“Show me,” he told her.
The woman’s glare did not go away, but she did not struggle or try to flee as she led him back to the servants’ passages and wound them most of the way back to where he’d entered. She indicated a door, paneled to look like the wall around it. Idrian gave it a shove, and it creaked open to reveal a dark, narrow staircase going down.
“How many exits?” he asked.
“From the undercroft? Just two – this one, and another into the stables on the west end of the palace.”
Idrian considered his options. Going down into the undercroft might well seal his fate. Up here, if an alarm was raised, he could make a break for it and hope the darkness fouled the aim of the guards. If he was cornered underground he wouldn’t have that luxury. He reached into the stairwell and found a gas lantern by the tiny flicker of its pilot light, and turned it up to illuminate the stone walls.
He was still considering it when a light suddenly illuminated the other end of the passage some thirty feet from him. It bobbed into sight, showing another figure in the duke’s livery, who held his lantern up over his head and peered hard in their direction. Idrian didn’t even have time to say a word before a voice was raised. “Intruder! Intruder! Raise the alarm, for the enemy is upon us!”
“Son of a…!” Idrian swore. He shoved his captive in the direction of her compatriot. He had moments to decide on his next course of action. With another curse, he leapt into the stairway of the undercroft and slammed the door shut behind him. It didn’t have so much as a latch, so he reached into Mika’s sack of grenades and pulled out one she’d painted black. It was about the size of his fist with the gauntlet on, and had a little chain and hook coming out of one end. Carefully, he hung it from the inner doorframe so that the chain would be pulled from the grenade if someone hastily opened the door.
Trap set, he hurried down the stairwell.
The undercroft was a massive basement, a single room twenty feet tall, broken up by the even march of columns from one end to the other, that took up the entirety of the palace floor plan. Even lighting several gas lanterns around the base of the stairwell, he could not see very far into the dark.
But he didn’t need that much light to see the treasure hoard before him. As the woman had promised, the valuables of the palace had been brought down here. Crate after crate were stacked head-high, rolled-up tapestries shoved between the stacks. Paintings were wrapped in linen. As a young man he’d taken a job in the Ossan Museum and had spent a summer moving around displays. This looked much like the basement of the museum.
Idrian moved quickly, no longer caring for stealth. Even down here he could hear that a commotion was being made up in the palace. He could not afford to let them barricade him in here. He estimated the size of the cinderite, ruling out everything smaller, and began attacking the stacks of crates. He found a crowbar quickly, and used it to pry lids off as fast as he could move. He found a sculpture of some philosopher. Old pottery. Gold and silver knickknacks. He ignored the treasures before him, knowing that none stacked up to the price of his sanity, and that slowing even for a moment could cost him his life.
A massive set of expensive porcelain dinnerware. Silver goblets. Crystal goblets. Platinum goblets. Godglass goblets. Glassdamn, someone in the ducal family loved goblets.
He could hear boots thumping up above. Soldiers were probably flooding the corridors upstairs at this very moment, demanding answers from the poor servant who’d raised the alarm and trying to figure out how stupid someone had to be to attempt to rob the ducal palace while it was being used as a barracks. He’d wasted valuable minutes already. How long did he have until they got over their confusion and came after him?
An explosion split the air, causing him to flinch and reach for the shield he wasn’t carrying. He placed the size and sound – Mika’s trap grenade. The soldiers were coming. With any luck, that had taken away their courage for a while longer.
He continued his search, kicking over crates, cracking the lids off them, bashing through wood with the crowbar. He wondered just how loudly his old overseer from the Ossan Museum would scream if she saw him now. Very, he imagined, but he had no time left. He knocked a box of crates over with his shoulder, grabbed the top one to tear off the lid, and froze. It had cracked when it fell, and through the crack he could see a familiar bit of stone-like texture. He slowed immediately and, taking great care, removed the lid the rest of the way.
The cinderite was about three feet long, four inches thick, with branching protrusions at irregular intervals. It looked like the trunk of a young tree turned to stone. He held his breath as he pulled it from the box and lifted it up to the light. No damage that he could see.
Setting the crowbar to one side, he laid his sheepskin out flat. He could hear shouting now, as officers at the top of the stairs argued loudly over whether to proceed further. Someone was screaming in pain somewhere in the palace – probably whoever had tripped the grenade trap. Idrian set the cinderite on the sheepskin, put a few long scraps of wooden crate on either side of it for stability, and then wrapped the whole package up and tied it with twine.
Using a leather strap, he slung it across his back, then ran to the base of the stairs. The arguing among the soldiers upstairs was fierce. They no longer thought he was a mere thief, and were wondering if he was a saboteur. He had moments until someone braved it again. Producing another of Mika’s grenades – this one painted orange – he set it down very obviously on the bottom step.
Just the doubt would slow them down.
What had the servant woman said? An exit into the stables on the west end? Idrian sprinted into the darkness, the sightglass hanging from his ears helping him stretch the light of the lanterns behind him just enough that he didn’t trip or run into anything as he went. He could hear his boots splashing in puddles on the stone floor, his breath coming out ragged. Even his hands were trembling.
Any moment now he was going to have a fight on his hands, and it wouldn’t be pretty. He was armed only with grenades. He reached the west wall and followed it, looking at the ceiling so hard that he almost missed the door just to his left. He threw it open only to find himself bathed in lamplight, blinking into the sudden brightness.
The blast of a carbine was deafening, a bullet ricocheting off the doorframe inches from his head. He threw himself backward into the undercroft with only a glimpse at his surroundings, and paused to catch his breath. The door let out into the back of the stables. He’d caught sight of two rows of stalls, stacks of hay bales, and the room filling with armed Grent soldiers.
So much for that way out.
There was shouting behind him now, back on the other side of the undercroft. Shouting ahead of him in the stables, too. Idrian growled softly, cursing himself for a fool. Trapped, just like he knew he’d be. What kind of a pissing idiot would do this to themselves? Searching through Mika’s sack of grenades, he found another orange one and pulled hard on the string coming out one end. Counting to three, he opened the door just enough to roll it into the pile of straw farther from him.
“Grenade!” someone shouted, and he could hear soldiers leaping for cover. A few moments passed, followed by a distinct cracking sound, and then someone else shouted in a far more frantic voice, “Fire!”
“Deal with that, assholes,” Idrian spat. He’d spotted another door now, farther along in the undercroft. He needed something; a crawlspace, a window – anything that would let him get out of here. He could see torches and lamps back by the treasure hoard, and he pulled a grenade out of his sack at random, yanked the string, and hurled it in that direction. It clattered along the stone, making it only about half the way toward those torches before it exploded.