CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

 

Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is nothing.

—General Ichavian, famed military strategist

 

“What do we do now?” Chall asked as they watched the man’s departing form walk down the street.

Maeve sighed. “We’d best be getting back to the castle to check on Petran and Nigel. The historian is a good man, but he’s no warrior, and I fear what might happen should he be found harboring the guardsman.”

Chall nodded, frowning, and Maeve raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

The mage shook his head. “I just…I just wish there was some way we could help him, that’s all.”

“Who?” Maeve asked. “Cutter? Or Priest?”

“Either,” he said glumly. “Both.”

Maeve had known the mage for a long time, and while he complained often enough, and loudly enough, that anyone who had only just met him would surely think he was a grim man, she knew that nothing could be further from the truth. The man’s cynical, often abrasive exterior hid an optimistic side of him, and so it hurt her to see the look of abject grief on his face. She moved forward, taking his hand in hers. “We can help them, Chall. By looking after the guardsman. After all, depending on what Priest finds out, the man is our best chance of rooting out the conspiracy in the castle. Now, will you come with me?”

He gave a weary sigh then, finally, treated her to a small smile. “Of course I will.” He grunted. “For whatever good it’ll do.”

She smiled back. “More good than you could ever know, Chall.” There was a moment, then, when their eyes locked, and Maeve felt something stirring within her. The man was grossly overweight, it was true, and rude—almost as if he were participating in some sort of competition and, whatever that competition was, he was winning. But then, even when he had been Challadius the Charmer, it had never been his looks that had attracted her to him. They had meant no more than the rudeness, just dressing covering the man underneath, and it was that man for whom she cared so much.

“Listen, Chall,” she said softly, “I…” She hesitated then, surprised to find that she was afraid. As afraid as she could ever remember being, more afraid, even, than she had been when dealing with the assassins. She wasn’t sure what that said about her, that intimacy should scare her more than the threat of death ever could, but thought that probably it was nothing good.

“Yes, Mae?” he asked. Mae. She had always told him she hated that name and, certainly, it was true that she had hated it, at least when anyone else said it. But coming from him, there was something sweet about it, something…intimate.

So just tell him, part of her thought.

And then what? What interest would he have in someone like you, an old woman whose beauty is nothing more than a memory? And even if he was interested, what good would that do? Likely, you’ll both be dead within the week. Finally, she shook her head. “Later. For now, we’d best hurry.”

“You’re…you’re sure?” he asked, and in his gaze she thought she saw some understanding.

She hesitated for a moment again then cleared her throat. “I’m sure. Come on.”

 

***

 

The trip back to the castle was blessedly uneventful as the majority of those who had gathered to watch the prince’s procession had retired, either to their homes or, more likely, to one bar or another. What few people remained in the street laughed and joked as if they were at some sort of party, at least until some of them saw Maeve and Chall and frowned. It was no great surprise, she supposed, that the people who had hated the prince might also hate his companions. Still, Maeve paid their scowls no more attention than she did their laughs and smiles as she hurried to the castle.

In time, they reached the castle gate and the four guards stationed at it eyed them as they approached. “What do you want?” one demanded.

Maeve frowned. “I’m Lady Maeve, and this is Challadius. We have been lent rooms at the castle.”

If anything, the man’s openly hostile look grew worse instead of better. “Friends with that criminal, aren’t you? The one they exiled from the city not two hours gone?”

Maeve gritted her teeth. “That criminal is your rightful prince.”

“Not my prince,” the man said. “Now, how about the two of you turn around and march your asses back into the city bef—” He cut off as one of the other guards stepped forward and whispered something in his ear, his words too low for Maeve to make out.

Maeve glanced at Chall and saw a look of unpleasant surprise on his face to match her own. She had known things had gotten bad, but this didn’t seem like a good turn of events. If she couldn’t get into the castle, she wouldn’t be able to check on Petran. If that happened, it was only a matter of time before he and the recovering guardsman were found.

Finally, the guard finished listening to whatever his companion had been saying and turned back to her. “I apologize, Lady Maeve,” he said in a tone that would have been convincing had it not been for the anger shimmering in his eyes. “I spoke out of turn. I fear today has been a very difficult day for all of us.”

“Some more than others,” she said, “but there’s no harm done.”

The guard smiled at that but, once again, the expression came nowhere close to touching his eyes. “You and Challadius the mage may, of course, be granted entry to the castle, for I am told that you are also dear friends of King Matthias the Virtuous.”

Or at least we were, Maeve thought, but she nodded, returning the smile as the gates swung open. “Thank you,” she said.

The guards moved to either side, flanking them, and Maeve glanced at Chall before starting toward the gap between them. It was ridiculous, she knew, but Maeve found herself thinking that, the moment they were between the two groups, the guards would draw their swords and cut them down. Impossible, of course, for while there might be a conspiracy in the castle, there was a big difference between assassins sneaking into people’s rooms at night to kill them and four guardsmen committing murder in broad daylight where anyone in the city might witness it.

But ridiculous or not, the feeling did not abate, and she moved slowly between the men, tracking them as best she could out of her peripheral vision as she did, ready to draw her knives if her fears came to pass. Only a dozen paces, no more than that for her to be outside of arm’s reach of the guards, yet they were some of the longest steps of her life, and Maeve found that she was surprised when she was outside the range of their swords and she and Chall had not been attacked.

She glanced at Chall and by the look on the mage’s face, he was equally disturbed. “Come on” she said, “let’s get out of here.”

The mage didn’t seem inclined to argue, so she hurried into the castle. Once the door was closed behind them, Chall let out a breath. “You almost get the impression we’re not welcome?”

“I’d say so.”

The mage shook his head. “Thought sure they were going to poke us full of holes, see what came out.”

Maeve nodded, not trusting herself to do too much more just then. Her mouth was dry, and her forehead had broken out into sweat. “Let’s go find Petran,” she said quietly, “and best not say anything you wouldn’t want overheard until I tell you otherwise.”

Chall frowned at that. “What is it, Maeve? Think the castle has ears?”

“I know it has ears,” she countered. “I’m more concerned about what those ears might be listening to. Now come on.”

They started down the hallway at a fast walk, Maeve resisting the urge to run, wanting as she did to put as much distance between them and the guardsmen at the gate as she could. But then, that was the thing about castles—there were always more guards. They passed several on their way through the corridors, and while none moved to accost them, many of them studied her and the mage with hostile expressions.

It seemed that, in the space of hours, she and her companions had become the targets of hatred for nearly every person in the castle, including the serving men and women who watched them with expressions at least as hostile as the guards. At least, most of them. There were some guards and serving people who did not scowl at them as they passed as if they could think of nothing they’d rather do then attack them out of hand, tear them limb from limb. But those few gave her little comfort. In fact, they concerned her more, for while there might not have been open hostility in their eyes, there was something there, a sort of cunning thoughtfulness that she did not like as they marked her and the mage’s progress, as if they were plotting behind their bland expressions.

She didn’t need to ask Chall if he felt as tense as she, for she could practically feel the anxiety coming off the man in waves. It felt as if they walked through the heart of enemy territory instead of the castle of the kingdom they had spent their entire lives fighting to defend. Part of her thought that she was being silly, like a child waking from a nightmare only to see phantoms where there were none. The problem, though, was that she knew she wasn’t.

Things were bad in the castle, worse, somehow, than they’d been only hours ago, as if the departure of the two princes had left the guards to abandon even the pretense of accommodating kindness they had shown thus far.

While Maeve was thinking on this, part of her mind—the part that had been honed over years practicing her craft—became aware of something or, more particularly, someone. A serving person who seemed to be wherever they went. A middle-aged woman with no features or clothing to distinguish her from any of the other serving people they passed and one who seemed to try to hide her face every time Maeve looked. It seemed impossible that the woman should so easily be able to match their route without being obvious, but after a moment realized that she must be making use of the servant’s corridors that ran like veins through the castle.

The woman was good, blending into the surroundings and always managing to be turned the opposite direction when Maeve glanced, seemingly innocently, in her direction. But while she might have been good, Maeve had once been counted as the best assassin in the kingdom, and she didn’t get that title by missing things. While the woman’s appearance, her dull brown hair that seemed to be the province of every serving woman in the castle, and her clothes, might not have been contrived to avoid standing out, there were ways to be sure.

She made use of one such way now, reaching casually inside her tunic, surreptitiously to scratch an itch but, in actuality, she drew one of her blades from its sheath. Not much, just enough to expose the bared steel which she proceeded to use to prick her finger. A small cut, nothing dangerous certainly but enough to draw blood.

She continued walking, drawing the hand back out and curling the finger up so that the bloody nub would not be exposed. Then, when who she thought was the same woman showed up in their path once more, this time knelt on her hands and knees, scrubbing at the floor, Maeve pretended to slip. Not much of a slip but one that required her to reach out and catch herself on the woman’s back with one hand.

“Oh, fire and salt, excuse me,” Maeve said, “I tripped.”

“My fault of course, mistress,” the woman said, scurrying out of the way and never exposing her face as she did.

Maeve slowed no more than that, continuing on until they reached an intersection in the hallway then she turned right.

“Maeve,” Chall said curiously, “are you sure we’re going the right way? I thought you said—”

“Quiet,” she hissed in a whisper, smiling at a guard patrolling the hallway who watched her with obvious dislike. “I think we’re being followed.”

“Followed?” he asked in a return whisper. “Are you sure?”

He started to turn and Maeve caught him by the arm, gripping him hard and leaning in to hiss in his ear. “I swear by the gods, Chall, that if you turn and look, I will stab you this very instant.” The mage paled at that but nodded. “Now laugh,” she hissed.

“What?”

“Laugh as if I said something funny,” she whispered as they moved past two more guards standing at the entrance to a hallway, “do it now.”

Chall finally seemed to get the idea and he leaned back, laughing as he walked. Maeve winced at the obvious fakeness of it. For an illusionist, the man was a damned terrible actor. Still, she thought it might be good enough to fool the guardsmen at least, and the serving woman too, if she was somewhere nearby.

“What do we do?” he asked once they were past the guards.

“Well, first you stop looking around like you expect an army to be hiding behind every door to rush out and hack us down when we pass.”

“But…but they might, mightn’t they?” he asked breathlessly.

“Maybe,” she said, “but if they’re waiting on us and have dedicated that much time to it then I don’t see that seeing it coming will do us much good.”

“Fine, I’ll stop looking. Or I’ll try anyway. I’ve got to be honest, Maeve, I’ve never been cut out for this sort of thing. I know I hide it well, but I’m pretty much terrified just now.”

“You’re not hiding it all that well, Chall.”

He frowned. “You could have lied.”

“Yes,” she said as she led them down another castle hallway at random, “I could have.”

She continued on until she saw who she thought was the woman again—it didn’t take long. This time she wasn’t in the hallway itself but standing in an open doorway, a duster in her hand as she set about—or at least appeared to set about—the task of dusting out the cobwebs in the door-jamb.

Her back was to them, as Maeve had known it would be, and so it was easy to spot the small drop of blood, tiny enough that it might go unnoticed by most, but not if you were looking for it, and Maeve was.

Maeve waited until they were past the woman then took a corner, glancing around to make sure they were out of sight of anyone before stopping. She counted slowly to three, giving it a moment, then nodded. All too aware that the timing had to be perfect, she hooked her arm in Chall’s, and began moving back in the direction they’d come. “Follow my lead,” she whispered.

“Sure,” the mage mumbled, “why not? Seems I’ve been doing it all my li—”

“Quiet,” Maeve hissed.

She slowed down then, as if they were out for no more than a leisurely stroll, and she glanced at the guards a short distance ahead out of the corner of her eye. Now was the time. “Challadius,” she said, loudly enough that the guards could hear as she turned to look at the mage, “there was something I wanted to speak to you about. Something I’ve wanted to speak to you about for a long time actually.”

The mage winced at how loud she was speaking. “Whatever it is, Mae, can’t it wait?” he asked in a hushed whisper. “This doesn’t seem like the best time.”

They drew in front of the guards then, and she stopped, turning and putting her hands on either of the mage’s arms. “It has waited, Chall,” she said, softly but not so softly that the guards could not hear. “For fifteen years and more it has waited, I have waited, and I will wait no longer.”

The mage seemed to pale at that, though whether it was the fact that they had drawn the attention of both guards as well as a castle servant, a man who was currently cleaning one of the paintings hung on the wall, or from her words, there was no knowing.

“A-are you sure?” he said. “I mean, maybe there’s a better time to—”

“No, Chall,” she said. “There is no better time. We always think we have all the time in the world, always think that we might do the thing we want to do, the thing we need to do, tomorrow, but that’s the thing about tomorrow’s, isn’t it? They’re never promised. This is the time, Chall. The only time.”

She focused on her words, on making eye contact with him, on loving him. It was not hard. Not hard at all. “I love you, Chall,” she said softly but, again, loud enough that the guards, only feet away now, might overhear. “I think that, perhaps, I have always loved you.”

The mage froze, his face paling, his mouth opening and closing. “Maeve,” he said finally, his voice a dry croak, “I don’t know, I mean, what to say—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she interrupted, pulling him closer, running her hand through his hair. “I love you, Chall. And I want you. Oh yes,” she said at his shocked expression, “I am not so old that I do not still want, do not still feel. And what I feel, what I want, Chall, is you.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded, and Maeve hoped, prayed, that he would catch on, that he would say the right thing. And as she waited for the flustered mage to manage some words, she realized that the anxiety that she felt, anxiety she didn’t remember feeling since her husband, many years ago, had first began courting her, wasn’t only due to the plan she had in mind.

“Maeve,” he said, licking his lips nervously, his face as pale as if he faced some great army. “I…I love you too. I…I want you too.”

“Do you?” she asked breathless, telling herself that it was only the acting which made her heart begin to hammer in her chest. Telling herself that but not really believing it. “Then take me.” She held her arms out to either side, and the mage blinked.

“Um…take you?” he asked, glancing around the hallway. “That is…here?”

She laughed then, and even she could not tell whether that breathless laughter was part of the act or a thing all its own. “We’re in a castle, Chall. I think we might find somewhere more…more appropriate, don’t you?”

He cleared his throat. “You mean…like…like an empty store room, maybe, or—”

“Or a bedroom,” she said. “Come—I have waited long enough. I will wait no longer.” Then she hooked his arm in hers again and began leading him down the hall, backtracking down the path they had taken. They walked past the guards, her practically dragging the dumbfounded mage behind her. Maeve noted the guards watching them just as she noted that the castle servant had left off his task and was now staring, wide-eyed at them. She felt her face flush with heat, but she pressed on, turning a corner.

She could not hope to know the servant’s corridors as well as the woman following them. After all, there was no telling how many months, how many years the woman had worked at the castle, using them every day, but she thought maybe that was okay. After all, she might not know all the secret corridors used by the servants, but those corridors were not the only secrets the castle held.

She continued on, pulling the mage beside her, trying to remember the location of the room she searched for. The problem, of course, was that she had not seen it for over fifteen years and even then only the once. Twice she thought she’d found it only to open the door and be disappointed.

“Maeve,” Chall said after she hissed in frustration closing the door to the second bedroom. “Maybe if you told me what we were looking for, I’d be able to—”

“A room, of course,” Maeve said, doing her best to hide her frustration as she backtracked. She knew that the room was somewhere on this side of the castle, knew that, given time enough, she would be able to find it. The problem, though, was that they didn’t have time. Any minute now, the woman following them would realize her mistake and would no doubt return to the guards to ask where she had gone.

Then it was only a matter of time before the woman found her way into their path again which was good—perfect, in fact, since Maeve wanted to be found, but needed to be found at the right time.

“I don’t mean to quibble, Mae,” Chall panted as he followed in her hurried footsteps, “but those last two looked a lot like bedrooms to me, and—”

“Not just any room,” she snapped, “a particular one.”

“Like…like a special room?”

“Exactly,” she said.

She was just beginning to despair that she would ever find it when suddenly she caught sight of another door and hurried to it. “This is it,” she said, staring at the door, a grin spreading on her face.

“It is?” Chall asked, curiously. “Very well, I’ll—” She slapped his hand that had been reaching for the door handle.

“Not yet,” she said.

“Ow,” he said. “Not…not yet? What do you—”

“Just wait,” Maeve said, turning to him. “Put your arms around me.”

He blinked. “Um…yes, ma’am,” he said, then did as she requested.

They stood there for several seconds, Maeve looking at him, but not really looking at him. Instead, she was waiting, listening.

“So…” he began uncertainly, “do um…should I kiss you or—”

“Not yet.”

“Ah. Right.”

As they waited, standing in each other’s arms, Maeve thought of how many chances she was taking. She thought this was the room, but then it had been fifteen years. What if she were wrong? Worse, what if the serving girl didn’t manage to find them soon? Each moment they spent here was one where Petran was left alone with the guardsman, and if the conspirators were checking each castle room—something she was confident they would do, for they would know the importance of silencing the guardsman—then it was only a matter of time before they found them.

“Maeve, this is a bit strange, isn’t it?” he asked. “Just standing here, I mean—”

“Do you trust me, Chall?” she asked.

“Of course,” he responded, and she was surprised by how gratified she was at his fast response.

“Good,” she said, and she did not have to fake the smile that came to her face. “Then wait.”

No sooner had she gotten the words out than she heard the soft, almost imperceptible sounds of footsteps from somewhere down the hall, coming from the direction they had traveled moments ago.

She waited until she judged that the woman—if indeed it was the woman—would be coming down the hall, then she met Chall’s eyes. “Kiss me.”

He blinked. “Here? Weren’t we going to go in the room or—”

“Kiss me, damn you,” she hissed, and he did.

It was a good kiss, better than she had expected, likely due to all the practice the man’d had, and for a brief moment Maeve forgot what she was doing. Forgot everything except the kiss, except the feel of him against her. Chall. A pain in her ass, yes, but a man who she knew was honest and, though he tried to hide it, kind. A man who worried more than he let on and one who would do anything for anyone—even if he did bitch the entire time.

She felt a wild storm of emotions rise in her, a mixture of nervousness and excitement, and, for a moment, she was no longer an old woman with her best years behind her. Neither was she Maeve the Marvelous, the feared assassin, beautiful and terrible all at once. Instead, the kiss transported her to another time, another her, one who was only just a woman grown, and the excitement she felt, in that moment, was the excitement that young woman had felt when she had first kissed the man who would become her husband.

Snap out of it, damn you, the old part of her scolded the young woman. You can kiss later—assuming you’re alive. Damned harder to do as a corpse.

She forced her eyes open then and caught sight of the serving woman at the end of the hall. The woman’s back was to them as she wiped at an imperceptible spot on the wall, but Maeve knew that she was marking each movement, each word. “Come on,” she said, pushing the door open. “Show me what I’ve been missing all these years.”

Then, still embracing, the two of them stumbled inside. She closed the door shut with her foot then paused a moment to lock it. Once that was done, she pulled away, moving to the other side of the room. “We’ll have to be quick,” she said over her shoulder as she scanned the room, wracking her memory. “Get ready.”

“Alright,” the mage agreed from behind her.

The room, like many of the castle rooms made for visiting guests, was well-appointed, with a silk coverlet on the bed, a divan in one corner, a desk in the other and a fireplace. Her eyes caught on the fireplace and Maeve grinned as she turned back to Chall. “It’s here, it—” She paused, her eyes going wide as her face heated. “What are you doing?”

The mage finished pulling off the second leg of his trousers, stumbling as he did and hissing a curse, just managing to catch himself on the door to avoid falling. “Y-you said get ready,” he said, left holding his shirt in one hand and his trousers in the other.

“Not that kind of ready,” she snapped. “Now hurry up and get your clothes back on.”

“This is all very strange,” he said, frowning, but he began to dress again.

Maeve watched him, unable to keep herself from it. He was overweight, sure, the gods knew the man could do with some exercise, but she wasn’t exactly a prize herself, and there was something thrilling about seeing him naked.

He frowned. “Ought to charge you for that,” he said once he was finished dressing.
She grinned. “Not much, surely?” Then she told herself to focus, turning back to the fireplace and feeling around the bricks with her hands.

“Maeve, I have to ask, what in the name of the gods are you doing?”

“Looking for the switch.”

“The…switch?”

She let out an exasperated sigh, turning back to the man. “Bernard brought me here to this room, years ago. You see, Bernard was not always as…reserved of a man as he is now—” she paused as Chall snorted—“and this room has a, well, a sort of secret passage to what were once his own chambers.”

Chall frowned. “Why would he have a secret passage from this room to his chambers? Unless—" He grinned. “Ah, I see.”

“Right,” Maeve said. “We just have to find the right brick, and the fireplace slides away, revealing the passage.” She frowned. “Assuming I’ve got the right room.”

“Wait a minute,” Chall said, “you mean to tell me you don’t even know if we’re in the right room?”

“It was more than fifteen years ago, alright?” she snapped. “I wasn’t exactly taking notes, so just help me look, damn you!”

“Alright, alright,” Chall said, moving to the other side of the fireplace and feeling around at the bricks.

Maeve went about her task then, after a moment, the mage paused, glancing at her. “Wait a minute, Maeve. You said that Cutter used this room for his liaisons, correct?”

“That’s right,” she said distractedly, running her hands along the bricks, searching for some imperfection.

“And…and you said he took you here…right?”

Maeve frowned at that, turning to look at the man. “Is this really the time for this conversation, Chall? In case you’ve forgotten, the kingdom’s nearly overrun with Fey and those working with them. We’re being followed in the castle, and poor Petran is watching over Nigel by himself, the man who is our best—perhaps our only-—chance at figuring out what’s happening and stopping it before it’s too late.”

“Right, no, I get all that,” the mage said, fidgeting. “I just meant…I mean, why did the prince show you this room? That is, unless—”

“Is that what you think of me then, Chall?” she demanded. “Just some…some whore out to bed a prince?”

Chall winced. “I mean, no, but…well, he was sort of known for that kind of thing back then and—”

“You’re one to talk!” she snapped. “How many farmer’s daughters, Chall? How many farmer’s wives? Or are you even able to count that high?”

“Hey, I can count,” he said defensively.

Maeve let out an angry hiss. “Just look for the damned switch.” A moment later, she felt it, a slight give to one of the bricks. She grinned, pressing it, and Chall let out a satisfying squawk of surprise, stumbling backward as the entire fireplace began to shift almost soundlessly to the side.

“It’s…really quiet,” the mage said.

“Yeah, well,” Maeve said, “I think that was sort of the point. Now, come on—if we hurry maybe we can reach Petran before they do.”

The mage didn’t bother asking who “they” were, as there was really no need. “Oh, one more thing,” Maeve said. She moved to the bed, pushing on the headboard a few times to make it strike the wall then let out a moan. She gave a nod. “That ought to do it.” She turned back to see Chall watching her. “What?”

“N-nothing,” he said. “Just…um…are we ready?”

She rolled her eyes. “Men. It’s like you only think about the one thing. It’s a wonder anything gets done and you all don’t just spend your days lying around in bed with one woman or the other.”

Chall cleared his throat. “Well, I mean, if given a choice—”

“Come on,” Maeve interrupted, and then stepped into the tunnel. There were no torches on the walls here, for even the servants were not privy to this tunnel—it would have largely defeated the purpose if they had been—and so the tunnel itself was nearly pitch black. When Maeve hit the switch on the wall which made the fireplace slide back into place, there was no light at all.

“Stones and starlight but it’s dark,” Chall said.

Maeve thought that was probably just as well, for she was thinking about Chall again, about the kiss, about him naked, and the bed which had looked so damned inviting, and she knew that she was blushing. “This way,” she said, starting forward, her hands out before her like a blind woman which, just then, she might as well have been.

“Which way?” Chall said, his voice sounding slightly breathless and afraid in the dark. “I don’t know if you know this or not, Maeve, but it’s as black as a tomb in here.”

“Sure, but with less corpses, one hopes,” she countered. “Here, just give me your hand.”

She heard some fumbling and, in a moment, the mage’s hand interlocked with hers. It felt natural there, right, but Maeve forced herself to keep her mind on the task at hand, inching forward through the darkness, one hand out in front while the mage latched onto the other with a death grip.

She heard water dripping somewhere, and the only other sound was the ragged breaths of the mage. “What’s the matter, Chall?” she asked, “you scared of the dark?” But the truth was that she was not so comfortable with it herself. There was darkness, like that of the night where the only light came from a pale moon, and then there was that through which they now walked, a darkness as different from the other as day was from it, for here there was not even the faintest trace of light to silhouette the walls and tunnel around her. It was a pervasive, all-encompassing darkness, and after only a few minutes traveling she regretted her quip about the corpses. It had seemed funny at the time, but it did not now—she doubted anything would have.

Men thought themselves civilized, thought themselves progressed, but as she and the mage made their slow, shuffling way through that darkness, she thought that it was no more than a sham. Only take away the lights, the torches and lanterns, and they were but beasts, hissing and snarling at any sound they couldn’t immediately identify.

“Gods, how long is this damned tunnel?” Chall moaned from behind her, and this time Maeve did not make a joke.

“Too long,” she said, and that, at least, was the truth. She was glad, though, that Chall was with her, for she thought that walking these corridors alone would have driven her mad.

Gritting her teeth, she forced her way onward, then paused as she felt a slight stirring of air in the suffocating tunnels. She frowned, feeling around her only to realize that the walls were gone. “Shit,” she said.

“What?” Chall asked in a panicked voice. “What is it? Rats? Fire and salt, Maeve, if I feel a rat I think I’ll go ma—”

“It’s not a rat,” she said quickly. “We’re at an intersection.”

“Well. Which way do we go?”

“How in the shit should I know?” she snapped.

“You’re the one that came down here!” Chall said. “You and the prince. Or did you not get past the damned bed to—”

“I never went into the tunnels,” she snapped back. “Now shut up for a minute, let me think.”

“Too busy being in the bed,” he muttered, but Maeve ignored him. Let the mage think what he would—if they made it out of here, she would correct him. Likely with her fists. For now, though, there were more important things to worry about. She forced herself to even her breathing, bringing up a mental map of the castle. She hadn’t been here in a long time, save the last week, but there had been a time when she’d walked the corridors nearly every day.

Finally, she nodded. “This way,” she said, turning down the right-branching path.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure, I’m sure,” she said. Or at least as sure as I’m going to be. If she was right, the path would bring them closer to the room where the historian and the guardsman sheltered. If she was wrong…well. Better not to think of it, not with the darkness so close, seeming to press in all around her.

She didn’t know how long they spent in those tunnels, in that darkness, for there was no way to mark time save the slowly rising fear—not panic, not yet, but getting closer to it—that grew in her as they walked. Ridiculous, she scolded herself, the Known Land’s most famous assassin scared of a little darkness. But then, that was the problem, wasn’t it? It wasn’t a little darkness. It was all darkness, everything, everywhere, nothing but darkness.

Her outstretched fingers brushed against something cold and slimy and she let out a hiss of surprised fear.

“What?” Chall moaned, his grip on her hand tightening further until it felt as if the bones were being ground into dust. “It’s rats, isn’t it? I knew it—gods be good, Maeve, I can’t—”

“It’s not rats!” she said, her fear making the words angrier than she’d intended. “Just…just hold on a minute,” she said, softer this time.

She reached out again, tentatively, sure that she had touched a snake or wet rat or…or maybe a corpse. Holding her breath, she extended her arm further and then there it was again. Not a rat or a snake at all, and, thank the gods, not a corpse. No, it was only a wall, and that cold wetness she had felt was no more than moss which had grown on its untended surface.

“What is it?” the mage whimpered.

“A…a door, I think,” she said. “Feel around for a latch. There’s got to be one somewhere.”

“O-okay,” Chall said, and Maeve thought he sounded a little better than he had, no doubt thrilled at the prospect—as she was—of getting out of the damned tunnel.

“Hey, I found something,” Chall said a moment later.

“Well, hit it for the gods’ sake!” she snapped, struggling to keep her rising fear under control.

The mage did and suddenly there was a rumbling, grinding sound as the wall in front of them slid away. Light, blessed, wonderful light pushed the darkness away. Still holding hands, the two of them stumbled forward, into that warm glow, something that would have been considerably more gratifying had Chall not tripped—and the next thing Maeve knew, he was falling and, more distressing, taking her with him.

They struck the ground, rolling, and by the time they finished Maeve was lying on top of the mage who was blinking up at her, his face pale and waxy looking in the light of a lantern.

“Hi,” he said.

She grinned. “Hi yourself.” She climbed up, glancing around, and saw that they were in a store room and that what the mage had tripped over had been a bag of flour. A bag which had ripped and went a long way to explaining why they were both covered in white dust. Sighing, she offered him her hand.

He took it, and after a few seconds of hissing, grunted curses, they managed to get him to his feet. “Well,” Chall said, making a show of ineffectually dusting himself off. “Where are we?”

“Who cares?” Maeve said. “Just so long as we’re out of those tunnels. Still, if I’m remembering right, we ought to be somewhere close to Petran’s room.”

“And if you’re remembering wrong?”

She shrugged. “Then at least we’re out of the tunnels.” She stepped over the spilled bag of flour, moving toward the door at the other end of the room.

“Maeve?”

She turned back to him. “Yes?”

“What if…I mean, if you’re wrong, and they find us…”

She shrugged again. “Then I think Petran and the guardsman will have to worry about themselves. Still, we can’t hang around here all day, and I don’t much fancy going back in those tunnels. Do you?”

The mage shot a quick look back at the tunnel entrance as if he expected some great hand to reach out to pull them back in. “Gods no,” he said quickly, shuffling toward her, “better the headsman’s axe than that.”

“Careful what you wish for,” Maeve muttered, then she swung the door open. She eased out of it, glancing in both directions, the hand not gripping the door’s handle ready to go for one of her knives at the least provocation, but she was grateful to see that the hallway was empty. Grateful even further when she realized that she recognized it.

She turned back to the mage and grinned. “Petran’s close—this way.”

They hurried down the castle halls, seeing no one, and minutes later they were standing outside of Petran’s door. Maeve knocked softly.

“Wh-who is it?” came a voice from the other side, managing to sound both weary and terrified at once.

“It’s me, Petran.” Maeve hissed. “As a general rule, assassins don’t tend to knock. Now, let us in, will you?”

“Oh, thank the gods,” she heard the historian say from inside the room and moments later the door was swinging open. The man stared at their flour-covered figures, his eyes wide. “What happened to the two of you?”

Maeve shared a look with Chall then shook her head. “Later, if there’s time.” She pushed her way inside, closing and locking the door.

Inside the room, she looked at the guardsman on the bed, still unconscious. Maeve frowned. “How is he?”

“Oh, he’s better,” Petran said, giving her a smile that looked more than a little forced before raising a trembling hand which held a glass of wine and taking a long drink. “H-he woke an hour or two ago. I told him where he was, all that had happened, and…well, he promptly fell back to sleep.”

Maeve frowned, looking at the man. “He needs a healer.”

The historian winced, nodding. “I considered that but…after our last conversation, I was afraid to tell anyone where we were. Lady Maeve did…did I do wrong?”

“No, Petran,” she said, “you were right to be cautious. Things are bad—worse than I would have thought.”

The historian let out a heavy sigh at that, nodding. “Well…that, that’s good. About me being right, not the things being bad, I mean…I must be honest with you, Lady Maeve, Challadius, I am not cut out for this heroing business, not at all.”

Maeve snorted. “None of us are. Still, we do what we have to, and you did good.”

The man smiled gratefully then walked to the table and began to refill his glass out of the decanter he’d used before, the contents of which, Maeve saw, were significantly diminished since the last time she’d been here.

“S-so, what do we do now?” Petran asked as he shakily poured the drink.

“We have to get out of here, as quick as we can,” Maeve said.

“This room?” the historian asked, wincing as he glanced at the desk, heavily-laden with papers. “I suppose, if you think it best, though the transporting of my papers might be—”

“Not this room,” Maeve interrupted, “the castle itself.”

“Ah,” the man said. “Is…do you think it’s really necessary?”

“No,” Chall said before Maeve could respond, “not necessary. Not so long, at least, as you don’t mind writing your next entry on executions.” He shrugged. “You’ll have some firsthand experience, after all, though I can’t say I know whether or not they have parchment and ink in the afterlife.”

The historian blinked, his face going pale, and Maeve shot the mage an angry look. The man was already frightened, and there was no reason to make it worse. “Is…is it really so bad as that?” the historian asked in a shaky voice.

“I’m afraid so,” Maeve said, still scowling at Chall who pointedly avoided her gaze. “The guards—and assassins too, no doubt—are scouring the castle searching for our unconscious friend. Maybe they just want to have a talk with him but somehow I doubt it, and I think it best if we’re not around to find out. Now, pack your things, quick as you can, we need to—”

“Hello?”

Maeve started at the unexpected, rasping voice, and they all turned to see that Guardsman Nigel had sat up in his bed and was staring around the room confused. And if anyone had a right to be confused, Maeve supposed it was him. After all, it wasn’t everyday that a person was poisoned and then woke up in a room they never remembered entering.

“You’re awake,” she said.

The man nodded. “I suppose so, Lady Maeve.”

“How do you feel?” she asked, hurrying to his bedside.

He gave her a small grin. “Well, I won’t lie to you, lady—I’ve felt better.”

Chall snorted. “Just be thankful you’re alive to bitch about it. Not every day a man gets poisoned and survives.”

The guardsman blinked. “Poisoned?”

“We’ll tell you about it later,” Maeve said. “Can you stand?”

She watched as the guardsman strained, working his way to his feet. She stood ready to catch him should she need it but, in the end, he managed it on his own, though he had to use the wall and bed for support more than she would have liked. “It…it seems so,” he panted.

“Good,” Maeve said. “If you can stand, you can walk. We’ve already wasted too much time—we need to get out of here. Now.”

“Oh, it’s too late for that, I’m afraid,” a new voice said. “Much too late.”

Maeve spun, drawing two knives from inside her tunic as she did, and saw that the newcomer was none other than the serving woman who had been following them. Not that she looked much like a meek serving woman now. She wore the same servants’ whites as she had, but her entire demeanor had changed. Gone was the nervous, scraping servant they had seen in the hallways.

The woman stood in the open doorway, leaning on the frame with one shoulder, her ankles crossed as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Maeve noted, too, that she had drawn no weapons.

“You,” Maeve said, unable to keep the shock from her voice.

The woman inclined her head. “Me.”

“What do you want?”

The woman gave a small shrug of her shoulders, smiling. “Well, to kill you all of course. So how about you make my job easier and put those knives down. I promise to make it quick.”

Maeve frowned, her anger eclipsing her surprise. “How did you find us?”

The woman sighed, rolling her eyes. “Come now, Maeve the Marvelous, I’m no fool—I know well enough when I’ve been marked. Anyway, I did enjoy your show in the hallway—quite nice. “But that’s the thing about men—when they think they’re going to get laid, they rarely pay attention to anything else. Certainly, they don’t look around them like they’re on their way to their execution…which of course, you were, but then you didn’t know that, did you?”

Maeve winced.

“Gods, Mae, I’m sorry,” Chall said.

“It’s not your fault, Chall,” she said, not daring to take her eyes off the woman.

“That’s true,” the woman said. “I would have found you anyway. Still, I did quite enjoy watching you fumbling around.”

“Who are you?” Maeve asked.

The woman shrugged. “Does it matter? Very well, as you’re about to die, I will tell you—my name is Felara Alderich, and I am the best assassin of the age.”

“Huh,” Chall said, doing his best to sound confident, but Maeve could hear the undercurrent of fear in his voice, “never heard of you.”

“Perhaps not, fat man,” the woman said, her eyes traveling to him for a moment before coming back to Maeve. “But that changes nothing. It’s no easy thing for an assassin to make her name. Still, I think single-handedly dispatching the famous Lady Maeve as well as the renowned Challadius the Charmer might go some way to rectifying that.”

“Single-handedly,” Maeve repeated. “You mean you came alone?”

“Of course,” the woman said.

“A mistake,” Maeve said. “There are four of us and only one of you.”

The woman grinned. “You are correct that someone is mistaken, dear Maeve, but it isn’t me.”

Maeve should have felt confident. After all, the woman was alone. But there was something about the way she stood so casually in the doorway, smiling as if she didn’t have a worry in the world, that gave her pause. “Others have tried and failed,” she said, forcing a confidence into her tone that she did not feel.

The assassin sneered. “You mean those fumbling idiots? I am as far above them as…well…as I am above you. Now, enough talk.” She stood then, drawing two knives of her own and stepped further into the room, away from the doorway.

Maeve glanced at the door, no longer barred by the woman, and Felara gave a soft laugh. “Oh yes, Lady Maeve. Escape, safety, lies just there. You need only deal with me, and you and your companions can flee the castle, none the wiser.”

“Maeve,” Chall said softly, and she saw that the mage had edged his way closer to her, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Maybe if we—”

“Relax, Chall,” she said quietly and with far more confidence than she felt. “She’s alone. As soon as it starts, you get Petran and Nigel out of here, understand?”

The mage blinked. “But…what about you?”

“I’ll be along directly,” Maeve said, still eyeing the woman who was waiting patiently as if she already knew the outcome of the approaching fight and was in no particular rush.

“But it’s not necessary, Mae,” he said, “I could use an illusion to—”

“No,” Maeve said. “There’s still a lot of ground to cover getting out of the castle. You need to save your strength to get Nigel and Petran to safety.”

“But, Mae, I don’t like this,” he said.

Neither do I, she thought, but she turned to him. “Be ready.”

Then she stepped away from the mage, walking the short distance across the room to stand a few feet in front of the assassin.

The woman smiled. “Done saying your goodbyes?”

Maeve glanced behind her at the others, still watching her, then motioned angrily toward the door before turning back to the woman. She said nothing. The time for talking was past. Instead, she only waited, flexing the stiff fingers gripping the handles of her knives and inwardly cursing old age which did not feel it sufficient to steal a woman’s beauty but thought to steal her grace and dexterity as well. Despite her assurances to Chall, she did not like her odds. The woman was confident, yes, that was part of it, but not all.

Maeve had seen a lot of killers in her time, and there was something in the way the woman stood, in her eyes, that told her that the woman before her was an experienced one. She could only hope that she might buy the others enough time to at least escape. Of course, the problem was that, when it came to duels between assassins, they were a far cry from duels between warriors. No heavy armor to blunt the blows and slow the action, not here. Here, a single, quick thrust or slash would finish it.

You don’t have to win, she told herself, you only have to not die too quickly.

Not exactly a comforting thought, and she tried again. You are Maeve the Marvelous, the greatest assassin in the Known Lands, feared by all. Parents once used your name to scare their children into behaving. You are not nothing.

“Ready?” the woman asked, her eyes flashing in anticipation.

Maeve chose not to respond, at least not with words, for a lifetime of painful, bloody experience had taught her that it was often the person who struck first who struck last. She lunged forward, calling on every ounce of strength and speed she possessed, aiming one of her daggers directly for the woman’s heart in a blow so swift that it was impossible to dodge.

Only, the woman did. She sidestepped the strike and swiped out with one of her knives in an almost casual gesture. Maeve hissed as she felt a line of pain trace down one side of her face, and her lunge became a stumble. She nearly struck the wall before regaining her balance and turning to eye the woman.

Felara was smiling again, though the truth was Maeve wasn’t sure the expression had ever left her face. “Oh my,” the woman said, “it seems that I have spoiled the looks of Maeve the Marvelous.” She shrugged. “At least what old age and infirmity have left of them, at least.”

Maeve brought the back of her hand to her face, checking it. A shallow cut, one that didn’t bear thinking upon save for the sharp pain it brought. A distraction, no more than that. She circled to the side, away from the door, hoping to at least open up an avenue through which the others might make their escape.

The woman’s smile widened as if she knew exactly what Maeve intended. “Are you ready for another go?” she asked.

Maeve wasn’t, would have chosen a nap instead or a nice hot bath, if she’d been given an option, but as so often was the case in a person’s life, being ready really had nothing to do with it. Growling, she moved forward again, not lunging this time, but coming at the woman in a flurry of steel, her two knives dancing in her hands as they came at her from every angle.

Yet despite her efforts, the woman moved like the wind, swaying and ducking around her blows with seeming ease, not countering but only enduring the assault without receiving so much as a bloody nick for Maeve’s efforts.

Maeve’s breath was rasping in her lungs but finally the woman did counter, her hand flashing out almost too fast to follow, like a serpent’s strike. Before Maeve had even fully realized that the blow had landed, she felt a line of white-hot pain up her arm, and she cried out, stumbling away.

The assassin didn’t pursue, choosing instead to stand and watch as Maeve hissed in pain, panted in weariness. This cut was also shallow, though not so shallow as the first, and blood leaked down Maeve’s arm, staining her tunic sleeve crimson. But that was not the worst of it. The worst was that her left arm, where the woman had struck, felt numb, so numb that she had to glance down to see that she had dropped one of her knives.

“Uh oh,” the assassin said. “Are you quite alright, Lady Maeve?”

“Fine,” Maeve growled.

The woman shook her head, a disapproving look on her face. “Honestly, I must say that I’m disappointed. I expected quite a bit more from the world’s most feared assassin.” She sighed again. “Oh well. You’ll forgive me if I wrap things up—other things to do, other people to kill, I’m sure you understand.”

The woman flowed forward like water, her blades flashing, and Maeve knew that she was outmatched. The woman would have likely been able to take her even at her best, and she was far from her best. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten any real sleep, and her muscles felt sluggish, awkward. Still, left with no other option, she held her lone blade in front of her and watched the woman come.

“Maeve!” a shout came, and before she managed to turn to look, a figure charged at the woman’s side.

The figure resolved itself into Challadius, but before the man’s tackle struck her, the assassin stepped away, spinning and lashing out with one foot that struck the mage in the face.

He cried out in pain and careened into the desk on which the historian’s neatly-stacked papers sat, sending them and the desk itself flying.

Felara hissed in disgust and anger and moved toward the fallen mage who lay on his back, groaning and blinking at the sky.

Maeve thought she had been scared before but watching the woman moving toward Chall, her bloody blades bared, sent a terror greater than she had ever experienced racing through her. “Leave him alone!” she screamed, starting forward, but the woman was already standing above the mage, and she knew that she would be too late.

“I’m…sorry, Mae,” the mage said, then the woman grinned and time seemed to slow as she brought her blade down into the mage’s stomach.

Chall screamed, and Maeve screamed with him, charging into the woman who managed to draw her blade again, fending off Maeve’s slash.

Maeve growled in fury. She had only one knife now to the assassin’s two blades, but she didn’t let that deter her as she came on, switching grips in her hand from one moment to the next, coming at her from all angles. The smile did leave the woman’s face then, as she frantically dodged and parried the blows, forced back toward the room’s window.

Maeve began to think that she might take her after all, when suddenly the woman growled and ducked, spinning. The next thing Maeve knew, she was lying on her back much as Chall had, staring up at the ceiling with little to no idea of how she’d got there.

“Better,” the woman said from above her, and Maeve was gratified to see that now, at least, she did seem to be breathing heavier. “But not good enough.” She raised her blade, but before she could bring it down there was a shout and Maeve and the woman both looked to see the guardsman, Nigel, charging the assassin, brandishing a chair.

The man attacked ferociously, shouting as he did, but it was obvious that his ordeal had stolen much of his strength. The woman dodged the ungainly blows easily until she finally planted a boot in his stomach, sending the guardsman, and his makeshift weapon flying backward to strike the bed.

In the brief moments that Nigel and the woman fought, Maeve had taken advantage of the assassin’s distraction, starting to her feet, but she had only managed to make it to her knees before the woman turned, placing her blade at her throat.

Her chest rose and fell with her labored breaths, but the assassin still managed a smile. “And so ends the life of Maeve the Marve—” But before she could finish a figure appeared behind her, bringing something down on the woman’s head with a loud crack, and the assassin let out a grunt, collapsing to the ground in front of Maeve.

Maeve looked up to see Petran standing above her, his face as pale as parchment, his eyes wide with terror. The man held the decanter—or at least the remnants of it—which went a long way toward explaining the powerful smell of alcohol and the shattered glass strewn on Maeve and the floor.

“Petran?” she said, surprised.

The historian winced as if he were a child caught acting out. “Sorry,” he said. “I was taught never to strike a woman but…well, she isn’t a very nice woman, is she?”

Maeve grunted, looking at the unconscious form. “No, no, she’s not. Now, help me to my feet.” The man did and a moment later, Maeve was standing on wobbly legs, her face and arm where the woman’s blades had scored her aching, but the worst pain was in the back of her head that had struck the floorboards when she fell. She meant to finish it then, to make sure that the woman would no longer be a threat, but Chall moaned in pain. “Shit,” she rasped.

She started to turn to Chall but hesitated, kicking the assassin’s blades away first. Then she hurried to the mage who lay on the floor gasping and groaning in obvious pain. Maeve fell to her knees beside him, trying not to pay too close attention to the blood staining his shirt where the woman’s blade had stabbed him. “Oh gods, Chall. How bad is it?”

“Not…good,” the mage hissed through clenched teeth. “That’s for sure.”

There was a breathy, bubbly rasp to his voice that Maeve did not like, and she lifted his shirt, examining the wound.

“Always dreamt…about…you undressing me,” Chall rasped. “Though…it was never…quite like…this.”

“Don’t talk, Chall,” Maeve said, struggling to keep her rising panic down as she tore a piece of her tunic and used the fabric to wipe the blood away. At least most of it—it was still coming. She turned toward the bed. “Nigel!”

The guardsman had only just managed to right himself, and he turned to her. “The sheets,” she said, “tear them into a long strip—we need to bandage the wound. Now.”

The guardsman nodded grimly, going about the task, and while Maeve knew he was moving as quickly as she could, knelt with her hands pressed to the wound, applying what pressure she could, she felt a rising panic.

“Maeve…” Chall said, “listen…if I’m to die, then…there’s something…you should know.”

“No, Chall,” she said, his face blurring as tears gathered in her eyes, and she gave her head an angry shake. “No, you’re not going to die. You’re too much of an asshole for that. Now, stop milking it and—”

“Maeve,” he said softly, so softly she could barely hear, and while a louder voice might not have made her stop, that one, so weak and frail, did. He gave her a small smile. “In case…well. I just want to tell you…I love you. Really.”

The tears came then. “I love you too, Chall.”

He grinned, opening his mouth to speak but the words, whatever they had been, turned into a cough, and when he was finished Maeve saw blood on his mouth. “Not…acting…this time?” he rasped, a small, bloody smile on his face.

Maeve forced herself to smile back. “Not acting,” she said.

“Well,” he said, closing his eyes. “Well, that’s fine then.”

“Stay with me, Chall,” she said desperately. “Where are the damned bandages?” she shouted, only to turn and see that Nigel had just walked up and was offering them to her.

Maeve took them, grunting and hissing and crying as she levered the mage up so that she could wrap the long fabric around him. Chall said nothing as she worked at least, that was, until she gave the makeshift bandage a hard yank, and he groaned.

“Lady Maeve—”

“Not now, Petran,” she said, working to tie the bandage.

“But, lady, I think—”

“What?” she snapped. “What is it?”

“I hear footsteps,” he said from the doorway. “And shouts. I think…I think the guards are coming.”

“Shit,” Maeve hissed, her mind racing as she finished tying off the bandage. The assassin might not have managed to kill them all—a close thing—but if they were still there when the guards arrived, at best, they could be expected to be put in the dungeons. At worst, they’d all find their necks perched on a headsman’s block before the day was through. Assuming the men could even be bothered and didn’t just cut them down here.

She wanted to stay with Chall who seemed to have fallen unconscious, to offer what comfort she could, but she knew that if they didn’t get out of here, now, they were all dead. So she rose. “You two, get him to his feet,” she growled.

“And you, Lady Maeve?”

“I mean to make sure this bitch doesn’t bother us anymo—” She cut off as she turned to where the woman had fallen only to see that she was now standing, her hands, at least, empty of any knife. The woman wobbled uncertainly as blood leaked down her face.

“We’re not finished yet,” she hissed.

“You’re damned right we’re not,” Maeve said, drawing a blade and starting toward her, but instead of responding in kind, the woman moved to the window, swinging it open and climbing into the ledge before turning back to Maeve with a smile. “Another time, Lady Maeve.”

Maeve gave a shout, charging toward her, but before she could reach her the woman did something almost incomprehensible to Maeve’s mind—she stepped out into the thin air and dropped.

Maeve charged toward the window, leaning out, and looking down to see that the woman had caught herself on another window outcropping a short distance below. The assassin grinned as she levered herself up. Maeve cursed, wanting, needing to follow her, but she knew that to try to track down the assassin would only mean her death—likely all of their deaths.

“She…she jumped,” Petran said. “Is she…?”

“Escaped,” Maeve hissed, and she turned to see that the two men had managed to lever the unconscious mage to his feet, each of them standing with one of his arms draped over their shoulders, huddled beneath the weight.

“Come on,” she said, leading them into the hall. She glanced down either side, expecting to see an army of guardsmen approaching, but so far none presented itself. Which wasn’t as much of a comfort as it might have been for Petran was right—she could hear them approaching. Any moment, they would round the corner and see her and the others, and with the burden of the unconscious mage, not to mention their collective exhaustion, there was no way they would be able to escape them.

“What do you want to do, lady?” the guardsman asked, grunting with the effort of holding up the mage.

Maeve shook her head angrily. “We’ll just have to hurry, hope we don’t run into any of them in the hallways. Now, come o—”

“Or we could take the servant’s corridors,” Petran offered.

“What?” Maeve asked, spinning on him so quickly that the man recoiled, nearly dropping the unconscious mage.

“Th-the servant’s tunnels,” the historian stammered. “I thought…if we wanted to avoid the guards, perhaps—”

“You know the tunnels?”

The historian’s chest puffed out slightly at that, and he raised his nose in the air. “Why, of course, as Historian to the Crown it is my duty to know such—”

“Show me,” Maeve snapped, and the man did, glancing around the halls then leading them to one statuette which, with a pull of the arm, made a panel in the wall slide aside and then they were stepping through. No sooner had the hidden door closed behind them then Maeve heard the sound of marching, booted feet, pass through the hallway where they’d been standing moments before.

They all stood still—except for Chall who hung unconscious—barely daring even to so much as breathe lest the guards hear them. Maeve stood with her finger held to her lips in the dimly lit tunnels, staring at the others, until the guards’ footsteps faded into the distance. She waited a little longer, to be sure, then gave a nod. “Okay, stay quiet. Petran, lead the way.”

“Of course, Lady Maeve,” the historian said, “only…lead it where?”

It was a good question, and Maeve took a moment to consider. They weren’t safe in the castle—that much was painfully obvious. More important, they needed a healer and quickly. She thought—hoped—that Chall’s wound wasn’t immediately fatal, but if he wasn’t seen to, and soon, there would be no doubt. True, they might try to hide in the city, but Cutter’s treatment as he was escorted from the city was still fresh in her mind, just as she remembered the scowls the people had given her as she and Chall had passed. No, counting on the benevolence of New Daltenia’s citizens was out of the questions. Besides which, even if they did venture into the city, where would they go? To some inn, only then to call on a healer and hope no one chose to tell the town guard about a man who looked as if he’d been thoroughly stabbed?

She found herself thinking of Emille and her husband Ned. The two had done much, had risked much for them already. Were she and the others to return to them once more, she knew that they would again be putting the couple’s lives at risk. A couple who had gone out of their way to help them. Yet, it was the only safe place in the city that she could think of. The two would be more than willing to help, had offered as much, but that would be little comfort if Maeve’s decision led to their deaths. Still, Chall was losing more blood by the minute and, in the end, there really was no choice.

Finally, she gave a heavy sigh. “I know a place.”