As expected, the two warriors were still marching their mind-numbing drill. She would give them two more passes, she decided, and then she would make for the wall. She waited patiently, her heart hammering in her chest and her muscles coiled and ready.
The warriors approached again, and then turned away. Reaching out for the handle of the grappling hook, she waited. She coiled the free end of the rope around her left hand.
Again the warriors came. Once she left the security of the bushes, there was no going back. As the warriors approached one another for the final time, she started counting.
One.
The moment the warriors turned and started back, she left the bushes. She ran lightly but quickly, her boots hardly making a sound as she raced for the wall. At the same time she began to swing the hook, letting the line out bit by bit as she went. When she was just over halfway there she sent the hook flying, and she prayed.
Ten.
Her throw was perfect. The hook caught securely to the top of the wall with barely a sound. To make sure of its purchase she gave it a sharp yank, and it held. Bracing her feet against the wall, she began her climb upward, hand over hand against the knots in the rope. Using every ounce of skill and strength she possessed, she made her way quickly, like a spider.
Twenty-six.
The height of the wall seemed greater now that she was upon it, and the rope began burning her naked palms. The climb was tougher than she had envisioned, and her time was running out.
Thirty-four.
Scrambling as fast as she could, she finally neared the top. The last few knots dug viciously into her hands, and the sweat burned her eyes.
Thirty-six.
With a final heave she lifted herself atop the wall. But the knotted rope still dangled in plain sight, its end swinging gently in the wind.
Thirty-eight.
She reached down and gave the line a silent snap. The end obeyed, and flew up to reach her. She grabbed it with one hand and quickly pulled the line up. Then she lay as still as death on top of the dirty wall.
Forty.
The pacing warriors met in the center, turned, and then walked away again.
Closing her eyes, Satine sighed with relief. But this was no time to tarry. She lifted the hook free of the wall and turned it around to secure it against the other side. She took a moment to look down. There was no one about. She lowered the rope, then started down.
When she reached the inner ward of the palace, she snapped the rope again and lifted the hook free. It fell securely into her outstretched hand.
She closed the prongs of the hook and rewound the line. She removed the leather bag from across her back, taking out several small items, which she placed into her tunic. She then returned the hook and line to the bag and closed it.
With her dagger, she dug a shallow hole and buried the bag. If her plan worked, she wouldn't need it again. Replacing the dagger in its thigh sheath, she pulled Bratach's map from between her breasts. Looking around, she verified her position.
Hundreds of fires cheerfully burned before the tents of the sleeping wounded. Even at this time of night, many of the palace windows were lit from within. Minion guards patrolled among the tents, but they now held little fear for her. After all, she was no more than one of the hundreds of other wounded citizens who had yet to leave the security of the palace.
She pulled her braid free. Mindful of her pretended wounds, the Gray Fox walked out onto the palace grounds with an exaggerated limp.
The manicured grass was wet beneath her feet; the crisp evening air smelled pleasantly of the smoke rising from the campfires. A moon had emerged from behind the clouds. Satine was surprised by how many people still milled about at this hour. Yet another advantage, she thought. The larger the crowd, the easier it would be to become lost in the scene.
As she walked among them, she smiled and nodded. An elderly man of about eighty Seasons of New Life offered her a mug of warm ale and a seat beside him before the warmth of his fire. He wore a blood-soaked bandage around his head, and his creased face showed the creeping fatigue of his years. Satine smiled and graciously begged off, saying that she had no wish to disturb his sleeping family. Nodding, he bid her on her way.
After strolling between the tents for a time, she found a small clearing and stopped to look across the ward to the drawbridge. As she expected, the massive wooden gate was raised and locked. Several Minions stood guard beside it.
Should more of the wounded arrive, the warriors would of course lower the bridge to allow them entrance. Otherwise, during the night the bridge would remain raised in the interests of security-especially with the wizards away. Her timing couldn't have been better. Smiling to herself, she changed direction and walked toward the castle.
She had heard that much of the great structure's interior always remained lit at night. Given the large number of wounded still being tended inside, she was sure that it was illuminated even more than usual. Walking up the granite steps, she saw that the entire place seemed much more like some huge hospital than it did a royal dwelling. She crossed the giant patio, then entered the Chamber of Supplication.
The beds of the wounded filled the checkerboard floor, the hall having been reclaimed as a healing ward soon after the prince had given his speech to the citizens. She smiled briefly to herself. Bratach's suggestion that she attend had been invaluable. She continued on between the beds.
Minion healers, the white feather emblazoned upon their body armor, tended the wounded. The place smelled of blood, antiseptic, and freshly bleached linen. Acolytes of the Redoubt helped the healers, the azure glow of the craft sometimes surrounding the beds and the victims lying upon them. Standing torches and wall sconces threw flickering light across the walls, creating magnified shadow vignettes of the ongoing pain and suffering. Low moans and the urgent orders of the Minion healers and the acolytes rose into the air.
To Satine's relief, no one took any particular notice of her as she made her way among the beds. When she reached the far wall of the room she walked out into a long hallway. "Twenty more paces and you will see an alcove," Bratach had told her. "Stop there to consult your map."
She continued on, the crowds thinning as she went. The farther she proceeded into the castle unescorted, the more likely she was to be questioned by an acolyte or a Minion guard. She understood perfectly why Bratach had not told her the name of his confederate here. Should she be captured and later forced to talk by the wizards' use of the craft, he would lose only one, not two valuable allies.
Soon the alcove loomed. She looked up and down the length of the hall, then stepped in. The arched niche was fairly shallow and didn't provide much cover, but she wouldn't need to be in it for long. An oil sconce attached to the wall overhead granted her a small amount of light. Just below it hung an oil portrait of the prince, presumably painted during his younger, happier days. She snorted a soft, derisive laugh down her nose as she again removed the map from its hiding place.
After another hundred paces or so, she would take the hallway on the left, which led to the sleeping quarters. She would need the third door on the right.
She put her map away and peered out into the hallway. Satisfied that no one was near enough to concern her, she strode down the hall.
That was when she heard the crisp strikes of boot heels. Minion boot heels-she was sure of it. Looking around, she saw no place to hide.
Because surprise would be on her side, she might be able to kill them before they could react-except that the only real weapon she carried was her dagger; the items in her pockets needed to be saved for use on her target. Besides, if she killed them, their bodies would be evidence that an intruder had been in the palace. She couldn't afford that. She would simply have to try and bluff her way past them.