recourse.”
“Great,” Bran said. “Let’s have a look at it.”
He thought instantly that if they could get into eleven they’d at least be closer to the room than they were now. If anything, they could find a way to glance inside. The old man dug about for a key in one of the drawers, pulling out an intricate one with a metal number 11 welded into the handle.
“Second floor, right this way,” the man said. He started to stand up but began to cough again and had to sit back down, raising a handkerchief to his face. Astara suddenly slid closer to Bran, dropping her voice to a strong whisper in his ear.
“He can’t come,” she hissed. “He’ll take us there, and we’ll never get to ten.”
“What do you want me to do?” Bran whispered, as the man hacked into the handkerchief.
“Make him stay here,” she said. Bran instantly knew what she meant by her tone: she wanted him to use magic on the man and convince him to stay behind. The man stopped coughing and shook his head, blinking to clear it from his sinuses. Bran was still hesitant, though, and Astara let out a breath and turned.
“How about you stay back here?” she suggested. “We can show ourselves up.”
“No, no need,” the man said, trying to stand. “I’ll go up there and open it for ye.”
“No, I insist,” Astara said. “We can show ourselves up just fine.”
“No, I’m all right,” he said adamantly. Astara was getting nowhere, and Bran knew she was right. If the man went with them, their chances of getting to Ten were slim.
“Come on, just sit down,” Astara insisted. “It’ll be much easier, and you can rest.”
“Thank you but no,” the man said. “I’m not too old to walk up a—”
“Maybe you should listen to her,” Bran broke in, and he slid command into his voice: it was something he had not done before with magic, but he knew that in his powers he also held the mental abilities of the Comsar: to communicate, to read minds, and perhaps to alter thoughts. The crossword puzzles in the Daily Duncelander obviously didn’t do the man’s mind much good because it took hardly any effort, and his eyes went blank.
“On second thought,” the man lifted a finger, “perhaps she is right.”
The man slid down back into his chair, his face confused. Bran pushed harder on the magic with his mind, feeling as if he connected with the man’s thoughts, suggesting for him to stay behind, until he had fought down the man’s mental barriers.
“We’ll be back soon,” Bran said, starting to pull Astara toward the stairs. “Why don’t you have some fun with more crossword puzzles?”
“Yes, yes,” the man nodded, taking his newspaper up again and looking at it. Bran and Astara hurried up, the steps creaking under their feet. Bran felt it was a wonder the balcony even held up, and the whole place seemed like it could fall apart at any moment.
The hall was lit by a window at the end and some old light bulbs, so it wasn’t particularly creepy or dark. The floor was covered with a thin red carpet, and there were doors on each side with numbers, none of them Ten. At the end, it went in both directions, almost like a miniature maze.
“Your sister?” Astara finally said. “Couldn’t have come up with anything better?”
“It’s the first thing that came to mind,” Bran defended, though he saw she was actually trying to hide a smile while they searched. They turned the corner at the end, staying close together, although no one seemed to be up there who might notice. The halls were very wide and quiet except for their shoes against the wood, and the hallway at the end was lined with windows that showed the marina and the lake quite fabulously. They had to turn again, going down another passage until they finally found it.
“Ten, right here,” Bran said. The door was closed. For a moment Bran looked at it, up and down, and listened for anyone beyond it. When he heard nothing, he pressed his ear against the
“Great,” Bran said. “Let’s have a look at it.”
He thought instantly that if they could get into eleven they’d at least be closer to the room than they were now. If anything, they could find a way to glance inside. The old man dug about for a key in one of the drawers, pulling out an intricate one with a metal number 11 welded into the handle.
“Second floor, right this way,” the man said. He started to stand up but began to cough again and had to sit back down, raising a handkerchief to his face. Astara suddenly slid closer to Bran, dropping her voice to a strong whisper in his ear.
“He can’t come,” she hissed. “He’ll take us there, and we’ll never get to ten.”
“What do you want me to do?” Bran whispered, as the man hacked into the handkerchief.
“Make him stay here,” she said. Bran instantly knew what she meant by her tone: she wanted him to use magic on the man and convince him to stay behind. The man stopped coughing and shook his head, blinking to clear it from his sinuses. Bran was still hesitant, though, and Astara let out a breath and turned.
“How about you stay back here?” she suggested. “We can show ourselves up.”
“No, no need,” the man said, trying to stand. “I’ll go up there and open it for ye.”
“No, I insist,” Astara said. “We can show ourselves up just fine.”
“No, I’m all right,” he said adamantly. Astara was getting nowhere, and Bran knew she was right. If the man went with them, their chances of getting to Ten were slim.
“Come on, just sit down,” Astara insisted. “It’ll be much easier, and you can rest.”
“Thank you but no,” the man said. “I’m not too old to walk up a—”
“Maybe you should listen to her,” Bran broke in, and he slid command into his voice: it was something he had not done before with magic, but he knew that in his powers he also held the mental abilities of the Comsar: to communicate, to read minds, and perhaps to alter thoughts. The crossword puzzles in the Daily Duncelander obviously didn’t do the man’s mind much good because it took hardly any effort, and his eyes went blank.
“On second thought,” the man lifted a finger, “perhaps she is right.”
The man slid down back into his chair, his face confused. Bran pushed harder on the magic with his mind, feeling as if he connected with the man’s thoughts, suggesting for him to stay behind, until he had fought down the man’s mental barriers.
“We’ll be back soon,” Bran said, starting to pull Astara toward the stairs. “Why don’t you have some fun with more crossword puzzles?”
“Yes, yes,” the man nodded, taking his newspaper up again and looking at it. Bran and Astara hurried up, the steps creaking under their feet. Bran felt it was a wonder the balcony even held up, and the whole place seemed like it could fall apart at any moment.
The hall was lit by a window at the end and some old light bulbs, so it wasn’t particularly creepy or dark. The floor was covered with a thin red carpet, and there were doors on each side with numbers, none of them Ten. At the end, it went in both directions, almost like a miniature maze.
“Your sister?” Astara finally said. “Couldn’t have come up with anything better?”
“It’s the first thing that came to mind,” Bran defended, though he saw she was actually trying to hide a smile while they searched. They turned the corner at the end, staying close together, although no one seemed to be up there who might notice. The halls were very wide and quiet except for their shoes against the wood, and the hallway at the end was lined with windows that showed the marina and the lake quite fabulously. They had to turn again, going down another passage until they finally found it.
“Ten, right here,” Bran said. The door was closed. For a moment Bran looked at it, up and down, and listened for anyone beyond it. When he heard nothing, he pressed his ear against the
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