Murtagh

Murtagh made as if he were embarrassed. “I got lucky, but thanks. So have you been part of the guard for long?”

Esvar beamed with pride. “Two months, an’ I’ve loved every day of it, even the drilling. Even the standing watch, though it does get mighty miserable when it’s raining.”

“I’m sure.”

“An’ where do you hail from? Your tone’s not from around here.”

“Far to the south,” said Murtagh as they entered the barracks. It was a long, half-domed room with rows of cots, each with a wooden chest at the foot. A number of men were on the cots, playing runes, napping, or oiling their boots. Shields hung on the walls, and a rack of pikes and spears stood by the door. At the back of the barracks, as Carabel had said, was a stone archway and, through it, a staircase that led down into darkness.

That’s where I need to go. But finding an opportunity was going to be difficult. Either the barracks would have to be empty or he’d have to wait until the men were asleep.

A knot of anxiety twisted within Murtagh’s gut. Would Silna even still be in the compound by the end of the day? He could always try to ambush any group that left the enclosed grounds, but he had no means of knowing all the ways in and out, and in any case, an open attack would make further subterfuge impossible.

He was tempted to reach out with his mind, to see if he could detect Silna’s consciousness underneath them, but he resisted the urge. There were too many people around, any one of whom might notice the touch of his thoughts.

Esvar walked him through the room, introducing him to the men, who varied from friendly to standoffish to outright hostile. But they all wanted to hear the story of how he’d caught Muckmaw, and Murtagh found himself regaling them with the same account he’d given Captain Wren. The men seemed well enough impressed, but they followed up with plenty of comments about the state of his clothes, or else joked about him being fish food. He accepted the remarks with good grace, for he knew who he was. A certain amount of ribbing and gibing was normal for an outsider. Until he proved himself, the men wouldn’t trust him.

Of course, he wasn’t going to be there long enough to prove himself. For some reason, the thought caused him an obscure sense of regret.

Three-quarters of the way through the room, Esvar stopped by an empty cot. “You can bunk here for now. If’n Gert or the captain likes you, y’ can request a change, but I wouldn’t bother were I you. It doesn’t serve to be too close to the front; someone or other is always getting up in th’ night to visit the privy.”

That could be a problem, Murtagh thought. He glanced around as he dropped his bedroll on the cot. “Where does that go?” he asked, pointing at the archway at the back.

“Down t’ the catacombs,” said Esvar.

“There are catacombs?” Murtagh said, feigning surprise.

Esvar bobbed his head. “Oh yes. We use ’em for all sorts. The captain an’ the other officers meet down there every week, an’ we use ’em for storing supplies an’ such.”

“I see.”

A doleful expression formed on Esvar’s face. “It’s not so nice. Th’ catacombs are dark an’ full of spiders, an’ the captain insists that we keep watch on th’ storerooms. He says no fighting force is prepared ’less they know their weapons an’ supplies are secured.”

“The captain sounds like a wise man.” Privately, Murtagh cursed Wren’s cautious nature. It wasn’t going to make it easy to find out what was behind the closed door.

“That he is!” said Esvar. “An’ speaking of supplies, I ought t’ get you your kit. Thisways!”

Murtagh hoped the younger man might take him down into the catacombs, but instead Esvar headed back out of the barracks and led him toward a small storehouse set against the fortress’s outer wall.

Esvar was still talking; he never seemed to stop. “The catacombs were built ages ago. They say it were the elves that first quarried ’neath here, but I’ve never seen no elf digging in the ground or cutting stone. But Gil’ead has more ’an its share of history, yes it does. Right on th’ other side of that wall is where Morzan an’ his dragon were killed, near on twenty years ago.” He gave Murtagh a wide-eyed look. “It were before my time, but my ma, she says the whole city shook, and there were fire and flames and lightning like a great storm.”

Cold tingles ran up Murtagh’s arms. Right through there, he thought, staring at the wall. That’s where his father had died while trying to track down the dragon egg—Saphira’s egg—that the Varden had stolen from Galbatorix.

Esvar seemed encouraged by Murtagh’s expression. “It’s true! A magician came to Gil’ead an’ challenged Morzan to a duel. No one knows his name, only that he wore a hooded cape and carried a wizard’s staff, like in th’ stories.”