Just then, the clump of approaching boots grew louder in the hall. Then soldiers arrived and jangled open the cell. Behind them strode Slag himself. He stood for a moment, observing his captive. A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth.
“Hungry?” he said, taking off his hat and stepping in.
“Silly question. After two days, who wouldn’t be hungry?”
Sophia was, in fact, crawling with hunger.
At Slag’s signal, a servant boy appeared with a small table and two folding chairs. He was followed by another servant, who snapped open a white linen cloth. The table was set for two, complete with candle and long-stemmed rose.
Then the food arrived. Ah, the food: a covered dish from which the aroma of roast lamb enticingly escaped, a platter of rainbow trout amandine, roasted potatoes, warm corn pudding, tiny cakes, glasses of hot cider with cinnamon sticks to stir with.
Sophia felt faint. Her hands groped along the wall for support. Was it possible her spell had worked?
“Join me, won’t you?” Slag pulled out a chair.
Two days—forty-eight empty-bellied hours—with only a pitcher of stagnant water to sustain her.
“What do I have to do?”
“Do? Why nothing at all, silly girl! Come!”
She staggered forward. It’s the magic, she thought. It’s the magic!
He shoehorned her into the chair.
Up close, the steam tickled her nose, and the smells hummed seductively.
“Before we begin …,” said Slag, taking the seat opposite and settling the hat back on his head.
Her fork, reaching for a slice of lamb, paused in midair.
“You must tell me how to address you. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
The juice was oozing. The potatoes were sizzling.
“I know you don’t,” she said, and again reached her fork to stab something wonderful.
“But …”
The fork again paused.
“But it’s not polite. If we’re having dinner together …”
“I like to be mysterious.”
“Ah,” said Slag, moving the platter just out of reach, “but, you see, I don’t.”
Her fork swung like a compass needle toward the broiled trout. Slag pulled that away, too.
“Your name.”
“Cleopatra.”
Slag nodded to the serving boy, who took away the fish dish. Sophia watched in dismay.
“For every false answer, we will subtract one dish.”
The girl was silent, contemplating him. Under his hat, he was bald—she knew that—but the angles of his face still added up to handsome. Could someone who looked the way he did really be so cruel?
“Your name,” he said again.
“Ludmilla.”
Away went the lamb.
“Your name!”
Tears stood in the girl’s eyes. Her whole body was aching.
“You’re a beast,” she whispered.
“That’s not a name.”
“My name is Sophia!” she snapped.
“So what?”
“Sophia what?”
“Sophia Hartpence.”
“You may take a bite. Anything you wish.” He spread out his arms.
She speared a crusty bit of roast potato and popped it in her mouth. She closed her eyes to savor its amazingness.
But instead of making her less hungry, it made her more. Much more.
“Uh-uh!” tutted Slag as she reached for seconds.
“We have a few more questions first.”
She looked as if she would stab him with the fork.
The candle flame doubled in Slag’s eyes as he leaned forward.
“Why did you come to the mountain?”
“I thought it looked picturesque. Now can I have more?”
The potatoes went away. Sophia watched tragically.
“Why did you come to the mountain? We know you were smuggled in. We want to know why.”
Sophia was staring at a puffy chocolate tart.
“Sophia?”
She looked up.
“I wanted to help a friend.”
“Help him how?”
“That’s two questions.”
Slag smiled.
“Quite right. You may have the tart.”
She snatched it up before he could change his mind. But no sooner had she swallowed it than she felt hungrier than ever. She had never felt so hungry in her life!
“Help him how?”
“Help him escape! Now let me at that corn pudding!”
“One spoonful.”
She scooped as much as her little spoon would hold but in her haste dribbled half of it on her chin. The part she swallowed made her ravenous for more.
“Say,” she said, “what did you put in there?”
“Our chef has a special ingredient he uses for these occasions.”
“It’s making me hungrier with every bite!”
“Perceptive.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“You’ve heard the saying ‘a good appetite makes the best seasoning’? My cook believes the reverse: Good seasoning makes the best appetite.”
“Not fair!”
“Perhaps not. So tell me, Sophia. You don’t mind me calling you Sophia, do you? What was your friend’s name again?”
“Who?” Her eyes were fixed on a glass of cider. A sudden thirst swept over her. Her throat felt as though it had been rubbed with sandpaper.
“Your friend. The one you want to save.”
“Just a sip.”
“Your friend.”
“One little sip!”
“His name!”
“Hap Barlo!” The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them.
She closed her eyes in despair.
“Oh no,” she murmured.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Barlo!” Slag shook his head.
“Well.”
“I didn’t mean that! I meant … Fat Marlow.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Fat Marlow’s his name!”
“It doesn’t matter, I tell you. He doesn’t need saving anymore.”
She frowned, confused.
“Hap Barlo died today in an explosion.”
Her face froze.
“Now,” he said, tenting his fingers, “just a few more questions and we’ll enjoy our meal.”
She stared at him blankly.
“Why were you climbing through my window the other night?”
Sophia’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Are you listening? I asked you why…”
He never found out. The prisoner’s eyes closed, and she slid from the chair onto the floor.
Twenty-two
SLAG WAS IN a black mood when he returned to headquarters. He became even more irritable hearing the guffaws of soldiers in the back room. A bowl of ale was fine once in a while, but didn’t they have any Blueskins to abuse or prisoners to punish?
You’d think they were here for their amusement!
Not even the sweet tenor voice of Silas Barlo, half drowned out by shouts, could improve his mood. As for that girl, she obviously knew more than she’d said. You don’t climb through windows at midnight for the exercise!
Maybe he’d used too much appetite-enhancement powder. Who’d have thought she’d faint? The weakling!
He kicked his desk, splintering the veneer. That made him even angrier.
Just then came a knock at the door. Two soldiers entered with a furious woman held tightly between them. Her head was down like a charging bull.
“What’s this?”
“A spy, sir,” said one.
“We caught her passing information.”
“Spy, my eye!” growled the female.
Slag ducked his head to look at the face under the mop of hair.
“You must be mistaken,” he said to the soldier.
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“This is one of my best workers. She’s been heading up the kitchen staff for years. I trust her completely.”
The woman raised her head. It was Gert, the formidable being who doled out slop to miners each evening.
“Thank you, Mr. Slag,” she said.
“I’m glad somebody is showing sense.”
“That’s all right, Gert,” he said.
“We’ll get to the bottom of this.” He gave the soldiers an impatient look.
The one who’d spoken before cleared his throat. He handed the chief a small wad of paper.
“This fell out of her apron pocket. Good thing I noticed.”
The paper was folded tight as a claw. Slag pried it open. His frown deepened as he read:
“ ‘S. knows where it is. Two days at most. Game starts Sunday 6:15 a.m.’”
He looked up.
“But this is treason!” He rubbed his chin.
“At least, I think it’s treason.”
The soldier nodded.
“Does look like it.”
Gert didn’t seem to be paying attention. She was listening to the voice in the other room singing of sunny summer mornings in old Aplanap.
“Game,” Slag murmured.
“At six in the morning? Who plays games at six in the morning?” He turned to Gert.
“Where did you get this? Who were you giving it to?”
“Never seen it before. Somebody must’ve slipped it in my apron.”
“Gert, that won’t do.”
“It’s true!”
“What’s this about a ‘game’?”
She shrugged.
“Am I to understand that the S stands for my name?”
“I never thought about that.”
“What’s going to happen Sunday morning?”
She shook her head helplessly.
“I’m disappointed, Gert.” He gave a brief nod to the soldiers.
“Put her in one of the holding cells. We’ll work this out later.”
After they’d gone, Slag paced his office. The singing in the next room was grating on him. First a girl tries to break into headquarters, then a trusted staff member, whom he’s known for years, is caught with a treasonous message.
If not treasonous, obscure. A code of some kind. Who uses codes but traitors?
He gave his desk another kick.
Chunk, chunk, chunk …
An insistent rhythm was intruding on Sophia’s dream. At first, she thought it was a drum. There was a parade of some sort. Not a very happy one. Slow as a funeral march.
Whose funeral? she wondered as she watched the mourners passing on foot, their faces covered in veils.
Chunk, chunk …
The drumbeat grew louder, closer. The parade was coming toward her. She frowned and opened her eyes, suddenly awake. Her heart fell when she realized where she was. She preferred the funeral.
But what was this? A small hole had appeared in the floor of her cell. As she watched, it grew larger, pieces of rock falling away into the darkness.
Somebody was down there!
She crawled over to see.
The noise stopped. Part of a face appeared in the opening. Even covered with dirt, it looked familiar.
“Is that you, Sophia?”
“Hap?” Relief swept through her. “Hap!”
“Hold on, we’re coming. Stand back.”
“It’s you.”
“Who did you think?”
What she’d thought, for only a second, was that he was dead and his ghost was climbing out of the grave.
“Stand back, Sophia, I mean it.”
Chunk, chunk, ker-crack!
A foot-wide hunk of the floor suddenly fell out of sight. A second later, Hap’s head popped up, disgracefully dirty and smiling like the devil.
“Hey!” he said.
“Hey,” she said back. She was not going to cry. That was definite.
Another few inches of flooring crumbled away. Hap’s hands reached up and got a grip. A moment later, he was in the cell with Sophia.
“You okay?” he said.
“Why are you crying?”
“I am not crying, Hap Barlo.”
He studied her face.
“You look a little wobbly. Did they hurt you?”
“Not badly. Mostly, they starved me. And they told me you got blown up!”
“I did,” he said, pleased.
“But then I fell into a tunnel, and I started following it, and there were all these rats, you couldn’t see a thing, but you could hear them all around, and there was this blue light…”
Sophia had very little idea what he was saying.
“Oh,” said Hap, “you’ve got to meet my friend. Shadow, come on up.”
Slowly, the Auki elder emerged from the darkness. Sophia backed away. She’d never seen an Auki close up, except for Ulf, who’d been in human clothes, a sailor outfit. The first thing she noticed was the long nose and odd vinegary smell. Then there were his clothes—rags, really, and not many of them at that; they barely covered what they had to. Tangled hair twirled over his shoulders and arms, spared his chest, and began again with his legs. He didn’t even have shoes. His feet, which she just glanced at, ended in claws.
“What did you call him?”
“His name’s Shadow Reader. He’s helping us.”
She nodded warily.
“Hello.”
The elder nodded back.
A distant clang made everyone turn. A door was being unbolted. Footsteps approached along the corridor.
“Get back down!” whispered Sophia.
Shadow slithered out of sight.
“You too,” she said.
“You first.”
“No time!”
Hap nodded and squirmed into the darkness. Sophia dragged over the wooden bench and sat on it, just as soldiers arrived.
“In you go!” One of them gave Gert an extremely impolite shove that sent her sprawling.
Sophia held her breath until the key clanked and footsteps retreated.
“Gert?”
The woman looked up.
“I’m too old for this,” she said, touching her forehead where she’d hit the floor.
Sophia ran to her.
The woman tried for a smile but ended with a wince.
“I’m all right. What about you?”
“Hungry as a bear. In fact, I could eat one.”
Gert struggled to sit up.
“They didn’t use that appetite-enhancement trick, did they?”
“Is that what they call it? They sure did.”
“My dear, we’ve got to get some food in you!”
“I know. It’s getting worse.”
“It will. That stuff will eat away your stomach lining! Drink some water!”
“Don’t have any.”
“Call the guard, he’ll get you some.”
“Gert, wait! That’s not important now. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Well,” said the big woman, “you still got your spirit. They didn’t enhance that out of you.”
“I mean it!”
“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in jail.”
“Not for long.”
“Oh? How do you propose—?”
“Down here,” came a muffled voice from under the bench.
“What?”
Sophia pushed the bench aside to reveal Hap’s dirt-caked head, grinning.
Gert clasped her heart.
“This way, ladies,” Hap said.
Twenty-three
“TWO DAYS AT most…”
Slag clamped his eyes shut to concentrate. Unfortunately, he was still pacing the room and ran straight into the desk.
He gave it a vicious kick. The carpenter would be busy tomorrow.
“S. knows where it is. Two days …”
Slag. Sophia. Silas…
Not Silas, surely. A fool with a lucky voice.
Sophia? Possible.
But what if it stands for Slag? What do I know? What will happen two days from now that I know about?
He stopped in the middle of the room.
Impossible. No one knows that.
No one knows that I know.
Well, Maurice does. He has to oversee the work crews. Also, of course, the surveyor.
Three people on the whole mountain, Slag mused, knew where the gem was located. Three people knew how to reach it—and that it would take two days!
Three people—and Gert! The soup slopper from the mess hall!
For years, the image of the great diamond had hovered in Slag’s dreams like a dancing blue light, leading him on. When the winds had howled like wolves around the crags, Slag had hung on, driving deadbeat prisoners and devious Aukis to dig faster, dig deeper, to the heart of this horrible mountain.
Now, when Slag was on the verge of success, the mayor of Aplanap had to poke his nose into things. The mayor knew of the gem and had ordered it brought back for his beloved Ludmilla.
That wasn’t going to happen. Slag had discovered it, he’d destroyed lives to get to it, and he would have it!
But first he’d have to talk to Gert. It was obvious now that she was working for a group of traitors, passing them information she’d learned at headquarters.
There’d be no gentle “appetite enhancements” for her. Slag would put her on the rack!
The door leading to the holding cells creaked open on iron hinges. By now, Slag was used to the clammy air laden with sour smells, but his nose still gave an involuntary twitch as he grabbed a wall torch and started down.
Only three cells lined the corridor. In the first, coughing uncontrollably, lay an old shirker pretending to be suffering from blue lung. A week in solitary would take care of that!
In the second, slurping his gruel, crouched a thief who’d stolen another miner’s shoes when his own had worn through. We’ll see how he likes going barefoot, Slag thought.
At the end stood the cell with the two treacherous females.
What was this? They hadn’t been moved, had they? He held the torch higher. The girl was nowhere in sight. And Gert? Ah, there she was.
Or part of her …
The top half of the woman was in the jail cell, where she belonged; the bottom half was in a hole in the floor. She was stuck!
Slag put his whistle to his lips and blew a shrieking blast. A moment later, he had the woman by her elbows and was pulling hard.
“Umpf!” puffed Gert.
She kept trying to wedge her considerable self into the hole in the floor while Slag struggled to pluck her out.
The Blue Shoe Page 11
