“Official business,” Narin said without elaborating. “D’you know where the master of the Citadel is? We need his assistance with a couple things.”
The soldier shrugged. “Should be in his office, fourteenth level of the Anchor. If he’s not there, he’ll be training his cadets in the seventh level courtyard.”
“Thanks. We’ll check those places first.”
“Happy to help. Good to see you, Narin.”
The soldier ambled off, hailing a few of his fellows further along the hall. Narin turned quickly and led Relam and the others to a door near the back of the hall.
“What’s the Anchor?” Aven asked curiously.
“The largest tower, dead center of the Citadel,” Narin replied. “Used to be the tallest tower too, until the Eyrie Tower was added to the Guard Tower.”
“How many towers are there?” Aven asked.
“Eight,” Narin grunted in reply.
“Do they all have names too?”
“Yes.”
Relam noticed that the palace guard’s answers were getting shorter and shorter. As Aven opened his mouth to speak again, the prince nudged him gently.
“I think we can discuss the Citadel’s many wonders some other time, Aven.”
The boy nodded sheepishly. “Sorry. It’s just so . . . huge.”
Relam frowned. ‘Huge’ seemed a little too simple a word to describe the Citadel in all of its glory.
Narin led them down a short corridor, then turned into a twisting stairwell that spiraled up to the left and down to the right. “What’s below here?” Aven asked, daring to ask one more question. “I thought we were on the ground level.”
“There’s storerooms and such underground,” Narin grunted as they climbed.
“Not dungeons?” Relam interjected. Then, he mentally kicked himself for breaking his own rule about asking more questions.
“A few. But the Eyrie and Guard towers are more secure. Nowhere for any escapees to go except down the stairwells and those are easy enough to plug up.”
“What about the outside of the towers?” Aven asked. “Couldn’t someone climb down?”
“Maybe. If they were a really good climber and they had a rope and plenty of time,” Narin allowed. “They’d probably be seen though, especially during the day.”
“They’d be pretty obvious, clinging to the wall like that,” Relam agreed. “Nobody has ever escaped?”
“Never,” Narin confirmed. “Now, come on, we need to find the master of the Citadel, D’Arnlo.”
Relam gave an involuntary grunt of displeasure. He had forgotten that D’Arnlo was the master of the Citadel. When Narin glanced at him, he shook his head.
“Nothing. It’s just . . . I’ve encountered this D’Arnlo before, at court functions and such.”
“He takes some getting used to,” Narin agreed. “And he has some strange ideas. Nothing to worry about today though, all we’re doing is interrogating prisoners, not holding a debate on the kingdom’s policies.”
The small band exited the stairwell on the fourteenth floor of the Anchor. Relam, following just behind Narin, stopped abruptly. They were in a corridor that seemed to run the entire perimeter of the central tower, with numerous wide windows looking out over the city below. Far below. Relam had not realized how far they had climbed in the enclosed stairwell. Birds circled below them, and the masts of the tallest harbor ships seemed short and stubby viewed from this angle.
“This is impressive,” he observed drily, looking left and right.
“Yes, it’s quite the view,” Narin agreed. “That’s why the senior leaders of the Citadel all have their offices and quarters up here. It’s also a good place to command from. The last time the Citadel was attacked, this corridor was filled with archers standing shoulder to shoulder and pouring arrows down on the enemy. The attackers never stood a chance. Anybody that stepped out in the open was instantly killed.”
“Ah, nice to see someone knows their history,” an unctuous voice declared from the corridor to the right.
Relam turned and saw Master D’Arnlo advancing towards them, smiling a little too widely for the expression to be genuine. He was clad richly in breeches of thin, glove-quality leather and a spotless white tunic. Over this he wore a black surcoat with the gray tower and halberd insignia of the Citadel on the left breast. His curly dark hair, streaked with gray, fell to his shoulders and a carefully cultivated beard covered his chin and upper lip.
“Master D’Arnlo,” Narin murmured, bowing. “Good to see you, my Lord.”
The other guards bowed low as well, murmuring greetings of their own. Aven and Relam stood quietly, Aven untrained in court protocol and Relam taking full advantage of the fact that he was by no means required to bow to D’Arnlo.
The lack of respect earned a raised eyebrow from the master of the Citadel. “Well? Who might you be?” he asked, peering at Relam’s shadowed features. “There are few men who would refuse to bow before the master of this tower.”
Relam pushed back his hood and inclined his head, wishing that he were just a little taller so that he wasn’t looking up at D’Arnlo. The sword master flinched ever so slightly as Relam revealed his face, then bowed smoothly.
“Your highness, this is an unexpected pleasure,” he said, straightening. “To what do I owe this rare visit to my domain?”
“A few of your guests, actually,” Relam replied grimly. “In the Eyrie.”
“Ah, yes,” D’Arnlo said, nodding slowly. “I had wondered if anyone from the palace would come to interrogate them. His majesty is feeling better, I hope?”
“He’s alive, but in a deep sleep,” Relam replied. “He will not wake.”
D’Arnlo blinked in surprise. “Interesting. And you believe these assassins may be able to tell you what they used, so you can create an antidote?”
“Yes.”
The sword master nodded thoughtfully. “It might just work,” he allowed. “Although, if I were the man who had hired them, I would not have told them what poison I was giving them. That way, nobody knows except the
