Sena dropped from her split position, hidden by perspective against the darkness of the ceiling. Once again, she began to work the lock.
Pin two crossed the sheer line first. She flicked it with the pick and heard it rattle. Yes. It had set correctly. Pin three went next but different than before. She increased torque and scrubbed. Four, five and one set and the plug turned.
That is, it turned one-hundred-eighty degrees and stopped. In an amateur mistake, she had forgotten to place the flat of her pick in the bottom of the keyway. Pin three had a spacer. It had dropped out. She traded the snake for the hooked rake in her mouth. Carefully she fished the spacer from the lock, catching it in her palm.
David’s key was not likely to work when he came back. He would know someone had been in his room. Sena bit her lip in frustration. Oh well, there was nothing for it now but to go on. She turned the wrench, spun the plug, hit three-sixty and the bolt popped back.
The door opened.
Papers littered the room beyond. Segments of a novel, bits of poetry and pages from a play scattered across a desk, a bed and the floor.
A writer, Sena mused. A coiled radiator on one wall could have offered heat from the boilers if the season had been later, but the metal pipes were cold. A wardrobe, a desk and a bed did a good job of limiting walking room.
Sena stepped carefully, making sure she disturbed nothing.
David had been gone nearly ten minutes now. She checked her pocket watch under its own green glow. Unfortunately she didn’t really know what to look for.
Caliph had told her what he had seen and how he suspected his old friend from Desdae had let the creatures in from the sewers.
A key then, thought Sena. That’s where I’ll start.
She went through the pockets of every garment in the room. Empty.
There was, however, a locked coffer in the bottom of the wardrobe squatting beside several pairs of shoes. It was padlocked which was good since she had three different skeleton keys that fit most warded locks made in the north. She got it on her first try and flipped the lid.
Inside were several disturbing things.
One was a letter.
Mr. Thacker,
A writer with vices seems such a stereotypical tragedy. I couldn’t help but notice your name in the
Herald
as one of several artists come to stay at Isca Castle. Nor could I help noticing your name on the ledger of a truly unsavory bordello in Ghoul Court just the other evening. One should generally use an alias whenever blackmail could be an issue.
I propose we meet, unless your qaam-dihet habits are something you wouldn’t mind your longtime friend Caliph Howl finding out about.
Yours truly,
Peter Lark
The note had been crumpled as if its owner meant to throw it away and then changed his mind, smoothed it out and tucked it in the box.
Beside the note was a little brown pouch, a bloody scalpel and a stained sponge. As Sena had supposed, when she checked the pouch several lumps of deep crimson material rolled into her palm. They were vaguely cohesive like brown sugar.
A small effigy carved from polished black stone rested beside the paraphernalia. Shaped like a stylized ink spatter, it gleamed, bulbous at the center with exaggerated pseudopodia radiating out. Rather two-dimensional and disk-like, a single grotesque eye had been graven on its bulging middle.
Sena’s skin went cold. It was the icon of the W
llin Droul. Ten to one odds David Thacker also bore the Mark. Sena had no wish to touch the horrible little carving.
Several other items demanded scrutiny. A key (likely capable of opening the garden sewer grates from what Sena knew of keys), four rows of gold gryphs stacked in columns ten coins high apiece (which she was tempted instinctively to take but left alone), and finally another letter: this one from Chancellor Eaton dated in the spring of this year.
What it said was both gracious and embarrassing. Sena felt herself flush. Apparently David Thacker had graduated without a degree.
The coffer was the mother lode of dirty laundry, a treasure trove of bones. Sena almost felt humiliated for David Thacker (it was more than enough, way, way more than enough to destroy him) until she remembered the black icon and the key and the forty-two men and women killed in the siege.
She shut the box and locked it and tucked it under her arm. She had what she needed. She headed for the door.
Caliph’s plan had two outcomes depending on what Sena found. If she found nothing, she was supposed to leave the room undisturbed, return to the guest bedroom where they were temporarily staying and report. But if she found evidence, she was to remove it and bring it to Caliph who would then assess it and determine whether or not to order David Thacker’s arrest.
There were no protocols for policing the Hold. Within the castle, the High King’s word was absolute.
Sena reached the end of the hall and turned the corner, listening for noise. It took her by surprise when, without warning, an iron grip seized her by the elbow just above the joint.
The pressure was exquisite, focused and educated with regards to specific points of pain. She dropped the coffer with a tumultuous clatter and tried unsuccessfully to whirl.
Whoever it was had an expert grasp. He had her by the thumb and elbow now, tugging on her opposing digit in directions it was not meant to bend.
“Move and I’ll break your arm.”
Sena whimpered under the brute force.
Mr. Vhortghast stepped out from the shadow.
“My lady,” he said with a perfectly courtly tone. He did not remove his hands. “What oh what are you doing?”
“Why don’t you ask the High King?” she spat.
He released her. “Theft is still punishable by removal of the hands,” said Mr. Vhortghast.
“Fuck off, you whey-faced freak.”
“Tut. I’m sure this is a misunderstanding.” His voice was smooth as cream but he glowered at her. “We’ll resolve this in the morning.” He moved to pick up the fallen box.
“Resolve it now,” Sena demanded.
Zane Vhortghast rolled his eyes. “You mean to tell me the king is still awake and that I should disturb him in his room?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m telling you to do.”
The spymaster scoffed.
“Or you can have it your way,” Sena fired, “and I’ll be sure to let him know what happened. He’s expecting that box.”
Zane’s face was taciturn and tranquil. But his pause told Sena he was considering. He wasn’t stupid. He knew she slept with his employer.
“You’re remarkable, aren’t you? Very well, I’ll accompany you to his majesty’s room.”
“Let me carry the box,” she said.
He thrust it at her.
Sena took it with a sneer.
They walked in silence, passing guards who didn’t dare glance sideways at the unlikely couple. When they reached the room currently servicing the High King, a small unit of guards saluted Zane.
Zane raised his hand to knock. Sena smirked and simply walked in.
Caliph pulled on a robe when he saw the spymaster. His eyes absorbed everything in an instant: the coffer in Sena’s hands, the tension in her face and Zane Vhortghast trying to look nonchalant.
“Hello, Zane.” Then he turned to Sena and nodded at the box. “What’s this? What did you find?”
“David Thacker,” her voice was soft, “I’m sorry, Caliph. He’s . . .” She handed him the box and the skeleton key to open it.
After he had gone through every article, Caliph pushed the container aside, feeling sick. He handed the key to Zane who was still patiently waiting to hear what was going on.