Page 83 of Son of a Witch (The Wicked Years 2)

He’d been recognized. This was one of the very beasts that had attacked him.

The creature reared up and slapped its heavy wings forward so that its body arced backward, slamming against the rear wall of the chamber. The snout raised and the mouth opened, and bloody teeth moved into position, and a sound issued that was not a bellow nor a snort, but the beginning of a dragon trumpet volley.

“Shit, that’s not good,” said Trism, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.”

“They’re raising an alarm,” said Liir.

“They’re dying, and they know it, and at least one of them knows why.”

7

TRISM AND LIIR STOPPED at the top of the landing. In one direction, the stairs continued farther up, to the vaulted basilica proper. The door to the outside, through which they’d come, stood ajar. There was no sound of anyone dashing about to see what, if anything, was wrong. Maybe dragons snorted and bellowed in their sleep all night long, and this was nothing new.

Liir waited. “What?” said Trism.

“I’m not leaving without the broom. I’ve promised myself that.”

“No reason you shouldn’t have it back. But we’ll have to hurry.” Trism fitted a key into the only other door opening off the landing.

“Wait here,” he said. “Inside is the stuff of nightmares.”

Liir followed him in regardless. In their treason the two men were bound together, at least for the night, and Liir didn’t want to lose sight of his accomplice.

The sloped ceiling suggested the long narrow room was a shed appended to the basilica. Probably built low so as not to interfere with the colored windows giving into the sacred space above, Liir thought. Unheated at this hour, the room reeked with the juices of pickling agents and tanning acids.

Trism used a quickflint to light a portable oil lamp. “Keep your eyes down, if you’re going to follow me in here,” he muttered, shielding the light from the glass chimney with one hand. “The broom is in the far cupboard, and I’ll have to fiddle with the lock.” He hurried between tall slanted tables on which some sort of piecework was in progress.

“How much danger are we in?” asked Liir.

“You mean in the next five minutes, or for the rest of our short, sorry lives? The answer’s the same: lots.”

The small light went with Trism toward the cupboard. In the returning shadows, Liir moved nervously and disturbed a pile of wooden hoops about a foot across. They clattered to the floor. “Shhh, if you possibly can,” called Trism in a hoarse whisper.

Picking up the materials, Liir listened to the sounds. The dragons below, snorting and nickering, and their wings like vast bellows pumping. The jangle of Trism’s key ring, heavy old iron skeletons throttling against the glassy tinkle of smaller jewel case keys. The snap and thrust of a lock being pulled back, and then the rustle of dried sedge and straw. The broom. Elphie’s broom. Again.

He had to see it, as Trism turned; he looked up in something like love. Trism had the Witch’s cape looped ungainly over one arm, and the broom under his elbow, as he fiddled to close the closet again and lock its door. Then he turned, and held the light up so he could see his way back to Liir. He was smiling. So, too, in a sense, were the semblance of faces that sprung out of the shadows on the inside wall of the chamber. Ten or twelve or so, plates of face: creepy voodoo stuff, Liir thought at first. The scraped faces, repaired with catgut twine where needed, were strung with rawhide cord inside beech-wood hoops like the ones Liir had upset.

“Shhh, will you shush?” said Trism. “I told you not to look.”

8

SOME MOMENTS LATER, when at Liir’s insistence they had finished removing the dozen remnants of human countenance, and had stored them in two satchels, Trism said, “If you’re really serious about leaving a note claiming responsibility, now’s the time to do it. Can you manage ink and a pen?”

“I know how to write,” said Liir. “I didn’t go to St. Prowd’s, but I can write.”

“Shut up. I mean, are your muscles shaking too much to control the nib?”

He had to work at it. The third parchment was good enough to serve.

I abducted your craven dragonmaster and aborted his evil work. He will pay for his offenses against lonely travelers.

Signed, Liir son of Elphaba

“Son of Elphaba?” said Trism. “Not the Elphaba?” He looked at Liir with a new respect, or maybe it was outright disbelief. Or dawning horror?

“Probably not,” said Liir, “but if no one can prove it so, it’s equally hard to disprove, isn’t it?”

Trism looked at the note again. “Is craven overdoing it a bit?”

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