Samlor set down the cask at what he estimated was the halfway point along the tunnel. The cask had been an awkward burden in the narrow confines, and its weight of a talent or more was as much as a porter would be expected to carry for even a moderate distance. Because it used muscles in a way that the punt had not, however, the hundred yards Samlor had carried the cask were almost
relaxing.
The only thing certain about the escape he hoped to make in a few hours was that he would have very little time. Now the Cir-donian set the cask on end and drew his fighting knife. The blade was double-edged and a foot long. It was stout enough at the cross-hilt to take the shock of a sword and was sharpened to edges that would hold as they cut bronze, rather than something that its owner could shave with. Samlor had razors for shaving. The knife was a
different sort of tool.
He set the point at the centre of one of the end-staves, using his left hand to keep the weapon upright. The butt cap was bronze, flat on top, and a perfect surface for Samlor to hammer with the heel of his right hand. The blade hummed. The beechwood cracked and sagged away from the point. Working the knife loose, Samlor then punched across the grain of the other four end staves as well. The line of perforations did not quite open the cask, but they would permit him to smash his heel through the weakened boards quickly
when the need arose.
He was more aware than before of the lantern's hot shell as he paced the rest of the tunnel's length. He could hear someone above him when he reached the end of the tunnel. The susurrus could have been anything, wind-driven twigs as easily as the slippers of a guard on the floor above. There was a sharper sound to punctuate that whispering, however; a spear grounded as the man paused, or the tip of a bow. The stone conducted sounds very well, but it conducted them so well that Samlor could not get a precise fix on where the guard was in relation to the trap door. For that matter, the caravan-master had no idea of how well the upward-pivoting door was concealed. It might very well flop open in the centre of the room above.
The good news was that the sounds did not include speech. Either the guard was alone, or the party was more stolid than the random pacing seemed to suggest.
Samlor needed more information than he could get in the tunnel. There would be no better time to learn more. He shuttered his lantern and slid the worn bronze bolt from its socket in the door jamb. There were stone pegs set into the end wall as a sort of one-railed ladder. Samlor set his right foot on the midmost, where his leg was flexed just enough to give him its greatest thrust. His right hand held the dagger while his left readied itself on the trap door. Then the Cirdonian exploded upward like a spring toy.
As it chanced, the door was quite well hidden in an alcove, though the hangings that would once have completed the camouflage were long gone. There was no time to consider might-have-beens, no time for anything but the pantalooned Beysib who turned, membranes flicking in shock across his eyes. He was trying to raise his bow, but there was no time to fend Samlor away with the staff, much less to nock one of the bone-tipped arrows. Samlor punched the smaller man in the pit of the stomach, a rising blow, and the point of the long dagger grated on the Beysib's spine in exiting between his fourth and third ribs.
The Beysib collapsed backwards, his motion helping Samlor free the knife for another victim if one presented himself. None did. The nictitating membrane quivered over the Beysib's eyes. In better light, it would have shown colours like those on the skin of a dying albacore. The blow had paralysed the man's lungs, so that the only sound the guard made as he died was the scraping of his nails on the stone floor.
Samlor slid the body back through the trap door, from whence its death had sprung. He hoped the victim was not a friend of Hort; he sympathized with simple folk looking for solace apart from the establishment of such as Lord Tudhaliya. But they had made their bed when they stole a child from the House of Kodrix.
The temple had been a single, circular room. It was roofless now, and its girdle of fluted columns had fallen; but the curtain wall within those columns still stood to shoulder height or above. That wall had been constructed around only three-quarters of the circumference, however. A 90° arc looked out unimpeded on the waters of the cove, which lapped almost to the building's foundations.
And out at the mouth of the cove, its hull black upon the phosphorescence through which sweeps drove it languidly, was a trawler. The vessel's sail was furled because of the breeze that began to push against the rising ride when the land cooled faster than the sea.
There were sounds outside the temple. Mice, perhaps, or dogs; or even tramps looking for at least the semblance of shelter.
More likely not. Nothing Hort had said suggested that the ceremony planned for tonight would be limited to the boatload who had carried Star to Death's Harbour. Not all the Setmur would be involved, but at least a few others would slip in from the greater community. The tunnel was as good a hiding place as could be found; and if the guard had been placed in the temple, it was at least probable that Star would be brought to it by her captors.
Samlor slipped back the way he had come. He set the tip of the Beysib bow between the edge of the trap door and its jamb. That wedged the door open a crack, through which Samlor could hear better and see; and be seen, but the lights would be dim against discovery, and the alcove was some protection as well. Then Samlor waited, with a reptile's patience, and the chill certainty of a reptile as well.
The firstcomers were blurs bringing no illumination at all. Shawls, pantaloons like those the guard had worn, sweeping nervously through Samlor's field of vision. They chattered in undertones. Occasionally someone raised a voice to call what might have been a name: 'Shaushga!' The corpse stiffening at Samlor's feet made no reply.
Then a hull grated on the strand. There were more voices, and more of the voices were male. Water slopped between shore and hull as at least a dozen persons dropped over the trawler's gunwale. Then the temple floor rasped beneath the horn-hard soles of barefooted fishermen. A tiny oil lamp gleamed like the sun to light-starved eyes.
In the centre of the open room, a Beysib in red robes set down the burden he carried. It was Star, had to be Star. She was dressed also in red. Her hair had been plaited into short tendrils so that the blaze above her forehead seemed to have eight white arms.
'I don't want to,' the child cried distinctly. 'I want to go to bed.' She refused to support herself with her legs, curling to the pavement when the Beysib set her down.
The man in red and a woman as nondescript as the others in a brown and black shawl bent to the child. They spoke urgently and simultaneously in Beysib and a melange of local dialects. The latter were almost equally unintelligible to Samlor for the accent and poor acoustics. The man in red held Star by the shoulders, but he was coaxing rather than trying to force her to rise.
The trawler had been crabbed further into the cove so that Samlor could no longer see it from his vantage point. The Cir-donian held his body in a state of readiness, but at not quite the bowstring tautness of the instant before slaughter. There would be slaughter, nothing could be more certain than that; but for the moment, Samlor continued to wait. There were ten, perhaps twenty, Beysib within the temple wall at the moment. Some of them were between Star and the hidden door. That would not keep Samlor from striking if the need arose, but there was at least a chance that some of those now milling in the room would spread out if the ceremony began.