Having been raised by the grim and dour order of Kir monks, the Hand knew the location of every monastery on the Volkaran Isles. He could not remember hearing of any that had ever been abandoned, and the mystery of where he was and why he had been brought here deepened.
The courier came to a baked-clay door that stood at the bottom of a tall turret. He fit an iron key into the lock. The Hand peered upward, but could not see a glimmer of light in any of the windows. The door swung open silently-an indication that someone was accustomed to coming here frequently, since the rusted hinges were well-oiled. Gliding inside, the courier indicated with a wave of his hand that Hugh was to follow. When both were in the cold and drafty building, the courier locked the door, tucking the key inside the bosom of his tunic.
“This way,” he said. The direction was not necessary-there was only one possible way for them to go, and that was up. A spiral staircase led them round and round the interior of the turret. Hugh counted three levels, each marked by a clay door. All were locked, the Hand noted, surreptitiously testing each as they ascended.
On the fourth level, at another clay door, the iron key again made an appearance. A long narrow corridor, darker than the Lords of Night, ran straight and true before them. The courier’s booted footsteps rang on the stone. Hugh, accustomed by habit to treading silently in his soft-soled, supple leather boots, made no more noise than if he had been the man’s shadow.
They passed six doors by Hugh’s count-three on his left and three on his right-before the courier raised a warning hand and they stopped at the seventh. Once again the iron key was produced. It grated in the lock and the door slid open.
“Enter,” the courier said, standing to one side.
Hugh did as he was told. He was not surprised to hear the door shut behind him. No sound of a key turning in the lock, however. The only light in the room came from the soft glow given off by the coralite outside, but that faint shimmer illuminated the room well enough for the Hand’s sharp eyes. He stood still a moment, closely inspecting his surroundings. He was, he discovered, not alone.
The Hand felt no fear. His fingers, beneath his cloak, were clasped around the hilt of his dagger, but that was only common sense in a situation like this. Hugh was a businessman and he recognized the setting of a business discussion when he saw it.
The other person in the room with him was adept at hiding. He was silent and kept himself concealed in the shadows. Hugh didn’t see the person or hear him, but he knew with every instinct that had kept him alive through forty harsh and bitter cycles that there was someone else present. The Hand sniffed the air.
“Are you an animal? Can you smell me?” queried the voice-a male voice, deep and resonant. “Is that how you knew I was in the room?”
“Yeah, an animal,” said Hugh shortly.
“And what if I had attacked you?” The figure moved over to stand by the window. He was outlined in Hugh’s vision by the faint radiance of the coralite. The Hand saw that his interrogator was a tall man clad in a cape whose hem he could hear dragging across the floor. The man’s head and face were covered by chain mail, only the eyes visible. But the Hand knew his suspicions had been correct. He knew to whom he was talking.
Hugh drew forth his dagger. “A hand’s breadth of steel in your heart, Your Majesty.”
“I am wearing a mail vest,” said Stephen, King of the Volkaran Isles and the Uylandia Cluster. He was, seemingly, not surprised that Hugh recognized him.
A corner of the assassin’s thin lips twitched. “The chain mail does not cover your armpit, Majesty. Lift your elbow.” Stepping forward, Hugh placed thin, long fingers in the gap between the body armor and that covering the arm. “One thrust of my dagger, there . . .” Hugh shrugged.