Vol.6, Ch.3, P.8
Now there stood the studitōrium in all its complexity. I rather began to miss that guide as I racked my brains about how best to handle the numberless halls and buildings ahead of me. Albeit getting inside ought not prove so impossible. Were I intent on breaking in with a host of braves behind me, then certainly would the foes therein find us easily fended. But nay: I was a man alone, and despite their numbers, the enemy hadn’t got so many eyes as to guard every gap.
And so I got to it. Whilst stooped behind some bushes a ways off, I spied out the studitōrium exterior, keen for any access through which I may infiltrate. And settling upon one, I sprang off as soon as the coast was clear. To the eastern façade I stole, up to a window at the ground floor.
This one, as it happened, sported not one iron bar to bulwark it. Instead, it was a sumptuous sort of window, wood-framed and glass-paned, which, given a bit of convincing, could be forced open from the outside. But carefully now, I risked a peek through the pane. It seemed a study of some magister. But neither magister nor any other Man was to be spied sitting inside. After making doubly certain, I pried and lifted the window open before hoisting myself through.
“…So far, so good,” I said beneath my breath. The breaking-in was done. Now, to begin the burglary.
I closed the window and crept up to the door across the room. And quietly, I cracked it open. Beyond, there spanned a corridor, most expectedly. Only, not a sound was to be heard there, nor sign of foe to be seen. Perhaps the enemy lacked free bodies to patrol these peripheries? Not unlikely; the prior commotions had pulled away many a hand from around these parts—the studitōrium included, it would seem.
But I couldn’t rest easy yet. The higher floors ought be swarming with sentinels still. And there was yet the blasted intricacy of this place to consider: too many corners there were, too many exposures. A bad turn, and I could be face-to-face with a foe in a snap of a finger. A chilling thought. Nay, to avoid that, I musn’t miss any sound or sign of the enemy, not even the slightest. Thus, sharpening my senses and hushing my feet, I warily left the room and wended deeper into the studitōrium. And ever as I did, I dwelt on the present plight.
The sword of soot, I reckoned, was by now fallen firm into the enemy’s grasp. And it shouldn’t be too long till they came lugging it in with a score of escorts. Splendid; more men to add to the menagerie. And here was I, a prey alone in the lions’ lair. One wrong move, and I’d be chased and thrashed to bits.
Feeling none the more encouraged, I halted and had a look around. “There yonder ought be the exit… whilst that way goes to the front gates…” I lipped, plying my memory and getting my bearings. It was yet the eastern section where I was. Thus whensoever the enemy transport arrived, little doubt they would enter through the main eastern access, and thence march right through this corridor where I was, if not some other one nearby. But I shook my head. “Nay… They could very well take the front instead, now couldn’t they…?”
Whatever outcome could be considered, I must needs be ready for—just as Death was for me to botch this burglary. But too bad for him; I was fully keen to come home whole, and not as some head in a box. No, not today.
A long while later of more dodging and delving, I uttered: “Ah. That leads out, too, does it?”
By then, I’d got on rather deeply to the southern sections. And it was there that I found a small door, one situated beside the vestibule right before it ran ceremoniously to the grand southern entrance. Thither I sneaked and carefully cracked the door open. A slice of sunlight seeped in; a breeze met my face. And then:
“…A well?”
Indeed, revealed beyond was a well. It stood in a small garden courtyard. Only, I had little use for water at the moment.
“Though… who’s to say the enemy won’t?”
I’d studied closely the layout of Merkulov leading to this day. But the maps provided had revealed little in the way of floorplans. In contrast, the enemy ought not be so clueless as I; they knew every building, inside and out, and withal what could be found where—including this well. Such an advantage could be turned against them. Nay… it must.
With that thought, I’d begun to close the door and resume reconnoitring—“Hm…?”—when my ears picked up the thump-thomp of faraway feet. It was coming from the corner of a corridor that I’d taken but moments before, whence now stretched the shadows of two strolling figures.
At once, I swung the door back open, but not too hastily. Even with enemies in approach, I couldn’t afford to startle and cause a clamour. And so, softly but concisely now, I crept out into the courtyard, and just as gently shut the door. It must’ve been at that same moment when the men appeared from the corner, for I could hear then their voices carry hither. I pressed an ear against the door.
“…ong till… …fernal thing comes…?”
“…alf an hour, it’s hoped… …eing careful… …taking turns and whatnot… But once… …upstairs’ll be fast as a fort…”
So went their muffled chatter as the men strolled on by. And before long, their voices vanished altogether. At length, I slowly opened the door and peeked back inside. They were gone. Even their once-echoing footfalls had faded from earshot. I pondered their words.
Half an hour or so. Half an hour till the soot-steel was to arrive, be brought to the upper floors, and shut off behind a bastion of foes freshly reinforced. Curiously convenient, I know, that information so crucial should course into my ears right when I needed it, but I wasn’t going to gainsay the fates for it. Also, it was an “infernal thing” that the men’d called the soot-steel, and in a tone all too familiar to my ears. Evidently, their spite for the sicarius had seeped over to his very weapon. Some things never change, do they?
Shaking my head, I surveyed the environs once more, committing further its features to mind. If I was to steal the blacksword back—and live to tell about it—then I needed both a plan and a clearer picture of the place; I needed to bend the battlefield to my favour. And with not long till things got “thrilling”, I had to prepare with all speed.
“Hold on… Ah!” I soon muttered in surprise.
I’d taken another corner close by when I spotted a passageway that appeared faintly familiar. And then it came back to me: last I was here, it was with Lise and Alban as we were being guided to the lectitōrium.
“Meaning…”
My eyes stopped along its walls, whence stood a set of double-doors wide and tall, past which—as explained before by our reticent guide—was the studitōrium pantry. A windfall, this; I might find something useful inside.
Ascertaining that I was safe and yet unseen, I sidled up and gently pushed the heavy doors open. Oh? Not locked? I thought with wonder. Well, everyone here must be long grown out of their food-grubbing years, I suppose. Relieved somewhat, I slithered in, and as soundlessly as I could, shut the doors behind me.
“Well, well,” I uttered upon turning around and seeing all that sprawled afore me. “‘Largest in all of Londosius’, indeed… Merkulov doesn’t disappoint.”
Wide and deep the place was, and withal brimming with barrels, boxes, bulging sacks, and shelves stocked from end to end. Why, just the smell alone betrayed the sheer flood of foodstuffs in store, what with hams hanging in the adjoining larder, myriad dried fruits draping from the rafters, and grains that ran the gamut and back again. And as well…
“…Oil,” I whispered, pleasantly surprised again. “And some olea, too, looks like.”
Neatly sorted in some of the opened crates were small, ceramic jars of the fluid. I held one of them up. The good stuff, I noted by the label. I’ll take it.
“Now then…”
At once, I sat myself down on the floor, and after unfastening the front of my overcoat, rolled up my shirt and inspected the wound underneath. Though grim to look at and throbbing with pain, it was no longer bleeding. Even through all the sneaking had it held up, cracking or opening not one bit. The cautery had done the trick. Still, it was too haphazard to be called “healing”—for that, there was this jar of oleum, which I uncorked and let trickle a golden drip down unto my wound.
The idea of this was simple enough: oleum, as it happens, hastens the healing of hurts. In recent memory was proposed the existence of critters too tiny to see—critters that could work evils upon an open wound. Advocates of the idea also pointed to oleum, the virtues whereof they asserted could rid a wound of such critters and quicken the closing of broken skin. Whether the critters truly exist or no was yet to be demonstrated, albeit; but that the oil of olives could do more than merely enrich a dish was itself well-established.
Or… so it was said. Well, better than leaving this lesion alone, at any rate. “Every bit helps” was the motto of this miserable day.
Over the wound the oil oozed, smothering it like a warm, soft blanket. Better yet, it quickly soothed the stubborn burning, an excellent effect all on its own.
“Phew…” I sighed as I lightly rubbed the oleum in. After that, I stood and scanned the shelves once more, finding them filled not only with foods, but also furnishings and tableware for the messes. Still, I shook my head. “Nary a knife nor blade in sight, sadly… I suppose you’ll have to do,” I muttered, turning back to the crates.
Quickly, I grabbed one and pulled apart its constituent planks; and inspecting one, I found numerous nails to be driven through them.
“…Should serve nicely.”
With the beginnings of a plan hatching in my mind, I dismantled some more crates. Kin! went a nail as it fell and struck the floor. Picking it up, I placed it on my palm.
“Hmm…”
The nail, too, I studied closely. Straight and strong it was; and best of all: keen of cusp. Its iron must’ve come from a very fine vein, indeed. Yet to spend such princely ores on so prolific a thing… Truly was Londosius to be reckoned with.
“Well, it’s got my thanks, for now,” I thought aloud. The nail shimmered back. “I’ll be counting on you—and all your friends. Ah, and what’ve we got here?” I uttered as another shimmer caught my eye.
Placed hard-by a hearth in the kitchen was a striker and a pouch of flint. Useful ever and always, fire. With it, I could accomplish much. What’s more, where there’s a striker, there’s…
“…Kindling.”
Sure enough, piled in a corner were heaps of firewood. I hadn’t got a plan for the kindlings themselves, but the ropes which bound them in great bundles were a different story. String, cords, and their ilk; all vital conveniences they are. And so did I untie and reserve two lengths for myself.
“What else, what else…”
I rummaged speedily on through the pantry, rousing a bit of a rustle as I went. And ever as I did, I found myself rather savouring this sin of stealing from stock and store. But naught was off the table; whether as a thief or an arsonist, I was going to get myself out of here alive.
“Hm? Ah, that’s right.”
Now anear the larder, I spotted therein the legs of ham I’d smelt earlier. Dear me, I nearly forgot about them in my thieving fever. Unhanging one and hungrily unwrapping its oily papers, I inspected the porcine specimen. Of capital quality it was, glistening with a salty burnish. My, my; the pupils here were absolutely spoilt, weren’t they?
“A treasure, and a treat besides,” I murmured, as I eagerly plopped myself down again—“Many thanks for the munch!”—and began champing away at the chunk. Bite after savage bite, I sent the salted pork into my stomach. “Meat mends meat,” I mused with bulging cheeks, echoing a line from a childhood fable of mine. In it, a knave, not minding in the least his many wounds even as they bled, helps himself to heaps and heaps of hearty ham, all the while chanting, “Eat meat, mend meat!” For some reason, that’d left an enduring impression on me.
And so was I now the knave himself, I’d like to think. Though, a lost arm, say, wouldn’t come sprouting back out after gorging on a leg of lamb, of course. Yet a kernel of truth remains: that meat does help to mend meat, a fact known to but a few—and unproven yet to this moment. Well, no matter. Starting today, I would believe it.
“We are what we eat, as they say,” I convinced myself, picturing in my pate my sinews and vessels restoring as I stocked my stomach. And in the process, my pains were pacified somewhat. “…Good. Very good. Things’re swimming.”
Having had my fill, I put down the ham-bone that remained, and sighed to loosen my stiffened mind. And then I recalled something rather silly: that never in my life had I stolen a bite. Lise was most surprised when I’d told her so. Apparently, even a silver-spoon as I ought’ve done the deed at some point in his life. Thrice or thirty times, even, especially with the Buckmann kitchen ever at hand. Well, as of today, I have done—as a thief and fugitive, in fact. That ought fatten my score quite a deal, I’d think.
I chuckled to myself. “…A sicarius, indeed.” And, all alone in the great lair of the enemy, I let seep a smile. In any case, the ham was just what I needed—for the hard labours now to come.
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