Chapter 11 Eleven
Ryn pulled his cloak over his head to cover the eyepatch the innkeeper had brought for him the morning after his eye mark appeared. It was tied tight around his head to cover his new eye mark.
He stepped into the Gills as the sun began to set, shivering as his mind went through the things he had done the night before and the fact that he had killed four men made his stomach turn.
He paid no attention to the beggars that lined the street. Once at the Black Crow, he took no time to find the Monger.
“Your entry into the palace seems really serious,” the Monger said as soon as he was Ryn.
“What’s with this disguise,”.
Ryn pulled the hood of his cloak lower. Being in the presence of this man made him uncomfortable, or maybe it was just being in the Gills. The slums he grew up in Oakhaven didn’t feel as wild as this one.
Ryn pulled a seat, he wasn’t interested in making small talk which the man seemed to enjoy.
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
He didn’t answer with words, just a simple nod of his head while making sure his hood was still pulled forward. The marks on his eyes were starting to itch under the patch.
“Thought so,” the Monger grunted, leaning back until his wooden chair creaked like it was about to break.
“Oakhaven? Or maybe one of those dusty border towns the King forgot about? Doesn’t matter. Gold speaks the same language everywhere.”
He kept mumbling to himself as he tapped a dirty fingernail against the table.
“You want into the Palace? The front gates are suicide. The visitors are carefully invited by mages who would before you even open your mouth. But the Palace has a stomach, and like every stomach, it needs to be fed.”
The Monger lowered his voice, a sly smile on his face.
“Go to the West Service Entrance, behind the laundry quarters. That’s where the kitchens take their deliveries. Every morning at dawn, the spice and grain carts roll in. The guards there are lazy.”
He reached into a drawer and pulled out a small piece of copper token. He slid it across the wooden table toward Ryn.
“When you get to the gate, look for a man named Rave. He’s the head of the larder. He has a scar across his left eyebrow and an ugly smile.”
Ryn picked up the token, his hands trembling slightly.
“What do I say to him?”
“You don’t say much,” the Monger replied. “When you show him that token, you tell him the harvest is late, but the cellar is deep.”
He took a sip of the black drink he had in his cup. Ryn couldn’t tell what it was.
“He’ll grumble, probably call you a useless lad, but he’ll put a crate in your hands and lead you straight through the servant’s tunnel. From there, you’re on your own.”
Ryn’s eyes lit up.
“Once you’re inside the kitchens, the Prince’s quarters are three levels up, through the gold leafed corridors.”
The Monger leaned forward again, narrowing his eyes.
“One more thing. If Rave asks who sent you, you tell him nobody. If you get caught, I don’t know you, and you certainly didn’t get that token from me. Understood?”
Ryn nodded, tucking the token into the deepest pocket of his cloak.
“Understood.”
“Good,” the Monger said, a satisfied smile on his lips.
“Now get out of here. You’ve got a palace to break into, and I’ve got a reputation to protect.”
The inn was silent when Ryn returned, except for the snoring of a traveler in the common room. Back in his room, he packed his satchel with shaky hands. Carefully going through the enchanted bag, he pulled out the rest of the rations he stuffed in it. They had gone stale. A small pouch of gold coins and a few dragon bars was all he had that was of value in the satchel.
Ryn couldn’t sleep, choosing to sit by the window, watching the street as he wondered what tomorrow might hold for him.
Before sunrise, Ryn stepped out into the streets but not long after, rain started to fall. The wind blew the wool of his cloak around his legs, the rain soaking through his clothes in seconds.
By the time he reached the West Service Entrance, Ryn was shivering from the cold. The marks on his body began to heat in response to the cold he felt, keeping him from freezing in the heavy rain. He wiped the rain off his eyelids and he could see the light of the delivery bay. It was pure chaos.
Rave was there, a huge man in white apron, he looked furious as he lifted a large tarp over a stack of spice crates. Wagons were stuck in the mud, their drivers shouting for it to be lifted and servants running around to save the palace’s provisions from the downpour.
Ryn stepped forward, his boots dragging in the mud. He reached into his pocket and held out the token the Monger had given him, his fingers numb from the cold.
“The harvest is late…”
“I don’t care if the harvest is at the bottom of the sea!” Rave shouted, snatching the token without a glance at the boy. His eyes were watching the crates of grain that were being soaked.
“The kitchens open in an hour and half my stock is drowning! Grab that cart, boy! If a single sack gets ruined, I’ll have your hide for a rug! Move!”
One moment Ryn was in the freezing rain, and the next, he was in the suffocating air of the royal kitchens. Fires were burning in massive stone stoves and the sound of pans hitting pans and knife against boards took him a while to get used to. He kept his head down as he offloaded heavy sacks in a dim corner, his chest heaving. Sweat mixed with the rainwater dripping from his hair. He waited, counting down the time till he found an opportunity to slip away.
He hid behind a stack of empty crates and found the corridor the Monger had described. It had a narrow stairway and he climbed, stepping away from the noise of the kitchen. As soon as he got to the first landing, he stopped in his tracks.
A curtain of blue light covered the archway, a veil of magic energy that looked delicate but vibrated with a low hum.
To his right, a brass plaque was embedded on the marble wall: AUTHORIZED MAGICAL SIGNATURE REQUIRED. UNAUTHORIZED ENTRY WILL TRIGGER TOTAL LOCKDOWN.
