“You have a visitor, Hugh.”
No answer. Just a scraping sound, as of a chair, lurching across the floor.
The Abbot rattled the handle more loudly.
“He is locked in? You’ve made him a prisoner?” asked Iridal in a low voice.
“He makes himself a prisoner, Lady,” retorted the Abbot. “He has the key inside with him. We may not enter—you may not enter—unless he hands the key to us.”
Iridal’s resolve wavered. She very nearly left again. She doubted now if Hugh could help her, and she was afraid to face what he had become. Yet, if he didn’t help her, who would? Not Stephen, that much had been made clear. Not the other mysteriarchs. Powerful wizards, most of them, but with no love for her dead husband, no reason to want progeny of Sinistrad’s returned to them.
As for other mundane humans, Iridal knew very few, was not impressed by those she’d met. Hugh alone filled all her needs. He knew how to pilot an elven dragonship, he had traveled in elven lands, he spoke the elven language fluently, was familiar with elven customs. He was bold and daring; he’d earned his livelihood as a professional assassin, and he’d been the best in the business. As Iridal had reminded Stephen, he— a king who could afford the best—had once hired Hugh the Hand.
The Abbot repeated, “Hugh, you have a visitor,”
“Go to hell,” said a voice from within.
Iridal sighed. The voice was slurred and harsh from smoking stregno—Iridal could smell the reek of his pipe out in the hall—from strong drink and disuse. But she recognized it.
The key. That was her hope. He kept the key himself, obviously afraid that if he gave it to others, he might be tempted to tell them to let him out. There must be part of him, then, that wanted out.
“Hugh the Hand, it is Iridal of the High Realm. I am in desperate need. I must speak with you. I … I want to hire you.”
She had little doubt that he’d refuse and she knew, from the slight, disdainful smile on the Abbot’s thin lips, that he thought the same.
“Iridal,” repeated Hugh, in puzzled tones, as if the name was wandering around the liquor-soaked dregs of his mind. “Iridal!”
The last was a harsh whisper, an expelled breath, as of something long wished for and finally achieved. But there was neither love nor longing in that voice. Rather, a rage that might have melted granite.
A heavy body thudded against the clay door, followed by a fumbling and scraping. A panel slid aside. A red eye, partially hidden beneath a mat of filthy hair, stared out, found her, fixed on her, unblinking.
“Iridal…”
The panel slid shut abruptly.
The Abbot glanced at her, curious to see her response, probably expecting her to turn and flee. Iridal stood firm, the fingers of one hand, hidden beneath her cloak, digging into her flesh. The other hand, which held the candle, was steady.
Frantic activity sounded inside: furniture being overturned, casks upset, as if Hugh was searching for something. A snarl of triumph. A metal object struck the lower half of the door. Another snarl, this one of frustration, then a key shot out from beneath the crack.
The Abbot leaned down, picked the key up, held it in his hand a moment, eyeing it speculatively. He looked at Iridal, silently asking her if she wanted him to proceed.
Lips pressed together, she indicated with a cold nod that he was to open the door. Shrugging, the Abbot did so. The moment the lock clicked, the clay door was flung open from the inside. An apparition appeared in the doorway, silhouetted against dimly lit, smoke-filled shadows behind, illuminated by the candlelight before him. The apparition sprang at Iridal. Strong hands grabbed hold of her arms, dragged her inside the cell, and flung her back against a wall. She dropped the candle; it fell to the floor, the light drowning in a pool of spilled wax.
Hugh the Hand, blocking the door with his body, faced the Abbot.
“The key,” the Hand commanded.
The Abbot gave it over.
“Leave us!”