The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(90)

Holestar takes Derc’s weapon and passes into the entry hall. He sees the vaulted space in his mind. The creamy granite walls that give off a rose aura in the right light. The huge brass doors, twenty feet high. The two black-iron spiral staircases, one for the public, one for owners, that lead all the way to the top of the tower. The broad sweep of marble stairs leading to the half floor where Council is held. And on the far side the other door to the service hallway.

Through tall windows, skinny as arrow slits, Holestar sees pinpricks of light, the torches and lanterns of cowards and sympathizers, defeatists and capital saboteurs. They might as well be fireflies trying to raze a barn, he thinks.

Holestar enters the hallway. He creeps forward. By his count Skite will be moving too. He can’t see the candlelight yet. He flexes his fingers around his hatchet and the dirk. His palms are dry as stone.

Chelson wants the barrowman questioned before he’s killed so he can know why his daughter was taken. Holestar thought it would be a waste of time, but the chase has him looking forward to it. He wants to chew off the man’s fingertips for killing Derc.

Candleglow seeps around the corner. Holestar tenses. The door to the servants’ stair is ahead. It’s ajar. The candles advance. He edges toward the door. Skite gives a slight bob of his head to indicate he sees Holestar, but doesn’t move to alert their quarry behind the door. When the light touches his feet, Holestar rips open the door.

There’s no one there, just a dark wood panel in a frame where a painting might once have been set.

Two whistles echo down the stone steps. They bolt upstairs. Skite shakes the candles out so they can’t be targeted in the dark.

There’s nothing more intimate than a blind fight, sensing your partner’s movements, reaching out deftly, wanting the fatal touch.

Their quarry scurries away.

“Headed for the first chambers,” Holestar says. Skite grunts, too winded for speech.

At the top of the stairs, they fold over, gasping, waving their dirks before them to stave off any attack. They hear a clanking in the darkness. More stairs. The original council chamber is ringed with broad windows, the walls far thinner up here than they have to be at the bottom. They can see the first brush of dawn on the horizon, but that does little for the vaulted room.

Skite says, “We’ve got him trapped up here. Let’s get some more men and make sure he doesn’t get away.”

“No,” Holestar says. “We’ve come this far. And it’s nearly six. This place will be swarming with people soon, and Chelson doesn’t want outside interference.”

Skite exhales long, inhales slowly, and stands up, ready. Holestar claps him on the back.

“There’s a door onto the widow’s walk to our right,” Holestar says. They inch along the wall. Skite bumps into the door, which is barred. “He couldn’t have gone this way.”

Holestar, nodding in the dark, says, “He’s on top of the dome. Follow me.”

“I can’t,” Skite says. “I have to get my bearings. Let’s light a candle. He probably knows where we are. If he’s waiting nearby we’ll see him.”

“I don’t like it,” Holestar says, but he lets Skite light his candle.

They’re behind the banc. Sailcloth covers it and the pews and desks arrayed before it. Dust covers the rest. There are faint footprints and drag marks on the thick red runner that circles the room. They end at skinny decorative iron stairs that run up around the back of the dome. A catwalk then leads to a ladder rising to a trapdoor in the center of the dome.

“Of all the places in the city to hide, why this one?” Skite says. “Why not get lost in the Rookery?”

“Who would look here?”

“He’d have to be strong to get the girl up here, if he has,” Skite says. “I hope we’re after the right guy.”

“He’s the right guy now,” Holestar says. He peers at the trapdoor. He could swear it was open just enough for someone to look through.

“How do you want to go through?”

“He’ll take off any head as soon as it pokes through,” Holestar says. He points across the room. Behind the banc stand several short flagpoles for displaying the councilors’ company colors during sessions. “That’s what we need. I’ll go first. You push open the trapdoor with a pole and stir it around. That’ll distract him enough for me to get through and take a swipe.”

“I’ll mop up. As usual.”

Skite admires Holestar’s courage. Holestar admires Skite’s optimism.

The iron stair was not made for such large men. It creaks and pulls at the arches in the dome. They get into position on the ladder, Skite holding the candle against the pole. Holestar checks the trapdoor. It doesn’t give. Something heavy blocks it. Then it slides aside with heavy footsteps and the door loosens.

Skite gives Holestar the wide eye. Holestar gives the signal. Skite pushes the trapdoor and rams the pole through. Holestar and his hatchet follow. Three whistles, a snap of wood, a snap of bone, and the top of the pole falls through the door, followed by Holestar’s hand with the hatchet. They thunk onto the catwalk. Holestar hisses and tries to slide down the ladder. Skite, frozen, blocks him. Holestar looks up and ducks his head.

Not far enough. Skite hears three whistles again and sees what looks like a great gray shark head dive through the trapdoor to clamp Holestar’s head, twisting it as he screams, then wrenches it off.