The unexplored tunnel proved shorter than the first and ended with a trapdoor identical to that in the parish. It opened into the storeroom, hidden inside an empty barrel among half a dozen others full of dry mortar. Sylvertre squatted inside until he felt sure the chamber was vacant, then clambered up the stairs as fast as a cripple could.
He survived the rest of the evening without anyone asking where he’d been or what he’d been doing. Truly, no one spoke a word to him, even at supper with the other members of the Cross; Father Angelo; his deacon, Asmund; and Elder Alphonse. The three of them seemed a matching set to the squire, amicable, wrinkled, and shades of snowy gray cloud. “Molded from the same soft clay,” Angelo japed, explaining Thomas’s absence. “But that man was cut from stiffer mud. He has always been welcome to join us, but prefers to take his meals alone in his cell—and only after a nightly patrol. God bless his diligence,” and on and on the priest talked, his companions beaming; the knight’s nodding half-heartedly while the other squires stared solemnly at half-finished plates. Ogdon took this time to study their faces, their gestures, their ages and strengths—whether he thought any of them capable of taking slaves. They seemed too soft to him, too old and frail. But that didn’t stop Vaufnar, he mulled over the thought, but what if it’s Thomas? He could be doing anything down there with no one around. And if it’s all of them? How do I accuse them without proof that they knew? I’ll have to go back for more evidence, Sylvertre realized, keeping in mind that a former cleric might be lurking about those tunnels now, a heavy velvet mace hanging from his belt.
Ogdon rose and excused himself. He knew he’d need to devise a plan, that doing it alone was impossible. He also knew that the only person he dared to tell would never believe him. Then I won’t give her a choice, he decided, aching his way up two floors of steep, spiraled stairs and into the Cross’s borrowed chambers. There wasn’t a second to waste. He stole Trey’s quills, ink, and parchment and left a note for Jael where her sword had been—for he took that with him, along with his own weapon tucked under his cloak. He would sneak to the storeroom before supper was done, and if the elder yet prowled the parish, he’d hide inside the false barrel and catch Leonhardt on her way down. That was how he imagined his plot to proceed, but when he passed through the store and into the sanctuary, he found the whole of the parish empty.
Jael arrived in short time, her lips livid as the four battle scars at the corners of her face. Her breaths fell stiff and sharp as the stab of a dagger. “Tell me where it is, Ogdon, or I swear to God I’ll break your last leg.”
“So you read my letter, then?” He glanced over each shoulder, then again to make certain they were alone. “And you didn’t tell anyone anything?”
“Of course I showed Trey your stupid note.” She stopped to rest in the center of the chancel and starred him down cold as the Serpent’s Head.
Ogdon’s heart froze, but he tried not to let it show on his face or in his tone as he spoke. “‘Trey,’ huh? Well aren’t you on intimate terms with the captain. Strange, then, that he’s not here if you truly did show him the letter.”
“He’s not here because I told him not to come. I knew what this was about; thought I’d save you the embarrassment. I can see now that was my mistake.”
“Not at all,” replied Sylvertre as he limped toward the hidden door, passing within an inch of her, yet his craven eyes held fast to the floor till they spied the subtle notches where he’d forced entry prior. Iron schill in hand, he opened the trap—careful to keep the swords out of view, either obscured by his cloak or behind the altar. “It’s down here,” he said.
Leonhardt glowered, skeptical.
Descending, Ogdon jested, “ There are no Brackdragons, I promise.” No one laughed, but the squire was glad enough to hear Jael following after him into the cramped, damp tunnel. “Not much further,” he told her, “it lightens up ahead.” It didn’t; and not until the bend did it occur to him that his earlier visit was during midday, that it was evening now, that without a lantern there would be nothing to show her.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“A cave underneath the tower. It opens onto the ocean. I wanted to show you, but I didn’t think about the light. If you keep going, there’s an old pier and a boat, and there are chains along the wall over there. If you stay close to me, I can find them again and—”
“That’s not why I followed you. Where is my sword, Ogdon?”
“Your sword?” he stalled.
But Leonhardt was done with him. He watched her silhouette turn back for the passage—saw her stop midstride. Together, they recognized the yellow lantern light reaching around the corner, growing brighter, blinding them both while the boots sounded louder on the rough, tunnel floor.
He spoke before they saw him, his voice stout as his form emerging from the light. “What in Hell are you doing down here? I thought the old dock was sealed up.”
“It certainly was made to seem that way,” Sylvertre replied.
Jael glared back and forth between the men. “What is this? What’s going on?”
Ogdon dropped his crutch and gripped his sword, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. “Look around, Jael: black sails
