The more she spoke, the more troubled Murtagh felt. He turned the staff in his hand. “What about Du Vrangr Gata? Surely they could help.”
A low coughing, spitting sound issued from Carabel. “I would not trust them to catch a mouse with three broken legs. Pah!”
“And you need someone you can trust.”
She met his gaze and held it. “Yes.”
Murtagh wondered about the elves. That Carabel had not mentioned them was answer enough, but he was curious as to the reason. Elves and werecats did not seem entirely dissimilar, and if bad blood lay between them—or even just a basic dislike—he was interested in knowing why. A question for another time.
His thoughts returned to Silna. In his mind, he pictured a child huddled alone in a bare stone cell. He could imagine all too well the cold, the pain, the anger, and the despair she might be feeling. Had he not shared those same torments when the Twins had deposited him in the dungeon beneath the citadel at Urû’baen? Worst of all had been the uncertainty, not knowing what fresh outrages one moment or the next might bring.
Nor had that been his only experience in such a helpless, dire situation. He still remembered with painful vividness when, at fourteen, he’d snuck out of Urû’baen without permission or accompaniment. That evening, he’d tried to slip back in through the main gates, and the soldiers standing watch had caught him. Not recognizing him, they threw him into one of the cells buried beneath the guard tower. Galbatorix had been absent from the city at the time, along with his entire retinue. No one remained whom Murtagh could call upon to confirm his identity. So there he had languished for a week and three days, convinced he would die in sunless confinement and that no one would know or care.
In the end, Galbatorix returned, and word of Murtagh’s plight somehow reached the court, for the king’s then chamberlain had come to see to his release. After which the chamberlain promptly had Murtagh soundly beaten for the trouble he had caused.
Murtagh suppressed a shiver. He could still smell the dampness of the cell and feel the cold of the stones seeping into his bones. And yet, despite his familiarity with the distressing realities of Silna’s likely plight—and his compassion for her—he resented Carabel using the youngling to secure his help. Doubly so because he knew he would hate himself if he walked away.
“Fine,” he ground out from between his teeth. “I’ll do it. But not for you, nor even for myself. For Silna.”
Carabel nodded. “Whatever you find behind that door, the race of werecats will be grateful and count you as a friend, Murtagh son of Morzan.”
Stop calling me that! “Where are the barracks?”
Her hair bristled slightly. “It is not that simple.”
“Why shouldn’t it be? I’ll walk in and open the door, magic or no, and if anyone dares stop me, I’ll—”
“No!” She dug her claws into the arms of her chair, and for a moment, Murtagh thought she might leap across the desk. “If you rouse the alarm, Silna might be spirited away before you can reach her. Or worse, killed. The risk is too great. And you do not know what spells may have been deployed in that place.”
Murtagh inclined his head. “So how am I supposed to gain entrance without attracting unwanted attention?”
Carabel settled back on her cushion and smoothed the tassels on her ears. “You must become a member of the city guard and join Captain Wren’s company.”
He allowed his eyebrows to rise. “Oh, is that all?…Well, I suppose I can talk my way into their ranks, if need be.”
“Alas, that will not suffice.” Carabel was somber, but she seemed to take a subtle delight in confounding him. “Captain Wren no longer accepts general recruits into his company. At Lord Relgin’s indulgence, Wren selects his men from among the rest of the guard, and it is counted a high honor to be so chosen. But Wren only seeks out men whose service he trusts.”
“And that’s not suspicious at all.”
Carabel flicked her ears. “But not uncommon for officers of distinction.”
“True enough. So how do I earn Captain Wren’s trust?”
“It is not possible, not in the time we have. Instead, you will have to impress him.”
Murtagh nearly growled. “And how am I to accomplish that? A feat of arms?”
A sly smile curled Carabel’s sharp lips. “It is very simple, human. To impress him, you must kill a fish.”
“A fish? A fish? Do you take me for a fool?”
“Not at all. But, alas, to kill the fish, you will need a special lure.”
“Bah!” With an expression of disgust, Murtagh fell back in the chair. How deep of a hole had he fallen in? If he hadn’t already given his word, and if it weren’t for the vanished youngling, he would have gotten up and left. “Enough of these riddles, cat! Explain, and you’d best do a good job of it.”
“Of course, human. It goes as such. In Isenstar Lake lives a great cunning fish the men of this place have named Muckmaw. He is fierce, hungry, and cruel, and over the years, he has sunk many a boat and eaten many a fisherman. There is a reward in Gil’ead for whosoever can dispatch Muckmaw and present his head as proof of the deed. Four gold coins and a promise of a position in the guards, if so desired. I have no doubt that if you bring Muckmaw’s head to Captain Wren, he will welcome you into the ranks of his men.”
“Killing a fish is no great challenge,” said Murtagh.
“Were that was true. Muckmaw is no ordinary beast.” Carabel gestured at herself. “And a werecat should know. No common bait or cloth or colored thread will attract him, only something of special significance.”
“Or I could just find him with my mind.” Murtagh gave her a dangerous smile. “A quick spell, and that will be the end of Muckmaw.”
The werecat matched his smile. “And how will you pick out the thoughts of a single fish amongst all the fish in Isenstar Lake?…No, you will need a lure, one that he cannot resist.”
“What sort of lure is that?”
“A scale of the dragon Glaedr, whose body lies burned and buried outside this city.”
Murtagh’s immediate reaction was outrage. “You must be jesting!”
“I would not jest about such a thing,” said Carabel, deadly quiet. “Not when one of our younglings is in danger. Trust me, human, only the scale of a dragon will suffice for Muckmaw.”
Again, Murtagh saw Oromis and Glaedr falling limply through the air while ranks of men and elves clashed on the ground below. He rubbed his knuckles as he stared at the floor. “I’m not happy about this, cat.”
The slightest bit of sympathy entered Carabel’s voice: “It is a hard thing I ask you for, I know. But there is a rightness to it also.”
“I fail to see any rightness in grave robbery.”
“You slew Glaedr. Now, by fate’s design, you may use a part of him to help save an innocent. What could be more right than that?”
The question struck him to his core. He forced his hands apart. “The elves will have set wards around Glaedr’s tomb to prevent exactly this sort of desecration.”
A shrug from Carabel. “Yes. Probably. That is why we haven’t tried. That is why we must ask you, Rider.”
“And what if I hadn’t come to Gil’ead?”
When she answered, he heard no pretense in her voice, only honest emotion, raw and vulnerable and shot through with determination. “Then I and all the werecats in Gil’ead would have stormed the barracks and attempted to breach the door.” She met his gaze. “If that meant we had to fight an entire company of guards, then so be it. We will not abandon our young.”