Free The Golden Key (Book 3) by Robert P. Hansen Page A

reached out for one of the strands from the lighter
grouping and brought it to him.
    I’m too weak to make it back without flying, he
rationalized. At least if I die this way, I’ll have died trying to save
myself. He sighed, closed his eyes, and the fingers of his left hand began
to move.

7
    The moment Iscara saw Argyle’s new Truthseer she immediately
disliked him. He was a scrawny little thing that reminded her of a spider with
acne. He was pretty enough in a weird sort of way when you ignored the bulging
eyes and big ears, and he was much younger than Fanzool. His arms dangled at
his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them, and he tilted to the right
as if his right leg was shorter than the left. He limped, but she was certain
it was an affectation; there were no injuries that she could detect, no
distortions in the magic within him. He kept his head turned to the right as if
he was listening to someone talking to him, but his eye always stared forward.
He had two eyes, of course, but only one of them faced forward; the other
looked to the right, and that eye bore into her as if it could see her deepest,
darkest secrets. Perhaps it did, and that’s why she didn’t like him?
    Fanzool had been better. He had been a friendly fellow, and
she had been able to manipulate him without any difficulty at all. All she had
to do was move in close beside the old man, brush up against him, purr
something sweet into his ear, and he would blush and bluster until he finally
caved in to whatever it was she had wanted him to do. But this one? This—what
had Argyle called him? Drub? Drud? Something like that—didn’t blush, and if he
ever blustered, it would be the blustering of a blizzard bringing a cold death.
    “We have only one task,” the Truthseer said. “We must find
out where he has hidden Argyle’s key.”
    Iscara nodded and turned away from his discomfiting gaze. He
was hunched over, too, but there wasn’t any deformity in his spine as far as
she could tell. It was only part of the image he had concocted for himself,
just like the wizard’s robe draped about him. It was like her healer’s gown,
something to let others know what she was. His affectations were a lot more
elaborate than hers, especially the staff whose grip was topped with a demon’s
head. It had big ears, too. He leaned heavily against that staff as if it were
sucking him into the ground as he walked. Maybe that was why he limped and slouched
so much?
    “What key?” she asked as they plodded down the hallway
toward the corridor where Typhus was sleeping. She would have preferred to move
faster, but he could only plod along. If they had to run, what would he do?
Plod a bit faster? Or stop the pretense? And it was a pretense; she was certain
of it. Everything about his appearance was manufactured, carefully cultivated
to make others uncomfortable, to make them think he was weaker than he was. But
he couldn’t hide those big, bulging eyes. They were powerful, and she
was certain they could look past the surface—past her surface—to
penetrate the sordid depths roiling beneath it. Fanzool never made her feel
that way. He had pretty, amusing eyes that filmed over with tears when her
playthings screamed.
    “A small golden key,” the Truthseer said. “Typhus will know
which one.” He shuffled forward at an easy pace, ignoring her impatience—or
antagonizing it intentionally; she wasn’t sure which. He struck her as the kind
of man who didn’t know how to deal with a strong-willed, independent woman who never
fainted at the sight of blood; especially the blood she, herself, had spilled.
“Its whereabouts is of the utmost concern to Argyle. If needed, you will assist
me in discovering its location.”
    If needed? Iscara frowned. She had always enjoyed
assisting Fanzool during his interrogations. It was almost more amusing to see his discomfort than it was to hear her plaything’s screams. She smiled and, despite
herself, hoped Fanzool