corson had only hoped for a chance to take vengeance on Lord Thierran, and now that it was done she was almost surprised to find herself still alive. The house was still, and she realized that it might yet be possible to escape unseen, but precious time passed before she could rouse Nyctasia from her indifference.
Peering out the window, Corson saw lanterns moving below as guards searched the grounds for her. “We’ll not get out this way.”
Nyctasia looked down at Thierran’s body curiously. “Ah,” she said with satisfaction, “that really happened, then.”
“Stop dreaming! They’ll come to report to him soon-we’ve no time to waste. Do you understand?”
Nyctasia picked up her satchel and slipped the strap over her shoulder. “I’m ready.”
Corson didn’t believe her, but this was their only chance. She listened at the door, then opened it cautiously. “Is there another stairway?”
“The servants’ stairs, through the room at the end of the hail.” Taking a torch from the wall, Nyctasia led the way, moving as calmly as a sleepwalker.
It seemed to Corson that they had been descending the narrow staircase forever.
“Where are we?” she demanded in a whisper.
“Almost down to the kitchen. But there’s-”
Corson clutched her arm. “Quiet! Listen… they’ve found him,” They raced down the remaining steps to the scullery, but Nyctasia continued down the dark stairway to the cellars.
“Come back! We’ll be trapped down there!” Corson followed, cursing softly. She was going to die like a rat in a hole because of this witless witch! Already there were footsteps on the stairs behind her.
When she reached the bottom the door to the cellars stood open, but before she could enter, Nyctasia called from somewhere behind her. A faint light showed from the crawlspace beneath the stairs.
Corson crouched and squeezed herself into the angular opening, nearly falling headlong through a gaping hole in the floor. Nyctasia had already descended to an underground chamber and stood waiting at the foot of the ladder, her white face peering up anxiously in the torchlight.
Halfway down the steps, Corson let the flagstone drop gently back into place over her. She could hear the guards on the stairs just above her head.
“They can search the cellars for hours,” Nyctasia whispered. “We’re underneath them, so walk softly. There’s a tunnel leading down to the cove.”
Corson nodded. The smugglers’ tunnel was a legend in Chiastelm, but its exact location had remained a mystery. They moved quietly away from the ladder, listening for footsteps overhead.
The chamber narrowed to a low passageway at the far end, and Corson had to stoop as she followed Nyctasia down the dark corridor. “I’ve heard stories of this place,” she said, “but I thought they were all moonshine.”
“So did I, till I bought the house. But then of course I searched for the tunnel. It wasn’t hard to find.”
“Then why haven’t folk found it?”
“I suppose they did-if there was any treasure it was looted long ago. The City Governors secured the house after the owners were hanged.”
“They say it’s haunted,” Corson remembered.
“Very likely it is,” Nyctasia agreed absently. She paused, sniffing the air, and sneezed. A fresh salt scent cut through the dank air of the tunnel. “This is the place, you can smell the sea.” She walked on for a few steps until a wide fissure appeared in the wall to their left. “We have to climb down there and jump.”
Dropping to her knees, she thrust the torch out over the edge, and Corson looked down uneasily, trying to measure the distance.
“I can’t see the ground.”
“It’s about ten feet, I think. But there are holds cut into the rock for part of the way down.” She dropped the torch over the side and threw her bookbag after it.
“I hate heights,” said Corson sadly. “Have you ever done this before?”
“Oh yes, it’s simple.” Nyctasia lay on her stomach and edged her legs out over the side, feeling for footholds. As she disappeared over the edge, Corson heard her remark, “Of course, we did it with ropes
…” Sounds of scraping and kicking were followed by a loud thud and curses.
Nyctasia held up the torch, rubbing at her hip with the other hand. “Simple!” she said brightly, grinning up at Corson.
“I could have been a royal courtesan,” grumbled Corson. “Get out of the way!”
She landed on her feet by Nyctasia. They were in a large, natural cavern. “How far are we from the docks? Our ship leaves with the early tide.”
“An hour’s walk, I’d say. This way.” They started off again, Nyctasia limping slightly. “Aren’t you staying in Chiastelm. Corson?”
“I’d planned to, but your loving cousin offered a handsome reward for both of us. Now that he’s been murdered, I’ll be suspected.”
Nyctasia considered. “It might be as well for you to stay away for a time, but I doubt that my family is much interested in you-they’ll blame me for Thierran’s death… and lay claim to my properties.” She drew a breath. “The matter has gotten out of hand, you see. It’s one thing for Mhairestri to have me killed secretly, but another to herald it abroad that the Edonaris are at each other’s throats. As for you, you’ll soon be forgotten if you stay shy of Rhostshyl and keep quiet about this affair.”
“Oh well, I have friends in Lhestreq,” Corson said resignedly. “I hope you have plenty of money, because we’ll have to pay an outrageous sum for our passage.”
“Don’t worry, you know I can conjure gold from the elements.”
Corson stopped in her tracks. “I want an answer,” she said in deliberate, measured tones, “not a riddle, not a jibe! Can you pay or can’t you?”
“You’ve no call to doubt-”
Nyctasia was silent. Corson had earned her confidence, but trust had always been a luxury she could ill afford.
Corson faced her, arms folded. “Make an effort,” she said drily. “You can answer a question if you try. Out with it!”
Nyctasia succumbed with a laugh. “Of course I can pay. Thierran would have killed me with pleasure and thrown my body off the cliff, but it would never have occurred to him to pick my pockets first.”
“Of course. A gentleman.”
“An Edonaris,” said Nyctasia.
The ground grew uneven, sloping sharply downward, and Nyctasia found it harder to keep up the pace. She abandoned the dying torch and they stumbled on in the darkness until a dim light revealed the mouth of the cave ahead. Corson cleared a way through the barrier of roots and bracken, and helped Nyctasia scramble down the steep outcropping of rock to the beach. It still lacked some two hours to dawn.
But they had not gone far before Nyctasia stopped to lean against a pile of boulders. “Can we rest here awhile?”
“Not for long. We haven’t much time.”
“It isn’t time I need,” Nyctasia said obscurely. She pulled off her boots and walked to the ocean’s edge, then knelt, motionless, head bowed, her hands in the water.
It was easier, much easier, than Nyctasia had expected, perhaps simply because she was exhausted. She had often undertaken fasts and vigils to achieve the same end, but now, almost effortlessly, she emptied herself of fear, of pain, of weariness. She allowed sensation and sentiment alike to flow out from her with the waves that caressed her and drew away again. She rested and was renewed.
Corson sat on a rock and watched her, worried. It was growing lighter. But Nyctasia knelt on the shore for only a moment, then rose and returned to her, ready to go on.
She was transfigured. Her grey eyes were silver in the sea’s reflected light.
She blazed with a vivid elation she could barely contain. Pointing out across the waves, she cried, “There is power! Why, the reason I bought the Smugglers’
House in the first place-”
“I don’t care! Just put these on and be quiet!” She shoved Nyctasia’s boots at her. “We have to go faster.”
To her relief, Nyctasia obeyed and fell into step beside her. But now she kept pace with Corson’s long stride with seeming ease.
“I suppose that was more of your spell-healing?”
“No, that takes time, as I told you. This is a borrowed power. It’s easy, you see, but therefore fleeting… Lightly won is lightly lost,” she sang:
“Lightly won is lightly lost
Early flower, early frost.
Wont to wanton, wont to weep,
What is lent is not to keep,
What is lent is not to keep!”
She laughed to herself. “I’ve never tried it before. It’s called a spell of Perilous Threshold. It’s really most interesting.”
“I hate magicians,” said Corson with feeling. “The only thing that keeps you on your feet is that you’re just too crazy to know you can’t go on.”
“There’s something in that,” Nyctasia agreed.
But by the time they reached the clusters of fishermen’s huts scattered along the shore outside of town, Nyctasia had begun to falter again. “No more of your witchery,” Corson warned. “You’ll draw attention to us.” They had already attracted curious glances from the fisherfolk readying their nets in the half-light of early dawn.
“No fear. I’d not survive another attempt at that spell.”
“We’re not far from the docks. Lean on me.”
“For anything one takes, one pays,” Nyctasia sighed. She took Corson’s arm and somehow kept walking. When they reached Merchants’ Wharf, Corson was practically dragging her.
On board the Windhover, preparations for sailing were already underway, but some of the crew were still loading cargo from a wagon on the dock. A thin, middle-aged woman came up to Corson. “You’re Steifann’s friend?”
Corson nodded curtly. “Destiver?”
“Yes. You have the money?”
“I have it,” said Nyctasia, before Corson could reply. “All of it.”
“Follow me.” Destiver motioned the sailors aside and led the way up the gangplank.
“You don’t even know how much it is,” Corson said to Nyctasia in an undertone.
“I imagine she’ll tell me…”
Stopping at an open hatchway, the captain turned to Corson. “Get below and stay out of sight till we cast off. I’ll settle with her now.” Without a word, Corson climbed down the ladder into the cargo hold.
The only cabin below deck was a narrow, airless cubicle walled off from the rest of the hold. Corson had been in dozens of others like it, and every time she’d felt trapped and suffocated. She sat down on the bunk, which was too short for her to stretch out on, and mulled over her situation with resentment.
“Giving me orders!” she muttered. “Scrawny, swaggering, leather-faced bitch!”
Nyctasia entered the cabin and sat down, leaning against Corson. “I feel terrible,” she remarked.
“Do you think she’s good-looking?” Corson demanded.
“Who?”
“That filthy pirate!”
“Her?” Nyctasia yawned. “I don’t know, I suppose so.” She curled up on the end of the bunk and buried her face in her arms.
“She is not!”
“All right, she’s hideous,” Nyctasia mumbled. “Whatever you say.” Her face was battered-a dark bruise had appeared over one cheekbone, and her lip was cut and swollen.
“Nyc…?” said Corson. There was no reply. She sighed, and pulled Nyctasia to the center of the bunk, wrapping the thin blanket around her.
Nyctasia half-opened one eye. “Wha…?”
“I decided to cut your throat after all.”
“Oh.” Nyctasia shifted to a more comfortable position, too worn even to object to the dirty pallet and coverings.
Corson sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall-she would not sleep until the ship was safely out of port. To pass the time, she took the precious hand mirror from her pack, and studied her features critically. She looked as tired and grimy as she felt. Her reflection grimaced back at her, and she laid aside the mirror to paw through her pack for something to eat.
“He’s probably screwing Trask right now,” she thought sourly.