Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [37]
She leaped up, planting both feet against the arbor trellis, and leaned back, hauling at the rope. After a moment, the man went silent. Bronwyn tied the garrotte firmly to the trellis, then edged around to the other side. The man’s bulging eyes bore witness to the effectiveness of her attack. She took a long, steadying breath and slipped into the icehouse.
The villa was well appointed, even to the small, thick-walled building that stored blocks of ice cut from the nearby river, a luxury in the coming months of summer. The house was nearly full now, and as cold as midwinter. Bronwyn drew her cloak closer about her as she edged through the narrow aisle between the blocks.
At the end of the aisle she found another hidden door. Bronwyn slid it aside and stepped into a dark, small tunnel. She felt about for the promised shelf and the candles kept there. She lit one and proceeded down a narrow passage to a flight of steep stairs.
According to the elf landlord, this passage led through the back wall, up into the most lavish bedchamber. Surely she would find Malchior there. She only hoped that she would find him alone.
Bronwyn crept along the passage, then up a flight of steep wooden stairs. She moved slowly, easing her way along so that no creak would betray her presence. With each step, she felt increasingly uneasy. There were no cobwebs in the tunnel, no sign of mice. How could a passage so well-used be secret?
Just as she considered turning around, the passage ended at another door, this one a sliding door of thin wood, hidden by a tapestry Malchior was apparently alone, and at prayer. Bronwyn clamped her eyes shut and tried not to listen as the dreadful cadence of the chant rose and fell. Knowing that Malchior worshiped Cyric was one thing; it was quite another to stand by while the dark and evil god was invoked.
Finally Malchior finished his devotions. Bronwyn could hear his grunt of exertion as he hauled his bulky frame up off his knees, and then the creaking protest of the wooden floor as he walked past.
The next part was the riskiest. Bronwyn eased the door aside, edged past the tapestry, and peeked into the room. Malchior was not alone, after all, but the young woman with whom he’d shared the evening was already thoroughly, messily dead. So much for the elf’s carpets, Bronwyn noted grimly. The tawdry much-patched feminine garments cast over a chair suggested that the woman had been from the Dock Ward, perhaps a tavern wench who’d been lured to the villa by one of Malchior’s men with the promise of easy coin, earned by enduring an old man’s brief embrace. How could she know that the jovial, rotund priest took his pleasure in death and the power that came with the dealing of death?
Bronwyn’s heart thundered as she drew her knife and waited. She watched as the priest poured himself a glass of deep red wine from a silver decanter and raised it to the dead woman in salute. He sipped, closing his eyes as if savoring a pleasant memory Then, humming lightly, he sauntered toward the bath-and past the tapestry
She leaped out of her hiding place and kicked out hard.
Her booted foot all but disappeared into the vast, fleshy belly, but the shot had the desired effect. Malchior wheezed like a bellows and went down.
Bronwyn seized a handful of his hair and dragged his head back. Stepping behind him, she placed her knife hard against his throat. “Shout out and you’re dead,” she informed him in a low, furious tone.
It took Malchior a few minutes to marshal his facility for speech, but when he did reply it was with admirable aplomb. “I am quite capable of discerning the obvious,” he wheezed out. “Speak your mind. My bath is cooling. Or better yet, you may disrobe and join me.”
She almost had to admire the man’s gall. “The obvious question, then, is this: why did you try to take me the other night? Was it another of your games?”