Azure bonds - Kate Novak [158]
The Fire Knife dropped the melon and swung his blade downward. Olive dove to the right, and the steel blade sparked off the stonework, sending a ringing peal of doom through the hall and up the stairs. The assassin whirled and slashed in a cross-cut. Olive dipped her head slightly, and the blade swiped over her. The man's reflexes were trained in battling opponents his own size.
Olive slipped inside his guard and thrust his partner's short sword upward in the all-too-ample space between his leather jerkin and his belt. The blade sank deep into the flesh. Blood welled from the wound. The Fire Knife stepped backward, but Olive moved with him like a bulldog, wriggling and twisting the sword.
The assassin grabbed at her hair with his left hand, but before he could take advantage of his grip, he gurgled and collapsed on top of his enemy. It was several moments before Olive could get any air into her lungs and wriggle out from beneath her vanquished foe.
Blood stained the entire length of her gown.
"Like falling off a log," she muttered to herself. "Nothing to it. Done it lots of times." She tried to pant more quietly, listening for others. If anyone else was still in the house, they would have heard the fight.
There was no other sound but her labored breathing.
She returned to the pedestal and began exploring its carved edges for a catch to open the secret door. Badly rattled, her fingers ran over the surface for almost three minutes before she managed to press just the right bit of fluting. The wall in the back of the alcove slid open, revealing a spiral stairway leading down.
Stealing a torch from a wall sconce and the obese assassin's short sword, the bard pattered down the steps. The air grew chill and damp as she descended. At the bottom, a passage was cut deeply into the bedrock. The passage was lighted by a magical glow issuing from statues of demons mounted on the walls-magical light that did not flicker, but shone in steady red beams from the red glass eyes and in white fans from the tops of their heads. Along the right side of the passage were three archways blocked by cage bars. The passage continued on, lit by a pearl-like string of red and white lights.
Beyond the first archway lay an empty cell, clean but for a dark red smear streaking the back wall. The second cell caged a mass of rotting cloaks and blankets. Akabar hung in the third cell, the chains of his manacles attached to a hook in the ceiling. The Turmishman's toes dangled three inches from the floor. The assassins had left him in the cold and damp with nothing but a sheet wrapped around his waist. His face was puffy and discolored. Blood trickled from his mouth and welled in the troughs of four-fingered scratches across his right cheek and chest. Ruskettle could not remember Cassana's nails being particularly long. Then she recalled the sharpened finger bones of Zrie Prakis, and shuddered.
"Akabar," she hissed, wondering if there were any other Fire Knives left behind to guard the prisoners. She searched the bars for a door or a lock, but they ran from ceiling to floor without a break.
"Akabar!" she said louder.
In the cell next door the mound of furs and cloaks stirred. Olive started and watched the pile closely. A man's head poked out. His hair and beard were shaggy and black, with splotches of gray and white. His eyes were blue and rheumy. His face was lined with cracks of old age and cold. Cocking his head he chirped, "Hullo."
Olive cast a glance back at Akabar, but the mage had not moved. "Uh, greetings. You must be the crafter. Are we alone here?" she whispered.
"No," the crafter said, shaking loose the furs and cloaks. He rose slowly to his feet, and his legs wobbled as if he'd been bedridden for a long time. He wore a tattered tabard that must have once been purple and green, but was now