I refolded the paper and tucked it into a pouch on my scabbard, behind my phone.
A sad little procession of Jasper, three Duergar guards, an attendant bearing my trunk, and Emmaline accompanied me to a doorway located under an arch of trees just outside the palace. It was dark, and there was no fanfare, only the soft cooing of night birds.
“Well, it’s been . . . interesting, Petra Maguire,” Jasper said after the attendant shoved my trunk up to the edge of the doorway.
I crooked a half-grin at him. “That it has.” It suddenly struck me that Jasper seemed decidedly unlike most of the Unseelie I’d come across.
He gave me a little salute, and I turned to the arch.
I grasped a handle of the trunk and stood at the gnarled root half-buried in the dirt that marked the edge of the doorway. With my back turned, I stepped over the line as I whispered the words and used my fingers to draw the symbols that would take me back to the stone fortress. A second later, I was drifting in the void of the netherwhere.
Chapter 17
I ARRIVED IN an internal doorway of the stone fortress, one that was in a storage wing.
I dumped my trunk in a room full of unused artwork and statuary and navigated through lesser-used hallways to get back to the dressing room where I’d been primped and prepped earlier that day.
Inside, I was deeply grateful to find my ripped jeans, tank and jacket, and beat-up boots. After quickly changing and re-settling Mort’s scabbard on my back, I headed to the doorway where I’d arrived. On the way, I passed a few other New Gargoyles, but no one seemed to think twice about my presence in the fortress. As long as none of them mentioned seeing me to Marisol, my untimely return shouldn’t cause me any trouble.
Using Maxen’s scribbled note, I traced magic-imbued symbols in the air and dissolved into the netherwhere.
When I emerged, the first thing I noticed was the smell of meat smokers. I recognized the Duergar palace not far off. I’d arrived back in the Duergar realm somewhere outside, and I stood still where I was, waiting for the chill of the void to wear off and my eyes to adjust to my dim surroundings. The smell of smoke and cooking meat made my mouth water and reminded me it’d been many hours since my last meal.
As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I could make out the large looming shape of the Duergar palace about a quarter mile straight ahead. In between me and the palace and off to one side were some long outbuildings. Slaughterhouses, I guessed, by the tinge of blood and other unpleasant byproducts of slaughter underlying the smoked meat aroma. Fires glowed here and there, and I spotted smaller buildings—the smokehouses. Men went in and out of them, tending to the business of converting meat into food even at this late hour. I watched them move for a few minutes as I planned my path to the palace, a route that would keep me in the shadows but take me near enough to snatch a piece of smoked meat. I was going to need some fuel to get through the night. And besides, the Duergar owed me a big, fancy court dinner. A bit of jerky was the least the palace could provide me.
As I stole from one shadow to the next, I kept to the tree line and listened to the chatter of the workers. There was a burst of ale-fueled singing from the men gathered around campfires, a group obviously off shift for the night. I tried to orient myself to which side of the palace I was facing, but the place was immense, and being unfamiliar with the landscape, I wasn’t sure in the dark. My best guess was that I was at the back of the palace. I’d skirt it counterclockwise until I knew where I was.
I crept near the smokehouse that was closest to the shadows and waited. When I was sure I could get in and out without crossing paths with a worker, I darted into the weak ring of light from torches and campfires. The door to the small building swung open easily. I held my breath and ducked inside. There was a small lantern lit at the wall. Sausages as thick as my forearm hung from the ceiling like strange party decorations.
I quickly drew Mort and sliced off the end of one of the sausages. With my sword in one hand and a hunk of meat in the other, I elbowed through the door and darted back into the protection of the darkness. I ate as I walked, looking up at the windows of the palace and trying to get a glimpse of what was inside.
Another aroma began to overtake that of smoked meat. When I realized what it was, I stopped mid-chew and my boots scuffed to a halt. It was the smell of horses. Could I be near the barns and the bunkhouse Emmaline had told me about?
Yes. There was a training ring. The unmistakable smell of straw and horse dung.
And there—a lodge-like structure with no windows but skylights spaced along the roof. The bunkhouse.
There were also armed guards. Two that I could see from my vantage point.
After tossing the remaining heel of sausage into the bushes, I ran to the nearest wall of the bunkhouse. I pressed myself against it, listening. There was a door about ten feet away. I sidestepped to it and tried the latch but found it locked.
Voices sent me running across the space between the building and the forest and diving back into the darkness. I watched as a pair of guards walked around the bunkhouse, right past where I’d just been standing. It appeared there were at least two guards stationed at the main door of the building, and at least two patrolling around it. Clearly, there was something valuable in there. But the guards were moving almost casually. So that valuable person or thing, in their estimation, must not have been much of a threat for escape. Or rescue.
I was facing the short end of the bunkhouse, and presumably the front door was located on the opposite short end. With two guards there, that entrance was no good to me.
I needed to see what was inside. Tensing my muscles and taking a race-ready stance with my weight shifted to my forward foot, I waited until the patrol rounded the far corner.
I sprang from the protection of the forest, sprinting across the open space and launching myself at the drainpipe attached to the side of the building. With a quick prayer to Oberon that the pipe was firmly attached, I grasped it and started scrambling my feet to get purchase. The round faces of the logs that made up the wall provided just enough surface for toeholds. I had to make it up and out of sight before the patrol returned, and I still had about a dozen feet to go.
I pulled up, hand over hand, using the drainpipe like a mountain climber’s rope. The surface of the metal flaked off in my hands, and the smell of rust rose to my nostrils. It was flimsier than I’d thought, and there was a soft whine as the top end started to pull away from the gutter it was fixed to.
“Shit,” I hissed and climbed faster.