Cursor's Fury (Codex Alera #3)(208)

Shouts came from above. They were answered from below, though they bounced around the stone stairway too badly for Amara to understand them. A moment later, she didn't need to understand-more guards were racing up the stairs, and they were not far away.

Amara cursed. She should have taken the fallen officer's blade while she had the opportunity, once their chances of a completely covert entry had gone to the crows. "Bernard!" she shouted.

Her husband came leaping down the stairs, bow in hand. "They're Immortal Knights Ferrous!" he called to her. "Aldrick's in trouble, and I can't get a clean shot!"

"He'll be in more trouble if the rest of the guards come up the stairs behind," Amara said. "You've got to hold them off."

Bernard nodded once, never slowing his pace, feet moving swiftly and silently down the stairs. A beat later, she heard the heavy, bass thrumming of his bow, and a cry of pain.

Amara wanted to scream with fear, for her husband and for herself and for all the people who were counting on the success of this mission. She ground her teeth instead and flung herself after Rook.

This level of the tower was a richly appointed apartment, the entry room a large study and library rolled into one. The woven carpets, the tapestries, a dozen paintings and several sculptures were all lovely enough-but they were put together with no sense of style, theme, or commonality of any kind. It was an insight into Kalarus's character, Amara decided. He knew what beauty was, but he did not understand what made it valuable. His collection was expensive, expansive, all of undeniable masterpieces-and that was all he cared about; the shell, the price, the proclamation of his wealth and power, not beauty for its own sake.

Kalarus did not love beauty. He merely had use for it. And the fool probably had no idea that there was a distinction between the two.

Amara saw why Rook had chosen their method of entry, their disguises as she had. It was a blind spot in his thinking, and since his control over affairs in his household certainly ran far deeper than any other High Lord Amara had seen, his own prejudices and idiocies could only be reflected and multiplied throughout it, including his tendency to assign value based purely upon external appearance. Everyone there was used to the sight of new slaves brought in to amuse the staff. Such a group of new slaves would be quickly dismissed and even more quickly forgotten.

Or would have been, at least, if Aldrick hadn't cut Eraegus's throat.

Rook frowned as she walked to the door to the next room. It opened at a touch, and she looked around a small sitting room or antechamber. Like the larger area they'd just come through, it was expensive and absent of the kind of warmth that would make it more than simply a room.

Rook paced to a plain section of expensive hardwood paneling and struck the heel of her hand firmly against it. A crack split through the panel, and Rook drew aside a wooden section that concealed a storage area behind it. She promptly withdrew a pair of swords, a longer duelist's blade and a standard, plain-looking gladius. She offered their hilts to Amara. Amara took the shorter blade, and said, "Keep that one."

Rook looked at her. "You wish me to be armed, Countess?"

"If you'd had it in mind to betray us, Rook, I think you've had ample opportunity. Keep it."

Rook nodded and carried the scabbarded blade in her left hand. "This way, Countess. There's only his boudoir and bath left on this level."

The next door opened onto a bedchamber at least as large as the study had been, and the bed was the size of a small sailing vessel. Hand-carved hardwood wardrobes were left carelessly open, revealing row after row of the finest clothing Alera had to offer.