The captive swallowed, then quavered, “Gualyn, Lady.”
“Who hired you?”
“I can’t say…”
Mykella pressed her shields against his face so that he could not breathe. After letting him twist and turn against his bonds, and turn red, she released the shields enough to let him take several gasping breaths. “Who hired you?”
“Can’t … kill me … anyway…”
Mykella reapplied the shields, this time holding them until she sensed he was close to passing out. “I can keep this up until your lungs are so raw you’ll be coughing up blood. Then I’ll block your mouth and let you breathe your own blood.”
Gualyn swallowed and blurted, “Caenoral … everyone knows he’s the one you go to if you want trouble removed.”
“He hired you?
“Yes, Lady.”
“Do you know who hired him?”
“No, Lady. He never tells us. Honest … he never does.”
Mykella sensed both the fear and truth behind the words.
“I could ask others, but I’d prefer to get a quick answer.” Mykella smiled coldly. “So would you. Where would I find Caenoral in the next glass?”
“They’ll kill me.”
“They might. Do you think I won’t … if you don’t tell me?” Mykella pressed the shields across the man’s chest.
“No … West Lane … he’s got a shimmersilk factorage … two blocks south of the Great Piers … at the end of the lane … looks like an alley.”
“And I will find him there?”
“He’s usually there, Lady…” The plea behind the words was obvious.
Mykella looked to Casaryk. “When I’m done, put Gualyn in with the other prisoners at the Southern Guard complex. For now, anyway. He wouldn’t last the night in the gaol.” Her eyes went back to the captive. “Would you?”
He shook his head.
“Lord Gharyk,” asked Mykella, “what is the name of Gaoler Huatyn’s brother?”
Gharyk frowned. “I do not see … do you think…?”
“I don’t know, but it might be useful.”
“He has two. Kluatyn is the one who supplied the gaol, and Lhuatyr is the youngest.”
Mykella had watched the captive with senses as well as eyes while Gharyk spoke, but Gualyn showed no sign of recognition of either name.
“Casaryk … if you’d come with me for a moment?” Mykella moved to the door of the chamber and lowered her voice. “I want a squad to accompany me to Caenoral’s factorage, and another to cordon off the gaol. They have my permission to use all necessary force to keep anyone from leaving the gaol.”
“Yes, Lady.”
Even so, it was almost half a glass later before Mykella was riding westward on the avenue toward the purported factorage owned by Caenoral. Maeltor had joined the force and rode to her left.
“Lady … what do you intend to do with this Caenoral?”
“Find out what he knows.”
“He will not be as easy as the captive you questioned in the palace.”
“Then … neither will I.” Mykella sensed Maeltor’s almost-concealed wince, and added, “Captain, some people respond only to power. If that is the case, I will use what is necessary to protect Lanachrona and my people.” Whatever is necessary.
As the captive had said, West Lane was more like an alley than a true lane. A single narrow structure stood at the end, looking as though it had been built to block the lane. Dirty yellow bricks composed the front, and the space where there had been two windows flanking the narrow ironbound door had been bricked up as well, long enough ago that the grime on those yellow bricks matched the others. The three upper-level windows were shuttered, and there was a narrow space on each side of the building between it and the rear walls of larger factorages. Through the passages, Mykella could see light, presumably from the other part of West Lane, or whatever it was called there. West Lane itself was empty, although Mykella had the feeling it had not been so for long.
When Mykella and Maeltor reined up before the door, with only a single wide stone for a stoop, the captain gestured to one of the guards. “See if anyone will answer.”
The ranker dismounted and stepped up to the door, where he pounded vigorously, then waited before pounding again. After several times of doing that, he turned. “The door is locked, and no one is answering.”
“Be difficult to break it down,” offered Maeltor.
“There may be another way.” Mykella dismounted and handed the gray’s reins to the captain. “Just have everyone wait for a moment.” She walked into the north passageway, looking for a door. There wasn’t one. She kept walking, noticing, surprisingly, that the passageway was well swept and clean of all trash or debris. When she emerged onto the lane on the far side, she found it, too, vacant. The west side of the building was a duplicate of the east face, even to the bricked-up windows. She rapped on the door. Again … no one answered.
Then she walked the north passage. There was no door there, either. She retreated until she was close to the bricks of the wall of the purported factorage, and well back from the Southern Guards before she called to the darkness. She was close enough to the Great Piers that it rose to enfold her, and she slipped through the wall and into a small chamber filled with small bolts of shimmersilk suspended between posts.
While the chamber door was closed, it was not locked or bolted, and she opened it, stepping into a hallway. She sensed two men to her left, in the anteroom behind the east door, but no one else in the building. She walked as quietly as she could toward them.
Both were looking at the barred and bolted door. One stood, the other sat behind a narrow counter on a stool. Neither turned when she stood in the archway behind them.
“That won’t do you much good,” she said calmly, gathering light to her.
The first man whirled and flung a knife at her. The blade bounced off her shields and clattered on the brick floor.
“You must be Caenoral,” Mykella said. “I’d suggest that you open the door. Be polite to all the Southern Guards there. Don’t run, either.”
“You … you’re the Lady-Protector.” A greasy smile crossed the man’s face. “You have a way of surprising a man.”
“Shouldn’t any woman, especially one in my position?” Mykella replied. “And your friend? His name?”
The man on the stool looked to Mykella but said nothing. His eyes seemed wide.
“If you wish to open the door, you may certainly do so,” said the first man.
“Thank you.” Mykella stepped toward him, then to the side, knowing what he had in mind.
He lunged—but hit her shields so hard that he staggered back and ended up on his buttocks.
With three swift movements, Mykella lifted the two bars and tossed them into the lap of the man she thought was Caenoral, then slid the bolt back and opened the door, stepping back as it swung inward. “Guards!”
The man behind the counter dropped from the stool.
“Don’t!” snapped Mykella, forcing Talent command into the single word.
The counterman froze.
She looked to the crouching man who had tossed the bars aside. “You, too.”
“You can’t do this,” he said, slowly rising to his feet.
“Are you Caenoral?” Mykella pressed.
She could sense the answer before he said, “What does it matter?”
“Thank you. It does matter, because you’re the man people go to in order to make trouble go away.”
“I’m just a shimmersilk factor, nothing more.”
At that moment, Maeltor entered the factorage, saber at the ready. He inclined his head. “Lady.”
“I found an open door. The one in front of the counter is Caenoral. The one behind the counter hasn’t said a word. It would be helpful to tie them both up. Caenoral threw the blade on the floor at me, and the other one tried to escape.”
“Our pleasure, Lady.”
Another knife appeared in Cae
noral’s hand.
Mykella stepped in front of the captain and moved forward, extending her shields and pressing Caenoral against the wall. The other man bolted for the door, only to be knocked to the floor by the flat of Maeltor’s saber. Mykella pressed her shields tightly across Caenoral’s face, taking care to anchor herself to the stone.
A short time later, the purported factor slumped, and his fingers released the weapon. Mykella eased back on her shields. Caenoral gasped for air.
The two guards who had bound the hands of the still-staggered second man behind his back quickly bound Caenoral.
She smiled. “How much were you paid to clothe and send four bravos after Lord Gharyk? Ten golds?”
The contempt she felt was enough to prompt another figure. “More like fifty, then.”
Caenoral’s brows knit.
“Say … forty plus what one might call expenses.”
She could see the sweat beading on his forehead.
“Who paid you? Kluatyn?”
The blankness in the eyes of the would-be factor, and the sense of noncomprehension provided a sense of an answer.
“So it was Lhuatyr, then?”
Mykella sensed fear from both men. “I thought as much.”
“I never said that was who it was,” protested Caenoral. “You can’t prove anything.”
Mykella smiled again. “I don’t have to. You drew weapons on the Lady-Protector twice.” She turned to the other bound man. “You didn’t. You might end up in the workhouse or quarries for life. Did Lhuatyr say why he wanted Lord Gharyk dead?”
“No, Lady.…” The man’s voice trembled. “He didn’t say nothing, except it had to be quick, before season-turn.”
“I could tell you lots of things, Lady-Protector.” A wheedling oily tone infused Caenoral’s voice. “But I couldn’t if I was dead.”
“That’s true. But would I want to hear them?” She turned to the captain. “Bring them both along with us. Later, they’ll join the others.
“Lady…” Maeltor began …
“I know. I’m taxing the resources of the Southern Guards. It won’t be for that much longer. This part of it, that is. We need to get to the gaol. Leave three men to guard the place for now.” With that, Mykella strode from the factorage and jump-mounted the gray.
“… how’d she do that…” came a murmur from back in the squad.
Mykella doubted the question referred to her mounting style.
A quarter glass later, Mykella and the remainder of the squad reined up before the gaol—a squarish two-story building of the same gray stone as the justicing building beside which it was set. The gaol was on the west side of the justicing building that fronted the south-Tempre market square, while the building housing the inspectors and other functionaries was on the east side.
A small crowd had gathered in the square—all watching the gaol. Most heads turned as Mykella reined up.
Casaryk rode forward. “Just before we got here, two fellows tried to ride away. We caught an assistant gaoler. He said the one who escaped was Lhuatyr.”
That figures. Mykella nodded. “He’s the one who arranged for the attack on Lord Gharyk.”
“I’m sorry, Lady, but his mount was much faster.”
“You did what you could. We’ll have to deal with him later.” Mykella dismounted. “I need to have a talk with Gaoler Huatyn.”
“Ten guards should accompany you, Lady,” offered the squad leader. “The rest of the assistant gaolers are gathered in the front hall. They’ve barricaded it from the rest of the gaol because someone opened the cells.”
“I’ll talk to the assistant gaolers first. We need to take down their names.” She turned to Maeltor. “If prisoners try to escape … capture those you can. Try not to kill them, but don’t risk any guards.”
The captain nodded, then raised his voice. “First five ranks! Dismount and accompany the Lady-Protector. Sabers at the ready. All others! Rifles ready!”
Once the ten Southern Guards formed up, flanking Mykella, she walked toward the front entrance of the gaol, where four Southern Guards already stood, rifles aimed at the door.
Why do you always end up walking into things? She wasn’t certain she had a good answer to her own question. So she kept walking, checking her shields.
One of the guards escorting her stepped forward and opened the door. “The Lady-Protector!”
Mykella again gathered light to her as she stepped from the bright sunlight of a spring afternoon into the comparative dimness of the gaol’s receiving hall. She’d expected perhaps a score of people, but just eight men stood in the space, all holding long truncheons. A stone staircase at the back of the hall extended up to an iron grate, locked and barring access to the archway and corridor beyond. To the right of the staircase, against the rear wall, was a similar archway, its grated door also locked. Mykella heard voices from both upper and lower levels.
Mykella moved forward until she was well inside, with the guards still beside her. Then she waited several moments. “Where is Gaoler Huatyn?”
There was no answer.
Mykella increased the light around her, then pointed to the burliest of the men. “You! Where is Huatyn?”
The man squinted, then mumbled, “… didn’t see him come out … started unlocking cells on the upper level.”
“Are the cells on the lower level still locked?”
“… think so…”
“You think so, Lady!” snapped one of the guards.
“I think so, Lady,” the man parroted.
“Is that the only way into the upper level?” Mykella pointed to the staircase.
“Yes, Lady … all the windows up there are barred.”
“Who down here has the keys to the grille door up there and to the cells?”
After a moment, an older balding man with wispy gray and red hair stepped forward. “Guess I won’t be needing these any longer, Lady.”
One of the guards moved out and took the key ring, then passed it to Mykella.
Mykella turned to the nearest guard. “I’m going up. Have someone get the names of everyone here.”
“Yes, Lady.”
Holding the keys, Mykella started up the stairs. At the top, she had to try three keys before she discovered the one that opened the grille gate. Then she stepped through the archway.
Two men jumped at her and staggered back from her shields.
“Stand back!” she ordered, anchoring her shields to the stone beneath her.
Another man launched himself at her, with a bar of some sort in his hand, only to crash to the floor. She moved forward enough to allow the guards to hurry through the archway, before she turned and relocked the grille.
Mykella glanced past the men bunched before her to the end of the long corridor, past the rows of cells. Another grate barred access to a ladder leading up to the roof—except the gate was locked, and behind it two figures were scrambling up the iron ladder.
Mykella turned and pointed to the guard at the rear. “Run down and tell the captain that Huatyn and Kluatyn are trying to escape off the roof!” Belatedly, she handed him the keys. “Lock the grille behind you and bring back the keys as soon as you can.”
“Yes, Lady.”
Mykella walked toward the mass of prisoners, letting greenish light flare around her. “It’s time to return to your cells.”
“No!” A huge shambling figure a yard taller than Mykella lunged toward her, brushing aside the guard who tried to stop him, as if the guard were little more than a straw figure.
Mykella anchored her shields and pressed a Talent probe against the man’s life-thread, trying to exert just enough pressure to drop him. But the life-thread parted, and the man plunged forward, slamming into the worn stone floor. Mykella held in the wince. She hadn’t meant to kill him, but she’d wanted to stop him before he hurt another guard.
“It’s time to return to your cells.” She kept her voice calm, but boosted it with Talent, moving forward and arou
nd the fallen man, then pointing to the first open cell. “Whose is this?”
“Mine, Lady.” A bearded young man stepped forward, smiling ingratiatingly.
Mykella frowned, then shook her head. “No, it’s not. Do you want…?”
The young man paled. “It’s a good cell … can’t blame a fellow for trying.”
“It’s old Dissak’s,” came a voice. A man emerged from the mass of prisoners, leading a frail white-haired figure with blank eyes. “He’s a longtime duster. Doesn’t think much anymore. They pick him up now and again, just out of pity.”
Mykella waited until the duster was inside the cell, then had to wait until the Southern Guard returned with the keys before she could lock it.
One by one, she locked each cell after returning the prisoners, sometimes one, sometimes two. When she finished—at the far end—she glanced up at the open trapdoor to the roof, then shook her head and turned to the guards. “Two of you stay here, just in case those two try to come back down.”
Then she walked past the celled prisoners.
“… something to remember anyway…”
“… not everyone gaoled by the Lady-Protector…”
Mykella managed not to smile as she made her way to the grille gate, which she unlocked and left unlocked. She started down the stairs.
Maeltor met her at the bottom. “Huatyn and his brother jumped off the roof, trying to escape. The brother landed on his head. He’s dead. Huatyn broke one leg, it looks like, and maybe his arm.”
“Good. I’m glad he’s alive. He has a lot to answer for.” So did she, but she wasn’t about to say so publicly.
“What are you going to do about the gaol?”
“Detail one of the senior squad leaders advising Undercaptain Salyna … to act as gaoler. Have him tell the other gaolers that if anything goes wrong, I’ll be back, and I won’t be happy.”
Maeltor offered a wry smile. “That might work … for a while.”
“You and the commander and I will have to work something out when he returns at the end of the week. I think that from now on, I’ll need to interview anyone who is considered for the head gaoler.” Another headache, but who else can sense what lies behind smiles and promising words? She paused. Rachylana was getting a better sense of people. In time …
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