by Kate Forsyth
As soon as it was fully dark they took the long boat and rowed with muffled oars to a place where the cliff hung over the sea with a dark and frowning aspect. Dillon sat in the prow with his hand on his sword, while Jay and Dide worked the oars and tiller. All were dressed in black, with their faces and hands blackened with soot.
‘Finn, are ye sure ye think it wise for ye to free the prophet yourself?’ Dide whispered. ‘I’d be much happier if ye’d let us come into the Black Tower wi’ ye.’
‘Ye with your great clumping boots and propensity to burst into song at the drop o’ a hat?’ As Dide protested, she went on, ‘Nay, believe me, it’ll be much better if there’s only one o’ us to attract attention. I’ve been trained to this; ye three have no’. If I have need o’ ye, I’ll call ye through the golden ball ye gave me, as ye taught me.’
Dide nodded reluctantly.
‘Have a care for yourself, Finn,’ Jay said urgently, as the boat bumped against the rock.
‘Och, dinna ye worry about me,’ Finn answered, heaving her bulging satchel onto her back and checking the rope was secured to her waist. ‘Though if I am no’ back by dawn, make sure ye are gone from here, do ye hear me?’
Jay made an inarticulate protest and she smiled reassuringly and said, ‘Do no’ fret, you great goose-cap. I’ll be fine!’
Pulling on her new climbing gloves, which had been made for her specially by the shipwright, she looked up at the shelf of rock over their heads. Even in the darkness, she could see how it bulged out over the water, slick with spray.
‘The easier slopes are all heavily guarded, but they think this side is inaccessible,’ Dide said. ‘Wha’ do ye think, Finn? Can ye climb it?’
‘Can a cat scratch its fleas?’ Finn replied with false insouciance. ‘Watch and learn, my hearties!’
She reached up and thrust a long steel spike into the stone overhanging their heads, hammering it in with one quick, almost silent blow. In an instant she had belayed her rope around the spike and had hauled herself out of the boat and onto the rock, clinging as close as any spider to a leaf. She took pride in clambering out of sight in the time it would have taken one of her comrades to blink, pausing once she was over the bulge of rock to calm her galloping nerves.
Five hundred feet of steep, treacherous rock, all damp with seaspray and shrouded in the dark of a moonless night. Finn climbed slowly, carefully, taking the time to be sure her spikes were hammered in firmly and quietly. Many times her foot slipped or her hand fumbled, but each time she was able to recover her balance and cling close to the rock-face, her face pressed against the cold granite. Sometimes the elven cat climbed ahead of her, showing Finn a safer route. Sometimes she clung to Finn’s shoulder, the sting of her claws keeping the girl alert and focused. Occasionally Goblin hung from her claws, mewing in distress, terrified by the steepness and inaccessibility of the cliff. Each time Finn found some crack in which to wedge a steel spike, some clump of weed to cling to, some high shelf to scramble to, dragging the elven cat behind her.
At last Finn crawled over the lip of the cliff. She lay in the darkness, panting harshly. Goblin lay beside her, trembling, her silky coat damp and filthy. Both would have happily curled together and slept, but at last Finn forced herself to her knees, and then to her feet. Above her the prison walls loomed, two hundred feet high and broken only by rows of narrow arrow slits. ‘Easy as pissing in bed,’ Finn said.
She scaled the closely fitting stones of the wall as swiftly as a carpenter climbing a ladder. The very top of the wall had been built out, however, making it impossible for Finn to climb up and over. She hung for a while, thinking, then slid down her rope until she came to the last row of arrow slits. There she belayed her rope firmly, before looping it loosely around the pin once more to allow easy release. She then crept within the embrasure, struggling to squeeze her long body through. She could not help wishing she was as skinny as she had been in the old days, when she had first been trained as a sneak-thief.
At last she fell through, her shoulders scraped raw, landing on her knees in a long, badly lit corridor. There she took the precaution of drawing out the little square of silk she carried in her pocket and shaking it out around her. At once all the hairs on her arm stood up, her skin shuddered, her nerves jolted with cold.
With an effort she shook off the lassitude and chill the cloak of invisibility always gave her, cuddling the warm little cat close to her chin. She took off the specially designed shoes and gloves she wore and stowed them away safely in her pack.
Feeling no fear, she then set off down the corridor, looking for the doorway out onto the battlements. She knew exactly where to find it, Elfrida NicHilde having drawn up a rough map of the prison that Finn had studied till she could see its shape behind the darkness of her closed lids.
A patrol of guards marched down the corridor, dressed in heavy armour and long white surcoats emblazoned with the design of a black tower. Finn simply stood against the wall until they had passed, confident they would not see her. She then went on until she reached the end of the corridor, leaning her ear against the huge, iron-bound door to listen.
She could hear the murmur of voices within and hesitated, gnawing her lip. After a while, she slowly turned the handle and eased the door open a crack. Keeping the cloak wrapped closely about her, she insinuated one arm through, then her head, then her leg. She was just sliding the rest of her body through when one of the guards said irritably, ‘Shut the door, will ye, Justin? It be colder than a witch’s tit out there!’
Finn just managed to whip her leg through before the door was slammed upon her. She stood very still against the wall, the guard that had shut the door only a few inches away from her. As he turned, his armour brushed against her but he did not notice, only shivering and beating his hands against his arms. ‘Brrrr!’ he said. ‘So much for summer!’
The door to the battlements was on the other side of the guardroom. Finn waited for the soldiers to resume their game of trictrac before tiptoeing across the little room. She could not resist stealing one of the guard’s pouch of tobacco on the way, for it had been some weeks since her own store had run out and Finn had been dying for a smoke. The door creaked as she opened it and the guards jumped, startled.
‘Happen one o’ the ghosts be walking,’ one said nervously. ‘Och, this be a bad place to work!’
As Finn slipped through she heard the other guards laugh at the nervous youngster and fought down the impulse to make an eerie wailing sound. Closing the door very gently behind her, she made her silent way across the top of the battlements. She found the point where she had climbed up, then tied her sash around the elven cat and carefully lowered her over the battlements, Goblin mewing a little in distress. Swinging rather wildly at the end of Finn’s sash, she at last came to the steel spike where Finn had left the rope loosely looped. The elven cat caught the rope in her mouth and as Finn tugged her upwards, the rope jerked free and was dragged up with the elven cat.
At last Goblin was dragged safely over the battlements, spitting and hissing in rage. Finn hugged her fiercely, but the elven cat struggled free and then sat with her back to Finn, smoothing down her ruffled fur with one well-dampened paw. ‘Ye did well, sweetie,’ Finn whispered, stroking the top of her head. ‘Thank ye!’
Goblin only hissed in reply, her tail lashing.
Taking care to make as little noise as possible, Finn hammered in another belay hook, ran the rope through it and then let the great length of it fall. After a long wait, when she began to feel rather sick with nerves, the rope jerked under her hand and she knew one of her companions was climbing up to join her. She did not wait, knowing it would take Dide and Dillon a long time to make the climb. She jerked the rope twice to let them know she was on her way to free the prophet, then crossed silently to the inner wall of the battlements.
The prison was built in the shape of a great square, with a tower at each corner and battlements on top that ran the length of each wall. Within t
he square was another, smaller tower, built of black shiny stone. So carefully had the tower been built that the cracks between the huge blocks of stone were no thicker than a hairsbreadth. Soldiers stood sentinel outside the one entrance, a massively thick iron door at the base of the tower, while more soldiers patrolled the courtyard.
Finn leant over the crenellations for a long time, scrutinising the central tower carefully. It was here that Elfrida had lived most of her life, and here that all the most important prisoners were incarcerated. No-one had ever escaped the Black Tower before, it was said, let alone tried to break in. Finn knew it would be death for her if she was caught.
She waited for the wind to die down, then raised her crossbow, winding it on with the hook at her belt. She took careful aim and fired.
The crossbolt flew across the distance between the towers and embedded itself deep in the stone, carrying with it a length of stout rope. Finn instinctively crouched low, despite the concealment of the magical cloak. When it was clear none had heard the whine of the bolt, she screwed another hook into the wall and secured the rope tightly. She then took a deep breath and stepped out onto the rope.
The wind caught at her, causing her to sway. She regained her balance with some difficulty, her arms stretched wide. Far below her the soldiers marched in tight formation round the foot of the tower but none thought to look up. Finn resisted the temptation to look down, fixing her eyes firmly on the opposite wall. She slid one foot forward, then the other, trying not to think what would happen if she should slip. Step by slow sliding step she crossed the tightrope, her cheek curving in a grim little smile as she remembered how Dide and Morrell had alternately coaxed and goaded her into practising her rope walking until she was accomplished indeed. Finn had thought it a mere game to while away the weeks of travelling and to give her something to do when the jongleurs performed. She should have known Dide never did anything without good reason.
At last she made it to the opposite side, crawling over the battlements with her heart slamming and her palms sticky. Goblin unwound herself from Finn’s neck, washing herself thoroughly while Finn rubbed her claw-scored throat ruefully. She would have given much to have lit up her pipe but dared not risk anyone noticing the flare of the flint or the smell of tobacco smoke.
She found the door to the tower but it was locked and barred on the inside. Finn sighed and pulled out her lock-picking tools. Kneeling on the ground she inserted first one, then another, then another, until at last the lock sprang free. Lifting the bar was another difficult struggle and Finn had to subdue her impatience, knowing it would only make her difficult task harder. Although the dark hours of the night were trickling away, kicking a door and swearing were not going to make the minutes pass more slowly.
At last she had the door open, and crept down the winding stairs until she had reached the corridor below. She pressed her back against the cold black stone and pulled the prophet’s wooden cross from her backpack.
Finn felt him straightaway, as loud as if he was blowing a trumpet. To her dismay he was deep in the bowels of the building. She had hoped he would be in the heights, close to her rope and her route to safety. She thrust the cross into her pocket and set off down the corridor at a jog. Time was running out.
Black as a living shadow, the tiny cat slunk along the dim corridor, her long tufted ears twitching back and forth, sniffing at the doors and in the corners. Suddenly, she froze, one paw raised, her tail stiff. Finn bent over her. ‘What can ye smell, Goblin? What can ye hear?’
Mouse, she hissed and looked up at Finn with gleaming aquamarine eyes, her fangs showing white and sharp.
‘No’ now, sweetie! We‘re looking for a smelly auld man, a very smelly man if the reports be true. They say the Tìrsoilleirean mystics think it a sin to wash so ye should be able to smell him a good way off!’
Goblin wrinkled her nose fastidiously.
The corridor led out into another wider hall, lined with heavily barred doors. At the end of the hall was a landing leading to a wide sweep of stairs. Finn’s eyes brightened and she hurried towards it.
Suddenly she heard the sound of singing. Finn stopped mid-step, entranced. It was a woman’s voice, singing a lament. Finn recognised the tune. It was a song she had heard Enit sing many times.
‘I wish, I wish my babe was born
An’ smiling on yon nurse’s knee;
An’ I myself were dead and gone,
Wi’ green, green grass growing over me,
Aye, wi’ green, green grass growing over me.’
The song faltered and broke off. Then, very low and piteous, Finn heard the words again, spoken not sung: ‘Aye, wi’ green, green grass growing over me.’
Finn paused for a moment, irresolute, then shook her head irritably, drew the cloak more tightly about her and hurried towards the stairs.
Safe within the camouflage of the cloak of invisibility, Finn took no more than ordinary care, concentrating on haste rather than stealth. She passed many guards, some standing sentinel outside doors, others patrolling the halls with white cloaks swinging.
On the ground floor she paused in a quiet corner and held the wooden cross again, reorienting herself. It took some time, watching and listening, before she discovered the way down into the dungeons. They were locked and closely guarded so she bided her time, fidgeting with impatience, until the hourly patrol came round once more. She slipped in through the door behind them, almost treading on one soldier’s heels as she hurried to make it through the door before it clanged shut again.
Down here the halls had been hacked out of living rock and the walls and floor were rough and uneven. Set all along the sides of the corridor were doors made of iron, with little barred windows set at eye height, and a flap down at floor level for food to be shoved through. Every now and again the corridor branched, but Finn showed no hesitation in choosing which way to turn. She had no need to touch the wooden cross again. She could feel where the prophet was as surely as if she were a compass and he true north.
She followed another flight of steps down, these ones narrow, with the steps set at different heights so she had to descend with care. The stone was slimy to the touch and when she passed a torch, she saw the floor shone with puddles.
At the end of the corridor was a large iron door, with two guards sitting in front of it. One was having difficulty keeping his head from nodding forward onto his chest, jerking it back every few minutes. He yawned widely, took off his helmet to scratch his head vigorously, then jammed the helmet back on again.
‘Och, I hate the graveyard shift,’ he grumbled. The other one made no response other than to snore, loudly and comfortably. His companion looked at him, sighed, and nudged him in the leg with his toe. ‘Wake up, Dominic!’
There was no response. The guard sighed again, very noisily, then took a swig from a ceramic tankard by his feet. ‘Why, oh why did I join the army?’ he said.
Finn knelt on the ground as quietly as she could and slowly, cautiously, slid the straps of her satchel off her back, being careful to keep all parts of her body beneath the cover of the cloak. She unbuckled one of the straps, slid her hand within and groped about. There was a clink as Dide’s golden ball rolled against her hammer. Immediately Finn froze.
The guard looked up rather blearily. Unable to see anything, he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand and said to his sleeping companion, ‘The least ye could do, Dom, is stay awake and keep me company!’
Finn’s fingers closed upon a little packet of folded paper. Carefully she drew it out and unfolded it. The paper crackled and again the guard looked up, this time more sharply. Finn kept very still, as still as the elven cat crouched at her feet. He stood up and peered down the corridor, paced a little, then at last sat down again. His hand reached down, groped for his tankard of ale, brought it up to his mouth for a long swig. He sighed, wiped his mouth, and went to set the tankard back down on the ground. As his eyes rolled back in his head, the tankard fell from his nerveles
s fingers and broke on the ground, ale splashing out.
‘Well, that sleeping powder certainly works well,’ Finn whispered to Goblin as she bent, unhooked the keys from the guard’s belt and unlocked the door.
Finn recoiled as soon as she stepped inside. A thick miasma closed about her, so thick as to be almost palpable. Composed of mould and sweat and urine and human excrement and something darker, like terror, it caused her to choke and retch with revulsion. She muffled her nose and mouth with the cloak, and peered about.
It was black inside, black as a chimneysweep’s arse. Finn wished she had thought to bring in one of the lanterns hanging outside the door. She groped her way out again, took great breaths of air that tasted sweet in comparison, then seized the lantern and stepped back inside.
Within was a small cell. Lying on a filthy pallet of straw and rags was an old man. He woke as soon as the light penetrated the cell, cowering back with a cry. Upon his papery skin were the ugly marks of torture: angry red burns, deep cuts and lacerations all weeping with pus, old bruises in yellow and green and new ones, black as ink.
Finn tried to reassure him but it was clear he could not understand her. She knelt by his side and pressed the wooden cross into his hands. His wildly dilated eyes stared at the cross, then back at her. Suddenly his face came alive with hope and joy and he kissed the cross passionately.
Finn helped him to his feet. He was dressed in only a few damp and filthy rags, and was shivering with cold. She had come prepared for this. Finn dragged a long black robe out of her pack and indicated that he should dress in it. For some reason she did not understand he recoiled at the sight but she pressed her hands together pleadingly and reluctantly he nodded. She turned away as he stripped away the rags and dressed himself in the robe. She passed him a pair of soft shoes and he crammed his long bony feet into them. She saw that the soles of his feet were suppurating with sores where he had been whipped again and again.
