He’d expected rows of cells, dirty and dank, and harsh gaolers with harsh hearts. He’d expected it to be dripping and dark, filled with the moans of the wrong-fully imprisoned. In fact, he realised, he’d expected the dungeons in Cairnalyr.
But the watch house looked more like Proctor Gerwyn’s rooms. The walls were richly decorated with tapestries and busts, the floors with a thick, if old, burgundy carpet. This little chamber was filled with desks, which held paper and quill and ink. Only one of them was manned and that by a tired-looking elf who had a knife to his throat already.
“We need to release their prisoners,” Brega said. She paid little attention to her hostage, casting her gaze this way and that. The noise and furore came from above, a flight of stairs to the left. Another door led to the right. “They’ll send out elfs to round them up, so no-one will notice a few missing watchelfs. Then they’ll put their absence down to the escape. It will take some time before someone realises otherwise.”
“By which time our trail will be cold.” Neirin nodded. “It is a good plan.”
“The cells must be this way.” Tom took a step towards the door and waited to be followed, but Brega didn’t move.
“Keys,” she said, and when her captive said nothing she shook him. “Keys,” she repeated, louder.
The Westerner’s eyes were wide and bulging, trying not to look at the knife or their faces either. He babbled something in his own language and fell silent.
“We should have brought Six,” Tom said.
“A moment,” said Dank.
“We don’t have time to wait.” The sword in Tom’s hand was making him jittery. Whatever magic Caledyr possessed felt sharp and jagged. Any moment an elf would stumble upon them. They were too exposed. Too vulnerable.
“Perhaps we should go to the cells?” Neirin offered. “Break the locks.”
“A moment,” Dank said.
“Tom’s right, we can’t risk staying here.” Brega nodded to Tom and he opened the door, peering around it. A corridor with more doors. Nothing more.
“Come on,” he hissed.
“A moment,” Dank said. And when Tom turned to berate the boy, he saw the sprite swoop down the stairs and burrow into Dank’s neck. A flicker of a smile passed over Dank’s features amongst the pain and distress. Then he said, “Ask him again.”
Tom expected argument but Brega just said, “Keys.” And when the Westerner repeated his babble, Dank nodded.
“On that desk.” He pointed and, when no-one moved, Tom abandoned the door and crossed the chamber. The desks had been abandoned, papers in disarray, ink spilt over pages of elfish script. A huge, heavy ring was half-buried under paper, festooned with keys of all shapes, sizes and metals. How could there be so many locks in one small building? Tom held them up for the others to see.
“You speak the Western tongue?” Neirin asked Dank.
“No, our lord.” Dank smiled, pleased with himself. “But the fay know it.”
And what one fay knows, all fay knew. Despite himself, Tom mirrored the boy’s smile. “Well done.”
“Yes, it’s all very clever.” Brega started tugging her captive towards the door. The hubbub above was dying down. “Let’s go.”
The corridor ran along the outside wall, turning left before ending in an iron gate. On the other side of the gate were solid metal doors and a fat Westerner dozing on a stool. She leapt to her feet when she noticed them and Tom halted, raised a forbidding hand.
“Don’t call out,” Brega told her, and if the guard didn’t understand that, she understood the way Brega lifted her captive’s chin with her knife. She raised her hands and nodded, said something terse.
“She wants to know what we want,” Dank translated.
“Back away.” But with both hands holding her captive, Brega had little means for gesturing. So Tom hefted Caledyr and waved the guard from the gate.
“Open it up,” Brega told him.
Tom couldn’t find a key and hold the sword at the same time. So he held them out to Dank. The boy flinched and said, “Tom.”
It was true. Tom could feel the cold, still iron amongst the keys and in the gate. But it couldn’t be helped. He wasn’t about the sheathe or hand over the sword. So he waited until Dank took the keys, kept an eye on the fat Westerner while the boy found the right one and unlocked the gate, and ignored the discomfort on the boy’s face. Caledyr’s magic ebbed as he stepped through the gate and he felt disorientated himself. Then he was past the iron and the blade returned again.
“Back,” he said, but the elf needed no encouragement. She retreated readily before the sword.
“We do not want to be here when these prisoners are released.” Neirin stepped through the gate like he entered a ballroom.
“We can’t unlock all these doors without being here,” Tom replied. But Neirin’s words made him think. What were these prisoners guilty of? What would they be unleashing on this city by freeing them? How many innocent people would be hurt?
Both Storrstenn and Mab claimed there were no innocents. Could he believe that?
“We need to decide what to do with these two,” Brega said. The Westerners. The young watchelfs working to protect their people. Tom looked at their faces and felt his resolve falter.
Fight.
Yes. They had started this fight. These elfs stood guard over this city because the best of them had been recruited into armies that marched over Tir. This city was quiet and peaceful and safe while duchy cities were overrun. These elfs weren’t just standing by and letting it happen. They were helping. They were waging this war as surely as soldiers.
“There can be no witnesses,” Neirin said, and Tom found himself nodding.
“We unlock the cells,” he said. “Furthest ones first. Brega and I will hold them off. We set them free, lock that gate and leave the key. That will give us a head-start.”
“And these Westerners?”
Could they leave them for the prisoners? No. After leaving Draig for the merrow, he had to do the deed himself. “As you said,” he replied. “No witnesses.”
He moved before he could have second thoughts. It was no effort to cross the space to the elf, and Caledyr slid through her chest with little resistance. Tom didn’t look at her face. Didn’t look at the blood or the way her hands flapped at the blade. Didn’t think of what Emyr would say if he knew how Tom was using his sword.
Brega let her dead captive fall. “We don’t have all night.” She seemed untroubled by the death they had just dealt. Tom pulled Caledyr free, wiped it on his victim’s sleeve. These two were not innocent. They were the enemy. That was what Brega believed. It was what he needed to believe too.
As Dank unlocked the cells, Tom and Brega shepherded the prisoners into a flock at the far end of the corridor. Some of them shouted, snarled, made some incomprehensible threats. Others looked frightened of everyone and everything. Tom counted thirty-three by the time Dank opened the last door. Thirty-three potentially dangerous elfs, edging forward as Tom and Brega retreated. This wouldn’t be easy.
“You first,” he told Brega. “Get the key in the lock. As soon as I come through, close it.”
He didn’t take his eye off the crowd before him as she stepped through the gate. Two elfs inched forward, leading the pack, big and mean. Like Draig in frame, marked with tattoos and wicked grins. They called after Brega and Tom was pleased he couldn’t understand.
“Ready,” she said.
He had to be quick. And he needed space. So he lifted the sword, cried out, stamped his foot. The elfs shied and he fled. A roar rose behind him but it was too late, he was through, and the gate slammed shut.
“Rymour!”
Brega had her weight against the gate but the prisoners had thrown their own against hers, hands fumbling for keys, scarfs, pulling hair as it fell free.
“Brega!” Neirin rushed forward, striking at her assailants. But they laughed him off.
One of them had his arm caught in the gate, seemi
ngly oblivious to the crushing pain, fingers trying to pull free the key. It was an awkward angle, so Caledyr failed to cut through the wrist. But the howl of pain and the way the fingers went lax told Tom the job was done.
Another prisoner had pulled Brega’s scarf down, had his hands in her hair and on her clothes, pulling her close, waggling his tongue at her. Tom got Caledyr between the bars and through his shoulder, and when he let go of Brega, Tom put another thrust into his belly. A moment later Brega had the gate locked and Tom was free to look at the tableau they’d made. Two dead watchelfs. Thirty-three freed prisoners, one maimed, one dying. Ready to take our their rage and frustrations on the sleeping city around them.
“You did well,” Neirin said. Perhaps he saw the scepticism in Tom’s eyes, because he added, “Any action in pursuit of our goal must be taken.”
The ends justified the means.
“Come,” Neirin said. “Let us away.” He took the keys and tossed them within reach of the raging hoard.
Dank sent his sprite ahead to cause another distraction, so they left the watch house without further incident. The night was already failing, the sky burning with a new sunrise as they stole across the square.
“We didn’t eat bread from their bodies,” Tom realised. He hadn’t performed the ritual for the watchelfs in the cellar either. Or for Siomi; the West had prevented him from honouring her so.
“Sheathe the sword, Tom,” Dank suggested, and Tom was surprised how tired he felt when he did. The watch house erupted into chaos behind them and prisoners were already spilling into the square.
But no-one saw them slip away into the bloody new morning.
Storrstenn’s hideout was the second floor of an old, empty building. Crumbling in places, braced with wood and steel, filled with piles of bricks and stacks of tiles, Storrstenn told them it had been going through renovations when Idris declared war. After that, the money was in weapons and armour, not bricks and mortar, and work had stopped. Now it was empty and forgotten and perfect for their use.
Then Storrstenn had disappeared, taking Sannvinn and Six, leaving them alone with some blankets and some food and telling them he’d be gone for the day at least.
Katharine slept. Neirin lay like a body in state and prayed. When Tom offered to take a watch, Brega told him, “You need rest.” She was circling the room. Walls had been knocked through, windows were missing. Everything was covered in dust. “It’s been a long night.”
“It has.” He cast a look at the Western captain, tied and gagged and lying on her side, eyes closed and seemingly sleeping.
“So sleep.” Brega looked out a window. Tall, slender things, stretching from ceiling to floor, only a few still had glass in them. The morning was chill and Tom tugged his blanket tighter.
“I’m not sure I want to see my dreams.”
She took a few quick steps towards him and Tom flinched. But she knelt, placed her scarfed face before his. “They’re just dreams.” She clapped his shoulder once. “You will feel better when you wake. Trust me.” Her eyes were filled with something approaching empathy. It was the kindest she’d ever been to him.
He nodded and she stood, patrolling the room again. “Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome.” She was gruff again. The moment had passed. “Now go to sleep.”
He lay on his side, still hugging the sword to him, and closed his eyes.
“If it won’t haunt you today, it will one day.”
A legion of men and elfs stood before him, armed and armoured. Black rain hammered down from a dark sky.
“I did what I had to do.”
“What you had to do? Or what you wanted to do?”
“I’m not a butcher.”
“Men will call you many things, Tom,” Ambrose said. “And history will act as the final judge.”
“Which should I try to please?”
“Only yourself.”
Tom woke slowly, his senses dull and fuzzy as if he’d been drinking. He had aches in muscles he hadn’t known he possessed, his throat was sore, and he was cold. How long had it been since he’d woken feeling rested?
“You’re awake.” Dank’s voice was soft. Tom looked around to see Neirin still slept, as did Brega. The captain was facing the wall.
“Where’s Katharine?”
“Attending to herself.”
He nodded. “I need water.”
Dank handed him a canteen. He’d built a seat out of bricks and a blanket. Had the boy been watching him sleep?
The water was cool and washed away the dryness in his throat. He passed the canteen back and Dank took a swig too.
“Is everything okay?” Tom asked. He looked about. The light coming in through the windows was grey and dark. It was impossible to tell what time it was.
“We believe so,” Dank said. “Your fellows have not yet returned.”
Tom climbed to his feet and walked to a window, peering carefully out into the world beyond.
The road below ran through the full length of the city and thus was wide, well-maintained and busy. Horses, carts, elfs on foot passed by in each direction while merchants tried to hawk wares from their stalls. The buildings themselves looked older in the grey light, like a woman wooed in a tavern whose mead-conjured glamour fades come morning. Paint faded here and there, bricks crumbled, pillars cracked. The art daubed on the walls was breathtaking in places, crude and immature in others. But there were no fires, no riots or panics. No sign that thirty-three dangerous elfs were on the loose. Just people going about their daily business.
Tom had pictured them all in white robes, but they wore trousers, shirts, skirts; their only concession to Tom’s imagination was that many of them wore large shawls that stretched down to their waists. But even these were of many colours. And the elfs refused to be the blond-haired, golden-skinned beauties Tom had expected. Though Six had conformed to the stereotype, these elfs wore blond, brown, black, red hair, and their skin, while always golden, varied in tone from an almost human paleness to looking like they were painted with the metal itself. They laughed, argued, haggled, played, gossiped, whispered, tussled and wept. In that way it was like every other city. Tom felt the flames of his anger, his desire to see the Kingdom fall, wane and falter.
Then he recalled the rat pit. And he saw now that their expressions were haughty, their anger too righteous, their laughter too mocking, lifting their noses as if they were each a king in their own right. And amongst them, hidden and disregarded, were dwarfs. Heads down, scurrying amongst their taller masters. They carried purchases, guided livestock, drove carts, wrote letters, ferried messages. Some were cleaning walls and gutters, others were repairing doors or windows. But the elfs did not speak to them save to instruct or berate them.
“You seem better.” Dank’s voice pulled him away from the scene.
Tom nodded. “Yes.” He did feel better.
“You are at peace with your actions last night.”
He pictured the watchelf, could almost feel how it felt to stab her. He wished he hadn’t had to. But there had been no other course. “I am.”
“We are pleased, Tom.” Dank smiled Mab’s smile and Tom realised the boy had been speaking like the queen the entire time. “We did not like to see you distressed.”
Tom nodded. Should he address Mab directly? It was unnerving, to see Dank’s body but look into Mab’s eyes. “Is all well in Faerie?”
“Indeed. We watch your efforts with great interest.”
The purpose that Fenoderee spoke of.
“And my actions?” He gestured to the sword and Dank cast a lazy glance at it. “I hope I have not disappointed my queen?”
“Not at all, our Thomas.” Dank reached out and touched Tom’s chin with a finger. It was too intimate a gesture to receive from the boy. “You will always have our love, as long as you act with our interests at heart.”
Their interests. And what were they?
“Do you want me to do this?” he whispered. He cast
a glance towards the sleeping elfs. “Do you want me to break the monoliths?”
Dank looked down his nose and smirked. “Have we not made our wishes clear?”
No. But Tom couldn’t say that. So instead he said, “Perhaps I just need some reassurance.”
“Do not fear, our Thomas,” Dank replied. He cupped his cheek. “We still consider you our favourite servant.”
For a moment Tom could forget his aches and pains, the grey day and the elfish hubbub, and be in midsummer Faerie with Mab.
Footsteps broke the spell and he turned to see Katharine looking at him with disgust.
“Um.” He stepped away from Dank’s touch, stumbled over a broken brick. He struggled to think of a way to explain this.
“I didn’t realise your tastes went that way,” she said. “Or do you give yourself to anything linked to Faerie?”
He felt a flush warm his cheeks. “We were only talking.” But it didn’t sound convincing, even to his ears.
“As always, our Thomas speaks the truth,” Dank said, voice dripping Mab’s amusement. “Though to do more with this body might be diverting.”
“That body is a person. A human,” she said.
“No.” Dank lifted his hands and his sleeves fell back, revealing his tattoos. “This body is an extension of us. Like your hands, or feet, it is a part of us, not distinct.”
Instead of arguing, she cast her anger on Tom. “You bend your knee to a creature that treats Dank like this?”
Mab would not care to be called a creature. “This isn’t the time or the place.” He cast a glance at Dank but he wore the same smile. Mab wasn’t offended. Yet. “When will the others be back?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“We can talk about this later.”
She stabbed a finger towards Dank, a violent, intrusive gesture. Irritation flickered over the boy’s face. “You called the dwarfs slaves. Isn’t he a slave too?”
The Realm Rift Saga Box Set Page 43
