by Martha Wells
Halle was watching her desperately. He said, "The only possible way in now is through the prison Infirmary. I’ve assisted the surgeons there before. There are guards but I can get you past them without violence—"
"There’s not been no violence, never, that wasn’t self-defense," Cusard interrupted. "It was that sorcerer, whoever he is. Three, four times he tried to kill us with those ghouls and he killed all the people in that house—"
Madeline held up a hand to stop him. She said to Halle, "I’ll need your word that nothing we say or do in the course of our association will be passed on to any official of the Prefecture."
"You have it," Halle answered readily. "But I’ll need your word that no constables or civilians will be hurt or killed in what we’re about to undertake."
She hesitated. "I can’t promise that without reservation. If someone fires at me, I’ll certainly shoot back, but I won’t just kill someone for the sake of doing it, if that’s what you mean."
Halle let out his breath. "That is satisfactory. I won’t expect you to let yourself be shot for my scruples."
Madeline accepted that with a nod and turned to Cusard. "I’ll need blasting powder. Go and fetch some for me."
Lamane looked as if he might faint. Cusard gaped at her. "Since when do you know how to set a charge?"
"You’re going to show me how before we go."
Cusard closed his eyes, apparently in silent prayer. "Oh, no."
Halle said, doubtfully, "Blasting powder?"
"We can get in without violence, as you put it, but we won’t get out, not with Ronsarde a wanted felon. We can’t just steal a warder’s uniform for him; too many of the constables have seen him, worked with him. We’ll have to make our own way out."
"Young lady, you have a very . . . clear view of our situation." He took a deep breath and she realized this hadn’t been easy for Halle either, that it was just as hard for him to trust her. And he doesn‘t know as much about me as I know about him. He doesn’t know I have a sense of honor, that I wouldn’t break my word and shoot him as soon as I don’t need him anymore. He had been brave enough to approach her with Cusard and Lamane here; she knew they were cracksmen and housebreakers, not killers, but he didn’t. He said, "We have no time to lose."
She nodded to Cusard. "You heard him. Hurry."
Cusard cursed, stamped his feet, and went.
"You won’t regret this," Halle said, his eyes earnest.
Madeline nodded distractedly and began to pull the braid off her borrowed constable’s jacket. I regret it already, she thought. If this fails and I get us all arrested, I won’t have to put a pistol to my head because Nicholas will kill me. And in all fairness I’ll just have to let him.
It was becoming more and more apparent that something was hunting them through the darkened corridors of the prison.
Nicholas cursed when he saw their path blocked by another door. So far they had run into four locked doors that the keys Nicholas had taken from the guard upstairs refused to open, but two Crack had been able to force with his jimmie. Two had been too heavily plated to open with that method and they had had to change their route. There were not supposed to be doors blocking these passages; they must have been added in the last few years, perhaps as a response to more escapes.
He gestured Crack toward the door and leaned back against the dirty stone to let him pass. Ronsarde braced himself against the wall, his breathing harsh. Nicholas exchanged a worried look with Reynard. If they kept to this pace much longer they might kill the Inspector. Somewhere up one of the corridors a crash of splintered wood echoed, then a thump and a human cry, abruptly choked off.
"God, it’s got another one," Reynard muttered. "How many does that make?"
"Four," Nicholas answered. He was watching Crack work the door. This one looked like it might be forced, with luck at least. When they hadn’t been captured in the cellblock area, prison warders or constables must have been sent down to this level to search for them. Fortunately, the creature the sorcerer had sent after them was indiscriminate in who it killed. "If it knew where we were going, it would have had us by now. It’s just. . . hunting."
"Maybe it’s time to start hunting it," Reynard said.
Nicholas met his eyes, frowning. "What do you mean?"
"I’ll slip back the way we came and try to kill it," Reynard explained. He looked back down the corridor. "That’s the only course of action that makes sense. From what we’ve heard it moves fast; there’s little chance of all of us outrunning it, not with an injured man and having to stop to break open doors every few minutes."
"You don’t know the prison," Nicholas pointed out. He had considered taking this option himself but he was reluctant to do it until he could think of a sure way to destroy the creature that was trailing them. The most likely method he had come up with so far involved the gas jets the passages were lit with, but he couldn’t think of a way to accomplish it without self-immolation and he didn’t think the situation warranted that yet. "If you survived the encounter with this creature, you wouldn’t be able to follow us out." If we ever find the way ourselves, which is very much in doubt at the moment.
"I don’t have to find my way out. The Inspector is the one who is the fugitive from the Prefecture. Alone, I’m just another damn fool who ran in here to escape the sorcery."
"You’ll need the pistol," Nicholas tried again. It would be certain death to confront the thing alone and he estimated he had until Crack forced the door to talk Reynard out of it. "And right now I’ve got it."
Reynard eyed him deliberately and smiled. "I bet I could persuade you to give it to me."
Someone else might have thought Reynard was threatening violence; Nicholas knew better. What did the leaders of other criminal organizations do when one of their men threatened to embarrass them into handing over a weapon? He lifted an eyebrow. "Not in front of the Inspector, surely. And besides, what would Madeline think? She’d have to challenge you to a duel." This was not facetious; Madeline had fought a duel before, using pistols, with a fellow actress who had insulted her. Reynard had acted as her second.
Crack was hunching his shoulders, trying to divorce himself from the altercation. Ronsarde merely watched silently.
"True, and I would feel obligated to let her win," Reynard admitted, obviously torn. He knew Madeline’s temper. "But still—"
The lock gave way with a creak and snap of old metal and Crack pushed it open and stood.
Nicholas quickly offered the most pertinent objection, "But we only have the one pistol, with only five bullets left, and if the creature gets past you, or you miss it in these corridors, we won’t have a chance against it." This was what had stopped Nicholas from trying it himself and until he perfected his theory concerning the gas jets, it remained the main objection. He gestured toward the now open door. "I suggest we get moving before this discussion becomes academic."
"True." Reynard looked convinced, for now at least. "I hadn’t considered that."
Nicholas hid his relief. "Perhaps we can find another horror for you to fight at a more convenient time," he said politely, as Reynard stepped toward the door.
"Oh, but I thought you had your heart set on us all dying together?"
Nicholas decided to let Reynard have that one and turned back to take the Inspector’s arm and help him through. Ronsarde’s expression had gone from quiet observation to quizzical amusement, which quickly shifted back to bland politeness when he caught Nicholas’s eye. Nicholas was left with the rather nervous feeling that they had just revealed more about themselves than they should.
They made their way through the door, Crack shutting it and wedging it closed behind them.
Nicholas handed Crack the revolver without further comment from Reynard and Crack took the lead, with Nicholas assisting Ronsarde and Reynard behind them. About fifty paces down the dimly-lit corridor, Crack lifted a hand to stop them. Nicholas waited, until Crack glanced back and whispered, "Smell that?"
&n
bsp; Nicholas frowned, trying to detect something in the stale air besides the normal stink of the prison. Then he had it. There was an animal odor, a foulness like the one that hung around rat-infested buildings, but far worse and growing stronger.
"It’s gotten ahead of us," Reynard whispered.
"We’re so turned around we may have gotten ahead of it," Nicholas answered. "Can you see anything moving up ahead?" He could see the open area where the corridor joined another passage, this one with a lower ceiling and fewer lights.
"No. Can’t hear anything."
"The other victims probably couldn’t hear anything, either," Ronsarde pointed out quietly.
Reynard and Nicholas exchanged a look. "He’s fitting in well, don’t you think?" Reynard commented, sparing a smile for the Inspector.
Nicholas decided he didn’t have time to be annoyed. "Move forward— slowly," he said.
Crack reached the intersection first and held up a warning hand to halt them. They stopped, Reynard taking a firmer grip on his sword cane.
After a moment Crack motioned them forward.
On the floor of the wider area where the two passages met, a man in a prison warder’s dark uniform lay in a crumpled bundle, face down, one arm twisted into an unnatural position, a spray of drying blood around him. A heavy steel door barred one end of the intersecting passage, the other led off to the left, the intermittent gaslights along its length revealing nothing but bare stone.
Nicholas could see the door was firmly shut and locked and he knew the creature hadn’t come down the corridor they had just come up. He looked down the apparently empty passage. It’s there. It just doesn’t know we’re here. Yet.
Nicholas motioned Crack to hand the revolver to Reynard, then pointed to the guard and mouthed the word "keys." Crack nodded.
Reynard took the pistol and stepped silently across the corridor where he could cover the open passage. He glanced worriedly at Nicholas, who knew what he was thinking. We can be as quiet as we like, now, Nicholas thought, but it is going to hear that door open.
Crack found the ring of keys on the warder’s belt then stepped to the door. He fit the key into the lock and carefully turned it. The tumblers clicked loudly in the silence.
There was no sound from the open passage.
Nicholas quickly helped Ronsarde past the dead prison guard and through the door. As Reynard turned to follow them there was a rush of air and the nearest gas jets dimmed faintly. Nicholas let the Inspector go, his shouted warning instinctive and incoherent. It was enough for Reynard, who dove through the door, Crack slamming it shut almost on his heels.
Something heavy struck the thick metal with a thump that made the stones under their feet tremble. There was a pause, and then the handle jerked as it was pulled from the other side. "The keys?" Nicholas whispered, his throat dry.
Crack held up the bundle of keys and there was a collective exhalation of relief. If those had been left in the lock . . . . Nicholas thought. Well, our troubles would have been over much sooner.
"Good man," Reynard told Crack. "Now let’s get out of here before it finds another way past that door."
Nicholas took the bundle of keys from Crack. They could-move faster now at any rate, and take a more direct route to their goal, if they could avoid the guards. He just hoped they could move fast enough.
The entrance to the prison Infirmary was dangerously near the Prefecture, but Madeline hoped that the confusion that still reigned in the plaza on the other side of the building would keep anyone from noticing them. She and Halle were waiting on the opposite street corner, using the projecting bay window of a china shop to stay out of the prison guards’ view. Even now, with people running everywhere, the guards might be alert for someone showing too much interest in their position outside the gate.
The Infirmary door was set back in the dark stone wall, not as large as the main gate but still imposing, and there seemed to be four uniformed warders armed with rifles on duty all the time. Madeline smoothed down the front of her borrowed constable’s coat; she had removed the braid from it so it was only a plain dark jacket. With her gray dress and the jacket covering the tear in her sleeve, she should make a passable nurse. She knew there were also cellblocks for women convicts; once inside she might be able to assume a wardress’s costume and gain more freedom to search, but it was useless to plan when she didn’t know what she would encounter once they passed those doors. She noted with annoyance that her hands were shaking. She always got stage fright before her best performances.
Halle paced nearby, his agitation evident, but he hadn’t attempted to engage her in conversation. She was glad of that. She saw Cusard approaching again and straightened expectantly, taking a deep calming breath. It was always worst right before the curtain went up.
Cusard stepped a little further down the alley, drawing a brown paper-wrapped parcel out of his coat. "Here it is." He handed it to Madeline carefully. "You remember all I told you?"
"Yes. A fourth of a cap for a wooden door, a whole one for a steel door, at least four for an outer wall of stone and plaster, and a coffin full for a supporting wall, because that’s what I’ll need if I use it on one." She looked at Halle. "Can we put this in your bag, Doctor?"
Halle nodded, his face preoccupied. "Probably wise. If they searched you—"
"It would be disastrous." She waited for Halle to open the bag and lift out the top tray of instruments so she could place the small package carefully within.
Cusard eyed Halle thoughtfully, then said to Madeline, "And I brought you this, just in case." He handed her a six shot revolver and a small tin box of extra bullets.
Madeline checked it automatically to make sure it was properly loaded, then started to put it in the bag. Cusard coughed sharply.
Madeline knew what that meant but shook her head firmly. "I can’t carry a pistol into the prison in my pocket. They know Doctor Halle, they know he investigates for the Prefecture. If they find it in his bag the most they will do is take it away."
Halle was looking toward the prison. "I fear my reputation won’t be of much use to anyone after this." He glanced back at her. "But I’ll worry about that later." .
Madeline hesitated. There was something else she couldn’t risk carrying into the prison in her pocket. She had given the two quiescent spheres in her carpetbag to Cusard to take back to the warehouse safehole. The active one, that she knew had been created with Arisilde’s help, was wrapped in her handkerchief and currently weighing down her coat pocket. Both logic and instinct had said to hold on to it. Witches’ instinct, Madeline thought. Not always worth listening to when you weren’t one. Logic, and something she thought of as artist’s instinct, told her to trust Halle.
She drew the sphere out of her pocket, carefully, feeling it thrum lightly against her fingers, and lowered it into the bag.
"What’s that?" Halle asked, frowning.
Cusard looked puzzled as well. Knowing him, he had put the whole carpetbag in the safe without opening it. Knowing Nicholas, Cusard was probably afraid Count Montesq’s head was in it, Madeline thought. She explained, "This is a magical device that may help us if we run into any more of those walking statues, or any other sorcery."
"Ah." Halle sounded relieved. "How do you use it?"
Good question, Madeline thought wryly. "I don’t know. It works by itself."
Halle’s expression was doubtful and Cusard rolled his eyes in eloquent comment; Madeline ignored both of them. She said, "May I carry your bag, Doctor? The guards know you, but I need a prop." That was true in more ways than one. She hadn’t realized before what a calming effect donning makeup and proper costume had had on her.
Halle closed the bag and handed it to her.
As they hurried across the street toward the prison, Madeline wondered if she had gone mad and what Nicholas would say. Nicholas damn well better not say a word she thought suddenly, remembering he had been the one to go into the damn place first, with Inspector Ronsarde of all
people, and cause all this. Then they were in the shadow of the wall and under the arch that protected the entrance, the pavement damp underfoot and the stone radiating cold, and it was time to stop thinking entirely.
The man who stepped forward to stop them was a constable, not a prison warder. "There was a report of men injured here," Doctor Halle said quickly, before the man could speak. He managed to sound both out of breath and anxious, though undoubtedly the anxiety was real. Madeline thought his approach was ideal; guards from the prison had been involved in the riot and were sure to have been injured. No one could know if they had all been attended to yet or not.
The constable looked confused and mulish but one of the prison warders came forward, saying, "I thought they was all took to the surgeons. They said—"
"No, there are more still inside," Halle interrupted. "I spoke to Captain Defanse not an hour ago."
The prison warder swore and gestured emphatically at the heavy iron door. There was a grill in the center of it where another sentry could peer through; it swung open with a creak and then Halle was hurrying inside and Madeline was following him.
They passed through at least three grim chambers each guarded by heavy doors, iron gates, blank-eyed men, existing only to prevent those inside from getting out. Madeline tried not to think about the getting out part. Find Nicholas and the others first, then worry about the rest.
