by Lynn Egan
Chapter Six
It was full dark by the time he came to the capital city of Intenret. He was exhausted and his back was raw in places from the rubbing of the silk-wrapped Claw. He had considered taking it off and putting it in his satchel, but it comforted him to have it hidden on his person. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the feeling, besides the obvious warnings of disaster, but even though he couldn’t get to it in a hurry if he needed to defend himself, he felt better with it there.
As he traveled up the road, he’d noticed that there was a certain shabbiness about the place that he didn’t remember. He knew that memories often rose-color the places of our youth, making a house feel smaller or a forest seem less beautiful on our return. Seeing a place in adulthood that one had wandered as a child stripped the old magic and splendor from it.
This was different. He hadn’t walked the Seasguir road before, and had usually had his nose in a book on the carriage rides around the Island. He was comparing this place to similar roads on the mainland.
The houses were large enough, but not well kept. It spoke of former prosperity fallen on hard times. The people weren’t as friendly here; though he wasn’t pure-blooded, he tended to make others feel at ease around him, and so most folk tolerated him or treated him with respect. Here there weren’t even many greetings, and when he had stopped at a roadside bakery the woman there had taken his coins with little grace, overcharging him. It was so odd because here on the Island mixed-breed people were common. He expected better treatment here than on the race-crazy mainland.
He couldn’t figure it out. He wasn’t dressed in finery that would advertise his station and intimidate people. His shirt was silk, true, but a raw silk that might be mistaken for linen from a distance. His suede vest was thick but worn. Everything he wore was fit for travel, black faded to dark gray and white darkened to light gray. The cuts were the latest mainland fashion - three years ago. His boots were good, sensible, and plain. He knew his black hair was a mess, because it always was, and he’d had the spring and summer outdoors so his usual pallor had darkened to a more normal tone. He’d been expected at the Red Mane, so he was sure that was why they’d recognized him.
He took the time to observe more on his walk, trying to puzzle out what was different here than on the mainland.
Everything seemed dusty and dull. Nobody smiled, that he could see. The air wasn’t fresh, the birds weren’t as lively as he’d expect. Flowers weren’t very bright. It was like being in another world.
Eventually he gave up looking. His feet were sore and his legs were sore and his back was sore - even his soul was sore. He walked on, sunk into the interior of his mind, not thinking exactly, but not yet numb. At one point, he thought of hitching a ride, but no one was going towards the capital. It seemed that the little traffic he saw was going the other way.
So he arrived dusty, exhausted, and still unenlightened as to the nature of the change in his country.
~
He knew his money wouldn’t stretch very far here in the capital, and didn’t know if he could get more. He chose an inn that seemed low key from the street and went inside.
It was not low key. It was loud and bright and smelled of beer, sweat, and mixed food. He had hoped for dark and private, but now that he was here he was too tired to bother finding another place. He went to the counter and ordered the first thing the man behind it suggested, then took his meal to the first empty chair he could spot. He was about halfway through the mediocre meat stew when there was a rough tap on his shoulder.
He sighed heavily and closed his eyes for a moment. Would he never get a full meal on this blasted hunk of rock? He let his irritation show through.
“Good sir, if you would be so kind as to wait until I’ve finished, I will be more than happy to talk to you about whatever you want.” He dipped his bread, determined to continue.
“Stand up, you!” The voice was rough, male, and full of pompous authority.
“It’s been a long walk from the coast, I’m hungry, and I’d really like to finish. You can sit.” Michael’s rank opened doors and commanded respect, so it was a shock to watch his dinner being roughly struck off the table and to feel himself being bodily lifted. “How dare you! Don’t you know who … I… am…”
It was a Royal Guard, and that had been exactly the wrong thing to say.
~
He wasn’t quite sure he was awake. He was certain that his eyes were open, but also aware that he couldn’t see anything. He hoped he wasn’t blind, and was reassured after a moment when the dimness resolved itself into shapes of stones beneath his face. That was comforting and yet still not comforting. He stiffly pushed his body up and let himself adjust to this new position. His head hurt and his stomach wanted to be empty. He fought that battle and won, determined that no matter what he was going to get some value out of the half-meal he’d consumed.
He began to take stock of his situation. He was not dead, and this was good. He was probably in a prison somewhere, which was less good. He twisted himself a little bit and felt the raw chafe of the Claw on his back. That was very good, if painful. He allowed himself a moment of elation before continuing his personal inventory. His satchel was gone, and when he started to check himself for broken bones he felt the distinctive weight of a manacle around his foot. Well, as long as he was whole, that shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Exploring the manacle with his fingers, he could tell it was ordinary iron and not spelled or warded to prevent magic. It couldn’t be affected by spells or charms, because that’s what iron was best for, but it wasn’t going to prevent what he was planning.
Then again, should he wait and see what was going to happen next? If someone came by and saw he was free, wouldn’t they suspect something? He felt his mind begin to wander down the paths of possibility when a scrape and creak indicated a door opening down the hall. Yellow light shone on the stone floor and long shadows accompanied heavy footsteps. Michael shielded his eyes, both because the brightness hurt and because he wanted to preserve the little night vision he’d acquired. He could tell now that he was in a stone-walled cell with a barred iron door. He felt a little claustrophobic - he’d never liked being underground - but all he could do was push aside the feeling and wait.
The guard who stopped at his door and peered in was an older gentleman, half-Aeld as all the folk here seemed to be, well-built if a little soft around the edges from the easy duties of retirement. A large cat accompanied him, which sniffed around the door before turning an ear down the corridor and stalking onwards. Michael chose to cower in apparent fear.
“Well you’re a sight. Not any Duke I’d follow, for certain-sure.” This odd statement was followed by silence, and down near what he assumed was the end of the hallway was the distinctive squeak and crunch of something dying by feline intervention. Michael dared to answer.
“I’m sorry for that, I think. I… could I know what I’m here for?” The guard shrugged. No help there.
“I’m no judge. I’m here t’see the rats is kept down, an’ the cat is kept busy.” In accordance with this statement, the cat padded past with a rat in her jaws, en route to the distant doorway. Michael realized it must be an enormous cat, as it came up to the guard’s knee. He wondered how hungry it was, and whether it would be trouble to his plans.
Michael swallowed. “Ah. Am I allowed any water?” He didn’t dare ask if he could send a letter, and didn’t know anyway where to send one or what to say. He felt entirely alone.
The guard shrugged again and prodded something with his foot outside the door. “It’s right here.” With these inspiring words, the guard flashed the lantern he held around the inside of the cell to be sure everything was in order and walked away. Michael could tell that the door the man had gone to remained open, by the brighter light at that end of the hallway, muffled conversation, and the fact that the cat padded past intermittently, bringing her kills to the guard post he knew must be there.
He hoped she didn’t
have a taste for fowl.
Chapter Seven
To present a façade of what he assumed was normal prison behavior, Michael shuffled to the iron-barred door and did his best to peer through it at whatever the guard had kicked. There was a pitcher and a mug, the former would not fit through the bars, but if he was careful… He poured himself a mug by putting his hands through the bars and could get his drink back in with little difficulty. The cat had come past as he was negotiating the task, set down her rat, and sniffed him curiously. She was a big solid creature, and he stayed still while she investigated. The rat had tried to escape while she was doing so, but she pinned it to the floor with one huge paw. She was a lovely specimen: thick-bodied and gray, with a splotched pattern that suggested piled stones or masonry. This dungeon environment suited her. His and her curiosity satisfied, she picked the rat back up and stalked away.
Michael breathed a sigh when she had gone and sipped the water. It was stale and earthy. He set the mug down and scuttled backwards from the door, making a little noise as he went. As he did this, he began to change himself. No matter how familiar he was with the process, it always felt odd. He could feel his bones and skin changing and moving in ways that were not natural. He remembered the reason one should never change form with any kind of broken bone; the change moved things in a way that would make the break much worse.
His metamorphosis always seemed to start in his shoulders. He moved them around in their sockets and concentrated on the way they felt, and then ‘felt’ them into their new configuration. There was no other way to describe it, and only others who could change forms would understand it anyway. His silk and leather clothing stuck to his skin and changed with him; another consideration for shape-changers was that the only things that would change with them were animal-based fabrics and skins. Silk, wool, leather, and fur were the only way to stay clothed through a shape shift. Jewelry, weapons, vegetable fabrics, and packs always fell off or became constricting depending on their type.
It was for this reason that Michael was almost shocked out of shifting halfway through his change. The Claw which he had bound to himself seemed to feel as if it was sinking into his skin! He managed to concentrate through this surprise and make it all the way to raven form, at which point it was easy to hop out of the manacle around his foot. He stretched his wings to their fullest extent, which filled out much of the width of his cell, and hopped towards the door.
At this moment, a great commotion broke out in the room down the hall. There was yowling and hissing, cussing and banging. He hopped closer and stuck his head out through the bars as something metal struck the guard post door, swinging it wider open, and a ragged rat humped its way down the hall past his cell. After another curse and something thrown which smashed against the wall, the gorgeous cat flew out of that room with the door slamming behind her, plunging the corridor back into darkness. When he’d seen the cat running in his direction, he’d ducked back into his prison and worked himself back into his own form, fearful that she’d see a raven as a tasty snack.
In the silence which followed this outburst, Michael puzzled out what must have happened. That rat she’d had before had been alive, and she’d taken it back to her masters as a prize to show off. Obviously, they hadn’t appreciated her gift and chaos had ensued. He grinned in the darkness, imagining the scene it must have been; tough manly guards, bedraggled rat, confused cat.
His smile faded. Now she was in here with him, and his whole plan had revolved around being a bird. Damn.
~
After a short time, he heard something moving past the door to his cell. He heard a scratching at the guard’s door which reminded him so keenly of Qilian’s peculiar way of ‘knocking’ at his own doorpost that he had a sudden homesickness for the schooldays they had shared. They’d had adventures then, yes, but nice safe adventures. Things they knew they’d come back from, and receive grades for.
Muffled curses and laughing met the cat’s yowl at the door; she wasn’t getting back out tonight, was Michael’s guess. Poor thing; she was as much a prisoner as he was. If she hadn’t been such a wrinkle in his plans he would have felt sorrier for her.
The yowling stopped and soon something moved against the grating of his door. The animal probably thought he could let her out. By this time, he could see in the darkness if he looked away from what he was trying to view, and he could tell she was rubbing back and forth over the bars. She purred a bit, and then sniffed delicately at the thick iron shafts. After a few hesitations, she got her head through and after that her body. She padded over to Michael and rubbed roughly against his leg.
She was heavy! As he ran his hand over her head and back, he realized she was much more than a big housecat. She was equivalent to one of the jungle cats on the south continent. Well-muscled, with very plush fur, she was an unusual specimen for this area. Well, what else would you expect of a palace mouser? No common cat ended up in a castle - from the guard uniform he’d seen and the solid quality of the cell he was in, it was the only place he could be. He sat down, scratched under her chin and chest and thought to himself how funny it would be for a bird-shifting man to have a cat companion.
She left off letting him scratch her and sniffed at the walls of this place, working around the whole room while he took his vest and shirt off and unwound the wrappings that kept the Claw on him. His blood stained the pale silk scraps, but there was no way for him to clean them. He wasn’t sure if the water the guards had given him was clean enough to wash his wounds with. He’d just have to wrap the Claw again and hope.
“Gaaahh!!!” The exclamation of surprise escaped him when the cat’s cold nose and whiskers tickled the raw parts of his back. He jumped away as she backed up and hissed. Relieved, he laughed a little at himself and stood up. Claw in hand, wrapping forgotten, he went to the door and began to inspect the frame and lock. While he knew he couldn’t do much about the iron parts, perhaps the stone around them could weaken a bit. He fiddled here and there with the blades in the mortar between the stones.
:Your back really needs tending to, you know.: Michael stopped in shock and stared at the opposite wall of the corridor outside his cell. It had been a long time since he’d heard any voice inside his head but his own, and as far as he knew, he was alone. Unless… unless that cat was one of the intelligent Rochlir…
:Hardly. There is nothing wrong with the water, let me.: He heard someone lift the mug behind him, followed by a splash of liquid. Then he gasped in pain as the wet silk gently dabbed at his wounds. He stayed rock-still, hardly daring to breathe until the dabbing stopped. The cool cloth was pressed to his back and he felt someone wrapping it around his torso and tucking it in tightly. The hands which did this, he saw, had no pinky. He felt chilled a little at that realization, and turned when the ministrations were done.
Close by him in the dimness he saw the tall, pale figure looking at him intently. She had the long slender build of a full-blooded Aeld. Tight-fitting but supple suede sheathed her body. Her large eyes could have been brown, but looked inky black in the dimness of his cell, and her hair was some pale hue, pulled back in a long braid. Even in this dark place, he could tell she was stunning.
:Thank you. We must go now.:
“What? Go?” he whispered, “How?”
She grinned and spoke for the first time, “By being mice!”
“Mice!?” His whisper was shrill and confused as she turned the few steps to the back wall of the prison. “I can’t be a mouse! You can’t be a mouse, you’re a cat!”
She shook her head at him, “No, not in fact. Mice in verse!”
Mice-in-verse? That wasn’t any language he knew. “What?”
She turned her head toward him and glared for a moment. “Verse, poetry, song.” She looked back to the wall and ran her hands over it; he could hear the soft rasping of her skin against the stone. She seemed to be counting. He realized he was topless except for the silk around his torso. Now seemed like an excellent time to get
dressed again.
As he laced his vest up, he heard a metallic grinding followed by the sound of stone sliding against stone. He turned around and the woman was crouching in front of a small square of darker blackness than that which surrounded them.
“See! Mouse jumps through the hole.” With these words, she crawled through. Michael grabbed the Claw and followed her. Anything was preferable to prison, and it seemed like the woman must know what was on the other side of this hole.
The other side was pitch black, but he felt the woman beside him and heard her running her hands over the walls again. She made a sound of triumph and he heard stone sliding on stone once more, then a sudden feeling of intense and almost suffocating silence. There was no light whatever.
“Mouse turns around.”
“Mouse has no idea what just happened.”
The woman laughed lightly. “It is safe on this side, let me get a light.” He heard the rustle of cloth, the clink of tiny pieces of metal, and a red glow lit up in front of his face, illuminating the lovely person before him. She had some sort of crown on, with a shining jeweled star in the center of her forehead. He had to look away, having been in darkness for so long.
“There will be another farther on. If you are at all Aeld, it will work for you. Come!” She stood and put her right hand on the wall, keeping it lightly trailing as she walked along this narrow stone corridor. It seemed to run a long way, and every ten feet or so, she stooped and felt in a recess between the floor and wall.
Michael was putting two and three together, getting six, and then making a leap of intuition. “This runs behind every cell in the dungeon?”
“It does.” She stooped again, and finding nothing, moved on.
“Why would anyone make a prison that was so easy to escape from?”
“It is not easy for everyone. Only those who know the secret.” This time her hand met something, and she shook the dust off a small bag and handed it to him. He opened it to find a silver crown much like hers, with a similar star. He rubbed the jewels with his thumb and they began to glow. By the time he had it affixed to his forehead, it emitted a bright blue light with very crisp shadows. She tilted her head at him and hmphed. “I did not know they would be different colors. Odd.”
