probably heard of him. He kept the Empire out of the mountain halls for six months virtually single-handedly. Anyway, Lisha had him defend this place for us when we brought him east.”
“You got Arthen out of Snowcrag before it fell?” I asked, staring. Arthen was the stuff of legend.
“Yes, though only Mithos and I were with Lisha then. There were others, of course, but they are no longer with us.”
He continued, barely missing a beat.
“In any case, there are ballistae down here that could skewer three armored men together so, like I said, touch nothing.”
“Sounds good to me.”
With a large steel key he opened the door, which, like the fire-place, slid easily aside despite its obvious weight. Inside I caught the acrid smell of oil lamps and found myself on a wooden landing atop a flight of stone steps spiraling into the earth. There was a lever by the doorframe. Orgos pulled it and, with a clanking of gears, the fireplace closed us in.
I moved to descend the stairs but Orgos caught my arm and held me back. Before he took another step he unhooked a lantern from the wall, turned up its flame, and groped under the wooden banister rail with his left hand. Again something clicked, and he smiled at me in the lamplight.
“Some of the stairs have special features,” he said cheerfully. I gave him a nervous smile and didn’t ask for details.
At the foot of the stairs was another armored door that was already open. Orgos showed me in.
“Welcome to the Hide,” said Lisha, who was sitting at a table in what appeared to be a library. Mithos was with her, consulting a stack of charts. He looked up and watched me as Lisha continued, “Orgos puts a good deal of trust in you, Will, considering how long he’s known you. I hope his faith is justified. You can never speak of this place to anyone. Many lives depend on us, and we cannot afford to be merciful to those who would expose us. Do I make myself clear?”
I nodded, and tried to count the number of death threats I had had since Rufus turned me in. Still, there was something slightly comic about all these grave and menacing words coming from the party’s girlish “leader.”
“I understand perfectly,” I said, playing along, trying to match the gravity and seriousness of her tone. Orgos and Mithos looked at me with small smiles of satisfaction. The impulse to pat me on the head or feed me an apple must have been almost overwhelming.
Lisha’s eyes met mine and I had the odd sensation of being somehow transparent, as if she could read my thoughts and my petty deceptions. I didn’t like the feeling.
“We will leave here next Tuesday or Wednesday, depending on when we can get a ship,” she said, rising to her feet and stepping lightly towards me, “so you have six days which you may use as you think best. If you need money for arms or other equipment, speak to Mithos. I suggest you do some riding, but don’t bother buying yourself a horse. We’ll have to get mounts in Shale. I’ve taken horses by ship before and it can take days for them to recover from the voyage.”
Whatever you say, doll. I glanced around the racks of books. There were texts from all over the world, written in a dozen different languages, though most were in my native Thrusian and its ancient forebear, Threshalt. The collection was not so much varied as wildly diverse. Cookbooks sat next to manuals on siege techniques and indexes of poisons. I lifted down something on “dialectal oddities” and gazed at it with mild revulsion.
“What would possess anyone to write anything this tedious?” I mused.
Orgos materialized at my elbow and looked at the book.
“Can Will borrow this?” he said.
“Certainly,” she said.
Orgos beamed and heaved it into my arms saying, “Something to keep you busy, Will. See what it has to say about Shale.”
“Thanks a lot, Orgos,” I muttered.
Mithos turned to Lisha and said, “I forgot to mention that Will has an ear for accents. Since Thrusian is the basic language of the Shale region, that may prove a useful skill.”
So I did have a role. A genuine useful function for humble Will Hawthorne? Will the linguist. Bill the talker. Will Hawthorne, leading authority on the world’s most boring two-foot-thick book. This was the literary equivalent of metal polishing. Still, it sounded a damned sight safer than swinging swords about, so