The warehouse door was latched from the inside, but he could smell vinegar, an odor so powerful that it forced its way out through the narrow crack between the sliding doors. Rahl took another step, and his boot skidded off a rope that ran between the doors on the stone. He staggered but caught his balance.
His truncheon was too wide, but his small belt knife might be thin enough to reach the latch through the crack and lever it up. He eased the knife from his belt and slipped it between the timbered edges of the two doors. The tip just barely reached the metal latch bar, but skittered off the metal.
Could he somehow lengthen the end of the blade with order?
Rahl concentrated on that, but either the order-extension wasn’t long enough or strong enough because the blade tip still skittered off the iron. Then he placed the blade tip against the latch lever or plate, concentrating on linking the two with order, and slowly sliding the blade upward.
The latch unlocked with a muffled clunk.
Rahl froze for a moment, certain that someone must have heard, so loud had the sound appeared to him. But the men harnessing the wagon teams didn’t even look up. After a moment, Rahl slowly eased the doors apart, just wide enough for him to slip into the dark warehouse. He managed to avoid the rope as well. Quiet as he tried to be, his soft footsteps echoed slightly.
Even with his night vision, it was difficult to make out much in the dark space before him, but he used both vision and order-senses to survey the warehouse quickly. He did so a second time because all the racks were empty, and except for a row of barrels near the door, there were no signs of any goods anywhere. Not any goods…not a single barrel, bale, or crate. Not even a single amphora.
Why was it totally empty?
When he turned his attention away from the storage area, he realized there was a figure lying on the stone floor beside the barrels. Rahl stepped closer. The dead man was Chenaryl, and his body lay sprawled on his back. His throat had been cut. Rahl glanced upward. How many had the Jeranyi killed beside Chenaryl, Daelyt, and Yasnela? He paused only for a moment. He didn’t have time to dwell on that, nor did he want to. Not now.
Nine barrels beyond the body stood on their ends, the heads removed. The tenth smelled of vinegar and a long rope led away from it, the one that ran to the doors. Rahl inspected the nine quickly. All were marked as containing Feyn River pickles, but the staves inside were dry. One held a scrap of cloth caught between the edges of two staves.
He nodded. The barrels had held Jeranyi, but why had they wanted such concealment? The tenth held cammabark-the rope was a long fuse. He didn’t have the answers as to why the warehouse was empty or why Jeranyi wanted to fire the Merchant Association compound, and he wouldn’t find them in an empty warehouse.
Rahl slipped out through the narrow opening in the doors and, once more under the concealment of his light shield, made his way toward the rear warehouse. He slowed and flattened himself against the rough stone wall in the alcove between the two warehouses as he sensed Jeranyi carrying wooden buckets with covered tops through the open doors of the second warehouse to the two wagons waiting in front of the stables where the teams were being hitched.
“Move it!” hissed someone. “Think we got all night?”
“You took your time with that woman upstairs…”
Rahl pushed away the sickening feeling.
“Keep the buckets away from the lanterns!” snapped another voice in a sibilant order.
At that, Rahl remembered what he’d been told about cammabark-that it was even more unstable than black powder and no longer used in most places, especially in munitions and explosives, because the slightest spark could set it off. For all that, he edged forward, concerned about quiet, and around the front corner and toward the warehouse doors.
As Rahl eased toward the doors, he listened, struggling to understand the thick Jeranyi accent of a language that seemed half Low Temple and half Hamorian.
“Zebal…your group hits the warehouses to the southeast. Make sure the first one goes up with double the bark. That’ll get everyone moving that way. Then get as many others as you can. You know how to get back to the ships. After places start going up in flames, no one’s going to question sailors hurrying back to get their ships clear of the harbor.”
Rahl just stood there for a moment, less than ten cubits from the open warehouse doors. Once the Jeranyi left the Merchant Association warehouse, no one could act in time-except him, and there were almost a score of Jeranyi in a courtyard lit by a single lantern.
At that moment, Taryl’s caution flashed into his mind-don’t use your abilities to break the laws trying to set things right. But…if he didn’t…
“That’s it!” came a voice from within the warehouse. “Last bucket’s coming out, except for what we’re leaving.”
Rahl moved forward, using his senses to determine how many Jeranyi remained in the warehouse. There were two.
Holding the light shield in place, he slipped inside, letting the sailor with the bucket pass him. Then he moved toward the heavyset figure who had affixed the fuse to the last barrel.
Rahl slammed the truncheon across the other’s temple, using both order and force. The sailor hit the stone like a heavy flour sack, and Rahl expanded the light shield to cover them both. The sailor with the bucket glanced back, trying to see into the dimness, then turned and continued out the door.
Rahl hurried after him, catching the man five paces outside the warehouse. Holding his light shield tight around himself, he struck again with the heavy truncheon and cloaked them both with the shield.
The heavy wooden bucket clunked on the stone. The sound of the sailor’s fall was more like a scraping muffled thud.
“Where’s Boreat? He was just here.”
“Check the warehouse. Make it quick.”
Rahl jammed the truncheon into its holder and ran toward the lantern hanging on the outside bracket. When he lifted it, the outcry was immediate.
“Who doused the lantern?”
“Arms out!”
Rahl forced himself to walk back to the bucket, still sitting on the stone. Then he pulled out the lantern’s reservoir plug and carried both lantern and bucket to the nearest wagon. Between hauling the bucket even that short distance one-handed, avoiding the sailors who could not see him, and holding the light shield, he was beginning to feel light-headed. He set the bucket on the tailgate, then began to pour the lamp oil into the bucket, leaving a trail to the side of the tailgate where he puddled more. Then he wicked up the lamp and smashed the mantle against the side of the wagon. Flames licked up.
Rahl sprinted the twenty cubits to the stone wall at the rear of the courtyard, hurling himself over the rear wall, coming down so hard on the alleyway pavement that arrows of pain shot from his boots up through his legs. He dropped the light shield at the impact.
Two figures in gray looked at him, and one raised a crooked staff, then saw the mage-guard uniform and backed away.
Another Jeranyi tumbled over the wall and started to run.
Rahl threw up full shields and dropped to the base of the wall.
CRUMMPTTT!
Even within his shields, Rahl found himself being shaken. Stones and assorted other debris slammed against him, rattling him back and forth even more.
When the ground stopped trembling and objects stopped pelting him, Rahl staggered up, still holding his main shields, but not his light shield, because he could sense the inferno behind the remnants of the stone wall. He wanted to hurry away from the blazing heat, but had to make deliberate haste, given the scattering of stones and chunks of flaming roofing and wagons and other less attractive items.