“So we find shields,” Islif told him, “somewhere in here, before we try to come out.”
“And let Doust, Agannor, and Bey die? ”
“And just how many of us d’you want to join them in their graves?” the warrior woman snapped. “If we go out there while they’re waiting, bows aimed at the d-”
“Be still! ” Pennae snarled fiercely, clutching and shaking them both ere flinging out one arm to point. “Look! ‘The rest are hidden in the door,’ remember?”
They looked where she was pointing. Agannor’s feet were still kicking feebly across the threshold, keeping the thick door open-and in the exposed doorframe they could see a tall, narrow slot of darkness.
Islif swung her lantern. It was a niche, running back into the wall, with something dark in it that looked like wood. Pennae pounced.
“Watch for foes!” she snapped, waving at the distant entry doors. Florin spun around obediently, but Islif watched as Pennae, on her knees, held her dagger ready in one hand and with the other drew forth… a flat wooden box, dark with damp.
The thief’s arm started to spasm and shudder. She looked up at Islif, a tense frown on her face.
“There’s a spell on this,” she breathed. “I can feel the tingling clear up my arm! Let’s take it yonder. Get Agannor back so we can close the door.”
Islif and Florin sprang to do so, dragging the white-faced Agannor a little way into the slant passage. He was gasping blood and moaning when they started-but he’d fainted by the time they’d finished.
“Stand guard over him and the door,” Pennae ordered. “Throw his sword and dagger at anyone who opens it, whether they have a crossbow or not.”
Then she clutched the box to her breast and ran down the slant passage, past the silent, huddled heap that was Bey, to the clustered lanterns of the rest of the Swords.
Their weapons were drawn and their faces were grim-and Doust lay in their midst, pillowed on Semoor’s leather jack, looking weak and pale. On the floor behind them was a dark and sticky lake that hadn’t been there before: Doust’s blood, the crossbow bolt Semoor had drawn forth lying at its heart.
“Martess! Jhessail!” Pennae hissed. “There’s magic on this. Strong magic.”
Jhessail spread her hands helplessly, but she and Martess knelt on the other side of the box from Pennae as the thief carefully set it on the floor.
Drawing in a deep breath, Pennae looked up into the intent gazes of the rest of the Swords, then down again at the box. Its lid was a slab of wood that slid along two grooves carved into the inside of its side walls, with a thumb-dimple handle. Pennae used the point of her dagger rather than her thumb to gingerly slide it open.
And nothing happened.
Everyone waited, barely breathing, but still nothing happened. Quietly. Martess laid her fingers on the box, flinched, and then asked, “Preservative spell, or some sort of message magic? We’re feeling it because it’s collapsing, perhaps?”
“ ‘Perhaps’ just about anything is happening,” Pennae agreed wryly. “But this is good to see.” She pointed down at what the box held: a row of nine metal vials.
“Fine steel, completely free of rust, cork-stoppered and wax sealed… and all of them bear this same symbol.”
She pointed at the nearest mark, a tiny red-painted character that looked more or less like a human right hand.
Atop the vials lay a scrap of parchment bearing the words: “Rivior, these are the last. With these, my debt is discharged. Look to see me no more.” The message was signed with an elaborate rune.
“Never seen it before,” Jhessail said, “but it takes no learning to know ’tis a wizard’s sigil.” Martess nodded.
“So these are-or were-potions,” Pennae said. “Magic quaffs.”
“But drinking them does what?” Martess asked.
“And are they all the same,” Jhessail put in, “or is that mark the mage who made them?”
“Or the smith who made the vials,” Pennae pointed out.
The three women stared at each other. There were shrugs ere they turned with one accord to look at Doust.
“He’s dying,” Semoor said bleakly, on his knees beside his wounded friend, “so pour one of those down his throat. You can’t hurt him more.”
Pennae took up a vial, sliced the wax with her dagger, teased forth the cork stopper, and sniffed the open top. Then she cradled Doust’s head and put the vial to his lips, her thumb ready to become a stopper if he choked or spat.
Doust swallowed it down and his eyes flickered. Then he looked up at them, brightening visibly. “Pain going,” he gasped. “Just like that.”
Pennae nodded. “Clear, colorless, and no stink to it that I could smell. Sparkled, going into him.” Doust was looking stronger, and his face was less pale. “Taste?” she asked him.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he jested feebly. “Cool, tingling… hard to find words… like swallowing a cool breeze.”
“Good,” Pennae said, letting his head fall back onto the jack. She looked at Semoor. “Watch him. If anything goes bad-he starts to turn to stone or grow scales or something-shout out quick!”
Sliding the case shut, she took it up and hurried back down the passage to Bey, Jhessail and Martess right behind her.
The warrior looked dead, but his mouth was open. She sat on his stomach and poured the potion down his throat, slapping her hand over his face to keep the potion inside him if he coughed-and he did-then pulled the crossbow bolt out of his innards.
He bucked and tried to roar, under her, but Pennae rode him firmly back to sprawled ease, then left him to race on to the last fallen Sword.
Agannor’s slow, feeble spasms became a convulsive heave upward when the potion slid down his throat-then his twisted face smoothed out and he looked at her.
“Healing quaff,” he said happily. “You never forget the taste. A priest of Tempus fed me one, once; cost me all the coins I had.” He relaxed with a gusty sigh. “My thanks!”
“Six left,” Pennae said, rising. She thrust the case into Jhessail’s arms. “These’d cost us hundreds of lions each at a temple. So don’t drop it.”
The flame-haired mageling looked down at Agannor. “So they’re all going to be… all right again?”
Pennae spread her hands. “If the gods will.”
“Ah,” Semoor muttered, helping Doust to sit up, “but what if the gods won’t?”
Halfway down the passage, Bey was already reeling to his feet, leaning on the wall and managing a smile.
Florin said, “I think we’ve done enough strolling around the Halls this day.”
Bey gave him a twisted grin. “I’ve certainly lost the stomach for it!”
“You,” Pennae said severely, “can be wounded again, know you!”
“Indeed,” Islif agreed, then said to Florin, “We all want to get outside again, but not to swallow crossbow bolts doing it.” She looked at the mages. “Remind me what spells you have.”
“A magic missile and something that helps me strike true,” Martess replied.
“Batt-ah, a magic missile,” Jhessail added.
“So you can do harm to quite a few crossbowmen, but you have to be able to see them-and they’ll take one look at either of you, waving your hands and chanting, and know just where to send their bolts.”
There were nods all around as Florin started to usher them back down the passage, to bring them all together. Doust was on his feet again, walking almost normally, and the Swords grinned at each other. Through the open doorway, unheeded, green slime dripped dismally.
“We need shields. Shields that can stop crossbow bolts at close range,” Islif said. “Those strongchests, back in the bunkroom?”
Pennae shook her head. “Far too rotten. Those bolts can go right through good armor-” She waved at Bey, who gave her a rueful grin “-so wood that crumbles when I touch it isn’t going to stop them much more than a tightframe of stretched silk would.”
“Well, that’s cheerful to hear,” Semoor said. “So are we going to crawl out on our bellies after dark and hope they can’t hit what they can’t see?”
Islif gave him a thoughtful look. “Chancy-but our best chance, I think. Sometimes, Stoop, you do seem to have wits. For a few moments, once or twice a tenday.”