Free The Excalibur Codex by James Douglas

was struck by – and grateful for – the strength of the tiny hairs that held the plant to the flaking stone in an elemental death grip. By now I was six metres up and a single slip would send me plunging to the garden below, to certain injury if not death. I used the stems as a ladder, climbing until I was just below the window. This was where my training proved invaluable. Clinging with one hand and with thetoes of my boots only having the slightest purchase, I used my free hand to unloop the short length of rope that hung from my shoulder. My comrades called me ‘Monkey’ because of my climbing abilities, but even my simian namesake would have struggled to make the leap from ivy to ledge. Fortunately, my controllers had considered every eventuality. With a single rotation I swung the rope so that the specially designed metal claw caught hold on the window’s sandstone sill. It made a distinct clatter that froze me in place for a few moments, but when there was no apparent reaction from inside the house or out, I tested it with my free hand. This was the moment of truth. I closed my eyes and switched my right hand from ivy stem to rope and swung outward, allowing the thin cord to take my full weight. The sound of metal scraping on stone above made my heart stop and I dropped slightly before the hooks held fast. Terrified, I hung for a moment, twisting in the air, before hauling myself hand over hand until I reached the sill. It provided just enough room for me to crouch with my back wedged against one pillar and my shoulder against the other, while I reached down to check the bottom of the window. A narrow gap allowed me to insert my fingers and pull it upwards. At first I thought the information I had been given was wrong or that the faulty catch I had been told to expect had been repaired. In my cramped position I found it difficult to exert much pressure, but I shifteda little to my right, gritted my teeth and pulled till my muscles were on fire. It came up with a shriek like a strangled cat and a jerk that almost threw me from my perch. Somehow I managed to hold on and wriggled through the narrow space. Sweating with relief, I dropped into a cramped water closet with a toilet bowl and a tiny sink. The entrance was at the far end and I felt for the handle, praying no one had heard the din as the window opened. With enormous care, I opened the door a few centimetres. In the gloom beyond I could just make out a passageway with a polished wood floor and a strip of carpet down the centre. I waited another few seconds to ensure I was still alone and then slipped out into the corridor. It was full dark, but I knew the layout of the house as well as I knew my own home and I was able to make my way to a broad stairway, imagining the disapproving eyes that followed me from the paintings lining the wall. The stairs led down to the main level of the house and I descended one step at a time, testing each as I went. The carpet would deaden the sound of my feet, but a creaking board had betrayed many a burglar before me and I knew not to take any risks. I counted the steps and when I reached the bottom I could picture the wood-panelled hall in the pictures I’d been shown. Turn sharp right and twenty paces ahead would be the armoury. Large windows allowed in something that might be called light and I became aware of the displays liningthe wall: full suits of armour, breastplates, daggers, swords and long spears, ancient flintlock pistols and muskets. Something that could only be a Napoleonic regiment’s eagle. The smell of floor polish was familiar enough, but there was another, musty odour that tickled my nose; the scent of great antiquity. A marble bust on a pedestal depicted the house’s former owner, a severe man with receding hair, a long nose and fleshy features. Behind it hung a painting of the same man with a fine dog, a wolfhound of some sort, at his side. This proof that I was a few steps from my goal made my heart