That was the public's view of Vendacious. Anyone who understood the ways of security would also guess that the chamberlain managed Woodcarver's spies. No doubt he had dozens of informants in the mills and on the docks. But now Scriber knew that even that was just a cover. Imagine — having agents in the Flenser inner circle, knowing the Flenser plans, their fears, their weaknesses, and being able to manipulate them! Vendacious was simply incredible. Ruefully, Scriber must acknowledge the other's stark genius.
And yet… this knowledge did not guarantee victory. Not all the Flenser schemes could be directly managed from the top. Some of the enemy's low-level operations might proceed unknown and quite successfully… and it would only take a single arrow to totally kill Johanna Olsndot.
Here was where Scriber Jaqueramaphan could prove his value.
He asked to move into the castle curtain, on the third floor. No problem getting permission; his new quarters were smaller, the walls rudely quilted. A single arrow loop gave an uninspired view across the castle grounds. For Scriber's new purpose, the room was perfect. Over the next few days, he took to lurking in the promenades. The main walls were laced with tunnels, fifteen inches wide by thirty tall. Scriber could get almost anywhere in the curtain without being seen from outside. He padded single file from one tunnel to the next, emerging for a few moments on a rampart to flit from merlon to embrasure to merlon, a head poking out here, a head poking out there.
Of course he ran into guards, but Jaqueramaphan was cleared to be in the walls… and he had studied the guards' routine. They knew he was around, but Scriber was confident they had no idea of the extent of his effort. It was hard, cold work, but worth the effort. Scriber's great goal in life was to do something spectacular and valuable. The problem was, most of his ideas were so deep that other packs — even people he respected immensely — didn't understand. That had been the problem with Johanna. Well, after a few more days he could go to Vendacious and then…
As he peeked around corners and through arrow slots, two of Scriber's members huddled down, taking notes. After ten days, he had enough to impress even Vendacious.
Vendacious's official residence was surrounded by rooms for assistants and guards. It was not the place to make a secret offer. Besides, Scriber had had bad luck with the direct approach before. You could wait days for an appointment, and the more patient you were, the more you followed the rules, the more the bureaucrats considered you a nonentity.
But Vendacious was sometimes alone. There was this turret on the old wall, on the forest side of the castle… Late on the eleventh day of his investigation, Scriber stationed himself on that turret and waited. An hour passed. The wind eased. Heavy fog washed in from the harbor. It oozed up the old wall like slow-moving sea foam. Everything became very, very quiet -the way it always does in a thick fog. Scriber nosed moodily around the turret platform; it really was decrepit. The mortar crumbled under his claws. It felt like you could pull some of the stones right out of the wall. Damn. Maybe Vendacious was going to break the pattern and not come up here today.
But Scriber waited another half hour… and his patience paid off. He heard the click of steel on the spiral stairs. There was no sound of thought; it was just too foggy for that. A minute passed. The trapdoor popped up and a head stuck through.
Even in the fog, Vendacious's surprise was a fierce hiss.
"Peace, sir! It is only I, loyal Jaqueramaphan."
The head came further out. "What would a loyal citizen be doing up here?"
"Why, I am here to see you," Scriber said, laughing, "at this, your secret office. Come on up, sir. With this fog, there is enough room for both of us."
One after another, Vendacious's members hoisted themselves through the trapdoor. Some barely made it, their knives and jewelry catching on the door frame; Vendacious was not the slimmest of packs. The security chief ranged himself along the far side of the turret, a posture that bespoke suspicion. He was nothing like the pompous, patronizing pack of their public encounters. Scriber grinned to himself. He certainly had the other's attention.
"Well?" Vendacious said in a flat voice.
"Sir. I wish to offer my services. I believe that my very presence here shows I can be of value to Woodcarver's security. Who but a talented professional could have determined that you use this place as your secret den?"
Vendacious seemed to untense a little. He smiled wryly. "Who indeed? I come here precisely because this part of the old wall can't be seen from anywhere in the castle. Here I can… commune with the hills, and be free of bureaucratic trivia."
