She was still watching him when she heard a thump on the door of the shed.
Chapter Fourteen
Kilisha leaned close to the locked shed door and called, “Is anyone in there?”
Another thump sounded, but no one answered her. She knocked on the door and called again, “Is someone in there?”
A series of thumps was followed by what sounded like a high-pitched giggle.
“What’s going on in there?” she called. She glanced after Kelder, but he had apparently not heard anything; he was already at the corner, starting down the long, curving ramp into the shipyards.
Kilisha frowned, then leaned over and put her ear to the door.
Thump, thump, rattle, another giggle, and then a squeaky voice shrieked, “Fun!”
“Oh, no,” she breathed.
There was a spriggan in the shed. She looked quickly at her own shoulder, and was reassured to see Sprigganalin, as it called itself, still perched there, clutching a hank of her hair.
“Hai!” she said. “How did one of you get inside there?”
“Spriggan inside?” The spriggan blinked at her, and grinned broadly. “Oh, fun!”
“Not fun,” Kilisha said angrily. “I think the furniture is trying to stomp it to death.”
“Oh, stomping not as easy as you think! We go in and help?”
“The door’s locked,” Kilisha reminded it. “And besides, we don’t want to let the furniture out yet.”
“Not?”
“Not.”
“But-”
Something slammed heavily against the door, and Kilisha was certain she heard a high-pitched shriek.
“Oh, death,” she said, putting a hand on the door. It still felt solid, but she was sure something had rammed it, hard, from the other side.
It was probably the bench, she thought.
“Open door?” the spriggan on her shoulder asked.
“I told you, it’s locked,” Kilisha growled.
“We unlock it, have fun! Spriggans like fun.”
“We don’t have the blasted key,” Kilisha said, exasperated.
“Don’t need key,” the spriggan said, as it released her hair and scampered down her arm.
“What?” She stared down at it, frozen in astonishment.
“Don’t need key,” the spriggan repeated, as it wrapped its legs around her wrist and leaned down toward the lock.
“What are you doing?” she demanded-but she left her hand where it was. She couldn’t risk flinging the spriggan aside, and losing a bit of Ithanalin’s soul.
“Open lock!” the spriggan said, thrusting a long, thin forefinger into the keyhole.
Kilisha stared, and suddenly saw the solution to a mystery. Here was how spriggans kept getting into the house, no matter how careful she and Yara and Ithanalin were about closing shutters and locking doors. The spriggan’s fingernail was a natural lockpick, and the creatures apparently had an instinctive understanding of locks-or at least of how to open them.
The spriggan wiggled and twisted its finger, grimacing, its huge pointed ears flexing as it concentrated on its task-and then the lock clicked open.
“Blood and death,” Kilisha swore, still staring.
The spriggan paid no attention as it slid the latch aside and gently pushed the door open.
Something suddenly rammed the door from the inside again, and Kilisha started back as the heavy wooden slab slammed against the frame, then bounced open. The spriggan on her wrist clung harder and whooped with excitement.
“Hello?” Kilisha called, peering into the dark interior of the shed.
She was answered by the pounding of half a dozen wooden feet and the squeaking of not one, but several spriggans.
“Oh, no,” she said. She pushed the door open and stepped in.
The interior of the shed was dim and dusty, the only good light coming from the door behind her, but she could see well enough to make out immense coils of rope stacked to the ceiling along one side, and boxes and shelves of black ironmongery along the other.
Unfortunately, one stack of ropes had toppled over, and three boxes of ironmongery had broken open, their contents scattered across the floor.
The familiar straight chair from Ithanalin’s parlor stood in one far corner, tipped at an angle, two of its four legs braced against a coil of rope; it was rocking back and forth, plainly trying to dislodge a spriggan that clung, squealing, to its back.
And the heavy oaken bench was standing in the middle of the floor, quivering while four spriggans sat on it; the spriggans were grinning broadly. The bench had obviously been what had rammed the door, and Kilisha guessed it had been trying to knock the spriggans off.
“Ride! Ride!” one of the spriggans called happily, slapping the bench.
“Get off!” Kilisha shouted back. “It’s not your bench!”
The nearest spriggan looked up at her in wide-eyed surprise. “Not?” it asked, in an amazingly sincere tone.
“No, it’s not,” Kilisha said angrily, stepping forward and reaching for the spriggan.
The spriggan already clinging to her wrist squealed, and she stopped. She didn’t want to dislodge it; she really didn’t want to lose track of which spriggan was which. They all looked very much alike, and while she thought she could recognize the individual she wanted, she was not sure of it.
She reached out with her other hand, caught Sprigganalin, and tried to pry it loose, to return it to her shoulder.
Sprigganalin clung more tightly, keening at this abuse.
“Get back on my shoulder, damn you!” she shouted.
The keening stopped abruptly. “Shoulder?” it asked.
“Yes, my shoulder!” Kilisha said. “So I can use my hand!”
“Fun!” the creature said, releasing its hold and scurrying back up her arm.
She let out a growl of exasperation, then reached for the sprig-gans on the bench.
They all crowded away from her toward the far end of the bench but did not jump off. She stepped to one side, to go around the bench and grab them.
The instant she stepped to the side, though, and was no longer between the bench and the door, the bench bolted.
“Hai!” Kilisha called, staring stupidly as the thing charged past her, its four legs churning, its wooden joints creaking, and all four spriggans still clinging to it. “Come back!”
The bench paid no attention, but dashed out into the sun, pivoted on one leg, and galloped westward along Shipyard Street.
Kilisha took one look at the chair, then ran to the door and screamed, “Kelder!” at the top of her lungs.
Several men in the shipyard turned and watched as the bench ran away, but Kilisha did not see anyone in the yellow tunic and red kilt of a guardsman. She hesitated; if she ran after the bench the chair might escape. And the bench was heading westward, into Hillside and the Fortress district, while almost the entire city lay in the other direction; if it didn’t double back it would reach the seaside cliffs in a few blocks, and she could corner it there.
But it could double back, or turn up a side street, or throw itself over the cliff...
But the chair was behind her.
She whirled, dove for the chair, grabbed it up, hoisted it overhead with the squealing, giggling spriggan still clinging to its back, and ran for the door. She promptly whacked the chair into the lintel, almost throwing her off her feet; she was not tall, but even so, the doorframe was not meant for the combined height of a woman and a chair.
The spriggan on the chair squeaked and fell off, hitting the floor with a thump; the spriggan on her shoulder squealed, “Fun!” and grabbed a double handful of hair while digging its toes under the coil of rope she still carried.