him along the muddy riverbank.
"Why did he kill them?"
"For his magic."
Nicholas frowned at Madeline, who shook her head minutely, telling him to wait. The driver continued, "He needs it. It's how he does his spells."
Nothing we didn't already know, Nicholas thought. Arisilde's explanations had been more cogent.
"And who is this man?" Madeline asked.
"I told you, I don't know his name. I don't see him much. Before he showed up, it was just the doctor and us." Beyond the fear, the man sounded sulky, as if he resented the intrusion of the "doctor's friend." "Me and the two others, his servants, I told you about them. The doctor held the circles for money. We started in Duncanny and he used that gadget he has."
Nicholas pressed his lips together. The "gadget" must be Edouard's device. Madeline asked, "How did he get the gadget?"
"I don't know. He had it before I came into it. He paid us well. Then his friend showed up once we were in Vienne, and everything changed. He's a sorcerer and you have to do what he says. I didn't have nothing to do with killing anybody, that was all him, for his magic."
Magic which was necromancy of the very worst kind. Nicholas remembered the melting of the plaster and wood on the walls in that horrible room and Arisilde's opinion on it. He had been trying to decide what to do with the driver once the man had told them everything he knew of use. He was in that house.
He knew what was happening. These facts made the decision considerably easier.
"But Octave himself isn't a sorcerer," Madeline was saying.
"No, he just had that gadget. But his friend is. He knows things too. He told the doctor Donatien was after him, and it was the doctor's fault, for mixing into things he didn't understand."
"Where are Octave and his friend now?"
"I don't know."
Crack reacted for the first time, snorting derisively. The driver flinched and protested desperately, "I don't. I told you. We split up after they said we had to leave Valent House. I been with the doctor. He knows, but he didn't tell me."
Nicholas glanced at Crack who shrugged noncommittally. It's very likely the truth, Nicholas decided. It sounded as if Octave's former compatriots were being increasingly cut out of the scheme."What did he want in the cellars of Mondollot House?"
"I don't know," the driver said miserably, certain this further protestation of ignorance wouldn't be believed either. "I know he didn't find it. He told the doctor it must have been moved, when the Duke rebuilt the house."
That was why Octave had tried to arrange the circle with the Duchess. Octave's sorcerer must have entered the house first, to break the wards and allow the ghouls to breach the cellar and search it.
Somehow the creatures must have communicated to him that the search was unsuccessful, so Octave was sent to attempt to arrange the circle to speak to the old Duke of Mondollot. But something had been removed from the plinth in that room and not long before he and Crack had arrived. Did Octave's sorcerer friend have a rival for this prize, whatever it was? A rival who had also broken into Mondollot House that night? No, we would have seen signs of him.
A sudden noise startled him, a muffled report like a pistol shot in the next room. Nicholas was the only one who didn't reach spasmodically for a weapon in an inner coat pocket. Reynard was closest to the door and tore it open to reveal Cusard, standing unhurt in the center of the outer room, his own pistol drawn.
"Was that you?" Reynard demanded.
Confused, Cusard shook his head. "No, I think it was from outside."
Muffled cracks and bangs erupted from the direction of the street door. "Stay here and keep an eye on him," Nicholas told Madeline. She nodded and Crack handed her his extra pistol.
Reynard was already heading down the short hall to the outer door, Cusard behind him. There was another outside door in the disused pantry at the back of the house. Nicholas motioned for Lamane to cover it and stepped to the center of the parlor so he could see down the front hall. Crack moved up beside him. Vienne lived up to its unsettled past at frequent intervals, but gunfire in the streets was rare; this was more likely to be a trap arranged by Octave.
Reynard opened the spydoor and peered through it. Cusard, standing behind him, craned his neck to look over his shoulder. "Well?" Nicholas asked.
"A lot of people standing about and staring," Reynard muttered. He unbolted the door and stepped out, moving a few paces into the court.
Nicholas swallowed a curse at this incaution, but no shots rang out. He stepped into the archway.
Through the open door at the end of the dim hall he could see a few figures milling in the center of the court. "Hey there, did you hear that too?" someone called.
"Yes," Reynard answered. "Did it come from the street?"
Suddenly the floor moved under Nicholas's feet and he grabbed the wall for support. Reynard and the others standing in the court staggered. Nicholas felt splinters sink into his hand as the wood and plaster cracked from the stress of the shifting foundation. It was the most disturbing sensation he had ever experienced, as if something deep inside the earth had suddenly turned liquid. He thought of stories naturalists had brought back from Parscia and further places, of the earth moving and cracking; he thought of the spell Arisilde had made to hide valuables in the warehouse. Then the sounds came again and this time he heard them clearly. Not muffled shots, they were cracks. The heavy stones that paved the court, snapping like twigs under some pressure from below. The sound was coming from behind him now, from under the house.
Madeline, Nicholas thought. He turned, plunging across the moving floor toward the parlor. He made it two paces before the floorboards in front of him seemed to explode. He shielded his arms as wood splinters and clods of dirt flew upward.Sprawled only a few feet from the gaping hole in the floor, Nicholas felt cold air rush past. The single lamp winked out. The house was shaking, groaning as it shifted on the damaged foundation. Before he could try to stand, something massive shot up through the broken flooring and struck the ceiling.
Nicholas pushed himself away until his back struck the wall. All he could see of the thing was a dark shape against the light-colored walls, a deceptively large shadow in the dim light coming through the still-open door. He knew Crack had been standing near him, but he couldn't hear anyone else moving in the room.
y The thing shifted and the wooden floor cracked in protest. It's hunting for us, Nicholas thought.
Standing up in the small room would be suicidal. He edged along the wall, toward the archway that led into the entry way. If Crack was still here but unconscious, he would be near that narrow opening.
He didn't see the creature move but suddenly a more solid darkness loomed over him and Nicholas threw himself sideways, rolling away from it. He heard it slam into the boards just behind him, felt the tremor that travelled through what was left of the floor and upped his estimate of its size. He scrambled forward, knowing it would have him in the next instant. A door was suddenly flung open, throwing light across the wreck of the room. Nicholas fell against the side of the archway and looked back.
He caught only a glimpse of gray skin, knobby and rough like stone. It moved, turning away from him toward the light. A figure appeared in the door and fired three shots, loud as cannon blasts in the confined space, then the light went out again.
The thing flung itself against the door. That was Madeline firing at it, she's still in that room.
Nicholas staggered, grabbed a broken chair. He had to distract it to give her time to escape.
Someone caught hold of the back of his collar and flung him away, back toward the outer door. He was outside, staggering on the pavement in front of the house, before he saw that it was Crack.
People were screaming, running. Nicholas tore himself free and looked through the door. He ducked back immediately. Dirt clods and shards of stone were flying out of the interior of the house, striking the steps and the court. Crack caught his arm and tried to drag him away. "She's still in there!" Nicholas shouted, twisting his arm to free himself.
They both must have remembered the boarded-up window at the same moment and instead of fighting they were running for the corner of the little house, knocking into each other in their haste. Lighter on his feet, Nicholas reached it first and as he dug at the first board to rip it free he heard breaking glass from inside the room. She's alive, she's breaking in the window from inside, he thought, tearing down the board. Crack was helping, then Reynard was there, taller than both of them and able to get a better grip on the top boards, then Lamane caught up to them.
The last board came free and Madeline launched herself through the window and into Nicholas's arms, the last glass fragments tearing at her clothes. Over her shoulder as he pulled her free he saw the body of the driver, lying in the open doorway of the room. One of the walls was bowed inward and as the lamp flickered and went out Nicholas heard the crash of the ceiling coming down. Then they were all running down the alley toward the street.
Nicholas realized Cusard wasn't with them. He knew the old man had gotten out of the house. He had been right behind Reynard. He wondered if Cusard had panicked and left them; he would've thought Lamane would break before the old thief.
They came out of the alley into the street. The din from the carriage court was audible and people, a few tradesmen, a couple of puzzled prostitutes, were stopping and staring, though coach traffic was still moving. Others were standing in doorways or peering out windows. Nicholas saw Devis on the box of their cabriolet heading toward them, and behind the smaller vehicle Cusard driving his bulky wagon.
More relieved than he liked to admit, Nicholas thought, of course, he went to warn Devis we needed to make a quick escape.Nicholas pointed at the wagon and Lamane ran for it without further need of instruction. "What happened?" Reynard was asking Madeline.
"I cut the driver loose," she said. She had lost her hat and when she ran a hand through her disordered hair, forgetting for the moment her men's clothing, the dark curls tumbled down to her shoulders. "I wanted to give him a chance. It couldn't get in the door, but it started striking the wall and one of the beams hit him."
"Not here," Nicholas said, urgently. "Later."
The cabriolet drew even with them and they tumbled in.
Chapter Nine.
"I never got a good look at it," Madeline confessed. "Did you?"
"No, it was too dark." They were a good distance from the ill-fated court, almost to the river.
Reynard had told them how Crack had been thrown out the front door when the creature had first burst through the floor; the henchman had kept the others from running back down the passage, creeping slowly down it himself to retrieve Nicholas. And probably saved all our lives, Nicholas thought. If anyone had run into that room with a lamp, none of them would have had a chance. For someone who had been accused of killing several men in an unprovoked rage, Crack was awfully good at keeping his head in a crisis. It was too bad the judges at his trial hadn't bothered to discern that fact.
Once they had crossed the river, Nicholas tapped on the ceiling for Devis to stop. They drew rein in an unoccupied side street and he stepped out of the cabriolet to consult briefly with the coachman and to tell Cusard and Lamane to break off and return to the warehouse.
He climbed back into the little vehicle, noticing for the first time he had splinters in his hands from ripping at the board-covered window.
Madeline had heard his directions to Devis and now asked, "We're going to Arisilde?"
"Yes. We need to know how that thing found us." We need help, Nicholas thought. He settled back into the seat as the cab jolted forward. Cusard's wagon passed them, Lamane lifting one hand in a nervous salute as the cumbersome vehicle turned down a cross street. Nicholas had to assume everyone who had been in the house was now known to Octave's sorcerer; they had to keep moving until he could get Arisilde's protection for them.
"Is that worth it?" Reynard said. He had only met the sorcerer a few times in the past years and hadn't known Arisilde when he was at Lodun and at the height of his powers. "I mean, will it be of any use?"
"He was well enough today at Valent House when he destroyed one of Octave's ghouls. We'll just have to hope he hasn't succumbed since this afternoon," Nicholas said, but thought fond hope.
"You think that thing is going to try again?" Reynard asked, watching him.
"It's the safest assumption to make," Nicholas admitted.
Madeline glanced up from her contemplation of the dark street. "I think it's the only assumption to make."
No word of the disturbance across the river had reached the Street of Flowers and the Philosopher'sCross yet and all was as usual, colored lights lit over the market stalls and gay laughter and tinny music in the cool night air. Nicholas stepped down from the cab in the dark alley next to Arisilde's tenement and immediately felt something was out of place. He turned to help Madeline down and she gripped his arm, her dark eyes worried. "Something's wrong, can you feel it?" she asked.
He didn't want to answer her. He waited until Reynard had climbed out of the coach and then he started for the door.
The concierge was gone again. Nicholas took the rickety steps two and three t a time.
Arisilde's door was in the right place and he banged on it peremptorily. He glanced back as the others reached the landing.
He heard footsteps in the apartment, then the door opened to reveal Isham, Arisilde's Parscian servant. For an instant Nicholas felt a rush of relief, then he saw the man's face.
Isham had always seemed ageless, like a wall-carving on one of the temples of his country, but now he looked old. The dark skin of his face seemed to sag, showing the network of wrinkles as fine gray lines and his eyes were wretched.
Nicholas said, "What's happened?"
Isham motioned for him to follow and turned back down the little hall. Nicholas pushed past him, stopped at the door to the bedchamber.
The low-ceilinged windowless room smelled of a bizarre variety of incenses, the tiny dresser and cabinet were crammed with books and papers, the carpet dusty and the wide bed disordered. Arisilde lay on that bed, a colorfully patterned coverlet drawn up to his chest. It was almost as Nicholas had left him last night, accept that now Arisilde wasn't breathing.
Nicholas went to stand next to the bed. He touched Arisilde's hands, folded across the coverlet. The skin was still warm. This close he could see Arisilde was still breathing, but it was a slow, shallow respiration.
"I fear he will die soon," Isham said bitterly, in perfectly pronounced Rienish. Nicholas realized he had never heard the man speak before. "The drugs he took, they make the heart weak. I think it is only his great power that keeps him alive."
"When did it happen?" Madeline asked from the doorway.