Previously, he had performed this sort of night work under duress, in an effort to pay off a debt of a hundred regals and to protect his sister from the rapacious actions of the highwayman Westen Darendal. Westen had styled himself as a rebel against the Crown, but in fact he had been nothing more than a self-aggrandizing brigand. He had cared nothing for aiding the people of Altania, and only for furthering his own fortune and fame. Nor was he alone in that. Many a man liked to think he was a rebel when in truth he was merely a thief, and as likely to steal from innocents as from the government.
But there were good men who had joined the rebellion, Eldyn
knew that now—men who were risking their lives while trying to free the people of Altania from tyranny and oppression by aiding the cause of Huntley Morden. Men like Orris Jaimsley. And this time, Eldyn had not been blackmailed into carrying secret messages. It was his choice.
As it turned out, though, his prior experience was useful. The day he had gone to the dormitories off Butcher’s Slip, Jaimsley had been astonished to see him, but pleased as well, laughing as they clasped hands. Then both of them had become grim as Jaimsley confirmed the awful news Eldyn had read in
The Swift Arrow—
how both Curren Talinger and Dalby Warrett had been among those shot dead in the recent confrontation between students and soldiers in Covenant Cross.
Yet after a round of whiskey, and a toast to their companions, their sorrow was replaced by a solemn resolve. Eldyn had pledged his help to the cause of the revolution, and Jaimsley had gladly accepted it.
“We can use as many pairs of loyal eyes as we can get in the city,” Jaimsley had said. “We need men—and women, for that matter—who can keep watch on the comings and goings of soldiers in every part of Invarel: where they routinely patrol, in what numbers, and how often.”
Eldyn had felt a note of disappointment at this. He could understand how such information might be valuable, but he had rather hoped he might do something else for the revolution—something more
glamorous
, for want of a better word. He had said as much to Jaimsley, asking if perhaps they had need of a courier for carrying messages, but the homely young man had shaken his head.
“That’s good of you to volunteer for such a duty, Garritt. And I do not doubt your ability or your bravery. But it takes a certain nerve to keep one’s wits and stay composed when accosted by a soldier while carrying a message. Perhaps after you have had more experience …”
“But I do have experience,” Eldyn had said, and he had gone on to explain the work he had done previously as a courier.
It was no discredit to Jaimsley that he had appeared a bit incredulous. But Eldyn had described the particulars of his prior work, and with the details that he was able to put forth—the form the messages took, and how they were exchanged—Jaimsley could only concede the truth of it all. What was more, another of the young men in the room at the time recalled being present on one of those occasions when Eldyn went to an address to pick up a message. He recognized Eldyn’s face and could vouch for his story.
Presented with such facts, Jaimsley could only agree Eldyn indeed had the requisite experience. And so, that very night, Eldyn began his work carrying messages in the name of Huntley Morden and the revolution.
Now, within the shadow of the doorway, Eldyn’s ears pricked up at the sound of approaching footfalls. He recognized the crisp cadence and the bright click of steel toes against stone.
It was the Lowgate patrol. The patrol operated in shifts of four hours. Six soldiers would spend the entirety of the shift patrolling along Wickery Street, which here ran parallel to the high stone wall on the edge of the Old City. The soldiers would march from the Lowgate up Wickery Street half a furlong, then back to the Lowgate, then down Wickery Street a similar distance, and finally back to Lowgate once more to resume the pattern. In all, the entire route took the soldiers five minutes.
After four hours, there was a changing of the shift at the station beside the Lowgate as fresh soldiers relieved the prior patrol. This process required five minutes. As a result, once every four hours, the length of time in between the patrol’s successive appearances at the lowest point of Wickery Street was not five minutes but rather ten.
And ten minutes was just enough time for what Eldyn needed to do.
The sounds of marching boots grew louder, echoing down the street. There was a slight pause, then the footsteps started up again, only this time they were retreating. Eldyn waited just a few heartbeats more.
Then it was time.
He left the protection of the doorway, beginning the count under his breath as he did. “One, two, three …”
Like a watchful eye, the red planet glared in the sky above. Eldyn paid its gaze no heed as he hurried along the narrow lane, keeping to the edges. After a few dozen paces, the lane ran into Wickery Street. Eldyn cast a quick glance to his left. The sound of boots was louder now, but still receding, and the soldiers were not in view; they had already gone around a bend in the street as they marched up toward the Lowgate.
Eldyn turned right and moved swiftly and silently down Wickery Street, still counting as he went. “Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one …”
His count was at the rate of once every two seconds, or thirty per minute. Which meant he had to be finished with his task and off Wickery Street by the time he reached three hundred.
He had spent a good while practicing with Jaimsley, making certain he had the cadence exact, for there was no room for error. Perhaps it was from all his time carefully scribing columns of numbers, or from precisely timing cues onstage at the theater, but whatever the reason, Eldyn was a quick study. Even when Jaimsley timed him with a clock, Eldyn’s count was never off by more than a fraction.
“Thirty-nine, forty …,” Eldyn breathed, and then he was at the bottom of Wickery Street, precisely on schedule.
While the most ancient parts of Invarel were enclosed by a wall, this was not the case for the entirety of the city. Soldiers were stationed at all the main ways that led in and out of the New Quarter, Gauldren’s Heights, Lowpark, and Waterside, but the edges of these districts were porous, bounded by lower walls, hedges, and embankments, or in some places by nothing at all. If a man was watchful, and knew the routes, it was simple enough to hop a garden fence or drop from a rooftop and be out of the city with no one the wiser.
The same could not be said for the Old City. In centuries past, the Mabingorian kings had erected a stout wall around what, at
the time, had been the whole of Invarel: namely those parts that now represented the Old City, Marble Street, and the Crag upon which the Citadel stood. The wall was high and not easily scaled, and attempting to do so would put one in plain view. What was more, there were only a limited number of passages through the wall: the Morrowgate, the Hillgate, the Barrowgate, the Lowgate, and a few other gates and arches.
There had always been soldiers standing guard at each of the passages in the wall, but ever since Huntley Morden’s landing, these posts had all been trebled in size. Also, while in the past the soldiers had been somewhat lax in their attitude, the guards were now vigilant and alert, and additional soldiers patrolled the vicinity of each gate. Which meant there was no way a man might pass in or out of the Old City without putting himself under the scrutiny of Lord Valhaine’s redcrests.
But for something smaller than a man—a thin leather tube, for example—there was yet a way. It was vital that those loyal to the revolution have a way to pass information about the doings of the government to their compatriots outside the city, so that these missives might eventually find their way to Huntley Morden himself.
Missives like the one tucked inside Eldyn’s coat.
The wall of the Old City loomed above Eldyn like a flat wall of shadow. In most places, buildings abutted the base of the wall, but there was one small section here at the foot of Wickery Street where this was not the case. Instead, there was a gap to allow water that ran down the street to flow into a small culvert in the base of the wall, for otherwise the street would have flooded when it rained.
Eldyn cast a glance over his shoulder, making certain no one was in view, then he squatted down and crept into the culvert.
A thin rivulet of water ran down the bottom of the drain, but luckily there had not been a storm recently. All the same, the stone beneath Eldyn’s boots was slick, and he used his hands to steady himself against the curved sides of the drain as he went. He had to move in a severe crouch, or else he would scrape his head against
the ceiling. All of this made for slow going. Even so, the starlight quickly vanished and the darkness closed in around him, so that in moments it was pitch-black.
Jaimsley had warned him the drain would be very cramped and dark. For Eldyn, though, this was the easiest part of his task. He had spent many hours as a boy hidden away in some small, confined place, surrounded by shadows as he hid from his father. The darkness was not oppressive to him, but rather a comfort.
His heart quickened with alarm only once, when he heard a skittering noise behind him. He paused for a few moments and listened, wondering if someone had followed him into the drain. But the sound did not come again, and he imagined it was just a bit of stone falling from the crumbling walls of the drain, stirred loose by his passage.
Not daring to delay his count any further, Eldyn pressed on. “One hundred thirty-six, one hundred thirty-seven …”
Then he sensed a change in the air, and he detected a rusty scent. Eldyn reached out, and his fingers found rough metal bars. He had reached his goal, and only a few counts late. Nor was that a concern, as he could easily make up the time by keeping the exchange swift.
Eldyn sidled up closer to the iron bars. They were spaced closely together, forming a grate across the whole of the drain. The bars were anchored deeply in the stone of the wall, and they were so thick that any attempt to hew at them would require an enormous effort, and would cause a great deal of noise to come echoing out of the culvert, thus assuring any such activity would be noticed.
All the same, the bars had to have gaps large enough to let rainwater pass, and that meant other things could be passed between them as well. Eldyn drew the leather tube from his coat.
“Hello,” he whispered softly.
The sound dwindled into the sound of trickling water. There was no answer.
“Hello there,” he called out again, then paused to listen. Still
there was no reply. All the while, he kept the count going in his mind.
One hundred fifty-four, one hundred fifty-five …
Now fear did begin to well up within Eldyn. There was no answer from his counterpart on the other side. If he did not arrive by the time the count reached one hundred sixty-five, Eldyn would have no choice but to turn back.
Just as the count reached that very number, there was a scuffling on the other side of the grate.
“I’m sorry I’m late. The guards were off their pace tonight.”
There was no time to talk about it. “What’s the password?”
The phrase differed with each exchange. It was written upon one message, and then had to be provided in order to receive the next. What’s more, the password was written in a code which required a key to solve—a key which only the most loyal members of the cause possessed.
“Thimble Lark Whiskey Bridle Seven-Two-Nine-Nine-Five.”
Those were the right words and numbers, in the right order. Jaimsley had given them to Eldyn earlier that night.
“Here,” Eldyn said and passed the leather tube between the bars of the grate. Despite his desire to hurry, he did this slowly, careful not to squeeze it in the process, lest the vial of ink within rupture. The tube was pulled from his fingers, then another replaced it. Eldyn drew it through the bars, then hastily tucked it into his coat.
“Good luck, brother,” came the whisper from beyond.
“You as well, friend,” Eldyn said, already backing away from the grate.
One hundred eighty-five, one hundred eighty-six
, he counted in his mind. He was twenty counts behind now, but if he hurried, and did not worry so much about the noise that resulted, he should be able to make it up.
At least, he had to hope he would. For while the guards did not do so every time, it was known that the patrol, upon reaching the bottom of Wickery Street, sometimes had a habit of holding a lantern up to the mouth of the culvert and peering within.
Hunched over double, Eldyn sidled along the tunnel, moving
as quickly as he could, hoping the scrape of his boots was not being magnified as it issued from the culvert.
Two hundred forty-two, two hundred forty—
Something warm and heavy dropped onto the back of Eldyn’s neck, and a jolt of terror went through him, so that he let out a cry. It felt like a hand falling onto him from behind. Only it was impossible that someone could be behind him in the drain.
Possible or not, something sharp as a knife was slicing at the flesh of Eldyn’s neck. He lurched forward, and the weight rolled off his shoulder. There was a splashing of water, followed by the same skittering noise he had heard before. It was risky, perhaps even foolish, but Eldyn dared to conjure a tiny illusory light. He turned and looked behind him.
Two red sparks glittered in the darkness of the drain.
Eldyn let the light grow a little brighter, and now the wan illumination revealed an enormous rat. The rodent reared up on its hind legs, baring long yellow teeth, and hissed like a cat. Then it turned and scuttled back down the culvert in the direction of the grate. Eldyn reached back to touch the back of his neck, then winced. He drew his hand back and stared; his fingers were stained with blood. The damnable thing had bitten him.
Yet he would be in for a worse fate than that if the soldiers caught him. His dread was renewed. How long had he been delayed fending off the rat? Ten counts, no more, he guessed. And what had the count been before the thing attacked him? Yes, it had been two hundred twenty-two, he was sure of it.