doing all the things they were supposed to do.
She wanted them back. Even Hilith. Instead, all she had now were stones that whispered and the faint scuff of bared feet out of sight past some corner, and that chilling sensation of hidden eyes tracking her every move.
And now Captain Ivis had ridden out to join his soldiers. She saw the armourer, Setyl, with his terribly scarred face, standing near the kilns, motionless as he stared into the embers. Near the stables stood Venth, openly weeping at the thought of the horses soon to die.
Sandalath looked at the tower she had told Ivis would be her perch to witness the battle. To ascend, she would have to pass the locked door that led into a chamber she had once heard Envy call the Temple.
If the daughters remained in the keep, they were hiding in that room. She had no proof, of course. Not even Ivis had a key to that chamber, and just like her he knew not what lay behind that door.
She had been given a fighting knife after the night of the murders. It was heavy, wide-bladed and weighted at its tip. The captain had shown her how to chop with the weapon. It could be used to slice and cut as well, but these techniques involved practice, and a wrist stronger than hers. The thought of killing the Lord’s daughters did not disturb her overmuch; the faith she lacked was in her own courage.
Beneath the cloak, she closed one hand about the weapon’s grip, and then set out for the tower and its stairs that wound up the inside of the outer wall. There were four levels to the tower, if one included the open platform at the top. Shuttered windows were visible on all but the floor with the hidden chamber, and that one was just beneath the ladder to the platform.
Reaching the door, she was startled by a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see the horse master, his eyes still red and streaked tears on his lined cheeks. ‘Master Venth, what do you wish?’
‘Your pardon, hostage. But when the captain took from me the reins of his mount, he informed me that you were intent on watching from atop the tower.’
She nodded.
‘He asked that I escort you there, hostage. And, if you so desire, that I keep you company.’
‘Is it dangerous to be up there, horse master?’
His eyes shied away. ‘Not from anyone outside the walls, hostage.’
‘Then at last Captain Ivis is convinced. They are still here, aren’t they?’
‘Food’s gone missing, hostage. Corporal Yalad shared your conviction and he has been diligent, and like you he believes that they hide in secret passages.’
‘Then, Venth, I will welcome your company.’
‘Permit me to lead the way, then.’
‘Of course.’
Clearly, Envy reflected, something was wrong. Malice was rotting. They huddled under the floor of the kitchen, sharing between them a loaf of bread Spite had stolen just before dawn. They were all filthy, but the smell coming from little Malice was rank with something much worse than grime and sweat. Each time Malice opened her mouth to take another piece of bread, the stench grew worse.
‘All the house guards trooped out,’ said Spite. ‘I was behind the hearth wall at the crack. Envy, we have the house to ourselves.’
‘We can get to the hostage then. Good.’
‘Not yet. She went out, too. Something is going on. I don’t know what — we heard all the horses. I think they’ve gone to fight somewhere.’
‘War? Could be. Everyone’s closing in on Father. About time.’
‘He’s not here, though,’ said Malice in a dry, cracking voice.
‘Then he’ll come home to ashes,’ said Spite.
‘I don’t want to burn,’ said Malice, each word spitting out crumbs of bread.
‘We can use the tunnel,’ Envy said, but her mind was not on the subject. She kept her gaze averted from Malice. ‘We have other problems right now. Spite, you know what I mean.’
Her sister nodded, wiping at her nose. ‘If they bring dogs inside, like Yalad was saying, we’re in trouble. I know what to do, though, and we should do it now.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Malice asked.
‘Don’t worry about it. You thirsty, Malice? I am. Envy?’
‘Parched.’
‘There’s no one in the kitchen. Some nice sweet summer wine — it’s all I can think about. This bread is like a lump of wax in my belly.’ She lifted one of her hands to study the red scar the surgeon’s cutting tool had made. ‘We won’t heal up all the way until we get more food and drink in us. That’s why we sleep all the time. We’re starving.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ said Malice. ‘I’m never hungry.’
‘Then why do you eat with us?’ Envy asked.
Malice shrugged. ‘It’s something to do.’
‘Maybe it’s the food inside you that’s rotting.’
‘I don’t smell anything.’
‘We do,’ snapped Spite. ‘But some wine should fix that.’
‘All right, I’ll drink some, then.’
They set out, gathering again at the end of the passage beneath the kitchen floor, where it opened out into two further tunnels. The one on the left led under the entranceway and ended up under the stables, in a room shin deep in mud soaked with horse piss, while the one on the right ran the length of the main chamber. At the junction of these passages there was a chute that reached up to behind the larder. There were no handholds and the only means of ascending this shaft was to wedge oneself against the walls, with knees drawn up. It was difficult and left scrapes and bruises, but it was the only way into the kitchen.
Envy went first, since it had turned out that she was the strongest of the three and so could reach down and help the others up. The walls had become greasy with constant use, making the climb still more treacherous, but at last she reached the ledge that marked the sliding panel at the back wall of the larder, and slid it open so that she could pull herself up and then into the room. She had to huddle since she was beneath a shelf stocked with jars. Reaching down, she let her right arm dangle. Moments later she felt Spite grasp hold of it and then use it to climb up the chute. Each yank shot pain through Envy’s shoulder. Spite’s harsh breathing drew closer, and then her sister was clambering through the trap. As she squeezed past Envy, she whispered, ‘The oven.’
Envy grunted to acknowledge that she heard, and then reached down once more.
Malice’s hands were cold. Skin and the meat beneath it slipped strangely until Envy could feel every bone, closing like talons around her arm. The stench of her sister rose up and she gagged, fighting to keep the contents of her stomach from rising into her mouth.
She felt Spite take hold of her ankles and begin dragging her out from under the shelf, and this helped Envy pull Malice after her. Moments later, all three rose to their feet in the darkness of the larder. That darkness proved no barrier to vision — one of Father’s gifts, Envy assumed.
Spite crept to the door and pressed her ear against it. She released the latch and pulled the door open.
They walked out into the kitchen.
‘Let’s sit close to the oven to warm up,’ Envy said. ‘Spite, find us a jug.’
Malice accompanied Envy to the oven. The fires beneath it had just been fed, to keep the oven hot until the midday meal needed preparing. Envy suspected that this day would see no such meal; still, the habit had been adhered to and so the heat emanating from the metal door and its brick flanks was fierce and welcoming.
‘I can’t feel it,’ said Malice, sitting down beside her.
‘Do you feel cold?’
Malice shook her head. Strands of hair drifted down to the floor. ‘I don’t feel anything.’
Spite reappeared with a heavy earthenware jug. She came up to them, and a moment before reaching them she took the jug’s handle in both hands and swung it against Malice’s head.
Clay and bone shattered, spilling wine and blood out over Malice’s body and the floor, and both sisters. Where the liquids splashed against the oven door there was savage hissing, and then smoke. Spite dropped the handle. ‘Help me lift her!’
Envy took up a wrist and an ankle.
