Chapter 20 - Part 17

“Here we go,” Ois said, pulling the lever back. The door clicked free of its restraining pins and swung inwards. A hiss of air entering accompanied it. “No traps,” she said. “It was airtight, though.”

“No alarms,” Delegado noted.

“That we can hear,” she said.

“Well, now’s the time to pray, then,” Delegado said.

“You want to pray to the Flame?” she asked.

“I did once,” he told her. “It didn’t work.” She was shocked at that. “But – but you can, if you want.”

“Flame guide us both then,” she said, stepping in, the sunrod raised high.

It was a long room, with bookcases and shelves carefully arranged. Most of the them held books and scrolls, but Delegado saw rings, wands, weapons of archaic make, and bars of gold and silver that could buy any man in Khorvaire a lifetime of leisure.

“This way,” Delegado whispered, pointing. He led her to a shelf near the back that held a porcelain trough. Rooting around in it he found the headband. It was a simple thing, braided leather etched with symbols, quite out of place with the ostentatious wealth of the place. He folded it and tucked it into a pouch. Ois took a brace of potions and a pair of wands, as well as an expensive-looking mirror.

“I thought you gave up being a thief,” he told her.

“We’ll need these,” she said. “Thomas can use them to drive the fiends back, and he can scry with the mirror.” She pulled out a pair of books and some scrolls. “Here, put these in your backpack. Thomas can use them as well.”

“Okay, but let’s make that it,” Delegado said. “The more we raid the more risk that we find trouble. We need to find a prisoner, but I don’t see a cell.”

“You’re not looking in the right place,” she said, walking over to the wall. “Ask yourself why this bookcase is unoccupied, then look at the scratches on the floor.” She ran her fingers along the wall and found a catch. Seconds later the wall with the bookcase pivoted inwards. “There may be many prisoners in this place,” she said. “Aside from the wretch whose screams we can hear. But this prisoner is considered a treasure.”

Delegado stepped in, and lead the way. She walked next to him, holdng the sunrod high. They did not walk far, perhaps fifteen feet until the turn to the right, and then then were in front of a cell with bars that had thorny projections. On the other side of the thorny bars was a straw-covered cot, and above it was a stone set high in the wall that glowed with faint illumination.

A man slept on the cot, his back to them. His hair was white, and like his beard, it was long and ragged. His clothes were filthy and torn. He seemed to stir when they approached and he rolled over, peering at them. He was human, and elderly, and missing one hand. The prisoner slowly stood, wiping his face with his one hand. A face that may have been human, but was still a near-copy of the half-orc’s.

“Delegado?” the man croaked.

“Poppa?” the half-orc gasped.