The Stiehl Assassin Read online

  If it even was a scrubber. Maybe there was something else wandering about in here. Maybe he was mistaken about it being a scrubber.

  But he wasn’t.

  The machine slipped into view: a horrific assemblage of appendages ending in scrapers and wheels churning with gears that drove the metal beast inexorably forward. Shea knew at once that there was no getting past something that filled the duct system as completely as this did. Those arms moved up and down against the walls and ceiling and its squat body rolled flat against the floor, metal brushes working hard to loosen debris and waste.

  Shea backed away quickly. His better judgment told him to get down the ladder as fast as he could and wait for the scrubber to turn around. Or even to go back to Rocan and attempt a different approach, if that’s what it came to.

  Then an unexpected idea occurred to him, and he looked down at the substance he still held in his hand: the leather wrapping with the corrosive clay. What would happen if those damp, grimy wheels rolled over a clump of this?

  He flattened a wad and stuck it on the floor directly in the path of the scrubber. Then he hastily spat on the clay and ducked down the ladder as the substance flared and dissolved into a puddle of acid. He didn’t want to be in the vicinity when the scrubber encountered the acid. That is, if it didn’t eat through the stone floor of the tunnel first. But there were not a lot of options left.

  There he hung, waiting breathlessly. He did not have to wait long. After only a few seconds, gears and wheels lost their rhythm and began to clunk and grind with a clear indication of damage. Cautiously, Shea climbed back up to where he could peek over the edge of the duct and look down its length. The scrubber was now a mostly inert mass of half-dissolved metal. It was jerking in distress, and some of the undissolved appendages on top were still moving, but slowly the substance was doing its work.

  Yet would it be enough?

  Shea watched for an anxious moment, but then the acid must have penetrated to the mechanical heart of the beast, for it stopped shuddering and went still. Its undercarriage had dissolved enough to leave a boy-sized gap between its back and the tunnel roof. Still, forcing himself over its humped top and through that deadly tangle of frozen limbs—all while avoiding the acid that continued to eat away at its undercarriage—was one of the hardest things he had ever done.

  There was a moment when it shifted beneath him, one of its outstretched arms brushing his cheek, and he was certain it would come to life again and shred him. But then he was up and over, and fleeing down the tunnel, hoping he had seen the last of the scrubbers for this lifetime.

  His progress now was much quicker and surer; no further obstacles impeded his way, and nothing emerged from the gloom to challenge him. Partway along, he found the nineteenth-floor access hatch just where Rocan’s map had said it would be: a six-rung steel ladder embedded in the rock leading up to it. If there were to be problems, this was where he was likely to find them—right on the other side of that hatch. He climbed the ladder carefully, trying to muffle his movements, and when he reached the trapdoor he gave it a gentle nudge. It resisted his efforts momentarily and then gave way. Keeping tight hold of the circular handle at the top of the door, he raised it all the way, climbed another step, poked his head out, and looked around.

  A long corridor of rough stone stretched away in both directions, disappearing into gloom. The walls were unbroken barriers save where heavy metal doors were embedded in metal frames, their surfaces dusty and old and worn, smooth except for a small metal slide that served as a peephole for viewing whoever was locked within. More than that, Shea couldn’t tell from where he was. His directions showed Tindall’s cell marked with an X and the number 1935 written next to it. If he assumed 19 was the floor, then he should be looking for cell 35.

  But in which direction should he go—left or right? He shook his head in disgust, a mouse measuring its chances of avoiding the cat once it left its bolt-hole.

  He hesitated a moment longer, wanting to be sure of what he was doing, and then levered himself through the trapdoor and into the gloom-filled corridor above. Keeping tight hold of the handle, he gently lowered the door back into place.

  And immediately heard the sound of something coming.

  Panic set in, worse than with the scrubber. At least that would have been a hasty death. If he were caught here, he would live out the rest of his days behind one of these metal doors: a slow, agonizing, living death. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. He instinctively turned away from the sounds approaching and went up the hall the other way. He kept his footfalls light and smooth, forcing himself to remember that any noise at all would give him away. He glanced at the numbers on the cell doors as he went: 19…20…21…Okay, right direction, then. But what good would that do him if he was found and trapped out here?

  A hiding place! I need a hiding place!

  As if in answer to his plea, one appeared. A cell door on his left stood slightly ajar. Without even stopping to consider whether this was a good idea or not, he slipped inside and closed the door so that it almost latched. Then he backed himself against the door to one side so that anyone looking through the peephole slider wouldn’t be able to see him.

  The sounds drew closer.

  Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

  Somehow the scraping made things even worse. Whatever was out there was not walking as a human would. The sounds were irregular, a dragging of metal on stone. He closed his eyes in dismay. Why had he ever let himself get into this? What was he thinking to come into this forbidden place—this tomb from which no one ever returned?

  He started making bargains with himself. If he got out of this, he would extricate himself from Rocan Arneas’s clutches once and for all. He would turn his back on Arishaig and flee. He would not even think about the credits he was losing. He would forget the promises of a bright future. He would never do something this stupid again.

  Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

  Then the scraping stopped. Right outside his door. The peephole slider opened to permit whatever was outside a view into the cell. Shea pressed up against the wall and closed his eyes. Then opened them as he heard the door nudge open slightly, a few inches, no more.

  A long pause. Intense silence settled over everything. Shea tried not to breathe.

  Then the slider abruptly closed, the door was pulled shut, and the lock engaged.

  Shea felt his heart stop. He was trapped.

  * * *

  —

  For an instant, he panicked—remembering his thoughts of a living death while out in the corridor. He tried the door, but it would not open; there was no give at all. He had no way to contact Rocan from up here. There was no one save Rocan who knew he was here, and no one who could help him now. He had let this happen by making a bad choice and now he was…

  He caught himself. What was he thinking? A wave of disgust swept through him. He was supposed to be smarter than this. Of course he could get out. He had let himself panic for no reason!

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the corrosive clay. Between the unexpected grate and the live scrubber, he had already used more than he was supposed to, but there might still be enough left to free himself from this cell and Tindall from his after. A small amount on each lock should do the trick, while leaving enough for Tindall’s window bars. He could still do what he had set out to do.

  He opened the leather and measured what remained of his store of clay. Enough, he decided. He placed a wad of the clay where the lock secured to the door, spit on it, and jumped back. Immediately the metal began to steam and foam and finally just melt away, and the door was open. He held it in place a moment, listening for sounds of the scraping creature, then opened the door and peered out.

  No one in sight.

  He felt a fresh urgency to reach Tindall and get them both free before anything further happened. He stepped thro
ugh the cell door and pulled it closed again, then quickly made his way down the hall toward cell 1935. When he found it, not all that far ahead, he pressed himself flat against the door and listened. Hearing nothing, he looked up and down the corridor, peering into the cavernous gloom, afraid he would draw the attention of that creature once again.

  He slid back the peephole cover and peered inside. The gloom was marginally lightened by a wash of gray light that spilled through a barred window on the back wall. It illuminated almost nothing, and Shea could not even tell if the cell was occupied.

  Another glance to be sure no one was coming, and then he pressed his mouth against the opening. “Tindall? Are you in there?” he whispered.

  Nothing. He waited a moment.

  A sharper whisper now: “Tindall! Answer me!”

  A rustling this time—someone moving about. A voice, cracked and ragged, answered. “Who’s there? What do you want?”

  “I’m a friend of Rocan’s.”

  “Rocan’s here?”

  “Not right here, but yes. He sent me. I’m going to get you out!”

  A long pause, and then an eye appeared at the peephole. Shea backed away, startled at first, then held his ground so that the other could see him clearly.

  “You’re just a boy! You can’t get me out. Go find Rocan!”

  “Look, Rocan sent me because—”

  “Go get him! Do what I told you!”

  The old man was practically shouting at him. Shea backed away and looked up and down the hallway once more, certain that someone must have heard. But apparently no one had, because no one appeared.

  He exhaled sharply. He’d had enough of this spiky oldster. He moved back up to the peephole, close enough that he and Tindall were eye-to-eye.

  “What’s wrong with you?” he hissed, pressing his mouth right up against the grate. “Keep your voice down! There’s something patrolling the halls out here, and I don’t want it coming after me!”

  Tindall grinned, a crooked twist of his mouth through a thicket of beard that hadn’t seen a trim in some time. “Oh, that’s old Steel Toe. He’s just a keeper of the cells, not a guard. Heard him scraping along, did you? He lost his foot and most of a leg a while back when he worked the crystal mines. Had to replace it all with metal. Cost him his job and brought him here to find work. He’s almost deaf, too.”

  Shea didn’t care if Steel Toe could hear him or not. Someone else might. “Stand away from the door. I’m going to open it and get you out.”

  He waited while Tindall moved back, then stuck a wad of the clay on the lock and spit on it. Once again, the clay hissed and steamed and bubbled, and the lock’s fastenings melted away. Quick as a cat, the boy pulled the door open.

  Tindall stood in the middle of his cell, watching him. He was old and bent, all in rags with a huge bristle of gray beard that hung down to his chest. His face was weathered and lined with age, but his eyes had a sharp, predatory look. He was clapping his hands softly as the boy entered as if pleased by something.

  “That’s my invention!” he crowed, pointing to the ruined lock. “I developed that substance. Gets through anything, doesn’t it? Smart of you to bring it, although I’ll warrant that was more Rocan’s doing than yours. How old are you, anyway?”

  Shea glared at him. “How old are you?”

  The sharp eyes blinked. “Point taken. So what do we do now? This whole building is locked down from cellar to rooftop.”

  Shea pulled the cell door closed behind him and walked over to the barred window. The last of the clay went to removing its four bars, then, without asking, he went over to Tindall and ripped a piece of fabric from the tattered rags of the old man’s clothing.

  “Hey!” Tindall protested, but Shea just glared him into silence. He hung the cloth out the window, then turned back to the single piece of furniture in the room—a narrow-slatted bed—and sat down.

  “Now,” he icily informed Tindall, “we wait.”

  * * *

  —

  Although Tindall repeatedly asked for more details, Shea did not bother to reply beyond assuring the man they were following Rocan’s instructions. After all, he didn’t really know any details; all he knew was how he got from the gates of Assidian Deep up to the old man’s cell, and he didn’t feel like talking about that.

  None of this discouraged Tindall—even after being rebuffed—from striking out on his own narrative journey.

  “Been here almost two months. Picked up by that Federation oaf Zakonis—who got lucky, I might add, ’cause normally he couldn’t find his way out of a closet—and he brought me here for interrogation. Did a few unpleasant things to parts of me, but nothing that won’t heal in time—except for that one finger, maybe. Anyway, he wanted to know where Rocan was, and I couldn’t tell him because fortunately I didn’t know for sure—not that I would have told him if I did. Or maybe I did tell him where he lived. Yep, I did give that one up. Anyway, we danced about for a time, but then he lost interest and just left me locked up here.”

  He sighed. “Spent years in service to the Federation, you know. And this is how they repay me. Helped them develop all sorts of useful devices for their military—some of which really should belong to the public. Handheld communicators, for one. Not fully developed yet, but close enough. Everyone could have one of those. But, no, they want it all for themselves, to keep it for the soldiers, and the common man be damned. That’s how they think in this dictatorial government. Used to be a more open, democratic bunch, the Coalition Council, but that went away a while back. Ketter Vause likes it just how it is these days—him in charge and everyone else scrambling for a seat at his feet. Dangerous way to live, though. One day, some of those sitting at his feet will work around to his back and it will be all over for our Prime Minister.”

  He shrugged. “But I suppose they’ll just select another snake to feed on the chickens. Isn’t that how it always happens? You go from bad to worse and nothing changes? Doesn’t matter to me, though. I’m old and my time in this hellish world is almost done.”

  Shea rolled his eyes. Why did old people feel it was necessary to talk all the time?

  “Don’t say much, do you?” Tindall asked suddenly.

  The boy shook his head. “I don’t have that much to say.”

  “Neither do I, but I say it anyway.” He laughed at his own humor. “Enlighten me—what’s going on out there in the world? A few rumors leak through these walls, so I know there’s been some sort of invasion. What do you know about that?”

  Shea shrugged. “I hear it’s an army of magic users. They can make themselves disappear in battle. I guess they destroyed Paranor.”

  “Ohhh, Ketter Vause won’t like that one bit! He’ll send that army of his out there to smash them. Magic users or not, he’s going to want to make them disappear permanently. Is Rocan involved in all this?”

  Shea shook his head. Let Rocan tell Tindall if they ever got out of here. He was tired of talking, tired of this cell, tired of waiting, and tired of Tindall. He glanced at the door, checking to be sure it was still closed. He wished he knew how much longer Rocan was going to keep them waiting. He wished he knew something about how Rocan planned to get them out of Assidian Deep. It would be morning before long.

  “How long did it take you to build Annabelle?” he asked impulsively.

  Tindall looked startled and took what appeared to be a menacing step toward Shea. “How do you know about Annabelle? Has Rocan been talking out of school? Telling you things he ought not to be telling? You forget all of it. None of it is your concern, boy!”

  Shea gave him a look. “Whether it is or not, old man, I’ve seen your machine and Rocan has told me a few things about it. So it’s way too late for you to be acting as if it’s some sort of state secret.”

  “That machine is special!” the old man sputtered. “It has the c
apability to change everything. It might even change—”

  “I know, I know.” Shea cut him short. “It might even change the world.”

  “Well, it might. Annabelle can work miracles, and I’m the only one who knows how to make her operate. I built her, I tested her, I gave her life. She’s one of a kind, and no one thought for a minute I could build something so perfect!”

  “Good for you, but don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back. If we don’t get out of here, you won’t get a chance to do anything with good old Annabelle.”

  Tindall for once was silent, apparently unwilling to comment more on either his marvelous machine or the possibility of Rocan keeping his promise to rescue them. Shea found himself wondering why Rocan hadn’t told him what was going to happen after he reached Tindall’s cell. What if something went wrong?

  But not much later, he heard a decided scraping sound below Tindall’s cell window and jumped up in alarm, leaning out to see what was happening. And there was Seelah, attached to the wall about six feet below, staring up at him with her golden eyes bright and shining. For a moment the boy couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She seemed to be gripping the rugged stone with claws extending from hands and feet, looking as if this was something she did all the time. Maybe she couldn’t come inside Assidian Deep’s iron cells, but apparently there was nothing stopping her from climbing the prison’s outer walls.

  “Seelah,” he whispered, his tone one of gratitude more than of disbelief.