Celadonian Tales Vol: 1 Blood and Brass Read Online Free Page A

an arse, Hathe, just pointing out that there ain't no way for me to know where the man might be. Asides, ain't tonight the anniversary of his lady's death? I'd imagine he'd be grievin' summat."
    "Oh," Hathe replied, seeming a bit crestfallen, "right. Forgot about that, so I did."
    "You might, bucko, but you can bet Sen ain't. Fond o'her, he was, I've heard tell."
    The two guards faced each other for a moment longer, then turned and moved up the central hall, away from Matt. They paid no notice at all to the left hand hall. Matt would have sworn they chose to ignore it completely. As the pair moved down the hall away from him, Matt breathed a sigh of relief. He allowed his body to relax slightly, the tension draining from his limbs.
    So, Sen was occupied tonight. That explained why Iharan had insisted that it had to be tonight. The servant seemed to have a good head for this; perhaps Matt needed to revise his opinion of the man. It was possible he was not a total idiot.
    Unwilling to risk the guards returning, Matt moved swiftly out of the concealing shadows. Glancing around to make sure no one saw him, the thief turned left and made his way down the darkened hallway.
    The darkness grew deeper as he moved farther down the hallway, and the place smelled musty, unused. Sen must keep his servants away from here on purpose , Matt mused. Images of piled coins, heaped gems and that dream of faraway warmth and prosperity shot through his mind. Matt grinned and quickened his pace.
    Finally, he came to the end of the hall and there was the door, red and ornate. It was large, heavy and highly decorated. Intricate carvings ran across the face of the door, but there was something wrong with them. Matt's head hurt to look at them too closely, or focus on them too intently.
    Is this why Sen doesn't need a guard? Even as they repelled him, Matt felt curiously compelled to look harder at the jagged lines and swirling chaos that adorned the door. It took a conscious effort to force his eyes away, to focus on a different point. Matt cursed. Now what?
    He reached out one finger to touch the door, hesitant, testing. Nothing happened. Maybe they really are nothing but bizarre carvings , he thought. Without much hope, he put his hand to the latch and pushed. Nothing. Of course , he thought sourly. Well, there was nothing for it but to get to work. He pulled his kit from a small satchel and set to it. He prayed to all the gods above and below that the lock had nothing in common with the strange patterns on the face of the door. Matt selected a pick and inserted it into the lock, gently probing and prodding, feeling for the telltale sign that he had found just the right place.
    Sweat beaded on his brow as he knelt before the door, ears straining for any signs of approaching guards. Slowly, slowly, he admonished himself, probing the lock further. He'd yet to meet a lock that was his match, and he'd be damned if this would be the one to do it. Seconds turned to minutes, and those minutes seemed to stretch out interminably.
    Finally, a soft snick told him that the lock had yielded to him – he still had the touch. Matt smiled and tucked the tools of his trade away. Still cautious, he unsheathed his dagger and held it at the ready as he reached for the handle. Celadon was a dangerous place and Matt hadn't kept his hide intact without having at least a modicum of respect for that danger. Even a locked room could hold a threat.
    He pushed the door and it creaked open. Matt held his breath – the damned sound was loud enough to wake the dead! Peering through the small opening did no good. The room was as black as the pits below Harrson's Keep, and cold to boot. Bracing himself, Matt pushed into the room.
    He could just make out a vague outline in the center of the room – a table, perhaps. The sudden squeal of door hinges alerted him to the fact that he was not alone in the murk. He tried to turn, but something smashed hard into the back of his skull.