The Counterfeit Crown - Chapter 19

CHAINS OF COMPLAINT

After a while, every dungeon hallway looked the same, which didn’t help Alaric now. The damp, moss-covered walls of the main corridor stretched forward another thirty paces before opening to a circular chamber. Torches hung from the walls. The dancing flames cast long, flickering shadows that crept to the threshold of the chamber. Three more archways, equally spaced, joined in this central hub.

Alaric squinted into the gloom of each passageway before nodding to the left. He crept toward the corridor to the left, Elara a few steps behind. The dark and ominous passageway echoed with the clichéd drip of water on cobblestone.

“Why can’t a plumber ever fix a leak?” Alaric muttered.

“Shhh.”

One of Alaric’s boots squelched as they passed a row of heavy wooden doors. A faint glow a few paces ahead indicated that the walkway curved to the right. Rays of light pierced through narrow slots in various doors.

Alaric drew close to one and peered through the small slit. The room was empty, save for iron shackles hanging from the walls. They moved to the next door.

Elara, raised on the tips of her toes, investigated the light and gasped. Alaric gently padded over and snuck a peek. His eyes widened, then turned to Elara.

“It’s that couple,” Elara whispered. “The ones they thought were spies. Should we help them?”

Alaric glanced at the cell again. The other couple were chained to the walls, the shackles too short to let them sit on the floor. The not-so-handsome man made a series of funny faces before producing a key held between his teeth, then he pulled the shackles closer to his mouth and started to unlock the iron restraints.

“I think they’ll be fine,” Alaric waved Elara to the next door. The next two cells they checked were empty. Alaric was about to give up hope when he heard the faint, familiar murmurings of complaint emanating from the next door.

“This one,” Alaric said. He dashed up the corridor, skidding to a halt in front of the heavy, iron-reinforced, wooden door. Alaric braced to drive his shoulder into the door.

“Wait a second, you fool,” Elara reached into her hair and pulled out two long pins. “You’ll make a racket smashing through the door.”

She bent over until she was at eye-level with the lock, then inserted the pins. Alaric didn’t know where to look, so he turned his back. After a few curses, he heard the lock click, and the hinges of the door whine as it opened.

Hunched over an angled desk, his back to the door, sat Kethryll the Brushmaster.

“Come to torment me some more?” the artist said sheepishly.

“Only some,” Alaric said.

Kethryll bolted up from the stool and spun to face them. Recognition fluttered across the old man’s eyes as his gaze met Alaric’s. Tears streamed down his face as he threw his arms wide and shuffled towards the hero, knocking over the stool.

“Thank the gods, Alaric,” Kethryll wrapped Alaric in a tight embrace. “Oh, what a nightmare.”

“You’re safe now, Kethryll,” Alaric patted his friend on the back a few times, then let go. An unspoken acknowledgement that the hug was over. It took Kethryll a few more heartbeats to realise that. “You look awful. What have they done to you?”

Alaric scanned his friend from head to toe. The old man was still wearing the same soiled clothes Alaric had last seen him in. When Kethryll painted that infamous painting of him. But, Alaric noted, the old man did look like he was well-fed, maybe even gained a few pounds.

“Ohh,” Kethryll took a step back and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead. “They make me work most of the day. Slaving away, writing those dreary deeds, sculpting insipid dies. Can you imagine, a genius of my talents wasting away on…on, blah.”

Kethryll waved his hands in the air. “And that’s not the half of it.”

The artist shuffled over to a table in the corner that Alaric had only just noticed and picked up a soup bowl.

“They feed me this…this…gruel,” Kethryll sniffed the bowl. “I mean, who puts bacon in onion soup? Blah!”

He threw the bowl against the stone wall. Fragments of fine porcelain were scattered across the room. The contents smeared down the wall.

“Hey,” Alaric cried out. “I worked hard on that.”

“The worst is yet to come, my dear friend,” Kethryll moved to a bed in the corner and snatched a handful of the sheets. “There’s only five hundred threads. I need a thousand if I am to be fully rested. How can I create after sleeping on a five-hundred-thread sheets? Huh? That wasn’t rhetorical, I—”

Kethryll stopped his rant, noticing Elara for the first time.

“Oh, hello, my dear,” Kethryll combed his hair back with his bony fingers. “If I’d have known I’d have company, I would have worn something more fashionable. Aren’t you going to introduce me, Alaric?”

Alaric grimaced. “Kethryll, this is Elara.” Alaric gestured between them. “Elara, Kethryll.”

They exchanged quick pleasantries.

“Can we go now?” Alaric began to shoo Kethryll out the door.

The artist swatted Alaric away, then smiled at Elara. “Have we met before, my dear?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Kethryll squinted at Elara’s features as he shuffled out the door. “I’d never forget a beautiful woman like you.”

“Oh, thank you,” Elara smiled until Kethryll passed by her. She shot Alaric a glare. He shrugged and mouthed What? Her lips drew to a thin line.

Kethryll started heading down the corridor to the left.

“Wrong way,” Alaric hissed.

“No, no,” Kethryll waved for them to follow. “We must get the Crown and Court seals. And the other minting dies if we can.”

“The what?” Alaric frowned.

“My masterpiece,” Kethryll’s shuffling pace increased somewhat. “Exact replicas of the seals of the Crown and the High Court. With those, the Duke would be able to do gods knows what with them. He’s a madman, you know. Once ordered his guards to serve me white wine at room temperature. Room Temperature! He’s certifiably mad!”

“Do you know why the duke has gathered every noble born in this province tonight?” Alaric quickened his pace to turn and face his friend while walking backwards.

“Every noble born?” Kethryll’s eyes widened. “Tonight? No, alas, I don’t know the motive. But nefarious it must be.”

“Whatever he’s up to,” Alaric said. “We must stop it.”

“You’ve the authority to do that?” Kethryll asked.

“Technically. No,” Alaric winced. “The Chamberlain and Controller want to sweep this under the rug. Lest we get the blame for all those counterfeit coins and Transfer Deeds you made.”

Keythryll gave a stern nod, then continued his shuffling pace with a new determination.

“Where are the seals?” Elara glided up next to one side of Kethryll. Alaric turned and kept pace with the other. They ended up back at the centre chamber. After a moment, Alaric realised that they had just gone in a big loop. The Brushmaster muttered, pointed his fingers in a few directions before finally deciding to turn left again.

“Well?” Elara asked. “Where can we find the seal?”

“Are you sure we haven’t met?” Kethryll frowned, then coughed away some nerves. “You look very familiar. Whom is your Lord?”

“Who,” Alaric corrected.

“Huh?” Kethryll turned to Alaric.

“Lady Isabella of Ashbourne Keep,” Elara murmured.

“Strange,” the Brushmaster shrugged. “I’m not familiar with her. But, then again, there are dozens of Lords and Ladies that I have forgotten about.”

The clean stone walls of the corridor were better lit than the dungeon area. They came across an intersection that Kethryll strode through. Alaric checked each tunnel. Strangely, there were no guards stationed in this underground labyrinth. Nor any patrols roaming around. Alaric shook his head and surmised that the duke must be overconfident about tonight. A large wooden door at the end of the corridor was left open a crack.

“The seal could be in the workshop,” Kethryll said. “That door at up ahead, where they mint the coins, or it could be in the duke’s study. What’s the time?”

“I’m not sure,” Alaric said.

“Hopefully we’ll miss it.”

“Miss what?”

They stopped at the door to the workshop. All three froze in place. A Dozen of pairs of eyes turned as one.

Like an obelisk, the giant demigod stood before a semi-circle of seated guards and said, in a high-pitched voice, “Toolbox meeting.”