by Aaron Pogue
The jailers checked the lock on Corin’s door, and all the others’, too, but they seemed easily satisfied. They soon resumed their places by the gate, half-turned to watch the landing and the prisoners at once. Corin waved to them, then took a seat on his narrow cot and leaned his back against the wall, trying hard to look completely unambitious.
Kellen interrupted his pretense. “He means it, you know. You would not be the first to rot, forgotten, in these cells. You should have taken his offer.”
“I have no faith in the promises of Ephitel.”
“Do you hold hope the druids will come save you? They can’t. They have no access to these dungeons.”
Corin shook his head. “They wouldn’t even try.”
Kellen nodded slowly. “So you hoped to escape on your own?”
“I did,” Corin said. “But this is no easy prison to escape. Even without the fortified courtyard up above, every landing on the stair is a guarded checkpoint.”
“As I said, you should have taken Ephitel’s offer.”
Corin had no answer. The yeoman fell silent for a while, but he was clearly troubled. He wrung his hands and shifted on his cot, then finally he spoke again. “Why did you ask for me?”
Corin shrugged. “You do not deserve to be here.”
“You do not know me. You could have asked for more in gold. Why speak my name?”
Corin turned to face him for a moment. The pirate sighed. “I have a special fondness for anyone despised by tyrants. Such men are my friends, even if I do not know them yet.”
Kellen nodded slowly over Corin’s words. He stared at his hands, then gave a smirk. “You should not have asked for Avery. Even Avery agrees.”
“I need Avery.”
“For a thousand pistoles, you could have bought a better man and changed his name.”
Corin laughed. “It doesn’t matter. Ephitel would not have paid. I would rot down here no matter what I said.”
“How can you know that?”
“You heard his words. He wants a secret from me, and it is not a secret he can risk out in the world.”
Kellen chuckled, though there was no joy in the sound. “It is a poor secret if he discusses it where we all can hear.”
Corin held his eyes for a moment, then repeated what the yeoman had told them in the carriage. “No one leaves the lord protector’s dungeons.” The pirate glanced toward the wardens and frowned. “Although this does not look good for them.”
Kellen shook his head. “He might just trust that we don’t understand. I heard his words, but they meant nothing to me. I barely grasp what’s going on.”
“You heard how freely Ephitel defies the king.”
“Yes, but I cannot guess why.”
“Then I will tell you,” Corin said. “Ephitel seeks dwarven powder. Do you know what that is for?”
“Everyone knows. It’s used in holiday rockets and for excavation. Perhaps Ephitel means at last to carve a road through the Elpan Mountains.”
“Why would he not ask the powder of Oberon then? No. I’ll grant you rockets and excavations, but I’d wager everything he wants it for cannons and guns.”
“Cannons and guns?” Kellen asked, looking confused. “They are not the same? I have heard of cannon…”
“By guns, I mean firearms. Muskets. Flintlock pistols.” The bafflement on the yeoman’s face told Corin everything he needed to know.
“You don’t have guns. There are no guns. Yet. Oh, gods’ blood!” Corin hissed. “Ephitel is bringing guns to Jezeeli! That is how he means to overthrow the king.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Horror gripped Corin at the thought. He hated guns almost as much as he hated Ephitel. The one was distant and terrible, the other sharp and close at hand. If ever a weapon had been made to kill a god, surely it was the flintlock musket. He shuddered at the thought.
It changed nothing. That thought alone comforted him. His only goal was to go back home. He’d made a promise to share the news, and now the news grew far more grim, but he had every hope of being gone before Ephitel could kill the king. Delaen had said it would take weeks or months to spend the writs of provender. That was more than time enough.
He took a calming breath and turned his attention back to their escape. Throughout it all he kept his eyes upon the wardens, but for now, at least, their attentions were still fixed upon the outer landing. By all appearances they trusted the cells to hold the prisoners. Still, Corin lowered his voice to something just above a whisper. “We must get to the king. Do you have any friends among the guards?”
Kellen shook his head. “You’ve heard how they consider me.”
“We may be running thin on fortune. This is a tougher dungeon than I’ve faced before, and we are out of allies.”
The silence stretched out for a while. When Kellen spoke again, Corin barely heard the whisper. “Come closer to my cell. Show me your wrists.”
Corin did as he was told, scooting closer to the wall between the two cells. He felt a spark of hope as soon as he understood. The elven knots that only Kellen could undo! Ephitel had placed his trust in them.
And, as it happened, he had placed too little suspicion on Yeoman Kellen. Corin watched, astonished, as Kellen drew a heavy knife from his belt. The yeoman breathed some quiet word in his own tongue, then sliced through the unyielding cord as though it were cobweb. As Corin’s bindings fell away, the pirate caught the soldier by his sleeve. “And Avery as well.”
Kellen shook his head.
“We cannot do this without Avery,” Corin insisted. “I need his help.”
Kellen frowned, but at last he nodded. Corin nodded back. “Good. See to that, but not right now. They will watch with some suspicion for an hour, but then they’ll settle in for the long wait. That is when we move.”
Kellen’s eyes darted to the guards. His hands shook. “I cannot wait that long.”
“You can,” Corin said. “Be valiant as your father was. For Oberon!”
It was a gamble, but it worked. Some spark of noble pride flared in the yeoman’s eyes, and he nodded.
“Good,” Corin said. “In half an hour—”
A shout from one of the wardens interrupted him. “You two! Break it up!”
Corin glanced that way, then slunk back to his cot with his wrists still close together. The warden still stared at him, suspicious. Corin shrugged and showed a sheepish grin. “I thought perhaps a member of the Guard might know how to escape this place.”
In his cell, Kellen gasped, but the warden merely laughed. “You picked the runt of the litter, but even old man Bryer here couldn’t help you. There’s no way out but up!”
He rang his sword against the metal bars of the landing gate, and the clatter that it made echoed in the narrow dungeon.
The older of the two, sharp-faced Bryer, caught the other guard a lazy backhand. “To your post,” he growled. “And you! Keep still and keep to yourself. That goes for all of you. I’ve never yet earned the lord protector’s ire, and I don’t intend to do it over such a sorry lot.”
Corin shrugged again and settled back against the wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kellen’s nervous expression. Corin made calming gestures, all composed, then closed his eyes to slits and, minutes later, started snoring.
It was a good snore, starting low and irregular but building over time. Soon the stone walls growled with it. Corin kept it up for five minutes, maybe ten, then cut the snores abruptly short. Silence fell across the dungeons, broken only by a relieved sigh from somewhere down the line. The pirate let the silence spin out, heartbeat after heartbeat, then he smashed it with a snnrkkrt.
Warden Bryer snapped. He bellowed, “Cut that out!” and hurled a battered tin cup at Corin’s head. Its handle clanked against the bars as it was passing through, or it would have caught Corin just above the ear. Instead, it skipped off the ground with a whining ting and leaped right into his cot.
“No more snoring!” Bryer yelled. “No more! If I
have to carve your flesh to keep you awake, I will. I swear by postulates and proofs!”
Corin blinked as though through bleary eyes and offered his jailer an apologetic shrug. Then he shifted in his cot, sinking down to a more comfortable position—wrapping his body around the tin cup as he did so—and pretended to settle into a gentler doze.
The snore was mostly meant to rattle nerves, and it had certainly done that. It was a trick he’d learned from Sleepy Jim and, with time enough, it almost always drew a similar effect. The tin cup had merely been a lucky break. Luckier still that Bryer’s aim had damaged it, because Corin had little trouble prying at the cheap, twisted metal of the handle until it came loose. That gave him a tool. With time and care, he could make a decent lockpick of the thing or sharpen its edge into a decent shiv.
For now, Corin simply needed the weight. He snuggled under his cloak, pulling it tight around him, then reached into the lining of his cloak and worried free the end of a long, thin wrapped wire that Ephitel’s jailers had overlooked. He drew it out, inches at a time, until he had a cord most of four paces long.
He tied one end around the weight of the cup’s handle, then looped some of the rest around his wrists, a crude disguise to imitate the elven knot. The larger loops he tucked beneath his arm where the cloak would hide it well.
Then he judged it time to act. He struggled upright, swayed for a moment, then found his feet. With his hands close together, near his waist as though they were still bound, he moved to the cell door and shouted. “Jailer!”
The younger one met Corin’s eyes and gave a lazy blink, but otherwise they made no response.
“Jailer!” Corin called again. “I would have a word.”
“You would have a bruise,” Warden Bryer barked. “Take a seat and get back to your rotting.”
Corin cursed. There was nothing he could do from this distance. While he was still searching for some plea that might draw a jailer over, Avery shouted from down the line. “His hands are free! Look, guards! Use your eyes! His hands are free now. Stop him!”
That caught their attention, but not in the way Corin had hoped. The younger jailer grabbed his sword and dashed toward Corin’s cage, but old man Bryer held his place at the outer gate. He reached beneath the table there and brought out a loaded crossbow.
Corin cursed. He’d hoped for shock, a quick attack against one guard that might have won him a hostage. But Avery had helped—gods bless him—and now Corin had one blade coming at him and a heavy crossbow bolt on its way. He had to act. He stabbed his arms between the bars of his cage and snapped his wrist, casting the little bit of tin out in a tight arc behind the charging guard. He threw it low so the wire curled around behind the jailer’s knees, and when the bit of tin came back around, Corin caught it in his other hand. With one end of the wire in each hand, he planted his feet, gripped tight, and dove away from the cell’s door.
He twisted as he flew, trying to see how Bryer had reacted. The hardened guard had not wasted a moment on panic. He’d drawn the bow, and when he saw Corin’s flashing arm, he fired.
But he hadn’t anticipated Corin’s backward dive. Corin watched the heavy bolt flash past his nose and smash to pieces on the wall above his cot. Bryer bent immediately to load another bolt, but Corin couldn’t watch. The wire jerked taut, digging into Corin’s callused palms, but it transferred the full force of Corin’s dive into the backs of the jailer’s knees. Already rushing at full tilt, the sudden tug upended him, and he fell in a clatter of armor and sword that ended with a noisy crash against the bars of Corin’s cell.
Corin dropped the wire and rolled away from where it had fallen. A moment later, another crossbow bolt ricocheted off the stone floor and clanged between the bars and into Kellen’s cell. The yeoman had the sense to duck. He cowered in one corner, as far from the fight as he could get, but Avery was on his feet, leaning against the bars of his cage with a fire in his eyes. The gentleman rogue stared down the hall at old man Bryer.
And in his right hand, he held Kellen’s knife.
Corin shouted, “No!” but not in time. Avery’s arm extended with a fluid grace, sharp-edged steel flashed by torchlight, and the heavy knife buried itself to the hilt in Bryer’s gut. It was a perfect toss, with all the cool precision of a dedicated enthusiast, demonstrating relentless hours spent in the practice yard attacking training dummies.
It was also a violation of a Nimble Fingers law: never kill a hired guard. Avery himself had set that law, though clearly that had come with later experience. A closer look told Corin that his hero had broken another law with that throw as well: if you must kill at all, kill fast and clean. Black blood stained the warden’s belt and leggings, but it was not a gush, and he was still moving.
Corin cursed and scrabbled over to the younger jailer, unconscious in a heap against his door. The pirate kicked the warden’s sword away, then heaved him up to tear the keys from his belt. Behind him, Avery let loose a sickened cry.
Corin looked over at Bryer again, but the old warden was slumped against the wall. His arm twitched, and Corin realized with a start that, even with a palm’s length of steel in his gut, Bryer was readying another shot.
Corin wasted just one try before he found the key to open his door. The lock gave a noisy clank as it turned, and across the narrow hall, Maurelle let out a muted cheer. But Corin had no time to celebrate. He shoved the door and the fallen jailer aside with a mighty heave, then he dashed across the gap. He dropped into a slide as Bryer raised the crossbow, then snapped a kick that tore the weapon from his hands even as Bryer pulled the trigger.
The bolt buzzed past Corin’s ear. His own weight bowled him into the bleeding guard, and Corin rolled, springing up top of him. Then the pirate did with two vicious blows what Avery’s well-thrown knife had not accomplished.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Panting, lungs and throat both burning, Corin found his feet. He moved with practiced efficiency, checking pulses, searching for weapons, and sliding the bodies out of sight. The crossbow lay in pieces where it had smashed against the wall, but Corin stole the younger soldier’s rapier and scooped up Kellen’s from where Ephitel had dropped it.
The younger jailer was still breathing, though he showed no signs of waking soon. Corin dragged him to the farthest cell and bound him with the shackles he removed from Maurelle’s wrists. Then he locked the door, recovered his lockpicks and other effects from the table in the corner, and turned his attention to the other men.
Avery still leaned against the bars, where he had been when he threw the knife. But he had fallen to his knees, and he was trembling. The fancy gentleman had gone all pale, and he was gibbering beneath his breath.
Corin turned the key in his cell door and approached to lay a hand on his shoulder. “It’s easy to call a man a coward who hesitates to do what you’ve just done,” Corin said.
Avery turned his stricken gaze to Corin. Tears shone in his eyes.
Corin nodded. “Then you do it once, and you think differently. Stick to sleight of hand. Leave the murder to crooks and kings.”
Avery flinched at the word murder, but a moment later he drew a shuddering breath and began to pull himself together. Corin left him to that task and went to gather Kellen.
To his surprise, the yeoman was in no such state. Perhaps his face was paler, perhaps his brow a little drawn, but he accepted his sword belt calmly and buckled it around his waist. “Corin, take the lead. You three go in single file. Pretend your wrists are bound. I’ll come along behind like I’m your escort. My uniform should be enough to get us past the other wardens as long as we move quickly.”
He stopped talking when he noticed the surprise on Corin’s face. The yeoman nodded in recognition and said simply, “For the king.”
“For the king,” Corin echoed. He turned to Maurelle and Avery. “Are you ready?”
They nodded, though without much vigor. Gone was the naive thrill that had lit the lady’s eyes. Gone the condescending pride that
had stiffened the lord’s spine. Now they both looked apprehensive of the real risks they faced. But neither one broke down. Neither one gave up.
Corin offered them a soldier’s salute, then turned and led them away. He held his breath as they approached the first landing, every muscle tensed, and he jumped when Kellen shouted from below him, “Prisoner transfer! Three to go before the king!”
But the wardens at their stations merely turned away when they saw the yeoman’s uniform. Up and out the prisoners marched, unchallenged even when they left the carriage yard. Someone called a gibe at Kellen, but he went stoically ahead, and somehow, as a brilliant dawn exploded over the strange city, Corin found himself at liberty upon the palace grounds.
They left the cobbled, siegeproof prison yard and emerged into a wider barracks, surrounded on all sides by a high stone wall lined with long, low buildings and spotted with roped-off yards where soldiers trained in combat. Kellen led them on a beeline across the barracks and toward another inner gate in the stone wall. The silver palace climbed high into the sky just beyond that wall.
But when they passed through the arch, they stepped into a luscious garden. Living things were everywhere, bright and beautiful and dancing to a gentle song woven of a thousand pleasant noises. Water rolled and leaves fluttered and singing birds gave voice. It was a park drawn out of dreams.
Corin could scarce enjoy it. His eyes darted, searching ceaselessly for some sign of threat. He sought the palace, too, expecting another carriage yard or some broad, marbled boulevard approaching its high doors. Then, through a gap in the thick green canopy above, he happened to glance up and see the shining gold-and-silver walls directly overhead.
He jerked his gaze back down, expecting to see walls within a pace or two, but there was only the flowered path. On the left, a handful of lords and ladies lounged around a quiet pool fed by a babbling brook. Ahead and to the right, a pair of guards in uniform stood in quiet conversation, but they paid the prisoners no mind.
They left the sentry guards behind, and when Corin judged it safe, he slowed his pace so he could ask Maurelle, “Where is the palace?”
