Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [128]
And so, Nightshade remembered suddenly, am I!
“I don’t suppose,” Nightshade muttered, speaking to the god, “that you ever helped anyone pick a lock before, or that you ever wanted to help anyone pick a lock before, but please, Majere, please help me do this!”
Sweat dripped down Nightshade’s nose. He wiggled the splinter around in the lock, trying to find the whatever it was that he was supposed to find that would click and make the lock open. All he knew was that he would feel it, he would trip it, and if he was successful, he would hear it go “snick.”
He concentrated, shutting out everything, and suddenly a sweet feeling stole over him—a feeling of joy, a feeling that everything in this world belonged to him, and that if there were no locks, no closed doors, no secrets, this world would be a much better place. He felt the joy of the open road, of never sleeping in the same place twice, of finding a jail that was warm and dry and a jailer as nice as Gerard. He felt the joy of stumbling across interesting things that glittered, smelled good, or were soft or shiny. He felt the joy of full pouches.
The splinter touched what it was supposed to touch, and something went “snick,” and that was the most wonderful sound in the universe.
The manacle fell open in Nightshade’s hand.
“Father!” he cried excitedly. “Father, did you see that?”
He didn’t have time to wait for an answer, which might be long in coming, for his father had long ago gone off to pick locks in some other existence. Crawling over the debris and through the water, keeping fast hold of the splinter, Nightshade found the manacle that was clamped around Rhys’s other wrist and he thrust the splinter into the lock and it went “snick” too.
Nightshade took a moment to lift up Rhys’s head out of the water. He propped Rhys up on a rock and then fished about until he found Rhys’s feet. Nightshade had to dig them out from beneath a pile of rubble, but Atta helped him, and after more expert lock picking, he heard two more immensely satisfying “snicks”, and Rhys was free.
An extremely good thing, for by now the water level in the grotto had risen so high that, even with his head propped up, Rhys was in danger of drowning.
Nightshade squatted down beside his friend. “Rhys, if you could wake up now, it would be really helpful, because my head hurts, my legs are all wobbly, and there are a lot of rocks in the way, not to mention the water. I don’t think I can carry you out of here, so if you could get up and walk …”
Nightshade waited hopefully, but Rhys did not move.
The kender gave another deep sigh then, slipping the precious splinter into a pocket, he reached down and took hold of Rhys’s shoulders, intending to drag him across the grotto floor.
He made it about six inches, then his arms gave out and so did his legs. He sat down with a plop in the water and wiped away sweat.
Atta growled.
“I can’t do it, Atta,” Nightshade mumbled. “I’m sorry. I tried. I really did try—”
Atta wasn’t growling at him. Nightshade heard the sounds of feet—a great many feet—sloshing through water. Then there was bright light that hurt his eyes, and six monks of Majere, clad in orange robes and carrying flaming torches, hurried past the kender.
Two of the monks held the torches. Four monks bent down, picked up Rhys gently by his arms and legs, and carried Rhys swiftly out of the grotto. Atta dashed after them.
Nightshade sat alone in the darkness, staring about in dazed wonder.
Torchlight returned. A monk stood over him, looked down on him. “Are you hurt, friend?”
“No,” said Nightshade. “Yes. Maybe a little.”
The monk placed a cool hand on Nightshade’s forehead. The pain disappeared. Strength flowed into his limbs.
“Thank you, Brother,” said Nightshade, allowing the monk to help him to his feet. He still felt a little wobbly. “I guess Majere sent you, huh?”
The monk did not reply, but he continued to smile, so Nightshade, knowing Rhys didn’t talk much either and assuming maybe this was normal with monks, took the monk’s silence for a yes.
As Nightshade and the