'Quiet.' Framain lifted his hand. More cracking, syncopated with the patter of the rain, the growl of the fire and the tap of the drip on the tin plate. It was getting dark; rain-clouds outside,
Miel supposed, covering up the sun. But it was hard, somehow, to believe in the existence of the outside world, as he stood by the bench waiting for the cracking noise to stop. It seemed unnecessary elaboration, like crowded detail in the background of a painting that distracts your attention from what's going on in the foreground; sloppy composition.
'I think it's stopped,' Framain said, just before the loudest crack so far.
'Are you sure that's not just the bottle getting too hot?'
Framain was counting under his breath.
'All it'd take would be one drip from the roof onto the bottle, and it'd shatter right in our faces, like that other time.' Her voice sounded absurdly loud. 'We really ought to do something about the leaks, but he's afraid of ladders.'
'It's ready.' Framain had a pair of tongs in his hand; he took a long stride forward and closed them around the clay-caked bottle. 'Right,' he said, in a tight, cramped voice. 'Let's open it up and see what we've got. Chisel.'
'Let it cool down first. He's always in such a hurry, it leads to mistakes.'
At the end of the bench was a two-inch-thick slab of polished slate. Framain put the bottle down on it, carefully opening the tongs with both hands. 'Chisel, please,' he repeated, and Miel realized he was being spoken to. There was a rack of chisels on the wall, two dozen of them, all different shapes and sizes and contours. He chose one at random, hoping it'd do. At least he had the sense not to ask which one Framain wanted.
'Thank you.' Framain took it from him without looking. He had a beech mallet in the other hand, and tapped the chisel lightly against the clay.
'Careful,' she said, as he tapped again, flaking off a shard of clay.
He breathed hard through his nose but said nothing. Another tap, and the clay webbed with cracks. He paused to flick off a few loose flakes.
'There's somebody outside,' she said.
Framain looked up, frowning.
'There is,' she said urgently. 'Listen.'
Muttering, Framain carefully put the bottle down and stood up, looking round. Miel guessed he was searching for something he could use as a weapon-the adze, perhaps, or the sledgehammer. 'Shall I go and take a look?' Miel suggested. Both of them thought about that for a moment, then Framain nodded.
'Are you sure you heard…?' Framain mumbled.
'Yes.'
Miel noticed that the door was bolted on the inside. He slid the bolt back, slow and careful; took a step back from the door before opening it, to give himself distance just in case there was trouble outside. Not that there would be…
The door swung open. He waited a couple of heartbeats and slid through, not opening it further than he needed to.
Outside the air was sweet with the smell of rain. He stood at the top of the steps and looked up and down the yard. Nobody there, of course. She'd imagined everything…
Except the gate at the top was always shut, tied with a bit of old hemp rope because the latch and keeper were no longer on speaking terms; but now it stood a yard open, the rope hanging limp from one of the bars. Of course, old rope half rotted through could easily break of its own accord, if a high wind got behind the gate and pushed. But there'd been no wind, only rain.
Staying exactly where he was, he concentrated furiously on what he could see of the rope. It hadn't been untied, because he could see the knot still in it. More than anything in the world, he wanted to know whether the dangling end of the rope was ragged and frayed or squarely cut through. To find that out, however, he'd have to go down the steps and walk at least ten paces up the yard. The Ducas is no coward, but neither is he recklessly stupid. He stayed where he was, looking for secondary evidence.
'Well?' her voice hissed from behind the door.
Yes, when he'd last looked at it the rope had been rotten and slimy. But it was also thick; if three strands had worn and moldered through, that still left two or three more, plenty to hold the gate shut, particularly in no wind. A stranger wanting to get into the yard might not have the patience to wrestle with the slippery, nail-tearing knot. He'd cut the rope.
'Is there anybody there or isn't-'
'Ssh.' The house windows were shuttered tight, as always, but he couldn't see the back door from where he was standing. A stranger would try the house first; a harmless traveler, lost on the moors, desperate for a drink and a bit of food; or someone else. He heard a horse, that unmistakable sound they make by blowing through closed lips. Framain's horses were out in the paddock, weren't they? Or had he brought them in, in case it rained?
One thing he could be absolutely sure of: standing motionless at the top of the barn steps was hardly sound tactics. An archer stooped down behind the pigsty wall, or lurking under the woodshed eaves, would have a beautifully clear shot. Even if there was no archer, he was advertising his position and his apprehension with alarming clarity, and getting no useful information in return. 'Stay inside,' he hissed, then jumped down off the steps and walked briskly toward the house.
First, see if there was anybody there. If there wasn't, nip inside and get the hunting sword, the one he'd stolen from the looters. Probably not much use, if the place really was under attack, but holding it in his hand would make him feel slightly better.
He'd forgotten that the back door creaked. Inside the house was perfectly still and quiet, but it didn't feel right. Stupid, he told himself, that's just you being nervous. He went straight to the pile of rugs where he'd last seen the sword; there it was, just where he'd left it. He grabbed at it like a drowning man reaching for the hand of a rescuer.
Ridiculous, he thought. There's nobody here.
The house didn't take long to search. Nobody there, no unaccountable marks in the dust, no door open that he'd left shut. Looking out through the front door at the curtain of rain, he felt himself relax. Just possibly, a man, maybe even two, could be hiding in the yard somewhere. But if unwelcome guests had come to visit, they'd have come on horseback; from where he was standing, he had a clear view of everywhere a horse could be tethered. No horse; no intruder. Therefore, the breeze or simple entropy must've broken the gate rope, and there was nothing to be afraid of.
To prove it to himself once and for all, he strode briskly up the yard and inspected the ends of the rope. Cut through.
Well, that cleared things up. No more dithering; he had to get back to the barn, warn them, organize a safe, swift evacuation to a defensible stronghold. By now, stealth was pointless. He ran.
Up the steps, through the door; he drew a breath to deliver his warning. Then something slammed between his shoulder blades. He stumbled, heard the sword go bump on the floor, saw the floorboards rushing up at him. He landed on his elbows, and saw a pair of boots.
'That him?' someone said.
He was grabbed and hauled upright. 'Well?' the voice said.
'Yes.'
Her voice. He turned his head and saw a dark brown face just behind his shoulder; then his left arm was wrenched behind his back and twisted.
There were two more Mezentines, besides the one holding him. One of them stepped out from the shadows behind the bench. The other was the owner of the boots. He said, 'Miel Ducas.'
'That's me,' Miel said.
The Mezentine didn't seem interested in talking to him. 'Bring the other two as well,' he said. He was wrapping a bit of rag round a stick. Why would he be doing that?
'All right, you've got your man,' Framain was saying. 'Now why don't you…?'
The Mezentine shoved his wrapped stick in the furnace fire, waited for it to catch. Framain was saying something, but Miel didn't get a chance to hear it; he was being hauled out of the barn and down the steps. He heard a shriek; possibly a man's voice, probably a woman's. Dutifully he considered trying to fight, but a twist on his forearm excused him.
