An Impenetrable Room (part 4 of 14)

Writers: Yvonne
Date Posted: 11th September 2007

Characters: Larstad, Harrit
Description: Steward Harrit shows Larstad the ageing rooms where the theft took place, and Larstad deduces a thing or two
Location: Amber Hills Hold
Date: month 5, day 25 of Turn 4

Barley Hill Hold wasn't known for its barley at all - it was known for its brandy. Smoother than silk and finer than wine, it tasted of liquid sunshine and honey and apples. The Vintner Hall had been after their secrets for generations since the Brandymasters at Barley Hill Hold weren't true Crafting Masters at all - the recipe was a secret handed down from Brandymaster to hand-picked apprentice, and guarded well. The Barley Hills Hold vintage was as sought after as a Bendan T Red.

And now thirteen casks nearing their maturation had been stolen. The Steward, Harrit, stood nervously by the door, fiddling with a ring of keys. "We keep an accurate count of our wares, Journeyman. Once a month our Brandymaster, Merton, comes in and does our inventory. When Merton came in this month we were missing thirteen casks. He reported it right away, naturally."

"Naturally." Larstad stood in the centre of the first aisle with his arms crossed and his scuffed brown boots planted firmly on the wooden floor. The air was sweet and thick with alcohol and malt, and the two glows that they'd brought with them into the room cast odd shadows on the small barrels. "Who else has keys, besides Merton and yourself?"

"Holder Thorril, of course. He holds the third key. And there are only three keys." Harrit shifted from foot to foot nervously. "Only Merton comes in here to check the casks, and he and I oversee loading in our new vintages together. We're the only two people."

"So you say." Larstad turned, then plucked the glow he'd brought from it's hook by the door. "Mind if I take a look around?"

Harrit shook his head. "Of course not. That's what you're here to do, after all."

The Smith nodded, then began pacing slowly down each aisle. His boots echoed faintly as he crossed the floor. After a moment he stopped and sighed. "Harrit, please let me work in peace. I cannot do a thing if you're following so close."

"Of course not." Harrit, who'd been nearly stepping on his heels, had the good grace to look abashed. "I just want to help, of course. This is my livelihood too. The well-being of the Hold is my first concern, of course."

"Of course." Larstad stared pointedly at the smaller man until Harrit turned beet red and retreated back toward the door. The Smith continued his exploration of the room at a leisurely pace, stopping here and there to tap on walls and knock the floor with his heel. The room was almost obsessively organized but it was somewhat dusty, giving truth to Harrit's claim that no one but himself and the Brandymakers ever entered. If the Headwoman here was anything like Zelanka, the ageing room must have driven her mad. The Smith paused only twice; once where an entire row of barrels near the roof were missing, and for the second time at a small gap in the even rows nearer to the door. There he knelt, and a little prodding beneath the door turned up three bent nails and turned his fingertips black with dust. He pocketed the nails and went to examine the door.

Harrit breathed an audible sigh of relief when Larstad reappeared around a shelf of barrels. "Have you found anything yet?"

"I'm not sure. Tell me... how do you guard this room?"

"Guard it?" Harrit looked confused. "It's always guarded. Well guarded. Even during the Plague when our Hold was full of criminals, this room remained untouched. Nobody can get in or out without a key, and there is a guard who patrols past every half candlemark. He's always supposed to check that the door is locked, and to sound the alarm if it isn't."

Larstad rapped on the door with his knuckles. "This is the only door, then?"

"Yes. The only door." Harrit's eyes grew wide. "Oh... you don't suppose someone constructed a secret door in, do you? Did they burrow through the ground? Oh my oh my oh my. What will I tell Thorril!?"

"I highly doubt that anyone burrowed in, Steward," Larstad said dryly. He clapped the man on the back, causing him to stagger. "This room _is_ near the outside of the Hold, but the Hold is built on bedrock. You'd have heard the pick-axes if they'd dug in."

"Oh." Harrit surreptitiously rubbed his back, but Larstad had already turned away and didn't notice the black look the Steward shot him.
"We didn't discover the theft until Merton checked the stores. How did they get in, then, if the door was locked and there are no secret passages?"

The Journeyman rubbed his chin and the stubble there rasped against his palm. A puzzle, indeed. How did one steal thirteen casks from a locked room? Pick the lock, perhaps? He bent to look at the lock but couldn't get enough light from his glow to penetrate to the mechanism. "Tell me about the lock."

"The lock? Well, it's a new one, put in place by Thorril right after he took over Barley Hills. It was designed by a Master Locksmith -
Master Cranin. Do you know him?"

"I know of him. He's known for his trick locks and puzzles.
Commissions from him don't come cheap."

"Lord Thorril spared no expense," Harrit said proudly. "It's one of his finest creations. It's un-pickable, you know, and can be locked without a key from the inside. That's how the Brandymaster stayed safe, you know. During the Plague."

"You mean Merton?"

"Yes, Merton! When the other Brandymaster, Ilsador, was killed because he wouldn't reveal the secret to our vintage, Merton stole the Steward's key and requested Lord Porlan's key, and locked himself into the ageing rooms for the nine months it took until Lord Thorril was confirmed."

"Nine months!?" Larstad turned to look at the room. The walls were crammed with barrels and the room's interior was lined with so many shelves holding casks that there was barely room for him to turn around. "Shards... how did he survive?!"

"Merton moved in during the night and packed the room with preserves, a blanket, and a potty when everyone was asleep. And a saw. He cut a small opening at the top of the door - the old door, Thorril replaced the old one once he was confirmed - and we passed him bladders of water and took his wastes. When we could. The poor man survived for a week in there without support when the hall was barricaded by opportunistic traders who wanted the brandy. It was a bad time."
Harrit shook his head. The hall outside was a long, stone-lined passage, as straight as an arrow and pitted with doors that led to the rooms where the brandy was made. It would be easy enough to defend, provided that one had enough men... "How did you get them out?"

"I... do not wish to say, Journeyman." Harrit coughed uncomfortably.
"Suffice it to say that some of our beloved dead provided a... unique form of support in our battle."

"Ah." What else did one say to that?! And now that Harrit had brought it up, Larstad found himself imaging what might have happened, just in that hall... "May I see a key?"

Harrit hesitated for a long, uncomfortable moment before handing a lone key from his pocket to the Smith. It was long and smooth, and its jagged end was of a newer design that was far harder to pick. The tumblers inside the lock that Cranin built were tiny and precise - no hairpin or amateur set of picks could be precise enough to unlock the door. Larstad didn't have the heart to tell the Steward that if he was given enough time, he'd be able to pick the 'unpickable' lock.

The lock could be turned by the key from the outside, and by a knob on the inside that went vertical when the lock's tumblers were in place. The keyhole on the outside was unmarked but the knob on the inside had two bright, new scratches on its edge. Larstad stared at them for a moment, then felt along the top of the door. **Perfectly smooth...** The underside of the door met the floor almost perfectly and left only room to swing, save for a small gap where the door met its frame. The Journeyman bent down and eyed the bottom, then pulled from it a beetle carcass and a small bit of fluff. He stuck both in his pocket and turned to the Steward with a broad grin. "And that's that. I do believe that I'll have a nap now, if you'll excuse me."

"But... have you found anything!?" Harrit asked nervously.

"Perhaps." Larstad turned to go but was stopped as the Steward cleared his throat - noisily. He turned to see Harrit standing with his hand out, giving him a rather pointed look. "Oh... the key."

"Yes, 'the key'. I need it back, Journeyman."

"Of course." Larstad pressed it into Harrit's palm, then winked. "You keep good care of those, sir. Oh, and tell Thorril that I know how his brandy was stolen. Enjoy your evening." He left Harrit standing in the doorway, opening and closing his mouth like a landed fish.

Larstad began to whistle.

Last updated on the September 13th 2007

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An Impenetrable Room (part 4 of 14)