entering the passage. The decaying chamber at the other end appeared unchanged. Marguerite tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear against the wood. Nothing. She opened it just a crack, grimacing at the familiar protest of its hinges. Turning sideways, she slipped into the hall. She did not carry a light, for it might announce her presence.
To the right lay the stairwell leading to the dungeons. The stables, however, could be reached only by passing through the foyer below-at Eeast as far as she knew. Marguerite turned left, and headed down the hall, as quiet as a mouse. She came to the broad, curving stair and began a careful descent. On the wall, the torches burned in their iron sconces. Below, she could hear a man speaking-Ekhart, perhaps. She dared not venture too close; with her luck, he had the hounds. If he did, the dogs would scent her and scrabble up the stairs to point her out. Fragments of Ekhart's muffled report drifted up to her.
'Five,' Ekhart said.'. . easy. .'
Marguerite dared to move a step closer.
14. , some silver. , jewelry. . wine and sugar.'
She took another step,
Ekhart continued, '… so we brought…'
A second man snapped out a reply. 'Idiot!' Marguerite had moved close enough to hear all his words, and to tell that it was Lord Donskoy himself. 'When my wife is near, you'll make no procurements for the mere whims of Miss Montarri.'
'As you wish, my lord,' replied Ekhart. 'It was at Ljubo's insistence. Besides, there was some mention of more to follow, so we thought-'
'Well don't think, old man,' Donskoy intervened. 'You've managed it badly.' The lord paused, then chuckled. 'And since when do you answer to Ljubo? No, I know you, Ekhart. And I suspect you have a few whims of your own concerning the cargo. Eh? Am I right?'
A muffled grunt, half a laugh, came in reply.
Donskoy continued, 'Though I suppose I cannot blame you. Come with me to the drawing room, then, and share a nightcap while we discuss your instructions.'
At that moment, Marguerite heard someone coming down the stairs behind her-coming softly and swiftly. She pressed herself to the wall, hoping desperately that whoever-whatever-was coming would not notice her lurking in the shadows.
Directly behind Marguerite, Yelena gasped loudly and dropped her candle. It rolled down the last three steps and into the foyer beyond.
'Ekhart, wait!11 Donskoy hissed, his voice close below. 'Did you hear that? Between Yelena and that disgusting toad of Zosia's, this castle has far too many ears.'
Footsteps approached the base of the stairs. 'Show yourself!' Donskoy bellowed.
Marguerite put a finger to her lips. Yelena shook her head frantically and tugged on Marguerite's sleeve, pointing to the top of the stairs. Then the mute girl hastily descended the stairs into the foyer.
Marguerite slunk back around the corner, retreating three steps up. She heard a sudden blow in the foyer below, followed by a soft exclamation of pain.
'Worm!' spat Donskoy. 'Were you eavesdropping again?' Another smack punctuated his question. 'Too many ears entirely. Well that can be fixed. If I catch you skulking about again, I'll cut off both of yours.'
There was pause* then Ekhart said, Til handle the cargo. You.needn't worry.'
Donskoy grunted his assent. Yelena's soft whimpering accented his words.
'Quit whining, wench/ he muttered. 'Go with Ekhart and assist as he requires. And be sure you clean up after him.'
Marguerite crept up the stairs, promising herself that she would find some way to improve Yelena's treatment. Donskoy expected the girl to materialize whenever he required, yet if she happened to be near when he did not want her, she suffered for it.
With that vow, Marguerite hurried through the hal! and slipped into the decaying room next to hers as quietly as possible. She stood behind the door a moment, listening. When she was sure no one had followed, she knelt before the wall and opened the secret passage, then crawled inside.
The stones slid into place behind her. She scrabbled quickly through the tunnel, suddenly eager to be safe in her bed. But when she reached out to open the por-tal into her own chamber, the stones remained motionless.
An involuntary groan rose in her throat. Marguerite pushed with all her might, but nothing happened; the wall refused to shift. She remembered Donskoy's warning: 'The passages are crumbling and prone to failure, and you might find yourself entombed in a wall.'
Her heart thundered in her ears, the only sound in the otherwise still passage. Slowly, methodically, she began to push every stone that barred her path. Still, nothing happened. Marguerite pounded her fist against the stone she recalled as the trigger. This time, the wall gave way. She lifted the tapestry and scrambled to freedom.
Safely in her chamber, she stood, breathing heavily. 'Idiot,' she whispered. She had been stupid and clumsy, lacking both stealth and common sense. If Yelena could surprise her so readily, then why not Ljubo or Ekhart, or Donskoy himself? Further, she had not even imagined the secret passage could malfunction, though her husband had warned of the possibility that very day. She would not venture through the tunnel again-not without good reason. Ekhart's activity seemed meaningless compared to the prospect of slow suffocation, or the thought of being discovered and relocated to one of the miasmic chambers that typified the keep.
Marguerite removed her tunic and returned it to the wardrobe. Staring inside the cabinet, she recalled what she had been doing before Ekhart and Ljubo's return distracted her. She donned her dressing gown and withdrew Van Richten's Guide to the Vistani from the wardrobe, then took it to her chair by the fire. There she sat and unwrapped the black shroud, spreading it over her lap. The innermost folds of the cloth were coated with ash; she worked slowly, taking care not to soil her garment. The book seemed to weigh no more than a feather upon her thighs. Gingerly she leafed through the pages, those that still allowed themselves to be parted. At length she rediscovered the pictures of tralaks. There again was the symbol that the book had opened to of its own accord, three lines striking a fourth: cursed A shudder ran down her back; she reminded herself of what Zosia had told her, that Valeska's ghost intended her no harm.
What was the symbol on the road? A triangle of some sort, pointing downward. The book showed a triangle and a line, which was titled 'recent murder,' but the tip pointed up. There was another with a cross through it, entitled 'ancient murders.' She could find nothing quite like the overturned triangle Donskoy had removed from the tree, but it did not seem a wild guess to think that it had something to do with death, Perhaps it meant «suicide»; that seemed fitting for an inverted version of the murder symbol.
Slowly and carefully, she opened the book to another section, curious what she might find. Most of the tome was illegible, as if the ink had literally ignited and burned away. Whole chapters had been fused together, the pages having melted and become one. It was odd, she thought. She had never seen parchment or ink behave in this way before. Then she laughed at herself: neither had she ever seen a book that would not burn, or that opened of its own accord.
A title on a page caught her eye: 'Torture and terror.' The chapter appeared to contain Van Richten's theories on curses and the evil eye-the Vistani's strange ability to cause enchantments with a mere look. Most often, those enchantments were malevolent. Marguerite remembered Ramus's penetrating gaze, how it filled her with warmth and threatened to melt away her caution. It had not seemed harmful, but had she not looked away. . Suddenly another face came to mind, another set of dark, penetrating eyes. Valeska's eyes. Zosia had assured her that Valeska meant her no harm. But what if Zosia was wrong?
Then she admonished herself aloud, borrowing a phrase from Zosia. 'Don't let your imagination run off like a mad hare, Marguerite/ She continued to took through the book for answers; she had nowhere else to turn. She could only make out a few words here and there, describing horrid afflictions that a Vistani curse might cause: a condition called 'the body melt,' which converted a man into gooey liquid; a passing mention of gangrene; something about the conversion of one's skeleton to a baglike form. She shuddered.
Then an intriguing phrase caught her eye: 'black hands.' According to Van Richten, they could mark a man who had wronged the Vistani; the author made note of a thief who had robbed a caravan and found his own skin discolored by the act. Marguerite thought of her husband's black gloves, but there was no connection; they were
