And then not far away: tap-tap… tap-tap… tap.
"We could use a few dwarves," he said whimsically, and brought his heater-shaped shield round onto his arm.
"We'll be above ground fairly soon," she replied. "Lantern out, Hurin!"
Utter darkness fell, like having your eyes painted over, as the lantern's flame died and the mantle faded to a dim red glow and went out.
Alleyne's cool voice sounded: "John, you do the honors."
She could feel the air move as the big man turned and groped for the steel lever that stood upright in a niche. The lever was fastened with a pin; there was a slight chink as he pulled that free to dangle-that little chain to keep it from getting lost on the floor was so typical of a plan with Sandra Arminger behind it-and heaved. There was a moment while the inertia resisted the huge muscles she knew bunched in his tight black sleeve, and then the wall ahead of them began to swing up.
Once it started the movement was smooth and sure, as counterweighted levers swung the steel plate and the camouflaging blocks up out of the way. Sound came through the four-foot gap in the wall, faint and far, a hint of music and a loud burr of voices and feet.
The cellar beyond was dimly lit by occasional night lanterns, but it looked bright to dark-adapted eyes; the secret door opened between two huge wine-vats, looming above them and resting on double X-SHAPED cradles. A figure waited, in the bowtie of the Bossman's servants. He gave back a step at the sight of John Hordle's bulk uncoiling from the low entranceway to his full towering height, the long handle of his greatsword standing up over his right shoulder.
"Quickly!" the spy said then, licking his lips. "The way's clear up to the kitchens."
"Good," Astrid said. "You should go now."
The man nodded jerkily and scurried away. They gave him a few seconds lead, and then followed. The cellars here were sections of tunnel, joined by narrower linking passages; they went by rows of barrels of various sizes for wine and beer and brandy and whiskey, flour and salt pork and salt beef, shelving with potted meats and vegetables and jams and jellies, sacks of onions and potatoes and bins of dried peppers and beans, vats of pickled eggs and sauerkraut, racks of hams and flitches of bacon in wrappers of waxed canvas… all the varied supplies a great household needed.
It reminded her a little of the storage sheds at Stardell in Mithrilwood, down to the deep rich melange of smells and the arrogant air of a patrolling cat, before the moggy took one horrified look at the strangers and fled with its ears back in a flying leap to the top of a stack of boxes full of apples. There it arched its back and hissed and spat with a sharp tsk! sound, its eyes glowing green in the faint gleam of a lantern.
"Peace between us, sister!" she laughed. And a sudden thought: "Every second pair, take some of that lamp-fuel."
They shouldered large jugs of it, ten-gallon models of pre-Change metal full of pure alcohol. The map was printed on her brain. And there were the metal stairs that led up. She went first in a soft-footed rush.
"Hurin, Melendil," Alleyne said, his sword indicating two.
The pair halted just below the top of the stairs, ready to deal with anyone who came by. Astrid led the rest up a corridor that led past a fuel-store with billets of firewood and sacks of dusty-smelling charcoal.
"Morwen, you and Aratan wait here," she said softly. "Soak down this stack and keep fire ready, but hidden."
The two of them took the metal jugs and began pouring the spirit over the combustibles. She led the rest into the flagged hallway beyond and took a deep breath. The smells of cooking food were strong from the doors ahead, from frying onions to baking pastries with their buttery richness; this was the kitchens, where the made dishes would be prepared while the whole carcasses roasted outside. She and Alleyne looked at each other, nodded slightly, and pushed through, each turning to one side with shield up and blade poised.
The light was painfully bright, from lanterns set all around the great rectangular room and hanging from the groined arches of the high ceiling. One wall was lined with cast-iron and tile-and-brick stoves and ovens and grills; the central island and the counters all around were lined with cooks and scullions hard at work, chopping and rolling and setting out arrangements on bright silver platters. The sounds of knives and tenderizing hammers and rolling pins dropped away as flushed, sweating faces turned towards the dark-clad warriors who rushed through the doors.
A small party of Rangers sprinted to the other exit that gave on the main house, tall metal portals with oval glass windows set in them. A man pushed a trolley of empty serving plates through it, then froze with the doors swinging behind him as a sword point pricked him behind the ear. The rest of the Dunedain fanned out to either side of her, arrows on the strings of their drawn bows, the vicious triangular heads motionless.
"Hear me! We have no quarrel with you," Astrid said. "Only with your master."
Her clear soprano filled a sudden silence broken only by the flicker of flames and the sputter of fat dripping on embers. She knew their eyes were all on her sword, the blue light of the lanterns breaking off the honed edge.
And the most of these people will be thralls, not willing servants.
Just then a burly cook cocked back his hand with the cleaver in it. John Hordle had his sword in his right hand, but the left shot out and clamped on the man's fat bull-neck. Fingers like wrought-iron bars drove in, and the man purpled and then went limp. His head hit the brown tile of the floor with an unpleasant thock.
"But we will kill if we must," she added.
Two dozen pairs of eyes followed the point of her sword as if hypnotized. She pointed to another set of doors, these of oak. That led to the day-pantry where supplies were stored for immediate use. It had only the one entrance, and it was windowless, with walls of thick adobe.
"In there. All of you; take that one on the floor, he's not dead-"
She shot a glance at Little John Hordle that said he'd better not be dead.
"And be quiet about it."
They obeyed in a clumsy scramble; despite her demand for quiet, there were crashes as crockery cascaded to the floor and silverware chimed. In a minute they were all tightly packed among the barrels and crates and jars and crocks; she could see some of them crawling up on the emptied shelves. One of her Dunedain shoved the door closed, dropped a wedge and heel-kicked it to seat it tightly. The portal wasn't particularly strong, and the kitchen workers should be able to hammer it down in time, especially since the hinges were on their side. That wouldn't be soon enough to hinder her plan. Everyone waited, their eyes on her…
Except for one who was flicking slices of glazed roast pork loin into his mouth from a plate where they were arranged and chewing with relish.
"John!" she hissed, enraged. "Not now! Great deeds await us!"
"Not bad, roit tasty touch of apple in the glaze, but a bit 'ot. They put chilies in every bloody thing out here."
The sudden wave of fury vanished, and left her balanced and sure. She smiled at him, and turned to her folk. Alleyne poised beside her, shield up and eyes grim.
"Now," she said.
BD forced herself not to take another glass of wine. She didn't usually try to drown anxiety, but her throat was dry and tight, far too tight to try any of the little nibblements going around.
God, these cowboys can pack it away, she thought, watching men who'd downed racks of lamb-ribs and heaped plates of roast beef with all the fixings taking fruit tarts and pastries of pine nuts and honey and cream from the silver salvers.
Not to mention the way they can drink. I'm impressed, and I was in Barony Chehalis for a Stavarov wedding!
Instead she chose a glass of cold herbal tea-not many of those had been taken. She supposed they were kept for the Mormons among the Bossman's followers. Her eyes kept going back to the clock, willing the hands to slow down. The room got more crowded, as the night outside grew colder and more people moved into the heated interior of the house; if anything it was uncomfortably warm here, with fifty or sixty people in the big ballroom besides the great wrought-silver chandelier above with its spendthrift weight of wax candles, and the lamps in their wall-sconces.