The stench hit them in a wave, and the gorge rose in Fletcher’s throat. It was the acrid scent of vomit, so heavy he could taste it. Nobles, generals, guests and even a few servants lay splayed around the hall, groaning in discomfort. The occasional gurgle and splash of lumpy liquid told Fletcher exactly which form of distraction Othello and Cress had gone for.
There had been several plans: blocking the fireplaces so that the smoke would fill the rooms, breaking pipes to flood the floors with water, using spellcraft to make loud noises, even setting fire to the hedges outside. But this plan … it had been ruled out as too risky. Obviously Othello and Cress had changed their minds.
The pair had sabotaged the drinks, sneaking into the kitchens and tainting as much of it as possible with ground ayahuasca—a plant traditionally associated with orc shamans, who would drink it to induce vomiting and wild hallucinations. Signs of the latter were already visible, with some nobles reaching up at the bright candles above, stupid grins plastered across their vomit-stained faces. Fletcher took a perverse pleasure in seeing Bertie wandering the room in nothing but his underwear, giggling to himself.
Even Sylva could not help but laugh when they saw the Forsyth twins laid low, pawing deliriously at the bright chandeliers above, drool dribbling down their cheeks as they cooed and smiled inanely. Tarquin giggled and waved as their father was carried past them.
“Serves them right,” Sylva said, stepping delicately over Isadora’s outstretched arm. “What I wouldn’t give to see their faces in the morning. This has been a long time coming.”
“You and me both.” Fletcher grinned.
There was no sign of any dwarves—the serving girls had obviously run away for fear of repercussions, and Othello and Cress with them.
Scanning the room, Fletcher noticed that many of the more important nobles were no longer there, including Alfric and Harold. They had obviously been rushed to safety by the guards. In fact, even with Ignatius and their captives in tow, they were able to walk the full length of the hall and down the stairs with barely more than a second glance. Even the servants were too busy tending to the sick.
The whole situation seemed unbelievable to Fletcher as they walked out into the fresh air, gravel crunching beneath their feet, the moonlight streaming down upon them. They looked a complete state—Fletcher in his half-burned clothing and rolled-up trousers, Sylva with her ripped dress, not to mention the bare-legged Zacharias on the back of their hitherto unnoticed Drake.
Yet somehow, they were outside, with no pursuers, nor even a raised alarm.
“We made it,” he breathed.
“That we did,” Sylva said quietly. “But what happens now?”
Fletcher did not know. Only Harold had thought this far ahead—once again they were pawns in a far greater game. But he knew where they needed to go.
“Ignatius, do you reckon you could carry all four of us into the Dwarven Quarter?” Fletcher asked, pressing his head against the Drake’s own. “It’s not far.”
The demon purred and nudged him in assent. Fletcher and Sylva pulled themselves onto his shoulders, sitting astride the backs of their captives, grinning as Rook growled through his gag.
Ignatius roared in triumph, rearing up and throwing himself into the air.
And then they were gone, into the night.
CHAPTER
29
THEY LANDED BESIDE OTHELLO’S HOME under cover of darkness, waiting for a cloud to obscure the moon before making their descent. They had seen the watch fires from the Pinkertons around the edges of the Dwarven Quarter and knew that their presence would set off too many alarms if noticed.
Once inside the enormous tent, they were reunited with Cress, Othello and his mother, Briss, who greeted them with applause. Then they were told that Athol, Atilla, Thaissa and Uhtred were away in the caves beneath the Dwarven Quarter, preparing for the worst.
The group’s celebration of a successful mission was short-lived, however—the three dwarves immediately began fretting at the presence of the two nobles in their home. The kidnapping had never been part of the plan. Now all they could do was send word to Harold via a Mite the King had left in Briss’s care, in the hopes that he would know what to do. So they waited in nervous silence, with Ignatius’s claws resting on their prisoners’ throats, in case of any sudden movements.
Harold and his men came for them within the hour, marching through the Dwarven Quarter and into Othello’s home like an invading army. These were not Pinkertons or Inquisitors, but royal guardsmen, wearing the traditional garb of breastplates, feathered helms and pikes. It was only Harold’s presence that prevented weapons from being drawn as the ten men burst in.
“What is the meaning of this?” Othello snapped as the armored soldiers crowded into their tent, scattering cushions beneath their feet.
“These are my bodyguards,” Harold said, holding up his hands and smiling disarmingly. “Don’t worry, I trust them with my life.”
“I don’t care if we can trust them, why are they here?” Othello demanded.
“They’re only here because most dwarves do not know I am their ally. Given the current tensions, I couldn’t just go for a stroll through the ghetto without adequate protection. I am technically king of Hominum, after all.”
“All right, but let’s make this quick.” Othello stepped back, smoothing his beard.
At the sight of Harold, Zacharias began yelling incoherently from behind his gag. Rook remained silent, glowering with black eyes.
Harold stared at the pair for a moment, then strolled over and hunkered down beside them. He lowered his face until it was mere inches from Zacharias’s own, as close as a lover.
“That’s right,” he whispered. “After all these years, your treachery will be justly rewarded.”
Zacharias’s face reddened, and his muffled grunts were accompanied by spittle as he struggled against his bonds. Harold stood and etched a webbed symbol in the air. Moments later, glowing threads not unlike that of an Arach whipped around the pair’s hands and feet, even wrapping around their fingers in a tight ball to prevent their use of spellcraft.
“I think it’s best you let us take these two criminals off your hands before their imprisonment here is discovered and misinterpreted as dwarven aggression.”
“Thank goodness,” Briss said, flapping at her veiled face with her hands.
Harold nodded at his men, and the soldiers marched over and threaded pikes between the nobles’ arms and legs. They lifted them like hunters carrying a deer on a pole, leaving the pair helplessly swinging in the air.
“Here, use this to cover them,” Thaissa said, pointing at one of the large rugs in the corner of the tent. “They won’t be recognizable with that draped over them.”
“Do it, then take them outside,” Harold ordered. The men rushed to obey. Moments later, they were alone in the tent, and the tension dropped several notches.
“What happened to you?” Harold asked Fletcher, his brow furrowing at the charred remains of Fletcher’s clothing.