line of perforations did not quite open the cask, but they would permit him to
smash his heel through the weakened boards quickly
when the need arose.
He was more aware than before of the lantern’s hot shell as he paced the rest of
the tunnel’s length. He could hear someone above him when he reached the end of
the tunnel. The susurrus could have been anything, wind-driven twigs as easily
as the slippers of a guard on the floor above. There was a sharper sound to
punctuate that whispering, however; a spear grounded as the man paused, or the
tip of a bow. The stone conducted sounds very well, but it conducted them so
well that Samlor could not get a precise fix on where the guard was in relation
to the trap door. For that matter, the caravan-master had no idea of how well
the upward-pivoting door was concealed. It might very well flop open in the
centre of the room above.
The good news was that the sounds did not include speech. Either the guard was
alone, or the party was more stolid than the random pacing seemed to suggest.
Samlor needed more information than he could get in the tunnel. There would be
no better time to learn more. He shuttered his lantern and slid the worn bronze
bolt from its socket in the door jamb. There were stone pegs set into the end
wall as a sort of one-railed ladder. Samlor set his right foot on the midmost,
where his leg was flexed just enough to give him its greatest thrust. His right
hand held the dagger while his left readied itself on the trap door. Then the
Cirdonian exploded upward like a spring toy.