by Stina Leicht
When they got to the end of the passage, he put out the lamp there. The hallway was plunged into darkness. He pushed Mallory to the left of the door. In that way, it would hide him and the baby should there be more guards.
“Don’t move from there until my signal.” Blackthorne quietly unlocked the door using the key and peered through the crack.
No one in the next hallway. It wasn’t unusual. Most prisoners at this level weren’t in much shape for escape attempts. He eased through and checked the next part of their journey. Then he gave Mallory the signal. In this way, they progressed along two levels of stairs and turned to the left. Blackthorne caught his first glimpse of the outdoors from the darkened windows lining the top of the passage when they reached the ground floor. The strength of his disorientation momentarily made him dizzy.
I was certain it was morning. However, waiting to transfer him until after dark made sense; a student curfew was strictly enforced. Of course, it didn’t apply to those on duty. Nonetheless, there would be fewer witnesses.
Across the dark courtyard, one guard waited next to a coach-and-four with shuttered windows. Blackthorne heard the rattle of horse tack as a restless mare shook its head. A young Academy graduate he didn’t recognize sat on the bench next to the empty driver’s seat.
Blackthorne gazed into a clear night sky before turning and muttering, “Stay close. Say nothing. And keep your head down. If no one is inside the coach, get inside. If someone is inside, climb onto the footman’s rest. I’ll handle everything else.” He made as if to check the manacles around Mallory’s wrists.
Together, they approached the coach. Before they got too close, the guard put up a hand.
“Report, Cadet Lucrosa,” the guard said.
Luckily, half the school is Gens Lucrosa. Blackthorne kept his chin down, hoping the shadows would obscure his face. He pitched his voice higher than normal. “Was ordered to take this prisoner to the coach, sir.” He didn’t stop moving but kept walking toward the guard.
The guard frowned. “I didn’t receive any orders stating that McDermott would be moved.”
“I’m only doing what I was told by the officer in charge, sir,” Blackthorne said. He laid a hand on his knife.
“We’ll just see about that,” the guard said. “Wait here, boy.”
What? Blackthorne thought, not believing his ears. “Yes, sir.”
The guard strode past, grumbling about command and disorganization. Once he was gone, Blackthorne led Mallory to the coach. Throwing open the door, Blackthorne saw that no one was inside.
“Get in,” he whispered to Mallory.
“Hey, Warden Munitoris said to wait,” the cadet on the driver’s bench said.
Climbing up, Blackthorne said, “Change of plan.” And then he cut the cadet’s throat. He shoved the body off the bench and hopped down. Lifting the dying cadet by sticking his hands under his shoulders, Blackthorne dragged the body around the coach. Then he got Mallory to help him get it inside. Blackthorne propped the body up in the corner. He knew they would have need of it at the gate.
“Mallory, can you drive a coach?”
“I can drive a wagon.”
“Good enough,” Blackthorne said.
When Mallory had settled onto the driver’s bench, he reached down for the brake. “For the record, my friends call me Mal.”
Assuming a place next to Mallory, Blackthorne asked, “We’re friends now?”
“Anyone who kills three guards to get me out of prison qualifies,” Mal said, and snapped the reins.
“You have high standards. You must not have many friends.”
“Only the ones that count.”
When they were within a few yards of the exit, Blackthorne jumped down from the moving coach and ran to the gate. He shot the gatekeeper before he could draw a pistol. Mallory stopped the coach as Blackthorne tore the key from the gatekeeper’s hand. He rammed the key into the lock and shoved the gate open just as Warden Munitoris shouted his displeasure from across the parade ground.
“Go!” Blackthorne shouted at Mal. “I’ll catch up.”
After Mal steered the coach through, Blackthorne swung the big iron gate shut and locked it. With that, he whirled and sprinted down the empty street. He grabbed the handle on the footman’s perch and pulled himself up. Then he shouted over the rattling of the coach. “Mal!”
Mal spoke over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“Do you know how to get to Old Sarath Road from here?” Blackthorne asked.
“I do,” Mal said.
“Don’t stop until you cross Rickens Bridge in the North End.”
“Got it.”
At Rickens Bridge, Blackthorne told Mal to get inside and put on the manacles. Then Blackthorne arranged the dead cadet so that he appeared to be sleeping. The ruse wouldn’t hold up to a closer inspection, but he hoped he could avoid one. He blew out the lanterns inside the coach.
“Here’s what we’ll do.” Blackthorne pointed at the dead cadet. “He’ll be your guard. Your job is to keep Lydia hidden and to appear too injured to be a threat. Keep the chains visible exactly like before. Don’t speak. Leave that to me. Understood?”
Mal nodded.
Blackthorne inventoried the rucksacks that had been left under the driver’s bench. He found a couple of tinderboxes, tools for casting ammunition, two canteens, changes of clothes, identity papers for a Cadet Warden Ardon, and best of all, a silver token with the director’s initials on it. That, plus a substantial bribe, would get them through the city gates. Otherwise, they would have had to wait until morning, and he wasn’t confident of avoiding the Brotherhood that long—not within the city. Somewhere in the distance, a clock tower struck the hour.
Three, he thought. We’ll need to hurry. When daylight comes the Brotherhood will have every checkpoint covered from here to Wyeth. Of course, the advantage of a coach was that they wouldn’t need to stop for the night. Provided they didn’t meet with any highwaymen on the road, they could travel as long as he could stay awake. Nor will we be going to Wyeth.
One thing at a time. The gate first. He pocketed the papers and the token. Untying his shirt, he used the knife to cut open a number of the pouches in the Warden’s wallet. He counted out five sterling crowns. Should be about right. He had to be careful. Not enough, and the guard might talk. Too much and the guard might become suspicious. He tucked the coins into his uniform pocket. With that finished, he took up the reins and released the brake. Let’s get this over with. He assumed the demeanor of someone with every right to be where he was—he was, after all, a Warden.
He adjusted his tricorne. Cadet Warden.
The coach rattled down streets that were for the most part empty. They weren’t entirely alone, of course. Nonetheless, the lack of pedestrians, produce and poultry delivery wagons, shoppers, and merchants—the city’s lifeblood—shortened the journey to the north gate. He slowed the coach to a stop and assumed a haughty posture. He waited impatiently until a portly sergeant with thinning braids on either side of his face approached. He appeared tired and walked with a familiar rolling gait. With a shock, Blackthorne recognized Sergeant Fisk.
“Curfew is in effect,” Sergeant Fisk said. “Mail coaches and official government business only.”
Blackthorne looked down his nose at Fisk, which was easy enough to do from his perch. “This is official business. The Brotherhood’s business. We’re transporting a prisoner by the director’s order.”
Fisk looked like he wanted to spit but didn’t dare. “Papers.”
“My papers aren’t important,” Blackthorne said. “The director’s order is.”
“I’m in charge of this gate,” Fisk said. “And I say the papers are important.”
Blackthorne glared at Fisk. “Very well.” He reached into his pocket and produced the dead cadet’s papers.
After accepting them, Fisk began flipping through the pages of official seals.
“This is the identification you’re looking for,” B
lackthorne said, and flashed the silver disk.
Sergeant Fisk’s reaction was both dramatic and instant. “Oh, I see.” He coughed and handed back the papers. “If you don’t mind, I’d like a closer look.”
“Feel free,” Blackthorne said, and handed it off. “I am also authorized to make a donation to offset your trouble.”
This news had another dramatic effect upon Sergeant Fisk. It was obvious that he’d seen this one at least once before. He coughed and then smiled. “Ah. I—yes. Very good,” he said, giving back the director’s personal token. “How much, exactly?”
Recognizing the glint of greed in Fisk’s eye, Blackthorne reached into his pocket. “Would five be enough?” He produced the coins.
Fisk’s eyes got wide. “Silver?”
“Is it enough?” Blackthorne asked.
“Well, I suppose so,” Fisk said.
After Blackthorne dropped the coins into his outstretched hands, Fisk ordered the gate opened. Blackthorne urged the horses through.
The blast of a mail-coach horn echoed off the hills. Heeding the warning, Blackthorne kept the horses to the right side of the road until the mail coach roared past to the gate. He pushed the horses as hard as he dared for five miles and then slowed to a walk.
He was never so happy to leave Novus Salernum in his life.
FOUR
Blackthorne decided to leave the coach in a field a mile outside of Byrint. It was along the way to Greenleaf, which was, if the director had believed him, their expected route. After removing anything valuable and defacing any markings that might trace it to its original owners, they unhitched the horses and set the coach on fire. No one in the area would find such a thing unusual. It was the typical action of highwaymen without Syndicate backing, of which there were increasing numbers outside of the Regnum’s larger cities. He felt bad about the cadet not getting a proper burial, but it couldn’t be helped. There was no time. He used the light from the flaming coach to check the horses’ shoes for markers, and finding nothing that would stand out, they took three of the horses and rode the last mile toward Byrint.
It was dawn when they reached the outskirts of town. Baby Lydia hadn’t slept well in the noisy, bone-jarring coach. In addition to being tired, she was hungry and making her displeasure known. Byrint was too small a town for anything as refined as a sanctioned house of prostitution, and there wasn’t time to inquire about a wet nurse. In any case, two ragged men carrying a motherless baby and traveling without a wet nurse would kindle far too much curiosity from the townsfolk. Therefore, they turned off into the hills. In the end, Blackthorne left Mal and Lydia hidden away in an abandoned shepherd’s shed before riding into town alone. There, he sold one of the horses and bought a saddle, saddlebags, some tack, several blankets, and a few days’ provisions. Following Mal’s recommendations, he also acquired oats for porridge as well as the ingredients for mash. He bought a small basket of strawberries on a whim with the idea that baby Lydia might like them. He certainly had as a child.
Rushing through the buying and selling, he didn’t focus as much as he normally would have on conservation of their resources. He wanted to get back as soon as possible. Although experienced in the art of smuggling people out of Acrasia, he found he was anxious about leaving Mal and Lydia alone—more so than he’d ever been with the others. He wasn’t certain this was a good sign. Still, the twisting in his gut didn’t stop until he’d returned and found Mal and the baby safe.
Little Lydia was not happy and making her opinion on the matter of delayed feeding times clear to one and all. That made Blackthorne glad that he’d been able to locate a hiding place far from the road. Curiously, her bright red face and the accompanying screams pulled desperately at something inside his chest. He picked her up and attempted to soothe her while Mal prepared her mash. It seemed to work. Her face resumed its previous light tan, and she drooled all over his finger as she attempted to nurse from it. She had grown frustrated with the lack of forthcoming milk when Mal took her from him.
She didn’t like the mash at first but eventually accepted the substitute for the expected mother’s milk. She stopped her crying and resumed the wide-eyed solemnness Blackthorne had witnessed when he’d first met her. The reserved dignity strongly contrasted with the remnants of mash and slobber soiling her clothes and bonnet. Lying on her stomach while Mal rinsed his hands, she pushed herself up onto all fours and began to rock back and forth.
“Looks like that one is going to start crawling soon,” Mal said. “She’s a quick study.”
“Are babies always this messy?” Blackthorne asked.
“Generally,” Mal said. Kneeling, he pulled up the back of Lydia’s dress and tugged at her clouts.
Blackthorne sniffed. “What is that smell?”
“That, my friend, is a dirty clout,” Mal said, pulling a face. “And she’s made quite the deposit this morning.”
“Ugh.” Blackthorne started to move away.
“Oh, no,” Mal said. “You’re her father. This delivery is all yours.”
Hesitant, Blackthorne said, “I’ve no idea how to change a clout.”
Mal said, “If you can kill Wardens with impunity, you can manage a napkin and pilch.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that I didn’t wish to learn,” Blackthorne said. “You’ve already taken on far more of her care than is equitable.”
Mal raised an eyebrow. “To be fair, you’ve been busy making sure none of us gets dead.”
Blackthorne shrugged. “She’s my responsibility, not yours.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Mal said. He picked up baby Lydia and flipped her onto her back. “Come on, little girl. Help Uncle Mal show your papa how it’s done.”
The process of folding and knotting a clout was simple enough. The matter only became stressful with the addition of the pins. Lydia squirmed a great deal, making the matter more dangerous than was comfortable for Blackthorne. However, he finished the task at last, and she was clean and ready to travel. While he took care of obliterating as many traces of their presence as he could, Mal packed their belongings.
It won’t help if the Warden Units bring the dogs. And they will bring the dogs. I have to find a stream. “You’ll take the horse with the saddle,” Blackthorne said. “I’ll take the other.” He’d only bought the one saddle because he’d wanted to appear as if he were alone.
“But—”
“You’ll be in charge of the third horse,” Blackthorne said.
“And baby Lydia?”
“She’ll ride with me. When we ride. I want to walk for the first mile. I’ll have to cover our trail.”
Mal nodded and smiled. “Let me show you how to bundle her, then. She’ll need her arms and legs free to move.”
In the end, Mal decided to strap Lydia to Blackthorne’s back. It made more sense. He’d need to access his weapons, and Blackthorne didn’t want to risk her getting hurt. His chest was a more likely target in a close-quarters fight.
The sun was high in the sky when they made their way to the crossroads. Blackthorne intended to head southwest to Gullblad. From there, he hoped to book passage on an Ytlainen ship that would take them up the Andallopp River to the Finger Lakes. After that, he and Mal could cut north overland to Grandmother Mountain and the Hold. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d do after getting Mal safe. Blackthorne briefly considered that it might be better for Lydia if he were to leave her with the others at the Hold. The Brotherhood would be hunting him. Therefore, he was a danger to everyone with whom he made contact. At the same time, he felt her warm weight on his back and knew he couldn’t do it. He was all she had.
She swung her legs and gurgled happily. “Ba-ba-ba-ba.”
He started. “She’s speaking?”
Mal said, “Testing the waters, I think. They all do that.”
Something tugged at Blackthorne’s ponytail.
“She’s got your hair again,” Mal said.
“Won’t she choke?” Blackthor
ne reached back to rescue his ponytail but she had quite the grip on it.
“Here,” Mal said and freed the now-damp hair. Then he handed him the tricorne. “Looks like you’ll need this a while longer.”
Blackthorne tucked his hair up inside the cadet’s hat. “I—I should’ve purchased a rattle or something.”
“And give away that you’ve a baby traveling with you in a town the Brotherhood are sure to question?” Mal said. “Her fists will be entertaining enough for a while.”
Nodding, Blackthorne stepped out into the sunlight. They finished with the packing and then gathered the horses to begin the long walk west. Testing his new center of balance, Blackthorne did something he hadn’t allowed himself to do since he’d escaped the Reclamation Hospital the first time. He began to consider the future in larger increments than a few months. All those times he’d delivered children to worried parents, he’d never comprehended the depth of their joy or their terror. He was always outside of it. That wasn’t the case any longer. And that wasn’t all. With a shock, he understood he no longer felt adrift. That was the moment he understood he needed Lydia every bit as much as she needed him.
A painful lump formed in his throat and his chest tightened. A Retainer is not bound by family, friends, or lovers. There is only duty to one’s Master.
I am a father now. The weight of overwhelming responsibility was now a welcome one. He was a skilled Retainer. It was all he knew how to be, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a father as well. He decided to make a few revisions to his previous beliefs—revisions that were all his own.
A Retainer is bound by family, friends, and lovers. He let that first change shift and then anchor itself in his brain. It felt perfect and right.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Mal said. “Is something wrong?”
Blackthorne cleared his throat. “No. Everything is all right—or will be.” For the first time in his life, he meant it with every fiber of his being. He listened to his daughter’s cooing and was happy.
