Once at the outer wall of the castle, I paused and studied it as best I could in the absence of moonlight. I found it difficult not to burst into laughter. I was no soldier myself, but having been raised by a pack of condottiere uncles I was quite familiar with the methods of Ozarine fortification. These were quite absent here. The “curtain wall” was a rickety pile of stones, not too carefully fitted. Mortar was, of course, completely absent. Here and there, a desultory attempt to construct something which might be called a “battlement” could vaguely be seen, outlined against the starblaze. But, for the most part, the wall posed no more challenge to an attacker than climbing a piles of stones.
Of course, the ragged nature of the construction did pose a challenge—a hopeless one—to what was left of my trousers. And my fancy Ozarine shoes were about the worst possible footwear to use in such a project, even if I hadn’t been encumbered by my pack and easel. I was tempted to leave the pack and easel at the foot of the wall. But, after a bit of reflection, I decided that the pack and easel made a better way to carry my rapier and whip than anything else would. I could hardly climb a wall holding them in my hands, after all.
Needless to say, I picked up several more bruises and cuts on my way up the wall, but the climb itself went quickly enough. By the time I reached the top, my principal struggle was mental, not physical. Of the many lessons my uncles had drummed into me when it came to the matter of mayhem, the first and foremost was: never lose your temper.
So, I paused for a while—not long—atop the wall, taking the time to regain my composure. By the sounds coming from within the castle, the festivities were still at an early enough stage that I felt no compulsion to rush in. I could hear the girls’ voices now, but they seemed raised more in sullen protest than anguish. Clearly enough, abuse was such a normal part of their lives that they simply viewed this latest outrage as something to be endured.
I used that last thought to steady my nerves and achieve that state of detached murderousness which was one more product of my uncles’ rigorous training. Ludovigo’s, in particular. Kill as savagely as you can, boy, as long as your blood stays cold.
Eventually, I decided it was cold enough. I slid off the wall and entered the nearest aperture. I’d call it a “door” except the term would be an insult to doors.
* * *
As I made my way through the dank corridors of the castle, I kept a wary eye out for servants. By now, I’d seen enough of the Baronies to realize that the Baron himself and his armed retainers would be entirely engrossed with their entertainment. Gwendolyn had never made any mention of a “servant class” in the Baronies, but I assumed such creatures must exist.
As it happens, I ran across only one. A stooped and furtive fellow, clad in rags, rushing from somewhere—the kitchen, I presume—carrying a wooden platter laden with meat. I shrank back into a dark alcove in the rough wall and let him pass. He did not notice me; indeed, he never so much as raised his head from the platter. Servants in the Baronies, I had no doubt, soon enough had any sense of alertness beaten out of them.
His passage did provide me with directions, however. As soon as he was out of sight, I followed him, after depositing the sack and easel in the alcove. I dare say my treads were those of a predator. I certainly hope so. By now, I was pleased to note, my inner soul had achieved my uncles’ much-vaunted state of mind. I felt as cold-blooded and deadly as a viper.
The noise increased with every step I took. Soon enough, light began to appear in the corridor—hitherto illuminated by nothing more than an occasional taper in a sconce. The light was spilling around a bend up ahead, along with the sounds of carousal. The flickering nature of it led me to believe that it emanated from nothing more elaborate than a huge fireplace.