Ventus by Karl Schroeder

Karl Schroeder / Ventus / Page 170
10
On the night of Turcaret’s arrival, Jordan awoke
somewhere around three A.M. For a moment he thought he
must be back in Armiger’s mind, because the sound that had
awakened him was the sound of metal striking metal: clashing
swords. He sat up, and looked around. This was definitely the
tower room, with its odd triangular stonework. The sound had
come from the window. Outside it was the courtyard of
statues.
The sound was faint and intermittent. For a few seconds
he thought he might be imagining things. Then it came again.
And again, silence. Jordan pictured two figures circling
one another, in unspoken agreement that no alarm should be
given. Unless one was already dead?
He rose and padded quietly to the window. The smell of
the rain which had cascaded down all evening came to him.
Calandria slept in her usual comatose way, limbs flung akimbo,
body entangled in the sheets. Jordan stood on his tiptoes and
peered down at the darkened well of the courtyard.
His scalp prickled. He had never seen the courtyard after
lights-out. Not even the glow of a lantern filtered down from
the tall windows of the manor. Lady Hannah Boros' statues
posed like dancers at some subterranean ball, who needed no
light, whose music was the grumble of bedrock settling and
whose dance steps took centuries to complete. Jordan had no
doubt, after seeing the manse, that such places existed.