Once outside the room, Sylvriss moved quickly to one of the upper rooms of the Palace. Throwing open a window, she leaned out and listened. Alongside the column of dense black smoke, another, equally dense, but of a deathly white hue, was rising. She could both hear and feel muffled concussions in the distance. What in the world has he got in those workshops? she thought. The man pollutes everything he touches.
Faintly, she could hear another sound coming from the same direction. Eventually she identified it as people shouting. Not in fear or alarm, but in anger. A great many people shouting. Dan-Tor’s disturbance must be a full-blown riot, she realized, though she found it almost impossible to conceive the Fyordyn, with their painstak-ing patience, resorting to such indiscriminate violence.
The tainted summer breeze blew her hair across her face and she swept it to one side. At the same time, the spark of the idea she had had flared up brightly, filling her mind with an uneasy mixture of excitement and fear. She craned further out of the window and peered down into the courtyard far below. It was seething black with Mathidrin, as were most of the streets she could see.
She looked intently at a marching column and then superimposed the image on those gathered in the courtyard. A quick calculation confirmed her earlier, more subjective impression formed in Dan-Tor’s room. Almost the entire City garrison was being committed to deal with this minor disturbance.
Her informants in the City had mentioned nothing of any planned disruption, but she was inclined to agree with Dan-Tor’s assessment that this was not a sponta-neous outburst.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she whispered to herself. Any Mathidrin remaining in the Palace would probably be guarding the gate. The Westerclave would be virtually empty.
She took a deep breath to quieten her racing pulse, but it had little effect. Reaching into her pocket, her moist hand closed around the cold key which she had kept with her since Dilrap had given it to her. Two images merged in her mind. One, of the Mathidrin officer she had knocked over for maltreating a horse, and the other, that of her father’s face smiling anxiously when, unusually for one so young, she had been made a junior messenger towards the end of the Morlider War. ‘Nothing worth doing’s easy, girl, and some chances only come once.’ The memory tipped the scale for her.
She waited a little longer, carefully watching the comings and goings below. The sounds in the distance grew louder, and eventually the courtyard below became still except for a few guards by the gates and the arrival of the occasional messenger. Now, she thought. Now.
Clattering along corridors and down stairs, it came to her suddenly that even if she were able to release the Lords, they would have difficulty in escaping the Palace. She swept the thought away. There was no time for detailed planning. This was pure risk and dependent on speed above all. Besides, there was havoc out there. Who knew what other opportunities might arise? And the Palace was a big place.
Gently she opened the door of her chamber. Rgoric was still asleep, an open book on his lap. Softly she tiptoed across the room to an alcove where she kept some of her outdoor cloaks.
‘Sylvriss.’
She froze. It was the King’s voice. Oh no, my love, she sighed inwardly, not now. He would want to talk. Sometimes he needed reassurance when he was awakened suddenly. She screwed her eyes tight shut and bit her lip, torn between his need and the opportunity that fate had placed in her hands. Composing her face into a smile, she turned round and looked at him.
He was still asleep. ‘Sylvriss,’ he said again, shifting slightly in the chair. The heavy book on his lap started to slide. Without thinking, she strode forward and scooped it up just before it hit the floor. She dared not breathe as she placed the book gently on a nearby table and walked back to the alcove.
Minutes later, she was moving silently along the lower corridors of the Palace towards the Westerclave. Dressed in the plain grey cloak and hood that she sometimes used when she wanted to pass unnoticed in the City, she flitted through the shadows, walking as normally as she could to avoid attracting attention.
Just one of the maids, she repeated to herself. Just one of the maids. But the hiss of her clothes and the muffled pad of her soft shoes sounded like thunder to her.
Eventually she came to a door which would lead into the cellars. For a moment she hesitated with her hand on the latch. The Palace was deafeningly quiet. She had seen no Mathidrin, and such servants and officials as were about seemed for the most part to be gathered in the upper rooms watching the distant fire, but once through this door she would have no excuse for being where she was. Each step forward from now would be a step nearer to exposure. Then, gripping the latch tightly, she pushed the door open and stepped into the cool stillness of the cellar.
She had never been in the Palace’s extensive cellars before, but she had studied plans found for her by Dilrap and had frequently travelled this route in her mind, never realizing that it might actually come to pass. The difference between the flat sketches and the solid reality, however, gave her a frightening jolt, and it took her a little while to relate the images she had seen to the gloomy array of walls and passages now facing her. With an effort she forced herself to be calm and, after agonizing minutes, she reached the door she wanted. The door through into the cellars of the Westerclave.
Now, Dilrap, she thought, let’s see if you’ve kept your promise. The promise that this door, lurking in an unused part of the cellar, would be unlocked against the possibility of this plan being put into operation. Tongue protruding between her teeth, she gently eased the latch and pushed the door.
It did not move. A reproach formed in her mind but she dismissed it guiltily. Please let it open, she prayed, then, grimacing anxiously, she put her shoulder against the door and pushed harder. It moved abruptly and the bright light of the Westerclave burst through the narrow crack. She closed the door quickly and leaned her forehead against it nervously. Spreading out Dilrap’s sketches in her mind she went over the final part of her route again. First right, second left, first left, third door on the right. Each step taking her nearer to the more used parts of the cellar.
Then, cautiously opening the door again and screw-ing up her eyes against the increased brightness, she peered down the long passage in front of her.
It was empty.
She reached into her pocket and felt the two objects there. The key to the Lords’ cell and her old Muster knife. Whether either of them would be of any use to her remained to be seen. She had few illusions about her ability to use the knife against a Mathidrin guard if she were caught and could not talk her way out, but…
With a last deep breath, she stepped out of the gloom and into a final commitment.
Heart racing, she walked her memorized route in long, quiet strides. Just one of the maids. Just one of the maids. It kept other thoughts at bay a little but offered little real solace. No maids ever came to the Westerclave cellars.
At each junction she paused and listened before turning the corner. No echoing voices or sounds of movement added to her terror. What can be happening in the City to have emptied this place so totally? she thought.
Then she was at the door to the Lords’ cell. Carefully she eased back the two heavy bolts and, with trembling hands, fumbled the precious key from her pocket. Her hand was shaking so much that she had to seize it with the other to still it sufficiently to insert the key in the lock. The clatter of the key against the keyhole seemed to be deafening. As she was about to turn the key, a shadow fell across her. She felt the blood drain from her face and instinctively she jerked her hood further forward. Turning round she found herself looking into the cold, grim eyes of three Mathidrin.