Alys Clare - Land of the Silver Dragon

I nerved myself to speak. I had to ask; he might be mistaken, and we could be huddling down here for nothing. I drew a breath, opened my mouth …

From above us, over beyond the far wall of the crypt — the direction of Gurdyman’s twisty-turny house — I heard a bump, followed by the very faint sound of slow, stealthy footfalls.

Gurdyman was not mistaken. Somebody was in his house.

Desperate though I was to ask how he could possibly have realized the intruder was on his way, I dared not utter a sound. Instead, I tried to work it out for myself. Perhaps Gurdyman had been out on some mysterious nocturnal errand, and seen a suspicious stranger lurking nearby. He does go out at night, and I know better than to ask where he goes and what he does. He did once mention a sacred well, and a secret midnight meeting of black-cloaked magicians, but I’m all but sure he was teasing me.

I was comforting myself with this pleasantly reasonable solution when I realized something: the cot on which I sat was warm from Gurdyman’s body. He had not been outside; he’d been right here in the crypt.

How else could he have known? Had he heard the intruder in the alley? No, that didn’t seem likely, for down in the crypt we were deep underground. It was only just possible to hear the intruder above us now, as he paced through Gurdyman’s house.

Something else occurred to me. The first sound made by the intruder had not come from the front of the house, where the stout wooden door opens on to the alley. It had come from the rear, where, between it and the narrow alleyway beyond, the little open courtyard is enclosed by a high wall.

A very high, thick wall, which merges on either side with the rear walls of the neighbouring houses, and which is even topped with thatch, as they are.

No man, surely, could have scaled it and dropped down into the courtyard without serious injury. Could he?

This man was a giant, I reminded myself. He was long-legged and very strong. Very probably, he was capable of feats beyond the scope of normal men.

My fear overcame me. I crawled to the back of the little cot and curled up with my back to the wall, draping my shawl over my head and face so that only my eyes were visible. It was a senseless act, really, for if the intruder found the hidden door, he’d be down here in a flash and no shawl in the world would hide me from him.

As if he had picked up my thoughts, Gurdyman turned to me, giving me a reassuring smile. Very quietly he whispered, ‘Nobody yet has discovered the secret, child, although many have searched the house. Do not be afraid.’

I repeated those last four words, over and over again. After some time, I realized that the all-but-undetectable sounds from above had ceased.

Gurdyman looked at me. ‘Can you sleep there, on my cot?’ he asked softly.

I nodded. Now that the threat had gone — or so I hoped — I was appreciating how tired I was.

He came across to me, reaching for a folded blanket and covering me with it. ‘Then do so,’ he said. ‘The intruder has gone, but he may still be outside, alert for any sound or movement within the house. It would be wise not to venture back up there until morning.’

I snuggled down under the blanket. ‘What about you?’ Fond as I am of Gurdyman, I did not welcome the thought of sharing a bed with him.

He grinned, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. ‘I have much to do,’ he said. ‘I shall be over there — ’ he pointed — ‘at my work bench.’ He reached out his hands, placing them either side of my head. His touch was warm and comforting, and I felt my mind fill with calm, gentle thoughts. ‘Sleep, Lassair,’ he intoned.

I slept.

Gurdyman and I went through his house together in the morning, both of us hawk-eyed as we hunted for clues to what our night-time intruder had been up to. It was all too obvious that someone had gone through the house and its contents very thoroughly. To the casual eye, Gurdyman does not own much — and, certainly, everything of any value or interest is kept safely, securely and secretly down in the crypt — but the overturned benches and tables, and the pots swept down off the shelves, told us that every last item had been picked up and examined. If only it had stopped there. As in the other dwellings he’d searched, the intruder had a heavy hand when it came to putting things back. A couple of pots were broken, and it looked as if a small stack of wooden platters had been trodden on. I watched as, with a small sigh, Gurdyman picked up the detritus.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said impulsively, my heart torn at his expression.

He turned to me, a cracked platter in his hand, a kindly smile on his face. ‘Why are you apologizing?’

I gestured at the turmoil. ‘All this.’

‘You didn’t do it,’ he pointed out.

‘I know, but the intruder is searching the places where my kin live, and now he’s come here, and I-’

‘Hush, child.’ Gurdyman put the platter down and came to stand beside me, a hand on my shoulder. ‘We are not responsible for the acts of others. Only our own, and nothing you have done has invited the attentions of this intruder.’ He gave my arm a pat. ‘And it is only inanimate objects that have been damaged.’

He was right, and his words consoled me. Nevertheless, it was with great trepidation that I climbed the ladder into the little upper room to see what had happened to my own belongings.

The bed had been searched. The straw mattress sat slightly askew on the wooden bed frame, so presumably the intruder had lifted it to see if anything was hidden beneath it. It also looked sort of crushed, as if large hands had felt all over it for concealed treasures. The pillows and covers had been removed and left in a heap on the end of the bed. They, too, had received the squashing treatment. My few spare garments had been dragged from the bag in which I’d brought them from Aelf Fen, and now lay scattered on the floor. I felt sick as carefully I smoothed them out and folded them. The thought of a violent stranger’s touch on my personal belongings shocked me deeply.

The leather satchel in which I carry the tools of my healer’s craft had received the most thorough attention. He — I would have sworn on everything I hold dear that it was he — had emptied it and laid every last item out on the floor in three ragged lines.

Nothing was missing: I knew that with total certainty, for I had packed the satchel myself two days ago. I had removed nothing since, and nor had anyone else.

I sat down on the floor and set about repacking my belongings. Then I put the bed to rights. I sank down on to it, deep in thought.

Yet another family dwelling place had been searched. Again, nothing was missing. The conclusion was obvious: whatever the searcher was hunting for, he still hadn’t found it.

What would he do next? Would he start all over again, revisiting us all, this time not stopping till he’d torn up floorboards, demolished houses? But that, surely, would be too risky, for this man had killed, twice, and must realize that it would not be nearly so easy a second time to catch his victims unaware, even assuming he continued to evade whatever forces of law and order were now on his trail.

I wondered fleetingly if Gurdyman would report this break-in to the authorities, and knew instantly that he would not. He was a man who valued his privacy, and it was not in the least likely that he would wish to draw attention to himself in that way.

If the intruder were to be caught, he would hang, having committed murder as well as his other crimes. Would that not persuade him to be sensible?

Being sensible meant giving up. As I sat there on my bed in Gurdyman’s house, I sent up a brief and heartfelt prayer that our intruder would do just that.