“Less efficacious?” asked Sir Hereward. “In exactly what proportion? Those are death curses, are they not?”
“Indeed,” said Fitz. He licked the roof with his long, blue, fabriclike tongue, picking up the moisture he would need in lieu of the saliva his mouth did not make, moistened one of the pieces of paper, and carefully pasted it over the gold ribbon, pressing it hard against the brickwork of the chimney. The runes in the gold began to glow hotly, before being soothed and quietened by the counterspells on the paper. “They will now merely cause a pang, an ache, or something of that order.”
“There are many degrees and varieties of ache,” said Sir Hereward gloomily. But he took the coil of rope off his shoulder and pressed the catch on the grapnel that extended its three barbed arms. “Shall I fix this in place now?”
“Not yet,” said the puppet, who was peering closely at the lip of the chimney. He took another paper, wet it in the same manner, and stuck it over the cornice. “A clever mage. There were hidden spells upon the top bricks. But I believe it is now safe enough to proceed. Are you confident of the plan?”
“If everything is as we have been told, and as you have scried,” said Sir Hereward. “Which, of course, is almost certainly not the case. But I do not think Montaul suspects our coming, which is something.”
The house whose ensorcelled roof they were perched upon belonged to the aforementioned Montaul, commonly known as “Flatpurse”—not because of his poverty but because of his vast riches, which he denied existed and did not easily spend. He had drawn the attention of Sir Hereward and Mister Fitz, who were only house-robbers upon occasion, because two days previously he had secretly taken delivery of a cargo of ivory figurines, seventy-four finger-high carvings that represented the godlets of the far kingdom of Asantra-Lurre. Possibly unbeknownst to Montaul, fourteen of the figurines were not merely representations of godlets but energistic anchors that secured the actual deities to this mortal plane and could be used to summon them into renewed existence. As the said godlets were all proscribed for various reasons, usually their inimical nature, the destruction of the ivories had long been sought by the Council of the Treaty for the Safety of the World, the possibly mythical, often thought defunct, and generally surprising sisterhood that Sir Hereward had been born into, his male gender a surprise that had not been allowed to interfere with his usefulness. Mister Fitz, on the other hand, was both male and female, or neither, or whichever he wished to be, and had served the Council in various roles almost since its establishment by a number of now mostly vanished polities several millennia gone.
In other places, or perhaps other times, it would not have been necessary for Sir Hereward and Mister Fitz to climb over the rooftops and make entry into Montaul’s house through a death-charm-warded chimney. But the city of Kwakrosh was far from any of the Council’s traditional allies who might exert some influence or force. Here, Montaul was not only a councillor and a colonel of the city’s trained bands, he also reluctantly but wisely paid good, fine-minted money to a great number of judges, advocates, watchmen, and thief-takers to ensure that if any criminal activity was going on, it would be done by him rather than to him or to his exceedingly valuable property.
Hence the rooftop in the rain and the descent down the chimney.
Sir Hereward gritted his teeth as he lifted one leg over the papered charms to straddle the chimney stack, expecting something like a dagger strike to the groin, this being the kind of thing Mister Fitz might call an ache. But there was only a faint tingle, reminiscent of the sensation usually called pins and needles, that came from sitting too long in one spot.
Fastening the grapple to the lip of the chimney, he let the rope down as slowly and quietly as he could, till it hung slack. If the plans they had bribed the chimney-tax inspector to provide were accurate, the rope should now be hanging a foot or so above the top of the open hearth. Close enough to drop easily but hidden from view.
“Considering the quantity of Alastran wine you drank last night, I think we should take a moment to recapitulate the plan,” said Mister Fitz quietly. “I go first, to take care of any additional sorcerous defenses. You follow on the count of eight …”
“Ten. I thought we agreed ten,” whispered Sir Hereward. “What if there is something that takes you more than a moment to dispel? I don’t want to blunder into a death spell or skin separator or the like.”
“Very well. You follow upon the count of ten. We emerge in the Great Hall, likely deserted—”
“Hmmpf,” said Hereward, which was not exactly disagreement but a certain hedging of bets.
“Likely deserted due to Montaul’s parsimony, apart from the hounds who have free range of the interior,” continued Mister Fitz. “If they are present, we throw the soporific bone I prepared earlier … I trust you have that somewhere easy to reach?”
Sir Hereward indicated the left leg of his breeches, where there was an unusually large bulge that extended almost to his knee, marking the position of the segmented bone that Mister Fitz had imbued with a sleeping spell for dogs. The bone itself was jointed in quarters, to allow each of the four lurchers, grippers, alaunts, or whatever breed of guard dog there was inside to tear off and secure its own portion. The merest lick would then send them to sleep. Fortunately, the soporific bone only worked on dogs, so it was safe to handle. Mister Fitz knew many variations for other species, though when he prepared it for humans, the spell was normally emplaced in confectionary or sweetmeats, unless intended for cannibals such as the terrible inhabitants of the ruined city of Coradon.
“We turn right, along the hall, up the steps, and through the inner door to the countinghouse,” said Mister Fitz. “Scrying suggests that this inner way is not locked when Montaul is in residence, he likes to come and go, but in any case I have two remaining curiosities, which should suffice to pick the lock if it proves necessary.”
“We grab the ivories, open the main door of the countinghouse from the inside, go across the courtyard, fight the gate guards who won’t be expecting us, go out the night postern, and run away,” picked up Hereward. “Simple, elegant, straightforward.”
“I would not describe it as elegant,” said Mister Fitz. “However, it should serve the purpose. Shall we proceed?”
“Please do,” said Sir Hereward, inclining his head as if acknowledging someone of importance at a ball or court levee.
Mister Fitz gripped the rope with both gauntleted hands and began to climb down the rope headfirst, his blue-pupiled eyes staring down into the sooty darkness.
Hereward counted to twelve before he followed. His movements were not as fluid as the puppet’s, but he climbed with a spare efficiency, the technique learned years before as a supernumerary aboard the pirate chaser Termagant Biter returning to him without conscious thought.
The chimney, though rarely used, in accordance with Montaul’s cheeseparing ways that begrudged the purchase of any fuel, was still caked with soot. Though Hereward tried to keep to the rope and only touch the side with his feet, he swung a few times on the way down, and his back and elbows dislodged a considerable quantity of choking, black dust. Much of it blew up as well as sinking down, so that by the time he gently lowered himself down next to Mister Fitz, they were both entirely blackened, their chimney-sweep disguises much enhanced.
The Hall was not only empty, but very dark. Montaul did not approve of candles or lanterns in rooms where he was not present. Mister Fitz could see perfectly well, but Sir Hereward had to depend upon his ears alone, and he didn’t like what he was hearing. A wet, slobbery snuffling that sounded likely to precede the crunch of large teeth, and it was much closer than he deemed secure. It also did not sound particularly like a dog. It was louder and just … different.