Our rush through darkness bad been silent and swift. We came to a halt before a massive wall of ancient stonework that soared out of sight overhead. One black-cloaked man bent forward and touched a hidden spring. A portion of the wall sank soundlessly into the ground, and a black opening gaped.
The leader of the band looked at me.
“Vial number two,” he said quietly.
A black-gloved hand bore a small glass tube to my face and crushed it beneath my nose. I inhaled a pungent fluid that filled my head with piercing and aromatic vapors.
Then, in single file, stepping silently as cats, the Assassins vanished one by one into the black opening in the wall.
The burly-shouldered rogue bore me within as well.
But by then I knew nothing of my surroundings, nor of what occurred from that moment.
For the fluid in the vial had done its work, and I was unconscious.
Chapter 23
THE HOUSE OF GURJAN TOR
Perhaps an hour later I awoke in a barren, poorly-lighted room. I awoke instantly, coming from deepest slumber to full wakefulness without passing through the transitional phases. I felt perfectly comfortable, with no signs of headache or nausea or any other side effects of the drug. I smiled grimly; the Assassins of Ardha were remarkably adept in the pharmaceutical arts.
I rose to my feet from the pallet upon which I had awakened and looked about the room. The ceiling was raftered, with bare plaster between the rafters; the walls were wood paneling laid over what seemed to be solid stone. At least, thumping my balled fist at various places here and there on the walls, selected at random, I found no difference in sound that might suggest the presence of a secret panel.
Which was quite odd, for the room had neither windows nor door, and I had no idea how I had been brought in here, nor how my captors had left the room.
The floor was bare wood, inlaid with elaborate parquetry; this was the only note of ostentatious ornament about the chamber, which was otherwise quite Spartan in its rigorous simplicity. There were no hangings on the walls, no carpets on the floors, and no furnishings of any kind, save for the simple pallet in the corner, and a low sitting-bench, and a small wooden taboret which bore a single candle in a crystal dish.
There was, however, a jug of water, a cup of polished horn which was filled with a clear red wine, and a plate containing coarse brown bread and pickled meats. I was quite famished by this time—it must have been early morning by now—so I ate hungrily, and quenched my thirst.
The Assassins had taken nothing from me except my weapons. So I still bore over my shoulder a coil of the Live Rope we had carried off from the tower of Sarchimus, the vial of Liquid Flame, and my personal gear.
Even my purse had been returned to me, still filled with coins. The Assassins, it would seem, were no thieves.
The mystery of the doorless room intrigued me; search as I might, however, I could find no secret panel in the walls, nor were there any signs of a trap visible in the ceiling.
To pass the time I exercised, working up a good sweat. At length I rested from my exertions, drank some water, and finally, from sheer boredom as much as anything, stretched out on the pallet and napped.
Something awoke me an indiscernible period of time later. I lay without moving, lifting my lids a fraction of an inch, peering about me in the dimness. The candle had almost burned down, and the wick was guttering, old wax fuming, giving off a vile, greasy stench.
My skin prickled and uneasiness went through me. I cannot say how I knew it, but I felt inwardly certain that someone was watching me from a place of concealment. I lay still, my breast rising and falling with my breathing, feigning slumber. The pressure of invisible eyes were upon me; it was an uncanny sensation.
Suddenly a faint creaking sound came to my ears. Slitting my eyes, I peered at my feet. A square portion of the parquetry wherewith the floor was inlaid sank out of sight, and a man in black clambered lithely up from the opening.
So that’s how they worked the trick! The secret entrance to my cell was not in either ceiling or walls, but in the floor. And that explained as well the unusually ornamental floor decoration, for the complex patterns of inlaid, subtly contrasting woods, concealed the edges of the hidden trap.
The man stood motionlessly, watching me for a long moment. He was a small man, stunted, with bowed legs. Beneath his black silken visor, his face was long-jawed, knobby, and remarkably ugly. I recognized him as one of the men in the band that had captured me on the rooftop, for there was no concealing those bowed legs.
Then he came over to the pallet and shook me by one bare shoulder. I pretended to come awake with a great start and stared up at him with an assumed expression of bewilderment.
He chuckled.
“Frightened you, lad? Naught to fear… yet, at any rate.” His voice was hoarse—I had later to learn his fondness for strong, unwatered wine—and he had an indescribable accent I can only describe as the Laonese equivalent of Cockney.
I jumped to my feet.
“What do you want with me?”
“Well, first of all, your name,” he said, seating himself on my little bench. I gave it.
“Karn… ‘tis not an Ardhan name,” he said, rolling the name on his tongue as if tasting it. I acknowledged that it was not.
“Be you a member of the Thieves’ Guild, then?” he asked, naming a small competitor of his own Guild, with which a certain contention existed for control of the criminal underworld in the city. I told him that I was not.
“Who is your master?”
“I have none.”
“Your parents, then?”
“No parents, either.”
He rubbed a long, big-knuckled hand along his knobby jaw.
“Do you know where you are?”
“I assume this to be the headquarters of the Assassins’ Guild,” I said.
He nodded. Then; “This is the house of Gurjan Tor,” he said impressively.
“And who might Gurjan Tor be?” I asked indifferently.
“He is the chief of the Guild and the most celebrated of all Assassins,” he said.
“Well, if he’s that important, what does he want with a mere boy?” I asked bluntly.
He grinned cheerfully, displaying a remarkable set of broken and decayed teeth.
“A reasonable question, lad; aye, reasonable. And I’ll say this by way of answer; he just might have a purpose for a lad as young as you who has the guts and the wits to rob the Ispycian Palace alone and unaided, carrying off a fistful of rare and precious antique coins…”
I said nothing. This was the first inkling I had gained that the coins from the coffers of Sarchimus were more than common legal tender.
The bowlegged little man shook his head admiringly.
“Yes, I’ll hand it to you, lad, it showed a clear head and good sense. Most lads would be too inexperienced, or too afeared, or both, to spot the value of them coins. Why, they’d try to lug off a man’s-weight of tapestry or an abrium statuette, and would trip over their own feet in getting away. But, no, you picked the most valuable items of their size and compactness—next best things to gems, which would be locked in the vaults, anyway. For which reason, it’s Gurjan Tor himself would see you now, so come along…”
Without further ado the comical little man led me down through the floor and into a maze of tunnels from which we soon emerged into dim-lit and unadorned corridors.
As I followed him, I speculated on my fate. Perhaps I might get out of this alive, after all!
And I thanked my lucky stars I had paused to fill my pouch with coins…
The house of the Assassins was a dark, empty, gloomy place, filled with shadows and whispers and unseen eyes. My guide led me into a rather large room, as Spartan and devoid of decorations as the one in which I had awakened, save for a large divan in its exact center.