Adventures Of Myhr Part 14

"Yup, I think it is, yup, yup."

"Let's go back to the house," Debreban suggested. "If we run like h.e.l.l-"

"Sounds like a plan," I said, starting to back away.

Shankey hesitated. "If something's down here I have a duty to find out if it's a threat to my house."

"How about figuring it out with lots of well-armed reinforcements for company? If that noise has a magical source we're going to be out of our league, anyway."

"If it's magical, thenyou can handle it." Somehow Shankey had gotten behind me. He had to shout to be heard above the welling sound. "You're a wizard, aren't you?"

"Oh, h.e.l.l," I said, my ears going flat.

The low sound intensified to an extended growling roar. The blast of it in the confining walls of the tunnel was too much. I put my hands over my head and dropped, doing a half-remembered duck-and-cover routine. Shankey and Debreban did the same, the three of us cowering against the walls as the sound grew in power, swelling like thunder.

"Iron!" I bellowed at them.

They looked up, scared, perplexed, way out of their league for sure. That or they couldn't hear me.

"Have. You. Got.Iron? "

Shankey missed it, but Debreban must have caught enough to understand. He gave me his lantern. Istarted to push it back, then realized it was metal. Iron or not, cold iron or not, it would have to do. I grabbed the ring handle, stood, and threw it down the tunnel like a grenade.

It had about the same effect. The hideous roar ceased so abruptly that you could hear the softer clang of the lantern rolling to a stop on the stone floor.

We were left with one pitiful little light. And eardrums. Functioning eardrums were good.

"Whatwas that?" Shankey whispered in awe.

"A burglar alarm, I think."

"Will it come back?"

I shrugged, brus.h.i.+ng off my knees. I wanted a good all-over combing-out to get my back hairs down, but knew it wouldn't hold. There was still something nasty hanging around. This time I couldsmell it. Nag Champa incense it was not.

"Hoo," said Debreban, his face s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up in reaction. "What's that?"

"Lots of things," I said. "You don't want to know about them, either." I wished I didn't. My nose was into overtime picking out graveyard stench, rotting fish, rotting flesh,eau de Dumpster in hundred-degree weather, sewer stink, month-old armpit sweat. All the bad smells I'd ever experienced in my whole life seemed to be down here having a convention.

"Ugh." Shankey found a handkerchief, but had trouble pressing it to his face while juggling with his sword and lantern. I took the latter from him and held it out. The tiny flame still burned a normal yellow color, meaning that despite the stink there was plenty of oxygen for us.

"This is another kind of burglar alarm," I told them. "Revolting, but not life-threatening."

I hoped.

We hesitantly moved ahead, retrieving the lantern I'd thrown. It was a tough piece of workmans.h.i.+p, just a dent or three and the gla.s.s broken. Some of the oil had leaked out, but enough remained to re-light it, which we did.

"Faugh!" said Shankey. "Let's go. I can't take much more of this."

"It's an illusion," I said. "Ignore it and it'll fade."

"You sure?"

"No. But I think its presence means there might be a magic hideaway nearby. The noise and smell are supposed to discourage visitors. When was the last time anyone was down here?"

"A couple of years, maybe. It's not a popular place."

"Try a couple of weeks." I pointed down. The coat of dust on the floor showed signs of recent traffic.

There was a thin path worn in it, and even the marks of something heavy having been dragged along. "Huh." Shankey's attention s.h.i.+fted from the stink. "Wonder where that leads?"

"No one uses this to get to the stables anymore?"

"No need. When we want a horse or carriage we just send a page running across to have them brought to the house. The lord who made the tunnel should have thought that up instead of going to all this work."

"Maybe he was part-gopher."

Shankey stared at my cat's face and slowly nodded.

I went back to studying the tracks, then following them. They stopped in mid-tunnel on the right-hand side. "Who's wants to bet there's secret door here?"

No takers. They were both closely checking the wall.

"I'll bet it can only be opened by a spell," said Shankey, cautiously prodding with his sword tip. "I heard stories about these things. You have to have a certain magic word or you get turned into a frog."

Debreban hastily backed away. "We should let the expert deal with it."

I knew what he was thinking: with me already being part-cat a little frog in the mix wouldn't be noticed.

To h.e.l.l with that. "You're right. We'll talk to my partner; he's great at opening up all kinds of things."

Besides, my whiskers were twitching so much they tickled. "We can bring him back this way. He loves scary places."

"Let's hurry, then." Shankey pushed himself from the wall. It responded with a grinding noise.

Uh-oh.

He stopped in mid-motion and poked at a long, vertical crack that had appeared. "This could be what we want."

I could argue against that a.s.sumption. A lot. Outside.

But he pushed again. The crack widened to a dark opening. The pivoting door was narrow, but sufficient for a man to use. There was a change in the air quality, s.h.i.+fting to a stifling chemical taint, like you find in the insecticide aisle at a store. Shankey held his lantern ahead. The flame remained rea.s.suringly yellow.

"Look at the stuff in here!" he said.

We couldn't do that until he went in, which he did. I reluctantly followed. Debreban was content to hang back over the threshold.

"Watch where you step," Shankey cautioned.

Gla.s.s and crockery shards were all over the floor, crunching underfoot. The chemical stink seemed to come from them, or what had been in them, which was also on the floor, dried pools of multicolored whatever. The chamber was round, completely enclosed, and a good twenty feet across. Shankey found some candles on a tall metal stand and lighted them, revealing more detail.

A few tables, lots of paper, lots of books, not a lot of fresh air. The walls and low ceiling were black, from soot or paint, I couldn't tell. Either one would be depressing. Was depressing. The latent magical power in the room pulsed at me like radiation. Oh, yeah, Terrin wouldlove this.

"Looks like your lord was into some heavy s.h.i.+t here," I said. My voice fell flat between the thick walls.

They were fuzzy, as though coated with sound-dampening material. I didn't check too closely in case it turned out to be some kind of disgusting super-mold.

"Uhn," agreed Shankey. "What's this?" He pointed to a scattering of polished stone fragments in the exact center of the place.

"Might have been a scrying mirror. Someone must have dropped it."

"Or smashed it." He indicated a wooden hammer with a metal head attached that lay nearby. It looked like an overgrown croquet mallet and was pretty battered.

I picked it up. Cold iron again. Solid. I felt better with it in hand and held it close. My muzzle whiskers calmed down a little.

"This is interesting." Shankey pointed to an oddity in a room full of weirdness.

At our feet was a vaguely man-shaped outline in the broken gla.s.s. I made out the trunk and out-flung arms as if someone had been lying on the floor while someone else smashed things around the body. I'd seen an identical setting in a Sherlock Holmes movie. From there I followed a dragging path in the debris that went straight to the door.

"Just how did your lord die?" I asked.

"His heart failed him. Best healers in the city said so. The overduke held an inquiry to make sure."

"Where did he die?"

"In his bedchamber. Happened while he slept. Lady Filima said he was gone and cold when she woke up that morning. She was in quite a state. You don't think that it was him who made those marks?"

I shrugged. "Who else knows about the secret tunnel?"

"A few in the household, myself, Lady Filima."

"Who else knows about this room?"

"h.e.l.l,I didn't know about it 'til we got here! I thought I knew every inch of the house and grounds. That's my job."

"It could have once been an old grain storage bin," suggested Debreban.

"Why hide it with a concealed door?" I asked.

"Famine. Times past weren't always so good in Rumpock. If food was short you'd want to keep yourh.o.a.rd safe but easy to get to. Or it could have been a weapons cache, or a place for the household to hide out during a siege."

"Then the lord of the house stumbles across it and turns it into a private den for spell work?"

"Why not? Especially if whatever he was up to had to be kept secret."

"You think he was up to something?"

Debreban nodded. "Nothing wholesome, either. A couple of my mum's relatives used to do small magic, healings and such. They told stories about the people who went in for the dark side of it. Secrecy was a necessity. They had to work in hidden, out-of-the-way places to keep from being detected by others who might stop them."

It made sense. If Filima's late hubby was up to no good, he'd want a s.h.i.+elded spot close to home to play. This sure filled the bill. Terrin would probably confirm everything once we got him here. While he did that I would have a private chat with Filima. Maybe Botello Darmo didn't mention his getaway to the head of his house guard, but sure as anything his wife would know. He might not have mentioned it to her, either, but shewould know. Women are like that, so I do my best never to lie to them. It never pays.

"I think this is enough for now," I said. "Let's split."

The slang translated just fine. Debreban backed clear of the door. Shankey and I went through and pushed it into place. The balance was perfect; it swiveled easily.

"You can't see the seam at all," Shankey marveled, holding his lantern close. "I'd better mark it so we can find it again. He pushed on the door, wedged a handkerchief into the crack, and let it close again.

The square of white cloth hung at shoulder height.

"Did you hear that?" I asked.

"Not again," Debreban groaned. "Hear what?"

"A voice. Someone calling my name. Quiet a second."

They obligingly went silent, listening.

"There it is again," I said, turning my head back up the tunnel. But that wasn't right. I looked down the tunnel, still hearing someone calling to me, but unable to fix a direction. As there were only two to choose from it was confusing.

"I don't hear anything," they said in unison.

"My ears are better, but . . . something's off here."

Myhr! Where the h.e.l.l are you?!

I jumped. The volume was at conversation level, loud and clear, as though the speaker stood right next to me. Shankey and Debreban were still deaf to it and giving me funny looks.

Myhr! Come back to the inn. Now! Terrin's voice? What the h.e.l.l was he doing in my head? I asked him. Out loud. And I thought my escorts had given me funny looks before.

SOS, mayday, mayday, mayday. Get your a.s.s back here! Myhr!

Okay, he could send, not receive, and something was seriously wrong. He'd never done this before.

"Come on, guys," I said, starting briskly down the tunnel, my fear of the dark shoved aside. "I got a situation. Wizard stuff. Let's move."

Outside Clem's Place First the failed love spell, then Botello's needling and psychic a.s.sault, Debreban not reporting back, more orders and a.s.saults from the imperious Botello, and finally the surprise invitation to dinner at the overduke's palace. Lord Cadmus hadn't had such a full day in ages.

At least the dinner and a comfortable sleepover in the palace would be a pleasant experience. Anton had a famous cook, and with Velma playing hostess Cadmus would have someone decorative to feast his eyes upon and practice complimenting.

Then there was the plumbing. Like Filima's house the ducal palace had the very latest in water pipes, with bathtubs that didn't require an army of servants to heat and carry water. Thus far only the rich could afford this, so Cadmus had yet to install any at his place. To repay his host for the luxury of such a bath, Cadmus would be cheerfully entertaining for the dinner conversation. Talk would probably be about that dreary h.e.l.l-river and how to get rid of it, but he was certain he could subtly s.h.i.+ft things over to the topic of Filima. She and Velma were old friends from their show business travels. Old friends always knew useful things about each other. Cadmus welcomed this opportunity to press Velma for courts.h.i.+p advice, so he'd sent the overduke's patiently waiting pages back with an enthusiastic acceptance of the invitation.

Then he had to leave on Botello's errand. Drat the man.I have better things to do, like deciding what to wear tonight. That crucial decision would have to wait, though, until Cadmus found this wizard or mage or whoever it was Botello was in such a furious twist over.

During his tedious trudge through the city Cadmus concluded there was entirely too much red paint used on signs in Rumpock. He'd been all around the bell tower district, on the lookout for red letters, his other senses wide open to pick up the smallest whiff of magic. Too much lettering and no magic at all: Botello would throw another fit. Well and good if he wasted his power, but Cadmus wondered about surviving another outburst. Each one had gotten progressively stronger and more painful. Botello would be in an even nastier mood when the time came to deliver the awful news that the Talent had inconveniently died in a street brawl.I'll deal with Botello somehow or other, Cadmus decided.

And hopefully live another day.