Cold Fury: King's Convicts III

by Gail Z. Martin

  “How did Kestel know so bleedin’ much about the colony?” Piran asked. “She was locked up in here like the rest of us, wasn’t she?”

  Blaine shrugged. “Connections. The kitchen and laundry get shipments of supplies from Bay-town every week. The laundry women aren’t supposed to talk to the wagon drivers, but the guards couldn’t watch them all the time, and Kestel isn’t your average prisoner.” He grinned. “The wagon drivers are the ones bringing us notes from Kestel with every delivery. She’s been working at the Crooked House, getting to know the colonists, and Dawe’s been helping the blacksmith. So we’ll have some extra coin to buy provisions.”

  “A few coins here and there go a long way,” Blaine added. He dropped his voice. “One of the wagon masters brought a map of the open land outside Bay-town with him. Kestel says she’s put a deposit on a good section. Somehow she got the plot she wanted in the lottery. It’s ours as long as we show up with the money and claim it.”

  “Don’t we get a say in this?” Piran asked, raising an eyebrow.

  Verran laughed. “Get used to it, Piran. I used to be a married man. I know how these things work.”

  Piran shot Verran a glare. Blaine suspected that whatever ‘deal’ Kestel had worked out would be very much in their favor. “It would have been nice to be sent to Bay-town in daylight,” Piran fretted.

  “I imagine you could stay here until the seasons changed, if you asked nicely,” Blaine replied in a droll tone.

  “No thanks,” Piran replied. “I’ll be very glad to see Bay-town, no matter the season. But I’m not going to believe we’re really gone until I’m at the Crooked House, having my first real godsdamned whiskey in three and a half years!”

  All around them, the would-be colonists talked in low tones, milling about nervously, anxious to be gone. Blaine wondered if they, too, feared that something might interfere with their departure at the last moment. Gods knew, his dreams had been dark for a week. Each time, he had been about to walk out of the prison’s massive front gate when the portcullis slammed down, cutting him off from the rest of the prisoners, or guards rushed out to seize him alone and drag him back into Velant.

  Just dreams, he told himself. Yet he knew he would not relax until he was in Bay-town and Velant was behind him.

  That was when the guards came.

  “Uh oh,” Piran murmured, directing Blaine’s gaze with a nod of his head. Four of Prokief’s guards were headed in their direction, walking like they had a purpose.

  “Don’t give him a reason to deny your leave,” Blaine said, gripping Piran’s forearm tightly. “If it means taking a beating, take it and keep your damn mouth shut. You’re too close to the end to lose it now. Do you understand?”

  Piran watched tight-lipped as the guards drew closer. “You’re asking a lot.”

  “Swear it!” Blaine whispered.

  “If he doesn’t, I’ll knock him senseless and we’ll sort it out later,” Verran muttered.

  “Kestel swears she’s fixed things. Trust her.” Blaine murmured.

  His heart sank as the guards stopped in front of them. “Rowse. McFadden. Come with us. The warden wants a private word with you.”

  Blaine drew a breath to steady himself and nodded. “All right,” he said. His heart was thudding, and his palms were sweating. His mind jabbered in near-panic, and he struggled to remain outwardly calm. Prokief wants us rattled. Whatever game he’s playing, we give him the advantage if we let him get to us.

  The set of Piran’s jaw and the killing chill in his eyes told Blaine all he needed to know about Piran’s mood. The guard had led them into the massive, ugly stone building where Prokief had his office. It was the only stone building inside the prison walls, Prokief’s own private keep. The squat, hulking structure bore a resemblance to its occupant. Blaine had no doubt it had been intentionally built to intimidate.

  Blaine and Piran said nothing as the guards escorted them through the bleak, featureless corridors. Blaine did his best to keep his expression neutral, hoping he could keep the fear from showing, certain Prokief would see it anyway. Piran looked ready to explode. His hands were balled into fists at his side, white-knuckled, probably clenched hard enough, Blaine thought, for Piran’s nails to draw blood on his palms.

  Piran’s got a temper, but he was an army officer. Let’s hope he’s got some of that discipline left. Otherwise, we’ll be hanging from a gallows by evening bells.

  The guards escorted them in to an office that was sumptuous by Velant standards. Back in Donderath, it would hardly have been remarkable, let alone a sign of high status. But here at the edge of the world, things like carpets, tapestries, and furniture made in Donderath were true luxuries, and few if any other than the prison commander could acquire them.

  “Well, well. Here you are.” Prokief sat behind his desk. He was a bear of a man, with a broad chest, thick neck and powerful shoulders. His war record had won him accolades from King Merrill. His reputation as the ‘Butcher of Breseshwa’ earned him exile in the form of a promotion.

  “You asked to see us, sir?” It stuck in Blaine’s craw to be polite, but he had spent enough time at court to understand the politics of survival. He managed to not grate his teeth on ‘sir’ although he was certain Prokief understood his deception.

  Prokief steepled his fingers, staring at them in silence, a move designed to intimidate. Minutes went by, and Prokief said nothing, ratcheting up the tension. Blaine felt his throat tighten and his stomach clench. It’s a game, Blaine thought. A test. Just one of Prokief’s sadistic little amusements. Dealing with his own father had given Blaine many insights into Prokief’s tactics.

  “Why are you dressed to leave?” Prokief said finally.

  Blaine swallowed down bile. “We’ve earned our Tickets. It’s time for us to go, sir.” He replied, not trusting Piran to speak.

  “Did you receive notice that you had earned your Tickets?” Prokief’s voice was flat. His eyes were cold, unreadable.

  “Yes sir. The guard came to our barracks and read off the list of names,” Blaine answered, hoping his voice sounded carefully neutral.

  “And you thought you heard your names on the list? Interesting.”

  Piran drew a deep breath and held it. Blaine shot him a warning glance. “The guards were quite insistent that we take our things and leave the barracks, ready to go to Bay-town,” Blaine said evenly. Inside, Blaine felt cold panic. This is what Prokief’s wanted all along, the bastard. He’s had it in for Piran and me for a while, and now he’s going to find some half-assed pretense to keep us here while the others go on. He fought down his emotions, hoping that there might yet be a way to win their freedom.

  “You two have been expensive,” Prokief said, his voice a deep bass rumble. “Every time there was trouble, you were there. Cave-ins. Sunken boats. Fires. Wolves. Damage. Why should I let you go until you’ve worked off the debt you’ve created?”

  It was all a match of wits, Blaine knew. All about who would blink first. Prokief held all the power in what was most definitely an unfair fight. But I am not knuckling under on this, even if I die today, Blaine thought. He knew Piran’s resolve was just as strong. He glanced at Piran, and saw that Piran appeared to be biting his lip with the effort not to speak. Blood flecked at the corner of Piran’s mouth.

  “We pose less of a burden to the prison as colonists,” Blaine pointed out, his voice dispassionate. “As colonists, we provide our own food and clothing, our own shelter. The prison still reaps the benefit of the goods we send for trade.”

  A nasty smile twitched at the corners of Prokief’s mouth. “True. Then again, I’d be entirely within my rights to hang you both. That would also satisfy your debt.”

  Prokief and Blaine’s father Ian McFadden were cut from the same cloth. Both were military men used to demanding obedience, who enjoyed using their strength, rank and privilege to bully those with no recourse. It took all of Blaine’s presence of mind not to allow Prokief to goad him into violence. Right
now, they had a stand-off. But if Blaine or Piran took action, Prokief would have the excuse he needed to detain them, or worse, send them to the gallows.

  “You’re aware that Mick and I were two of the most productive workers in this whole damn prison?” Piran asked, and his voice gave no hint of his stress. This was his gambling face, the way he stared down adversaries in a fight. “Mick’s right—we’re worth more to you as colonists than convicts, and dead men don’t earn anything for anybody.”

  Prokief looked as if he were considering their comments, still regarding them through his tented fingers. “I don’t have to release any of you,” he said calmly. “I assure you, the king has better things to think about than convicts he’s already thrown away.”

  Technically, that was a lie. Blaine thought but the king’s supervision was likely to be lax so far from home. Up here, Prokief was a law unto himself, and he knew it. Blaine was sure he counted on them knowing it, too.

  “Go back to your barracks,” he said after another long, nerve-wracking pause. “I’ll reconsider your release at some point. Perhaps. If you don’t cause me any problems. Make trouble and you’ll hang.” He gave a cold smile. “I think I’d enjoy watching the two of you dance at the end of a rope.”

  Prokief was playing with fire. Blaine seriously wondered how long Piran’s control would last. If Prokief meant to keep them in the prison—or hang them—then they had little to lose. The white-cold rage he felt inside could easily run hot enough to kill.

  A knock came at the door, loud in the silence. “I’m not to be disturbed,” Prokief yelled.

  The knocking persisted. With a curse, Prokief signaled for a guard to open the door. One of the guards from the parade ground entered with a well-dressed stranger close on his heels. The stranger had the look of entitlement Blaine associated with the noble houses, and held a folded parchment in one hand with a red wax embossed seal.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Prokief demanded. “Why did you defy my orders to intrude? And who in Raka are you?”

  “I am Vilnas, liegeman to King Merrill, the king’s new courier.” He was a tall man with light blond hair and icy blue eyes, and every gesture indicated he considered himself Prokief’s superior.

  Vilnas stepped around the guard, and produced several more sealed parchment documents from his vest. “I’ve just come on the Endurance from Donderath. The prisoners and supplies have already been unloaded and I mean to head back when the ship sails. These are your latest orders,” he said, placing the documents on Prokief’s desk.

  “I’m busy. This will have to wait.”

  Vilnas did not move. “My orders were quite explicit. Lord Pollard emphasized the need to return these items post haste, and Lord Corrender made it clear that you were to read his letter immediately, in my presence, and acknowledge its receipt with your signature.”

  Prokief regarded him with disdain. “Corrender has no business making demands of me.”

  Vilnas was not dissuaded. “I am to remind you of your oath, and the provisions stipulated.” Prokief seemed to take his meaning immediately, and he grew red in the face.

  Prokief swore. “You presume to dictate to me—”

  “I suggest you read and sign the papers,” Vilnas replied. “They are time-dependent.”

  Prokief growled, but he shuffled through the papers, signing as he went. He broke the seal on the final document and grew red in the face as he read its contents. “How dare Lord Corrender interfere! He has no authority over how I deal with my prisoners.”

  “Lord Corrender has received reports from his informants here which might not present matters in the best light,” Vilnas replied. “He has assured me that he will withhold those reports if I return with a confirmation that you have complied with his request.” His smile tightened. “I’m certain that Lord Pollard and the king would be most interested, should the reports reach their eyes.”

  “Get out!” Prokief roared, thrusting the papers at Vilnas. “Out! And take these two with you,” he added, gesturing at Piran and Blaine.

  Vilnas glared at Prokief. “You’re wise to remember that the War Council has eyes and ears among the colonists. They are watching you.” It was evidence of how far beneath him Vilnas considered Prokief to be that he had not even broken a sweat during the argument. “I believe you have forgotten to provide two additional, important papers.”

  Prokief cursed and fixed Vilnas with a killing glare. Then he reached down and opened a folio on his desk, withdrawing the two precious documents that granted Piran and Blaine their freedom as colonists.

  “Take them and get out of my sight,” he snarled, throwing the Tickets of Leave at Blaine and Piran, who hurried to retrieve them.

  Vilnas had not moved. “Show them to me,” he said, holding out his hand. He looked back at Prokief. “We wouldn’t want any mistakes to cause problems later,” he added with a patently insincere smile.

  Blaine and Piran handed Vilnas their papers, utterly mystified as to why anyone had taken an interest in their welfare. Vilnas glanced at the documents and then advanced on Prokief. “They’re. Not. Signed,” he snapped. Outside, the tower bell rang. Vilnas raised an eyebrow. “My ship leaves in a candlemark. You’re cutting it fine.”

  For a moment, Blaine thought that Prokief might snatch the papers back from Vilnas and rip them to shreds. Instead, he slammed the papers onto his desk and scrawled an inky line across each, and used sand to blot the ink. With a growl, Prokief handed the papers back to Vilnas, who examined them closely and finally nodded.

  “They’ll do. Gentlemen…” he said with a disdainful look at Blaine and Piran.

  “Get out!” Prokief’s face was beet red, and the cords in his neck strained.

  Prokief looked as if he would launch himself over his desk. Vilnas turned without saying a word and strode from the room. Blaine and Piran were a step behind him, and Blaine would have been fine with sprinting for the gates.

  None of them spoke as they passed through the ranks of guards. Blaine kept his head up and his eyes straight ahead. Piran walked in step with him, shoulders squared and chin up. Vilnas moved through the corridors as if he owned the place, with a look on his face to make it clear he had seen much better.

  By the time they reached the parade ground, the portcullis was up and prisoners were making their way in a line four abreast through the huge, fortified prison gates. Verran caught up with them on the way.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Blaine said before anyone could ask a question. “Time to talk later.”

  His heart was thudding as if it might burst out of his chest as they approached the gate. Blaine took a deep breath and willed himself to be calm, but he could not get the memories of his nightmares out of his mind. Piran had regained his usual swagger. Vilnas moved with the utter assurance of a man who knew the game was rigged in his favor. Verran bounced on the balls of his feet, fidgeting and bobbing.

  The walls were dark, shadowed lines in the arctic twilight. Velant was a fortress, built to fend off its own residents more than to withstand attackers from outside. Guards lined the walls, watching in silence as the prisoners streamed out of the gate. The huge, heavy portcullis had been cranked open, and it hung above their heads when they passed through the gates, looming like an executioner’s axe.

  Velant’s walls were twelve feet thick. The passageway was dark, but the blue glow of the polar night seemed all the brighter on the other side. Blaine stiffened, waiting for an arrow in the back, or for the massive gate to come crashing down on them. He took another step, and another without incident.

  “We’re free.” Verran’s voice was quiet and reverent.

  The press of the crowd carried them forward, down the road toward Skalgerston Bay. Bay-town’s lights glowed against the deep blue sky, and lanterns swayed on the ships in the bay, reflecting off the water. It was the most beautiful thing Blaine had ever seen. The cold air stung his cheeks, and only then did he realize tears streaked his face. Piran sniffed, looking
like he was fighting back his emotions. Verran blinked rapidly, fending off tears. Vilnas gave them a curt nod of acknowledgement, and strode ahead of them toward the harbor.

  “What in Raka do you suppose that was about?” Piran asked, staring after Vilnas.

  Just then, Kestel bounded up to them, followed by Dawe. Blaine, Verran, and Piran swept Kestel into an embrace, and clapped Dawe on the shoulder.

  “It worked!” Kestel exulted when they set her down.

  “You said you had ‘fixed things’,” Blaine replied. “How?”

  Kestel grinned. “I didn’t stop being a spy when I became a convict. Both Corrender and Pollard have their spies in the prison and among the colonists, reporting back on Prokief to make sure he doesn’t short the king what’s due with the rubies and herring.”

  “How did that have anything to do with getting us our Tickets?” Piran asked incredulously.

  Kestel’s grin widened. “Once I got out of Velant, I sent a letter to Corrender telling him Prokief was taking liberty on granting Tickets and that I suspected Prokief would try to rescind the Tickets of two of my homestead partners. I asked him to assure that wouldn’t happen.” She shrugged. “He’s always had a soft spot for me.”

  Blaine closed his eyes. “I wish I had known that beforehand. My heart nearly gave out when Prokief called us into his office.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” Kestel repeated. “Prokief really is stealing from the king’s portion. I made sure Corrender knows it, and since you’re here, Prokief must know that someone’s on to him, which keeps him in line, relatively speaking. ”

  Vilnas turned. “I will see you safely to town, Mistress Kestel. Lord Corrender sends his regards, and a package which I had delivered to your lodging.”

  Kestel withdrew a sealed letter from beneath her coat. “Thank you, and thanks also to Lord Corrender. Please give him this for me.” Vilnas took the letter, pocketed it, and turned off toward the harbor.

  It felt as if the whole procession of newly-freed convicts were holding their breath, waiting for soldiers to be dispatched at any moment to haul them back. But the farther they got from the prison without incident, the more tension dissipated. After half a candlemark, Verran pulled out his pennywhistle and began to play a jaunty tune known in every tavern in Castle Reach.