Alex Bledsoe - Burn Me Deadly

I slipped around the side to the garden wall. There was a gate, of course, but I was stealthier than that. I heaved myself atop the seven-foot stone barrier and quickly dropped over, landing with reasonable silence in the dark behind a tall bush. I waited to see if my arrival called out the cavalry. All remained silent, so I moved along the shrubbery until I could peek through a gap.

I’d been right after all. The garden itself was empty, but two torches burned on either side of the slanted doors to the cellar, and a man with a red scarf and a serious-looking curved sword stood guard beside it. He was clearly not a pro: he yawned, bored, not expecting any trouble. He never saw me coming.

After I whacked him, I propped him against the side of the building, sword still in his hands, so he’d appear asleep. I didn’t know how long he’d be out, but he’d be found as soon as Marantz and company arrived. At least he couldn’t identify me.

I tied Frankie’s red scarf around my head in the same fashion as the guard. My clothes weren’t as rustic, so I took some mud and smeared it around the cuffs of my sleeves and the bottom of my pants. I was pretty sure I could mimic the accent with no problem. I debated abandoning my sword, but decided if the guard had one, others inside might, too. I carefully lifted the cellar door just enough to slip inside and closed it silently behind me.

The steps were totally dark except for a thin sliver of torchlight seeping in from outside. The sounds of Neceda’s nightlife faded almost at once as I descended. I didn’t know the Lizard’s Kiss stood directly atop bedrock, but the stone walls were hewn, not built, and the uneven steps followed the stone’s weak spots.

I counted thirty-five steps to the bottom, where another door stopped me. My eyes had adjusted enough to determine that this door was recently installed in place of an older, no doubt less secure one. An iron “x” covered the front, rendering it impenetrable to forced entry: there was no room for a battering ram, and the metal would defend against ax or sword. But when I tried the handle, it opened inward easily and silently on its new hinges.

Beyond this door, more stairs led to a landing lit by a faint orange glow. I crept down, listening for any sign of life. As I neared the bottom I heard soft, distant voices. The steps ended in a small room, an antechamber outside the arched entrance to a much larger space. The flickering light came from the bigger room.

The antechamber was a coatroom, with pegs driven into the stone and benches for removing boots. I flattened myself against the wall beside the archway and crept forward until I could peer into the other chamber.

A natural cave, some fifty feet long and twelve feet high, stretched away from the opening. The floor had been cleared and reasonably leveled for the installation of six rows of benches with an aisle up the middle. This made seating for around eighty people. At the far end, a raised wooden stage held a podium and a table. A small cage rested on the table; at this distance it appeared to be empty.

A dozen of the red-scarved men gathered at the front of the benches, casually talking among themselves. Some smoked pipes or sipped from wineskins. One tapped idly on a drum. The light came from a single brazier, although others stood unlit along the walls. Either I’d just missed church or they were waiting for Marantz’s group to arrive before starting.

That question was answered at once. The outer door above me slammed open, and loud voices announced the caravan’s arrival.

I looked around for somewhere to duck out of sight. A small door set in the corner formed some kind of closet, so I jumped inside. It was empty, shallow and barely closed over me. I sucked in my stomach and swore I’d go on a diet as soon as this case was over.

The room quickly filled with Marantz and his men. They sat on the benches with the heavy thud of worn-out travelers. Two of them were on either side of the door I hid behind, mere inches away. “Man,” one of them sighed, “that took forever.”

“Pilgrims,” the other said with disdain.

“A bunch with that much money, and they spend all their time walking places. And they pay for the privilege of doing it.”

“They pay to listen to that weird-ass preacher,” the first man said quietly. “I don’t care what the Big Mace says, that old guy’s gonna get out of hand; you watch.”

Then, over all this, Marantz bellowed, “ What do you mean he’s not here yet? ”

He sounded farther away, like he was inside the ceremonial cave. I couldn’t catch the reply. A moment later he stormed into the antechamber and said, “You two!”

The men outside my door jumped to their feet. “What’s up?” one of them asked.

“Our guest of honor is wandering the streets of Neceda looking for a good time. Go get him before he finds it.”

“What if he doesn’t want to come?”

“Then convince him!” Marantz roared.

They went up the stairs. Marantz told someone else, “We have about fifteen minutes before old man Tempcott finishes giving thanks for the safe journey and comes down here. You people better have your act together by then.”

“We’ve been waiting for him for months,” one of the Black River Hills red-scarves said. “We’re more than ready. Thank you for giving us this place to worship.”

“Yeah, sure. Thank me by keeping your preacher happy, okay?”

Any moment someone was likely to open the door and find me, so I turned my back, unbuckled my scabbard and propped it against the back wall. This was not easily done in the cramped space. Then I waited, facing the rear of the closet.

I stayed that way a long time, sweating under my clothes, fighting down every itch and cramp. At last more people descended, and when the sound of movement and noise seemed to indicate the room was full, I backed out of the closet as if I’d been putting something into it.

Every time that trick works, I’m a little surprised, but it’s never failed me. I found myself among a collection of weary, dusty young men, all too exhausted to either notice or care where I came from. They collapsed onto the benches or up against the walls, wheezing and gulping water from skins. I leaned back against the door I’d emerged from and slid to the floor, mimicking their tiredness.

The man on the end of the bench to my right looked at me. His face shone with sweat, and the dark circles under his eyes betrayed his weariness. “I can’t feel my toes,” he said flatly, too tired to sound worried about it.

“Long walk,” I said noncommittally.

“I couldn’t even concentrate on the teaching most of the time. It was all I could do to keep moving.”

“That’s why teachers repeat themselves,” I said.

He nodded. “You don’t sound tired.”

“It just doesn’t show,” I assured him.

“I didn’t see you join the group. Where are you from?”

“Arentia,” I said honestly, reverting to my proper accent. If he noticed the change, he didn’t mention it.

“I didn’t know Father Tempcott’s message had reached that far.”

With all the unctuousness I could summon, I said, “It has if you know where to listen.”

He nodded, leaned back and closed his eyes. I did the same, peering through my lashes at the others. They reclined against the walls, squeezed onto the benches or sat cross-legged on the floor, filling the little room to capacity. They were all in their twenties or early thirties, unmistakably scions of privilege, yet they did not banter or carry on the way young rich boys often did. Exhaustion only partly explained it-they each had something about them that spoke of sincere spirituality. Whatever they believed, they took it seriously.