Fire - Kristin Cashore [112]
Fire did one more sweep of the corridors, of the courtyards, of Murgda and Murgda’s people, reassuring herself that no one was suspicious and nothing was out of place. With a great sigh she turned her mind back to the room to find Mila kneeling on the floor before her, gripping her hand, and others in her guard, and Garan and Nash, watching her anxiously. It was a comfort to find herself still with them.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Now for my own journey.’
FIRE FLOATED DOWN the hallway on Nash’s arm, flanked by members of both of their guards and attracting a great deal of attention. The couple climbed the central stairway to level three, as Gentian had done, but turned in the opposite direction and wound through the corridors, stopping finally before the entrance to Fire’s rooms.
‘Good night to you, Lady,’ Nash said. ‘I hope you’ll recover from your headache.’
He took her hand, raised her fingers to his mouth, and kissed them; then dropped them and slumped darkly away. Fire looked after him with true fondness, not on her face but into his mind, for he was playing his part very well tonight, and she knew it was hard on him, even if the lovestruck and jealous monarch was not much of a stretch.
Then Fire smiled sweetly at Murgda’s and Gentian’s tails - several of whom smiled back at her idiotically - and went into her rooms. Fingers pressed to temples, she forced her mind through an examination of the grounds and the skies outside her window.
‘There’s no one out there,’ she told her guard, ‘and no raptor monsters. Let’s begin.’
Musa creaked Fire’s window open and took a blade to the screen. Cold air poured into the room, bits of slush spitting onto the carpet. Fire spared a thought for Brigan and his guard, who would be riding later in that sleet. Musa and Mila lowered a rope ladder out the window.
The ladder’s in place, she thought to the soldiers in the room below. She heard their window squeak open, and checked the skies and the grounds again. No one was there, not even the green house guard.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’m going.’
She felt then, suddenly, how loath Musa was to let Fire go, how it pained Musa to send Fire anywhere alone and unguarded. Fire held Musa’s hand harder than was necessary. ‘I’ll call for you if I need you,’ she promised. Tight-lipped, Musa helped her out the window into the cold.
Her dress and slippers were not made for winter, nor for anything approximating weather, but rather clumsily she managed the descent to the window below. Soldiers pulled her inside and tried not to stare as she straightened her dress. Then they tucked her under the cloth of a wheeled cart bearing food bound for level seven.
It was a fine, sturdy cart, and Nash’s floors were strong and smooth, and a minute or two of determined shivering under the tablecloth warmed her. A servant pushed her through the halls and then wheeled her onto the lift, which rose on its ropes without a single creak or jolt. On level seven another servant rolled her out. He followed her mental directions down hallways and around corners, finally pushing her into the far northern corridor and stopping outside the room containing Gentian and Gunner.
She reached upward to find Brigan. He was not there.
Sweeping around in a panic, she realised what she’d done. Rocks, she seethed to Brigan. Monster rocks. I miscalculated. I did not send them to the rooms directly below yours. They’re one suite over to the west.
Brigan sent assurance that he wasn’t worried about this. He could scale the balconies to the neighbouring rooms.
They’re occupied rooms.
He was certain they weren’t.
Not the ones on your level, Brigan. The ones on mine. I’ve led Gentian and Gunner to occupied rooms. Quisling? Quisland? Someone beginning with Q. Her head stabbed with pain. Should I try to move them again? I think Gunner would refuse. Oh, this is dreadful. I’ll spread the word that the fellow beginning with Q must be kept from his rooms somehow, and his wife and servants and guards too. I can’t think what we’ll do with Gentian and Gunner’s bodies now, she thought bitterly,