The White Thorns of Fire

2.2 | raid

The palace walls were designed to discourage anyone from scaling it at merely one glance. Mersem's neck hurt from craning it in an extreme angle just so he could gauge how high they were. He gave up as soon as he started seeing black dots in his vision. He blinked and massaged the muscles on his nape.

"How long before your contacts let us in?" Mersem turned to Haeral who tucked his hands underneath his armpits even though he was already wearing gloves.

Haeral looked here and there, no doubt searching for a familiar face among the servants dressed in thin coats milling outside the walls, lost in their own meager tasks. "Not sure. I did tell him to come at around midday," he glanced at the sun. "Should be any time now."

Like clockwork, a wooden door creaked against its hinges somewhere to Mersem's left and out came a boy not older than Silke. His orange bounced in wavy curls on his head as he bounded towards the paltry party Mersem, his sister, and his friends made. To the servant, they probably looked like wet fendugin chicks more than people who would rob the armory.

"Follow me," the lad said, gesturing towards the door he had just come from. "I've managed to clear the halls leading to the armory free of servants. You should be good."

Then, he narrowed his eyes on Chenric. "Remember to pay me well for my help."

Chenric waved his hand in the air. "Sure, sure," he said, stepping close to the lad and slinging a hand over his shoulder. "When we get out alive and have gotten our piece, you'll get yours."

The lad bobbed his head and continued the walk. Mersem was left to stew in the background, eyeing the small, square windows punched out in odd patterns on the wall, delivering what little sunlight shining outside into the fortress. Silke cracked her knuckles to free the cold building in her joints and stretched her arms while she walked. Just doing that would get them noticed one way or the other.

Mersem turned his attention back to their orange-haired guide. For a servant, he was dressed better than any of the guys back in Falkmena were. Back home, most would forgo the thick coats and the second overcoat to just strip down to the first layer. It wasn't enough to ward off the cold but it would be to stop oneself from freezing in one's sleep.

The palace servant, however, was dressed to the nines in up to the third layer of coats that even had a line of fur at the hem. Hmm. Should Mersem enter the palace's service? Maybe he'd get to see Leara Madris from time to time as well.

Before he could get any funny ideas, however, he was flattened against a wall when Haeral's arm swept in front of him. He looked to his friend to demand what's going on but his friend's urgent expression and the finger pressed to his lips relayed the message perfectly. Beside Mersem, Silke had her fist pressed against her mouth to stifle the sound of her breaths. Smart girl.

From the seeable corner, voices bled in muffled ringing, bouncing against the stone walls and echoing in the vast emptiness up high. "Bah, if I were you, I'd carry those buckets like my life depended on it," a male voice said. Fabric rustled and wood cluttered against stone. "You don't want to end up like the king and queen of Lotherne."

Mersem raised his eyebrows. Lotherne? What were they talking about?

Another voice, a deeper and harsher one at that, spoke. "What use would those rumors be?" he said. "My back kills me and this harsh cold isn't helping. I don't care if the king assassinated me. I'd even welcome it."

They both snickered and Mersem and his friends waited until their footsteps receded to nothing but mere patters against rough stone. Mersem let loose a breath he didn't know he was holding. Silke removed her hand on her face and flicked her gaze at Haeral. "You said you took care of them."