Shouts came from above. They were answered from below, though they bounced around the stone stairway too badly for Amara to understand them. A moment later, she didn't need to understand-more guards were racing up the stairs, and they were not far away.
Amara cursed. She should have taken the fallen officer's blade while she had the opportunity, once their chances of a completely covert entry had gone to the crows. "Bernard!" she shouted.
Her husband came leaping down the stairs, bow in hand. "They're Immortal Knights Ferrous!" he called to her. "Aldrick's in trouble, and I can't get a clean shot!"
"He'll be in more trouble if the rest of the guards come up the stairs behind," Amara said. "You've got to hold them off."
Bernard nodded once, never slowing his pace, feet moving swiftly and silently down the stairs. A beat later, she heard the heavy, bass thrumming of his bow, and a cry of pain.
Amara wanted to scream with fear, for her husband and for herself and for all the people who were counting on the success of this mission. She ground her teeth instead and flung herself after Rook.
This level of the tower was a richly appointed apartment, the entry room a large study and library rolled into one. The woven carpets, the tapestries, a dozen paintings and several sculptures were all lovely enough-but they were put together with no sense of style, theme, or commonality of any kind. It was an insight into Kalarus's character, Amara decided. He knew what beauty was, but he did not understand what made it valuable. His collection was expensive, expansive, all of undeniable masterpieces-and that was all he cared about; the shell, the price, the proclamation of his wealth and power, not beauty for its own sake.
Kalarus did not love beauty. He merely had use for it. And the fool probably had no idea that there was a distinction between the two.
Amara saw why Rook had chosen their method of entry, their disguises as she had. It was a blind spot in his thinking, and since his control over affairs in his household certainly ran far deeper than any other High Lord Amara had seen, his own prejudices and idiocies could only be reflected and multiplied throughout it, including his tendency to assign value based purely upon external appearance. Everyone there was used to the sight of new slaves brought in to amuse the staff. Such a group of new slaves would be quickly dismissed and even more quickly forgotten.
Or would have been, at least, if Aldrick hadn't cut Eraegus's throat.
Rook frowned as she walked to the door to the next room. It opened at a touch, and she looked around a small sitting room or antechamber. Like the larger area they'd just come through, it was expensive and absent of the kind of warmth that would make it more than simply a room.
Rook paced to a plain section of expensive hardwood paneling and struck the heel of her hand firmly against it. A crack split through the panel, and Rook drew aside a wooden section that concealed a storage area behind it. She promptly withdrew a pair of swords, a longer duelist's blade and a standard, plain-looking gladius. She offered their hilts to Amara. Amara took the shorter blade, and said, "Keep that one."
Rook looked at her. "You wish me to be armed, Countess?"
"If you'd had it in mind to betray us, Rook, I think you've had ample opportunity. Keep it."
Rook nodded and carried the scabbarded blade in her left hand. "This way, Countess. There's only his boudoir and bath left on this level."
The next door opened onto a bedchamber at least as large as the study had been, and the bed was the size of a small sailing vessel. Hand-carved hardwood wardrobes were left carelessly open, revealing row after row of the finest clothing Alera had to offer.
The prisoners had been secured by chains attached to the stone fireplace.
Lady Placida sat on the floor, hands folded calmly in her lap, her expression regal and defiant as the door opened. She wore only a slender white undergown, and a rough ring of iron circled her throat, and was attached to a heavy chain, which was in turn fastened to the stones of the fireplace. She faced the door as it opened, eyes hard and hot, and then blinked in utter surprise as Amara and Rook entered.
"Mama!" came a small, glad cry, and a girl of perhaps five or six years of age flung herself across the room. Rook stooped to gather her up with a low cry and held the little girl tight against her.
"Countess Amara?" Lady Placida said. The red-haired High Lady came to her feet-only to be jerked up short by the chain, which was set at such a length as to make it impossible for her to stand fully upright.
"Your Grace," Amara murmured, nodding once at Lady Placida. "I've come to-"
"Countess, the door!" Lady Placida cried.
But before she had finished, the heavy door to the chamber slammed shut behind them with a power and a finality that could only be the result of furycraft. Amara spun to the door and tried to open it, but the handle would not turn, and she could not so much as rattle the door in its frame.
"It's trapped." Lady Placida sighed. "Anyone can open it from the other side, but..."
Amara turned back to the High Lady. "I've come to-"
"Rescue me, obviously," Lady Placida said, nodding. "And none too soon. The pig is returning sometime today."
"He arrived but moments ago," Amara said, crossing to Lady Placida. "We have little time, Your Grace."
"Amara, anyone who rescues me from this idiot's soulless little bower should feel free to call me Aria, " Lady Placida said. "But we have a problem." She gestured up the chain fastened to the ring on her neck. "It's not a lock. The chain's been crafted into place. It has to be broken, and if you'll look up..."
Amara did, and found four stone figures glaring down at her, carved shapes of hideous beasts that rested atop the stone pillars at each corner of the room. The gargoyles had to have weighed several hundred pounds each, and Amara knew that even though they would not move with speed any greater than that of a human being, they were so much heavier and more powerful than any human that it would make them altogether deadly to anyone who got in their way. One could not block the unthinkably powerful blow of a gargoyle's fist. One could get out of its way or be crushed by it. There was no middle ground.
"According to my host," Lady Placida said, "the gargoyles are set to animate if they detect my furycrafting." Her mouth twisted bitterly and she glanced significantly at Rook and the little girl. "Moreover, he assured me that I would not be their first victim."
Amara's mouth firmed into a hard line. "The bastard." More screams and shouts came to them from the central stairwell, muffled a low mutter by the thick door. "He's on his way up, by the sound of things."