He and Verran hurried to return, arriving just as the cooks ran out of stew before the last dozen prisoners went through the line. The looks the hungry prisoners gave to the cooks were murderous, but after the guards’ demonstration, the disgruntled men grabbed for what remained of the bread and went sullenly to their places.
Overhead, it sounded as if a fight was going on. Blaine expected that the guards would charge up the stairs, but they made no move to do so, not even when a body came tumbling down with a knife deep in its chest.
“We don’t police the barracks,” the lead guard said. “Just remember—kill off your bunkmates, and your quotas remain the same, so you all work harder.” He gave a nasty grin. “Let’s go meet the fellows you’re going to have to trust won’t knife you in your sleep.”
PART THREE: Inside the Walls
Blaine and the new prisoners received their prison clothing as they reached the bottom of the stairs to the barracks. Solid boots that appeared to all be one size. A heavy jacket, knit cap, sheepskin mittens with the wool on the inside, a knit scarf, and a heavy woolen cape.
“Lose them or damage them, and you’ll have to get a replacement off the dead—and fight for it, I wager,” the lead guard warned them. “Now up the ladder with you. Mind you make your mark this first night—you’ll want your place in the order of things.” He gave a nasty leer as they filed past.
Blaine arranged to be in the middle of the line of men who made their way up the ladder. Verran was behind him. When he emerged into the second-floor room, he found rows of bunks stacked four high floor to ceiling, with barely enough room for a man to roll onto his straw ticking mattress.
Twenty men watched them climb up the ladder. Some stood with arms crossed, clearly unhappy to have new arrivals. Others regarded them with wary, cold gazes. The men wore the same style prison garb that Blaine and the others had just received, and from their stained shirts and frayed hems, it was clear that replacements were not easily available.
None of the men appeared starved, but they had the gaunt, lean look of wolves in winter, and their gaze tracked the newcomers like prey—or adversaries.
“Welcome to your new home.” The speaker was a short, powerfully-build bald man. “Your bunks are in the back. Might want to get rid of the straw. The last men back there died of fever.”
The newcomers had cleared the ladder. Below them, the guards removed the ladder and bolted the trap door shut. Where do they think we’re going to go? Blaine wondered. He eyed the lanterns. Fire was a constant worry, especially in wooden buildings. If the barracks goes up, I guess we go with it. Maybe that’s what they want us to keep in mind.
A door slammed on the floor below, as if the guards wanted the prisoners to know that they were on their own.
Verran and Garrick had been looking around in the dim light. “Stefan!” Verran said. “And Pioter!”
“Verran Danning! You thieving little shit!” The man Verran hailed as Stefan elbowed his way through the group.
Blaine and Garrick stepped up to block his way.
“Let me through!” Stefan yelled. “I’ve got business with that son of a dog!”
“Not here and not now,” Blaine said levelly.
Ten of the convicts advanced on the newcomers. “Just give us Danning, and we’ll cause the rest of you no problem,” Stefan said. “He stole my girl, and she stole my money. Got me sent here, the bastard did, because I couldn’t pay my debts.”
Blaine glanced at Verran, who managed a weak smile and shrugged. “I had debts, too, mate. And she was over you. But if it makes you feel better, she ran out on me with the last of my coin when I got arrested, and wouldn’t come to pay off the guard.”
Blaine, Garrick, Verran, and Dunbar stood back to back facing the ten advancing convicts. The other men stood against the wall, unwilling to make this their fight.
“Just give me Danning’s scrawny ass. He can be my bitch since he took mine.” Stefan’s fellows sniggered.
Then Stefan’s hair caught on fire.
Stefan leaped around like a madman, slapping at his burning hair with his hands, desperate to keep the fire from spreading to his beard. Blaine saw the bald man who had greeted the newcomers surreptitiously set aside a newly-snuffed candle and throw a blanket over the man’s burning hair.
“Stay still! I’ll put it out!” he said, and proceeded to beat the big man about the head and shoulders with his open hand until the others laughed. Finally, the bald prisoner pulled away the blanket, revealing a burned and angry Stefan.
More of the convicts got into the fight. Verran kneed one of the men hard in the balls, while Blaine landed a roundhouse punch that decked the man who came for him. Garrick hefted his attacker by the neck, making it clear that if he twitched, the smaller man’s spine would break. Dunbar ducked and punched, rolling his assailant over one shoulder to hit the ground with a thud and then dropping knee-first onto the downed man’s chest.
The fight was over in less than a minute.
“Leave the newcomers alone tonight and I’ll make sure a healer takes the sting out of those blisters on your head,” the bald man said, barely concealing his own laughter. Stefan glowered but turned away, trudging to his bunk where he glowered at the newcomers.
Blaine gave the bald man a curt nod of thanks, and headed warily toward the bunks in the back. Verran sported a newly blackened eye, but otherwise looked entirely too pleased with himself. He claimed a bunk, eyed the straw and decided the extra warmth and questionable comfort was worth the possibility of contagion, and sat down with his back to the wall.
He and his shipmates were exhausted, but no one wanted to risk going to sleep while so many of the others were awake. Not after the rough welcome they had received. We’ll be catching shit for weeks since we’re new here, Blaine thought resignedly. As if it isn’t going to be hard enough.
Stefan and his gang of supporters were on the far side of the barracks. Blaine doubted they had seen the last of him, and suspected that Stefan’s loss would just make revenge a higher priority. Verran appeared unconcerned. He sank down cross-legged and began to play quietly on his pennywhistle.
Garrick and Dunbar and several of the other men from the Cutlass began a game of dice. Toward the front of the barracks, another group went back to the card game the newcomers’ arrival had interrupted. Blaine found his attention wandering too much to suit betting, so he leaned against the bunk and observed their new companions.
Twenty of the men from the Cutlass had been assigned to the second floor of the barracks, and Blaine presumed that the other twenty were on another floor. This floor had room for forty men. That meant there were equal numbers new men and old-timers, which boded in Blaine’s groups’ favor.
Stefan, Verran’s enemy, and his knot of supporters sat together playing cards. The bald man who had intervened in the fight was trading off-color jokes with two of the other prisoners. A few of the men in the front of the room lay on their bunks, not asleep but taking no part in what went on around them.
Blaine looked up as a tall man headed toward them. The man had dark hair, a hawk-like nose and piercing blue eyes. He kept his hands open and out to the side, showing that he intended no harm.
“Garrick!” the tall man said. “Didn’t know if you recognized me, back there before the scuffle.” Garrick stared at the man for a minute before recognition dawned. To Blaine’s relief, Garrick grinned. “Dawe Killick! As I live and breathe! I knew you disappeared, but how in Torven’s name did you end up here?”
Dawe glanced around at the others, realizing he was on their side of the room. “Mind if I sit down?”
Verran gestured magnanimously, as if the question was directed at him. “Sure, mate. Have a seat. Unless you’re a music hater,” he added, with a glare.
Dawe eyed the pennywhistle askance. “Fine with me. Just keep it down, or you might get more attention than you bargained for.”
Verran sniffed. “No one appreciates musicians,” he muttered, and went
back to his jaunty tavern ditty.
“So Garrick,” Dawe said. “What got you sent up here?”
Garrick grimaced. “We had a wet spring, and the crops didn’t come in well. Couldn’t make enough money to pay my debts. My whore-spawned neighbor took everything—my land, my cows, and my house. My wife and daughter went to live with her folks, but the neighbor wanted his coin as well as what he stole from me, so he took me to court.” He shrugged. “And here I am. You?”
Dawe sighed and then pulled at his sleeve, revealed an ‘M’ branded on his forearm, just like the one that marked Blaine as a murderer.
Garrick’s eyes widened. “Truly? Who’d you kill?”
Dawe gave him a look. “No one. I was set up. My wife—may her soul rot in Raka—was having an affair with the other silversmith in Castle Reach. I’d had a pretty public row with a client who didn’t pay his bill. Then all of a sudden, that client turns up dead, and my wife and my rival supply enough ‘evidence’ to hang me.” He shrugged. “I guess they needed smiths in Velant, so they exiled me instead—although it’s a big difference making horseshoes compared to tea pots!”
Garrick clapped him on the shoulder. “Ah well, look at the bright side,” the red-haired man said. “At least you don’t have to run into your wife up here on another man’s arm!” He guffawed at his own joke. “Here—meet a few of my shipmates,” he said. “That’s Blaine, and Dunbar, and Verran’s the one with the whistle.”
“So I figured, when Stefan went after his hide,” Dawe observed drily. He dropped his voice. “Stefan’s a little tetched. Don’t poke at him,” he warned Verran.
“You don’t need to tell me he’s tetched,” Verran replied. “He’s still sore over losing coins that wouldn’t even pay for a couple of tankards of ale!”
Dawe looked as if he doubted that was the total of what Verran had ‘stolen’ from Stefan, but said nothing. “Stefan’s got his followers, but the rest of the group is all right, most of the time.”
“Who’s the bald one?” Blaine asked. “He’s got an unusual sense of humor.” He glanced over to where the man was telling bawdy jokes that grew more obscene—and implausible—with each new example.
“That’s Piran Rowse,” Dawe replied. “Court-martialed. Must have been bad, because he won’t say why. But he’s great at knocking heads together, and he doesn’t suffer fools gladly. He tends to keep the others in line, if they don’t relish a slap to the side of the head.” He gave Blaine and the others a warning glance. “Just don’t play him at cards.”
“What about the rest of them?” Garrick asked.
Dawe shrugged. “Thieves and roustabouts, drunkards and deserters, along with some brawlers and smugglers. Donderath didn’t want us, but even King Merrill has a limit to how many of us he can kill.”
“What about the work details?” Blaine asked. “What’s going to happen tomorrow?”
“If you look like you can take it, they’ll put you in the mines,” Dawe said. “Unless you’ve got some kind of skill—like blacksmithing, woodworking, or doctoring animals. The women get sent to the kitchens and the laundries—the only men allowed for that are the hunters’ trail cooks and the tailors who keep the army in uniforms. Without a skill, you’re just a beast of burden.” He rolled his eyes. “On the other hand, they can’t kill us off too fast, or Prokief won’t make his quota of goods to send back, and the king will take notice.”
“So Prokief’s accountable to King Merrill?” Blaine pressed.
Dawe gave him an odd look, as if the question wasn’t the sort he expected from a convict. “In a way,” he said carefully. “Merrill doesn’t care whether we live or die—as long as too many of us don’t die all at once,” he added. “Velant’s got to earn its keep. Donderath pays the soldiers to keep them from revolting, or deserting, and they pay the ships to bring prisoners up and take cargo back. And it’s the cargo—rubies and herring—that Merrill cares about. So in a way, Prokief needs us if he doesn’t want trouble from the king.” He gave a jaded smile. “He just doesn’t need any individual one of us much at all, so long as there are enough bodies to do the work.”
“If we’re sent to the mines, do we stay there?” Dunbar asked.
Dawe shook his head. “No. Work shifts rotate. Right now, it’s coming into winter with the long dark. Fishing is better in the summer. If the herring are plentiful, they’ll run the ships in two shifts and need the colonists plus the prisoners to man the boats and process the catch.” He wrinkled his nose. “Nothing smells as bad as the herring boats. Not even the latrines.”
“And the farms?” Garrick asked.
“Not much to do in the winter except tend the livestock,” Dawe replied. “And they’re choosy about who gets to do that. There have been…problems…on occasion. Some people here are sick bastards. And it’s hard enough not losing the lambs, calves, kids, and foals given how cold it is in the spring. That’s one place where they’ll let a little magic slide, if you can doctor the animals.”
“And people?”
Dawe’s expression hardened. “Not so much. Prokief’s got his warden-mages. They keep a tight rein on the magic. Most of the time if you get hurt, you’re on your own.”
Most of the time, Blaine thought. There’s more he’s not telling, until he knows he can trust us. Interesting.
Garrick and Dawe got talking about the old days. From what Blaine gathered, Garrick had been a regular at the Rooster and Pig, a favorite bar down near the Castle Reach waterfront known for its excellent bitterbeer. Before his exile, Garrick had been one of the harbor city’s more successful peddlers, with a donkey cart from which he sold everything from tin pots to fabric, tools to trinkets. He traded with the sailors for the exotic wares they brought from distant shores, and turned a tidy profit reselling those items to the residents of the city, until his temper got the best of him one too many times.
“I don’t blame Engraham,” Garrick said, naming the Rooster and Pig’s owner. “It wasn’t the first time I busted up the place. And it might have been the guards who happened to be on duty that day. But the next thing I knew, I was in front of a tribunal and then on a ship to the end of the world.”
“You’re not the only one with a story like that,” Dawe said. “And I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Prokief offers a bounty on certain types of prisoners, ones who can do the work or have skills we’re short of up here.” He grimaced. “And women. If you hadn’t noticed, they’re in short supply, but the colony needs them to survive.”
Blaine leaned forward. “You think Prokief is paying the guards for prisoners?”
Dawe looked over his shoulder, as if aware that the conversation had entered a dangerous turn. “I can’t prove it. But I’ve heard bits and pieces, and from what I’ve seen in the time I’ve been here, I think it’s possible. Not just for prisoners—for prisoners with certain talents or skills, people who can keep this place functioning.”
Blaine took a deep breath as the implications sank in. The ships come from Donderath every few months. It wouldn’t be hard for Prokief to send instructions for the sailors to pass along to the guards in port, and some of those guards are bound to be friends of the guards at the prison. Prokief’s probably got supporters back home—he was a military hero—and likely a friend or two among the judges. Wouldn’t be hard to trump up charges against someone, and who’s going to go against the guard’s word?
His attention came back as Garrick was filling Dawe in on the men who had come from the Cutlass. “Not a bad bunch in our group, considering,” Garrick said. He looked behind him to make sure Coan and his cronies were out of earshot. “That big guy,” he said with a nod of his head to indicate who he meant. “Coan. He and his buddies are trouble.”
“I figured,” Dawe replied, “since he looks like someone busted his nose recently.”
“Yesterday,” Garrick said with a pointed look in Blaine’s direction. “For good reason.”
“Undoubtedly,” Dawe said, with an appraising look
at Blaine.
“I don’t know everyone who got assigned to this barracks,” Garrick said. “But Jaston and Hort were fishermen who lost their boat in a storm and couldn’t pay their debts,” he said with a glance toward two sandy-haired men who looked like brothers. “Kurt ran the betting games at the Wicked Goat until the owner found out how much of the winnings he was skimming.” Not surprising, the Wicked Goat was a rough bar in a bad part of Castle Reach known for cheap liquor and poxy whores.
“Ernest was a longshoreman with a weakness for stealing from the cargo,” Garrick added, nodding toward a large, dark-haired man with tattoos on his thick neck. “Carl and Jame were butchers who got caught stealing horses for meat.” He looked over to a knot of men rolling dice. “Edger, Torr, and Bickel over there worked at the shipworks. Torr was a wagon driver, and the other two did some carpentry work, if I recall. No idea what got them sent here, but all it takes is pissing off the wrong person,” he added.
“Coan and those five who toady after him were ruffians, members of the Red Blades gang,” Verran supplied. “You don’t need to remember their names; just remember that they’re trouble.”
“Then there’ll be blood, because three of our group were Curs before they got sent here, and I know there are Badgers in some of the other barracks,” Dawe said in a low tone. Castle Reach, the capital of Donderath, was home to a wide range of residents, from the well-appointed villas and comfortable homes of the merchants and sea captains at the top of the hill below Quillarth Castle’s walls, down to the gritty harbor front and its cramped tenements. In the worst of the ginnels and closes where the desperate struggled to survive, gangs like the Curs, Red Blades, and Badgers fought for scarce resources and offered bare-knuckles protection. Old grudges and long-standing vendettas among the gangs were common.
Arctic Prison: King's Convicts I Page 4
