by Jack Lovejoy
Maybe because it was in so remote a quarter of the city. In any case, with so much to steal, it could not be long until the thieves did arrive. What he wanted now was some place where they had already been—and gone. The most plundered, ravaged, burned-out quarter in what remained of Kazerclawm. One of the poorer quarters, where there had been little to steal in the first place. There was not much time. Discipline was gradually being reimposed on the invaders; their captains would soon have patrols combing the ruins for survivors and hoards of valuables, if they had not done so already.
Only haphazard attempts to check the spread of fire were being made so far, but the frontier architecture of stone, glazed brick, and tile was not the material of conflagration, so the burning was still localized. Fortunately there was no wind. The pall, of smoke hung denser and denser in the streets; the sun was but a dull red glow in the morning sky, the Kazerclaw only a vague shadow.
All the better, thought Cajhet, as he skulked down a deserted back alley. He was not comfortable with his apparel—especially its smell—and did not want to get too close to any real desert marauders. Those he spotted in the distance seemed mere phantoms, shadowy and faceless. They ignored him—if they saw him at all—and he avoided them.
When night came, he would find some means of lowering himself from the city wall, although he did not like the idea of traveling after dark. He had heard tales of nasty reptiles, some with weird magical powers, creeping out of their caves then, hungry for prey. But there were too many bandits and city criminals here in Kazerclawm who would recognize him, no matter how he was dressed. Those he had declawed over the years, on orders from the tribunal, would be especially happy to meet him now.
No, even liskash were a likelier prospect. There would be peril for only the first night or two on the road, in any case. Once ensconced inside the impregnable walls of Ar, it should not take him long to wrangle another snug berth for himself. He had been doing it since he first left the great port of Namakhazar, on the boundless Southern Sea, to join the army, when still a kit. The tales he had heard while growing up there—pirates, sea monsters, shipwreck, chartless islands ruled by magical reptiles or cannibals—had not encouraged him to follow the traditional calling of a seafarer. Nor had his peculiar home life. The farther inland, the better. Then, as now.
The bodies littering the streets prompted stealth. The fate of those still alive, who made the mistake of groaning or crying out in agony, was a dramatic lesson in silence. The torment of captives, especially those found wounded, was an art form among desert marauders, and bandits and renegade highlanders alike were merciless toward anybody they thought was withholding money or valuables from them. They too had strange ideas about entertainment.
At last Cajhet came to a neighborhood that seemed utterly deserted. The narrow winding streets led nowhere; a few shops had been broken into, a few burned-out houses still smoldered; but there was little here worth stealing, and the wily inhabitants seemed to have fled betimes. The only corpse he came upon sat hunched in a doorway, across the street from a house that had burned to the ground.
Or was it a corpse? In fact, it seemed familiar. He approached the doorway on tiptoe, and leaned over to get a better look at its face.
The next instant he had a sword at his throat, with barely presence of mind enough to howl, “Branwe, Branwe, Branwe,” over and over again. “It’s me, Cajhet.”
Branwe pulled back his hood and examined him, before lowering his sword. “You caught me asleep, Cajhet. Not that it matters any more where I get my throat cut, or by whom.” His eyes were bloodshot from weeping, his shoulders slumped, and his sword arm hung limply at his side, as he gazed forlornly across the street. “She never got out alive. How beautiful she was, Cajhet. How gentle and kind, even to a humble potboy at an inn. I suppose the Blue Dragon is gone now too. Grujekh and dear Mamre took me in as a kit, and raised me like their own: I know I should be concerned about them, and of course I pray they escaped in time, but right now I can’t think of anything but poor Srana.” He blinked at the tears welling in his eyes. “She never got out alive.”
The soft-hearted Cajhet was so moved by the boy’s distress that he momentarily forgot even his own comfort and wellbeing. “She must have. I just saw her,” he blurted out, and immediately regretted it. “That is, I mean, let’s hope she escaped—.”
“No, no,” cried Branwe, “you said you just saw her. Where?
You must tell me. Please.”
Cajhet, old dodger that he was, saw all too well what was coming, and hedged and lied and concealed; but Branwe was relentless, and at last it all came out.
“You must help me rescue her,” he cried, just as Cajhet knew he would. “Will they put her down in the dungeon? Or keep her somewhere else in the fortress? Wherever it is, we’ll find her. Come, we must hurry!”
“We?”
Against his better judgment, Cajhet found himself being hurried back in the last direction in the world he wanted to go. Not for the first time had his soft-heartedness landed him in a mess. But how could he refuse to help Branwe, who had gotten him so many free drinks when he was broke, who had saved him from so many thrashings? Yes, he could get them back into the dungeons all right. But could he get himself out again? The question of questions.
He hoped to find looters in the old pump house, cutting off any means of descending unseen into the dungeons, and giving him a fair excuse for cutting out. But it was not so. There were in fact no stragglers at all in this quarter of the city.
“I heard sounds of battle near the Watersmeet Gate earlier this morning,” said Branwe, as they picked their way through the crates, kegs, and bales of wholesale goods. “The garrison troops may have been making a last stand, or maybe a counterattack. I suppose the marauders were drawn from all over the city. That should make it easier for us to escape, after we rescue Srana.”
Cajhet started to enlighten him about the difficulties ahead, but only sneezed, then sneezed again. Not all of the spice from the keg he had tipped over earlier had yet settled out of the air. Branwe also sneezed.
It was pitch black inside the old cistern; nor dared they light a lantern. Alone, Branwe might have wandered for hours through the vast artificial caverns, but Cajhet took him by the hand, and led the way unerringly through the blackness, until at last his eyes, their pupils dilated to the utmost, detected light.
“I don’t know where she is down here,” whispered Cajhet, “or even if she’s down here at all. They might have locked her up somewhere else in the fortress.”
Sneezes and Green Light
SRANA WOULD in fact probably have been lodged in special quarters elsewhere in the fortress, if the cunning Maglakh had not needed her so urgently down in the dungeons. Neither he nor anybody else knew what had become of Khal, but he had a vivid appreciation—so far only from hearsay—of what the liskash sorcerer was capable of in one of his blind vindictive rages. But that was vivid enough for him, and the forestalling of any such outburst was now his priority of priorities.
Maglakh could certainly not be blamed for the military strategem that had brought thousands of villagers and citizens, most of the garrison, and all the White Dancers safely out of the city. Nor could he be faulted for the brilliant rear guard action that had foiled pursuit until it was too late. But if he could present Khal with the granddaughter of the Sentinel—a White Dancer no less—his own failure to deliver the Sentinel himself for vengeance might be overlooked. After all, he was the one who got the Third Eye smuggled into Khal in the first place.
The trouble was that Severakh now lay in mortal danger of bleeding to death; he had not expected to be taken alive, and all his wounds were in front. Only because he had been clubbed down from behind was he alive at all. But for how much longer? Should Khal learn that Severakh too had escaped his vengeance, be might forget in his rage those who had helped him emerge from entombment.
“She
’s a healer,” he explained to the captain of the guard.
“Put her in the same dungeon with old Severakh. If his wounds can be stanched at all, she can do it. Should he die while in your hands, the escape of the garrison may be remembered.
The captain, a grisly old bandit chief, was already apprehensive about reprisals for that blunder, as well as for the grim number of casualties inflicted by a tiny rear guard—veritable hordes stymied for hours by a mere handful of regular troops—while thousands of prize captives escaped. The Eastern Lords would be merciless in affixing the blame. He agreed at once.
Srana recognized the old warrior lying on a cot the moment she entered his cell. The door clanged shut behind her, and they were alone. He had his eyes closed, but she saw that he was still conscious, although a shadow of the stout figure she was accustomed to seeing command the martial dances at festival time. The filthy blanket thrown over him was soaked through with blood.
“Let me die in peace,” he muttered as she drew it back.
“The cowards hit me from behind, or they never would have taken me alive. Don’t bother, lass. Nothing can save me now. I don’t want to be saved.”
Ignoring his protests, she concentrated all the magic of her healing powers on dancing the flesh around his wounds, the gravest first, then one by one those less threatening. Twice he swooned from exhaustion; but at last the bleeding stopped, and she summoned the new turnkey.
This was none other than the hookpurse Fefo, the most villainous rogue she had ever seen. Bandages? Ointment? Clean water? Then she wanted a rich broth that the governor himself might have relished. Ordinarily her requests would have been met only with crude sarcasm; then threats and curses, if she persisted. But the captain of the guard had ordered him—with threats and curses of his own—to give her anything she wanted, and he complied.
“Thanks are due, lass,” Severakh said weakly, when she had finished spooning him the last of the broth. “It would be mean-spirited to deny them. But I’m not sure my life is really worth saving. I’ve long known that a wizard of The Three resided here, on some special mission. You were pointed out to me one day as his nurse. You’re his daughter, aren’t you?”
“Granddaughter. He’s dead now.” She lowered her eyes. Severakh did not comment. He knew what was in store for both of them, for all the captives imprisoned down here. There were hundreds, mostly soldiers; they were now being marched up the stairs in batches to execution, and there was nothing he could do to save a single one of them. Any more than he could help himself, or this charming, lovely shemrem who had preserved his life. They would be fortunate to die as easily as the soldiers, although he didn’t tell her this. No point in frightening the poor child.
There was something sardonic in the way that their jailer, a common hookpurse, accommodated all their wishes. That could only mean that they were being reserved for special punishment, more terrible than mere execution. The reptilian minds of the Eastern Lords—there was no direct evidence, but he was sure they were ultimately behind the sack of Kazerclawm—were cruel and vindictive. It was their policy that none who offended them died easily.
What was their policy in this case? That he himself would be consigned to torment was a thing foredoomed. All that was left to him now was to hope that this innocent kit would not suffer a like fate. True, wizards were distrusted by the common folk: he knew of cases where they had been stoned to death, even burned alive. But such hatred seldom descended upon the wizard’s family, and the female’s only magical powers seemed to be those of a healer. Besides, she was a Dancer. Perhaps she had been brought here only to keep him alive. He hoped so. It was agony even to think about so lovely and innocent a child being subjected to torment.
“What’s the point in another load?” Cajhet protested, weary and out of breath. “And please don’t ask me again. Do you think I’d break my back like this if there was any shorter way to the armory? These old cisterns weren’t dug for our convenience, you know.”
“These will have to do.” Branwe silently unloaded the bundle of swords and pikes, the third they had hauled the long roundabout way through the cisterns. “The problem is still to find some way to get the soldiers out of their cells.”
“Better solve it quick,” whispered Cajhet, nervous at finding himself so close to the dungeons again, “or there won’t be any more soldiers to get anywhere.”
“That’s at least the fourth batch they’ve marched upstairs.”
Branwe peered out of the dark cavern at the remotest cell in the entire block, now empty. “Where are they taking them?”
Cajhet silently drew a finger across his throat.
“But where have they taken Srana?” muttered Branwe.
“You’re sure this is the only way we can reach the fortress?”
“Unless you can figure out some way of opening the door at the top of the armory staircase. It’s bolted on the outside, with a guard posted. There’s no key.”
“What about the keys to these cells?”
“Never let ‘em out of my sight, when I was on duty.
Somebody down here must have ‘em, so’s he can let these poor soldiers out of their cells, to get their throats cut.”
“Does this tunnel lead to the main cell block? I’ll try to get a look at who’s got the keys—”
“Hold on, lad.” Cajhet slipped off his boots. “This is more in my line. I’ve met some who could outfight me—quite a few, in fact—but none who could outsneak me. My own mother said I was a born sneak, and developed as I grew older. But let’s not talk about Mother.” He sighed. “Too many people used to do that. Wait here.”
He was back within minutes, silent and thoughtful. “I never expected anything like this,” he muttered. “Even flat on his back he looked mean.”
“Who?”
Cajhet whispered, as if intimidated by the very name:
“Severakh. I saw him in one of the cells.”
“But that’s wonderful. If anybody in the kingdom can get us into the fortress upstairs, it’s old Severakh. It can’t be very well guarded. He might even be able to recapture it. At least, long enough to find where Srana is being kept.”
“No need, lad. She’s being kept in the same cell with—” he lowered his voice again “—Severakh.”
“How many guards are down here?” Branwe had trouble lowering his own voice, in excitement. “Which of them has the keys?”
“An old friend of yours. One who would dearly like to get his claws on both of us. Remember the hookpurse you witnessed against yesterday?”
“Fefo?”
“That’s him.”
“How many other guards are down here?”
“I saw only one more, another hookpurse called Toutou.
There might be others, of course. But I think most of ‘em went upstairs with that last batch of soldiers.” Again he drew a silent finger across his throat.
Branwe gripped his sword. “Then we have to move fast.” “We?”
“I’ll do the fighting. Once I get the keys, I’ll hold whatever other guards are down here at bay, while you open the cells. Take a few swords with you. Maybe we can catch them napping.”
He moved stealthily down the tunnel, with Cajhet a shadow behind him. But it is no easy matter to catch a hookpurse unawares, and he had no sooner leapt into the dim light than he found himself in mortal combat. A glimpse at Srana’s lovely face behind bars distracted him only momentarily, and he dodged one sword thrust and parried another. He knew that he was fighting not just for his own life but hers as well.
The two hookpurses had armed themselves from the choice weapons of the garrison, and also brandished their own daggers. They were both strong and cunning, but neither had mastered technique as had Branwe, nor were they as agile. After the failure of their first murderous passes, they began shouting for help. Answering shouts echoed from the top of the
staircase.
Then all at once Branwe faced only a single opponent.
Somehow Cajhet had sneaked up behind Toutou, and stunned him with the flat of a sword. Fefo turned and raced for the staircase, but Branwe was there first, danced out of the way of a lunge, and drove his own sword into the hookpurse, once more splitting its mended basket.
Tossing the ring of keys to Cajhet, he turned to face the guards charging down the winding staircase. They had the advantage of numbers and momentum; but he knew that Srana’s eyes were on him, and with a quickness and fury that intimidated the grisliest, he drove them back. By the time they rallied, he was no longer alone, and the garrison troops who now attacked them, if less quick, were more experienced fighters. They had seen their comrades driven up these very stairs to be slaughtered like herd-beasts. Not a single marauder escaped their fury.
Meanwhile Cajhet became alarmed that he might be mistaken for a real desert marauder, with fatal consequences, and hurriedly exchanged his smelly rags for his old uniform. One by one he unlocked all the remaining cells in the block, then tried to make himself inconspicuous—especially from Severakh.
“All right, all right.” The old warrior impatiently shook off the hands trying to support him. “I can still stand on my own two feet. Over here, you. Now who are you, and how do you come to know so much about these dungeons?”
“I was the turnkey here, sir.” Cajhet’s voice quavered. “One of the soldiers in my own garrison?” Severakh looked him up and down. “I make a point of knowing all my mrem in person, but I don’t recall ever seeing you before. You can’t have been here long. When were you first posted to my command?”
“Uh, eight years ago, sir.”
