The Crimson Crown. Cinda Williams Chima

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СКАЧАТЬ through solid rock for no reason.

      But he had no charms to get him through those barriers, and no time for it anyway.

      As the tunnel sloped gently upward, side tunnels and intersections came more often. Magical barriers reappeared—simpler, less-elegant charms.

      The tunnel ends in an apparent dead end, a large chamber centered by a hot spring, Han’s notes said. The walls opened and the ceiling soared, and he was there.

      The pool before him resembled the bottomless springs scattered throughout the Fells—places where the fires within the earth came close to the surface. Deep and clear, rippling with heat, it looked like it could boil the flesh off a carcass in a matter of minutes.

      The spring is a mirage, Han’s notes said. You’ll find a stone staircase leading down into the water on the far side. At the bottom of the spring, there’s a door leading into the cellars of the Council House.

      Han circled the spring. Extending his hand, conjuring more light, he saw steps extending down into the clear water. The moist heat of the spring scalded his exposed skin. He could smell the sulfur bubbling up from its depths, see the steam rising from its surface. If it was a mirage, it was convincing.

      He fingered his amulet, debating. What if it was real? What if Han’s note-taking was faulty? What if something had changed in the past thousand years?

      He didn’t have time to dither about it if he didn’t want to be late. Sending up a prayer to any god who might be listening to someone like him, he stepped down into the pool, searching with his foot for the first step, his heart hammering, every nerve firing.

      From the evidence of his eyes, he stood knee-deep in a boiling hot spring. But there was no blistering pain, no water spilling into his clan-made boots. He took another step, and another, gritting his teeth, forcing himself to go on. He slitted his eyes, trying to limit the warring sensations in his brain.

      Now he was waist-deep, then up to his neck. Two more steps, and the boiling water closed over his head. He continued to breathe normally, continued to descend until he reached the bottom of the steps.

      The mirage dissolved, and Han stood, still alive and totally dry, in a rock chamber. The walls weren’t even damp.

      His heart thudded in his chest, and he felt dizzy and sick. Surely Alger Waterlow didn’t go through this trauma every time he came and went from his tunnel system. There must be another way in, he thought.

      A web of magic opposite the steps marked the exit. When Han’s heart settled a bit, he pried away the barricade charm and gently pushed at the door.

      The door opened into a cellar that stank of earth and stone. Han scanned the room. There, in one corner, the joining between walls and ceiling was smudged with glamours. Running his sensitive fingers over the surface, Han found two long bolts embedded in stone. When he slid them back, a hatch dropped open.

      Han leaped, caught the edges of the hatchway, and pulled himself up and through. He was in a small storeroom, stacked with dusty barrels and bins.

      Feeling filthy and dank-smelling from his journey, Han set down his saddlebags and changed into his wizard finery, doing his best to steam out the wrinkles with the heat from his fingers. He finished with the stoles that Willo had made for him, emblazoned with the Waterlow ravens. Stuffing his old clothes back into his saddlebags, he dropped them down through the hatchway, then dragged a barrel over to cover it.

      He wove his way through the maze, in what he hoped was the direction of the exit. It was as nasty as any cellar. Nobody would spend any more time here than necessary. Each time he encountered a staircase, he climbed to where the ceilings were higher and the walls less damp. Rounding a corner at a near trot, he came face-to-face with an apple-cheeked girlie, her apron loaded with onions. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

      “Sorry, love,” Han said. “Lost my way.” As he passed her, he brushed his fingers across her forehead, gently wiping away the memory of their encounter. He was glad when he reached the main floor, where his presence could be more easily explained.

      Using the servants’ corridors, he traveled out of the pantries and into the more formal areas. Ahead, he could hear a jumble of blueblood voices. Seeing stairs off to the right, he loped up them, looking for a place to clean away the traces of his journey.

      Han swerved down a corridor, into an area of plush private apartments, testing the doors on both sides. The first few he tried wouldn’t budge, but he found one door unlocked, and ducked inside, closing the door behind him.

      It was a lady’s bedroom, and obviously recently occupied. A gown lay crumpled on the floor next to the bed, and shimmies and cammies and petticoats were scattered about like the remnants of some smallclothes disaster. A fresh dress was laid out on the bed.

      A clock on the dressing table told him he had a half hour before the meeting began. Leaning down, he peered into the mirror. His clothes were clean, but there was a smudge of dirt on the bridge of his nose and a long scratch down his cheek, beaded with dried blood, collected somewhere on Gray Lady. Snatching up a washcloth from a basin, he scrubbed at his face.

      “Who are you and what are you doing here?” somebody said behind him, in a deadly cold voice.

      He whirled around, still holding the towel.

      Fiona Bayar stood there in a silk dressing gown and slippers, her white hair piled on top of her head. He saw the open door behind her, and realized that she must have just stepped out of her bath.

      From what Han could tell (and he could tell a lot), she had nothing on underneath the silk. Well, he thought, at least she isn’t carrying an amulet.

      “Alister!” As if she’d heard his thoughts, she groped for her flash, which wasn’t there.

      “Fiona! Ah … what are you doing here?” Which wasn’t the smartest thing to say, since he was the one who had kept her off the council. And she was the kind to hold a grudge.

      “What am I doing here? What are you doing up here?” She looked past Han, to where her amulet lay on the bed, next to her change of clothes.

      Fiona leaped toward her amulet just as Han moved to intercept her. She slammed into him, and they both tumbled onto the bed, Fiona on top. He could feel her amulet under his spine, but she was busy diving into his neckline, trying to get her hands on the serpent amulet. He grabbed her hands and held them tight, her face inches from his nose.

      “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he said.

      “I thought you’d be at the council meeting,” she gasped, struggling to free herself.

      “I’m on my way,” Han said.

      And the next thing he knew, Fiona had wrapped her long legs around him and was kissing him like she hoped to suck the breath right out of him. The silk wasn’t much of a barrier, and anyway, the robe had slid open. Han couldn’t help reacting. He was human, after all.

      Fiona finally came up for air, looking down at him with glittering eyes as if to assess the effect. “I’m actually glad to see you, Alister,” she said. “I planned to catch you after the council meeting. How did you find me so quickly? I hope no one saw you come up here.” She kissed him again, molding her body against his. “I promised I’d have a new proposition for you,” she murmured СКАЧАТЬ