Maze of Moonlight by Gael Baudino (read with me TXT) 📕

“Unless something else happens.”

He chose. “Then let's go. We climb.”

As though impelled by the sudden urgency, Natil swarmed up the side of the tower, her fingers finding invisible handholds, her boots clinging to what seemed to be nonexistent edges. She climbed directly, no longer attempting to stay within the concealment of the moon shadow. Perhaps the patterns told her that caution was unnecessary.

Bracing herself in a window slit, she dropped the rope, and Christopher hauled himself up. His heart pounded at every accidental scrape of his feet, for though the attention of the tower guards might well have been taken up by the imminent coup, it might also have been sharpened by nerves.

Slip. Haul. Slip again. A foothold turned traitor and left him dangling by his hands one hundred and thirty feet above a cobbled courtyard that shone frostily in the near-vertical moonlight. For an instant, he shut his eyes, but then, angered by his fear, he pulled himself up the last twenty feet with nothing more than the strength of his arms.

When he arrived at the window, he heard snoring from within. Natil touched a finger to her lips, eased her feet in through the open window. Christopher followed. It was dark in the bedchamber, but enough moonlight seeped in to allow him to see that the baron and his obedient wife slept in separate beds.

What is this? A monastery? Yvonnet at least shared his sheets with his lover.

But the unorthodox sleeping arrangements simplified Christopher's task considerably, and a minute later, Ruprecht awoke to find Christopher sitting on his chest and a needle-sharp dagger pricking his throat.

“Not a word, messire,” said Christopher. “Not a sound save it be soft and sweet.”

“What is the—” The baron's demand stopped short at a light jab from Christopher's blade. He dropped his voice. “Who are you? What do you want?”

A stirring from the other bed. Ruprecht's wife sat up, cried out.

“Tell her to be quiet,” said Christopher, applying a little more pressure to the knife. His face ashen in the faint light, Ruprecht did as he was told. His wife settled down with a shudder.

“Now,” said Christopher, “to answer your questions. I'm Christopher delAurvre, baron of Aurverelle, the horrible apostate that you refused to see.”

Ruprecht's anger was plain, even in the semi-darkness. “And the murderer of a papal legate.”

“Papal legates shouldn't go about beating up girls,” said Christopher, “but we can talk about that later because I have to answer your other question. Originally, I would have said that this little visit . . .” And he prodded Ruprecht's throat again with the dagger. “. . . was to show you that your fortress isn't as secure as you think. If I can do this, then someone else surely can. The free companies, for instance. I was going to plead with you—yes, God help me, plead—to reconsider your reply to my offer of an alliance.”

“Hmmph! An alliance of heretics and apostates.”

“An alliance of the nobility of Adria,” said Christopher smoothly. “An alliance that will allow us all to save our own miserable skins. But never mind that. I'm not going to plead with you.”

“That's very good,” said Ruprecht. “Pleading will get you nowhere. I don't believe you anyway. Who but a madman would go climbing about a fortress in the middle—” He broke off, the thought obviously occurring to him that the madman in question was sitting on his chest with an unsheathed dagger.

“Quite right,” said Christopher. “A madman. Who else? But enough of that. I'm not here to plead. I must instead tell you that . . .” He looked up. “Natil?”

She was by the door. “They are on the stairs now, my lord.”

Ruprecht started at her voice. “What—?” Another prick silenced him.

“Your chancellor, William, has some ambitions,” said Christopher. “He's tired of being a chancellor. He wants to be a baron. He's on his way up here with a squad of soldiers.”

Ruprecht grappled unsuccessfully with the obvious. “What does he want?”

“Your life, your title, and your lands.”

“That's absurd.” Ruprecht nearly laughed. “Doubtless he's coming to arrest you and put you to the death that you so richly deserve. And I assure you, you'll get no more mercy from me than you gave to poor Etienne.”

“Poor Etienne. Who beat up young women.” Christopher shrugged. “I'm afraid you'll just have to take my word for it.”

Footsteps. A sudden pounding on the door. “My lord baron!” cried William. “A matter of extreme urgency has arisen!”

Despite the dagger, Ruprecht smirked. “Do you want to surrender peacefully, Christopher? Or shall we fight it out? Or maybe you want to try to use me as a hostage?”

Christopher lifted the blade away from Ruprecht's neck. “Why don't you ask him what he wants?”

Ruprecht glared at him. Then: “What is it, William?”

“There is rebellion among the people of the southern parts of the city . . .”

Rebellion, thought Christopher. Just the thing to bring Ruprecht to the door in an instant. He smiled down at Ruprecht. “Invaders, Ruprecht?”

“. . . and we need your leadership.”

Ruprecht was plainly puzzled. “But . . . that's not right. . . .”

Christopher leaned down towards him, his face a hand's breadth from Ruprecht's. He could smell the baron's dinner on his breath. “Will you do me the favor of disproving me to my face? Go ahead and open the door. I'll wait.”

“Your . . . companion . . .”

“She'll wait, too. Just say nothing about us until you determine who's right. If I'm lying, kill us. If not, join my alliance.”

Ruprecht hesitated.

“As a favor,” said Christopher with a smile, though his heart was pounding with the thought of what was on the other side of the door, “to a mad apostate about to meet his just desserts.”

Ruprecht grunted his assent, and Christopher helped him out of bed and into a robe. At the door, the baron of Maris paused, his hand on the bar. “You'll keep your word?”

Christopher and Natil had vanished into the shadows between two huge wardrobes. “If you'll keep