Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [174]
I could not go back that way. What lay ahead? Storerooms and what else? Willing my pounding heart to steady, I concentrated my attention, straining my ears. Fool that I am, I nearly forgot my own advice and ignored my other senses. Fixed on listening for danger, I muttered a silent curse against the distractingly sharp odor of fresh-cut onion coming from somewhere beyond me.
Onion. The kitchen. I had learned from Tito that the guards took turns at cooking duty, for better or worse. The garrison fed itself with foodstuffs provided as tribute by the mainlanders; the prisoners ate their leftovers.
If there was one place on the island that would be deserted that night, it was the kitchen.
Now I did listen, and found the corridor quiet. Offeringsilent thanks to Eshmun for his protection, I rose to my feet and slid out from behind his statue. Keeping to the shadows as best I could, I made my way swiftly down the hall, following the scent of onions.
The kitchen was not far, located to the left at the end of the corridor. It was vast and dark, lit only by the glowing embers of the oven, the door of which stood ajar. A small stack of kindling and cordwood lay on the floor beside it, abandoned. A mound of coarse-chopped onion sat on the counter, and a string of sausages, not enough for garrison and prisoners alike. A meal, I guessed, for the guards coming off the first night shift of serving sentry duty at the bridge.
Only someone had crossed the bridge, or they would not be searching the island.
I don't think, then, I even dared to hope. Whatever it was, whoever, however—I had walked the bridge to La Dolorosa, swaying above the killing sea, while the sentries waited at the end, hand-axes poised above the hempen ropes. I could not imagine anyone crossing it in stealth. Partway, mayhap; even half or better, but there was no way to cross the whole of it unseen. So I did not dare hope or even plan, only sought, like a trapped creature, any avenue of escape.
By the dull glow of the embers, I explored the kitchen. It reeked of fresh onion and the stale odors of a thousand bygone meals. There were kettles and pots, a set of knives, and a stack of the trays used to bring food to the prisoners. Nothing more. Beyond a low archway lay the pantry. Here no light penetrated, and I was forced to explore blindly. Rashers of salt-cured bacon hung from the ceiling, easy to detect by smell. There were sacks of grain stacked along the walls, lentils and coarse-ground flour. I found baskets of aubergines, smooth-skinned and firm to the touch, and another of ripe gourds. They did not eat so poorly, the garrison of La Dolorosa, although from the leftover fare I'd been served, I could not give much credit to their culinary skill.
Well and good, I was surrounded by food. What of it? I was safe, and as trapped as before. Since there was nothingelse to do but backtrack and face the guards, I knotted Fabron's keys in a fold of my dress and began to make my way around the perimeter of the pantry, avoiding piles of provender, feeling along the cool stone walls with both hands.
It was out of a futile sense of obligation I did it, and no real thought of finding aught to serve my need. Which is why, when my hands encountered rough wood instead of stone, I stood stock-still in disbelief.
I swear I stood a full minute that way before I moved, feeling with cautious fingertips the arched shape of a window covered with heavy wooden shutters, brass-bound and sealed with an iron bar and padlock. A service window, I thought, to the outside. This was where goods were delivered to the pantry.
It was big enough to admit a sack of grain. I could fit through it.
My fingers trembled as I undid the knotted fold of my dress and removed Fabron's keys, fumbling for the small one. It had to be! My lips moving in silent prayer, I fitted the key into the padlock. It took me three tries, my hand shook so.
But it fit.
With a faint click, the padlock opened. I removed it carefully and stooped to lay it on the floor. With agonizing slowness,