‘Still beyond the Gate of Death, though …’
‘Yes, Penn,’ she said patiently. ‘And where is it we’re being taken tomorrow?’
Of course. A slow smile spread across his face. ‘You know, you’re a lot cleverer than I thought you were when we first met.’
‘You underestimated me,’ Saydi said. ‘A lot of people do.’ She kissed him to soften the jibe. ‘So it’s settled, then? You’ll take Marlon?’
‘I suppose so …’
‘I’ll help you. Provide a distraction so you can sneak away from the group to find him. Just think: no more waiting. Revenge tomorrow, instead of in a year. That has to be a good thing.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘If I had a chance at revenge tomorrow, I’d take it in a flash.’
‘Yes.’ Fired by her enthusiasm, Penn pushed down his lingering doubts. ‘Yes, I’ll do it tomorrow. No more waiting.’ He looked sideways at her. ‘You do know that if I succeed in this, I’ll probably be killed? Or even if I live, it will be inside a prison cell.’
‘Well, then,’ Saydi said. ‘We’d better make the most of the time.’ And she began to unbutton her shirt.
Yet afterwards, once she’d gone, Penn began to doubt himself again. Putting himself in a position to be trained by Caraway, just so Penn could challenge him to a duel and beat him – that was fair, somehow. There was a symmetry to it that couldn’t be denied. But using a child to get to Caraway, to make him suffer, was another thing entirely. Hurt someone close to him, Saydi had said. And she hadn’t backtracked on that when she’d come up with the idea of Marlon. So although Penn tried to tell himself she only meant him to threaten the boy a little, to throw Caraway off balance so Penn would gain the advantage, he knew that wasn’t the case. Though you wouldn’t know it to look at her, Saydi had turned out to be the most ruthless person he’d ever met; to her, anything was acceptable in the name of vengeance. During all their discussions of what they’d like to do to the men who’d killed their kin and got away with it, it had become clear that she saw most people as belonging to one of three categories: targets, obstacles or tools.
Penn pushed aside the insidious thought that he probably fell into one of those categories too.
The point was, he’d done his best to convince himself he needn’t have any scruples – that Caraway was a target, a monster to be slain. But he’d found that it was far harder to intend ill towards a man when you could see his face. When he became a person instead of an abstraction. And given that, it was hard to justify using an innocent child to get to him.
Yet despite all that … Penn just wanted it to be over. He’d expected his resolve to crystallise as soon as he reached Arkannen, yet instead it had twisted inside him. He couldn’t live this way for months or even years, torn by the conflicting demands of his father’s instructions and his own confused conscience. The idea of taking his revenge on Caraway tomorrow, instead of having to see the man every day until he finished his training – see and reluctantly like, until it became impossible to carry out his task – was a tiny gleam of hope in an otherwise bleak landscape. And if using Marlon as a tool was what it took to achieve that, Penn was willing to live with it.
Or die with it.
Preferably the latter.
Left alone in a lightless cell, tied to a chair and losing blood from her shattered foot, Naeve Sorrow swore fluently and with great vigour.
Once she’d run out of swearwords – which, admittedly, took some time – she began to list her assets. List your assets and be thankful was something her mother had always told her whenever a young Naeve complained about anything. Over the years, Sorrow had taken the platitude and made it her own. If she ever got into a situation she couldn’t see a way out of, she mentally enumerated everything she had access to that might be usable as a tool or a weapon – and more often than not, that would lead her to a solution.
Unfortunately, the current list was a lot shorter than average.
She’d started with chair. Then rope. After a little thought, she’d added darkness – because at least by now her eyes were accustomed to it, which would give her an advantage over anyone who entered the cell. But that appeared to be it.
When she found herself seriously considering broken foot as a possible asset, she knew the list was as long as it was going to get.
So. She had a chair, some rope and darkness. Those were her assets. Unfortunately, they were also her constraints. Which meant the only way she’d be able to use any of them would be if she first got out of them. Of course, the Brotherhood were careful people, so they’d tied her far too tightly and securely for her to be able to work her wrists free. She wouldn’t be able to escape the chair without someone else’s help.
Which meant she needed to get hold of that someone else.
She threw all her weight over to one side, fighting against her constraints as much as possible. The chair rocked slightly.
All right. That was something. She could work with it.
She flung herself from side to side, ignoring the chafing pains at wrists and ankles as the motion pulled against her bonds. The chair began to rock more violently. Just a little longer, and she might build up enough momentum to tip it –
The chair teetered, legs scraping against the floor. Gritting her teeth, Sorrow put everything she had into the next rock. She felt her balance go. The world upended around her. And a swirling moment later, she hit the floor with a jarring impact that left her gasping.
Her ears were ringing, but as the dizzy noise subsided she heard approaching footsteps. There was a scrape as the small viewing panel in the door slid open.
‘What’s going on in there?’ a male voice said wearily.
He wasn’t stupid enough to come dashing into the room – and indeed, Sorrow hadn’t dared to hope for it. But at least she had human contact now. That was another asset in itself, as long as she didn’t screw it up; people were always the weak point.
She opened her eyes, but still couldn’t see anything beyond a vague silhouette. His face must be pressed against the gap, looking in.
‘Can you help me?’ She didn’t need any sort of fakery to sound feeble and breathless.
‘Not likely. I know who you are and what you’re capable of, Naeve Sorrow.’
‘Please.’ To her mingled delight and dismay, a sob shook her voice. ‘I think I’ve broken something. Look – my hands are tied. My feet are tied. I can’t do anything to you.’
He was silent, and she pressed home her advantage.
‘They’re going to kill me, you know. I don’t want to lie like this until my execution.’
Without a reply, he slid the panel closed, and for a sick instant she thought she’d failed. But then she heard the scrape of a key in the lock.
As the door opened, Sorrow was immediately dazzled by the full brightness of the light that glanced in from the corridor beyond. Didn’t think that one through. Better strike darkness off the list. She blinked and squinted at the guard as he walked towards her, stopping well beyond her possible reach.
‘Oh dear,’ he said, smirking down at her. ‘You have got yourself in a tricky situation. But you’re not fooling me, Naeve Sorrow. This is almost certainly some kind of escape attempt.’
Obviously. Sorrow increased the tremor in her own voice. ‘I was trying to reach the door. But I couldn’t do it.’
He snorted. ‘Of course you couldn’t.’
She gazed up at him pleadingly. ‘So will you help me up? I promise I won’t do it again.’
He hesitated an instant longer. But even if he did take a certain malicious delight in her discomfort, he wasn’t a cruel man – and that, in the end, would be his downfall. Like plenty of men before him, he couldn’t quite bear to leave a woman in pain, even if she was a prisoner. It was a dynamic Sorrow had taken advantage of in the past, and she’d gladly do so again now.
Shaking his head, the guard hoisted her chair upright. As he settled it back onto its four legs, his face moved closer to hers. And at that point
she craned forward, sank her teeth into his lower lip, and pulled.
The guard lurched toward her with a strangled cry. Before he could right himself, she drew her head back and slammed it into his nose and mouth with as much force as she could muster. Even as he staggered back, reaching for a knife, she spun the chair on one of its back legs. Its weight and her own barrelled into his unbalanced body, bringing all three of them down. The guard landed hard on his back, head slamming against the stone floor, knife clattering out of his hand. The chair and Sorrow fell sideways next to him.
Ow. Fuck. She gasped as her whole body jarred with the impact for a second time, resonating in her damaged foot until she thought she was going to vomit. But when she’d finished gasping and swallowing and fighting for breath, the man was still motionless and the door to her cell was still ajar. And even more to the point, by the light from the corridor, she could make out the fallen knife on the floor.
New list of assets: chair, rope, open door, knife. Better. Now I have to make use of them before anyone else shows up.
She took a last, long look to fix the position of the knife in her mind. Then, with much jerking and wriggling, she managed to roll over until she was facing in the other direction. After that, it was simply a matter of shuffling backwards until she felt cool metal brush her skin. It took time to get the knife into her hand, and still longer to hack apart the rope that bound her wrists, but finally the job was done. And once her hands were out, it was a simple matter to sever the bonds at her ankles and clamber upright. Her wrists were bleeding from several deep cuts, and putting too much pressure on her damaged foot sent pain lancing up her spine to lodge in the base of her skull, but she’d done it. She was free. That was the only thing that mattered.
Of course, the whole thing would be in vain if she collapsed from her blood loss – so she took the time to examine her foot, wincing with every tiny movement. Her steel-capped boot and the metal structure that had housed the extendable blade had prevented the foot from being blown off completely, but it was still a shattered mess of flesh and bone, metal and leather. The bullet must be in there somewhere, too, but without the proper medical supplies, trying to locate it would only make things worse. Even removing the mangled leather of the boot would increase the blood flow. The best she could do was bandage the entire foot, boot and all, as tight as she could, and hope it held out long enough for her to reach a physician. To that end, she leaned down and cut the shirt off the unconscious guard’s back, before ripping it into strips. It wasn’t the most hygienic bandage the world had ever seen, but it was good enough for now.
When she’d finished, she considered the chair, the cut lengths of rope and the man on the floor. She was tempted to tie him where she’d been tied – the idea of the Brotherhood finding the cell exactly as they’d left it, save for the inhabitant of the chair, was a tempting one – but in the end, practicality beat poetry. As she’d just demonstrated herself, a person in a chair could create a disturbance that was loud enough to attract attention. What she really wanted was for her escape to go unnoticed for as long as possible.
To that end, she tied the man’s wrists and ankles, and wadded up another piece of his shirt to stuff into his mouth. Then she dragged him into the corner furthest from the door. If he came round he’d have a long way to go in the dark, with no means of calling for help. And with any luck, once the door was closed again, no-one else would think to check on her.
Armed with the knife, as well as a leg wrenched from the battered chair, Sorrow crept out of the cell. Though the corridor beyond was illuminated, it was also deserted. She didn’t know which way was out, but she had a vague feeling that the guard’s footsteps had approached from the left, so that was the way she went. Her foot throbbed with each step; she looked down to see that she was leaving rusty smears on the floor. It was old blood, the blood that had pooled in her boot and was now leaking through her makeshift bandage. At least, she thought it was. To be honest, as long as the bandage kept her from bleeding out, it didn’t really matter. What mattered was getting out of this building and reaching Elisse before the Brotherhood did.
Sorrow didn’t hold out much hope for that, but at least she had to try.
TWENTY-THREE
Ayla took a roundabout route to the transformation room, one that allowed her to visit a particular part of the tower on the way. Tomas was down in the fifth ring, preparing those recruits who’d been accepted onto the Helm training programme for their afternoon’s visit to Darkhaven; all the same, she looked both ways down the corridor before turning to one of her two guards – the ones Tomas had insisted on reinstating for the day, selected from a small group of his most trusted men. ‘Unlock this door, please.’
He shifted uneasily. ‘What do you want in the armoury, Lady Ayla?’
‘Just open it.’ She’d never been happy with the constant guards – as far as she was concerned, setting a man to protect a Changer against a pistol was simply a way of giving the assassin easy practice before he went for the real target – but it turned out this one would be useful after all. Though the Helm answered to Tomas, none of them would ever disobey a direct order from her. He had trained them too well for that.
Sure enough, though the Helmsman looked askance at her, he unlocked the door without further demur. With barely a glance at any of the weaponry hanging on the walls, Ayla crossed the room to the safe into which she’d seen Tomas locking the pistols. She’d taken the key from him that morning, slipping it from around his neck whilst he slept. And yes, that veered from lying by omission to blatant dishonesty – but she hadn’t wanted to break the fragile peace that had fallen between them, and she’d known he’d never agree to what Miles had requested.
That’s crazy, Ayla. She could almost hear him saying it. You can’t go and see a man who could be an assassin with the very tool he can use to kill you. You promised to do everything you could to stay safe.
But Miles had told her, last time they met, that he was ready to move to the next stage of experimentation. He had some possible solutions, and he wanted to test them properly. Which meant he had to shoot her.
‘Lady Ayla …’ one of the two Helmsmen at her heels said again, fearfully, when she opened the safe. She ignored him, reaching in with utmost care to remove a pistol and one of the bags of accoutrements. As her fingers touched the chill metal, a shiver crawled across her skin. Am I being stupid? Am I about to walk up to my killer and hand him his weapon …?
She shook it off. Zander was the assassin; there had been no sign of any other. And even if he wasn’t the right one, she still couldn’t believe that Miles would hurt her. She was almost positive that Miles liked her – at least, as much as it was possible to tell anything of the kind from a man whose speech was blunt to a fault and whose expression was set at gently mournful.
‘All right,’ she said, turning to her agitated guards. ‘We can go. Would it make you two feel better if you were to carry these instead of me?’
One of them took the bag and pistol from her, gingerly, as if she’d handed him a live snake. She suppressed a sigh. It wasn’t as if she liked firearms much herself – but nevertheless, the sooner Tomas started training the Helm to be comfortable around them, the better.
Well. Maybe not comfortable. But there had to be a sensible middle ground between terrified and over-familiar.
When they reached the transformation room, she took the pistol back from the Helmsmen and dismissed them to stand outside the door. They weren’t happy about that, either, but they obeyed. Guilt squirmed in Ayla’s stomach. She shouldn’t be encouraging the Helm to go against their captain’s orders. Tomas had taught them to respect her, to respond to her as they would to him, and this was a poor way to repay him for that courtesy.
Still, if Miles’s experiments resulted in a way to shield her in human and creature form, Tomas would never have to worry about an assassination threat again. Surely he’d agree it was worth it.
Miles was already at the tabl
e when she entered the room, making incomprehensible notes in his usual scrawl. In lieu of a greeting, she handed him the pistol and accoutrements, trying not to reveal the edge of doubt that still cut her. He took them, murmuring absent-minded thanks, then promptly turned his back on her again. Yet once he’d checked and loaded the pistol, he turned to her a second time with something that looked very like a dog collar in his hand. ‘Try this out, Lady Ayla.’
Eyebrows climbing her forehead, she looked from it to him. Are you serious? The question must have shown on her face, because he flushed.
‘I – it needs to be something sturdy enough for your creature form to wear. I tried other forms of jewellery, but –’
‘I understand,’ Ayla said, putting him out of his misery. ‘But won’t it get left behind when I Change? Everything else does.’
‘This will not – or at least, it should not, if I am on the right track. It is made from the pure elements of alchemy, just like a Changer creature.’
She looked again at the thing in her hands. It wasn’t metal, as she’d thought at first glance – though it was dark enough to be iron. This material was less dense, and warmer to the touch. Ebonwood. And set within it, cloudy pieces of crystal like fragments of a winter lake. A beautiful thing. A creation of ice and ebonwood, like Ayla herself. It made her smile.
‘Wood and ice,’ Miles confirmed. ‘Your elements. To enhance your strength.’
She lifted the collar to her throat, but stopped before it touched her skin. ‘You know, Miles, my neck will get a whole lot bigger after I Change.’
He nodded. ‘The collar should grow with you.’
‘Should?’
‘Er … I am almost certain it will. And if it does not, it will not choke you. Just fall to the floor.’ He shifted uncomfortably beneath her stare. ‘I think.’
‘There seems to be a lot of speculation involved in this experiment, Miles.’
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