He heard Taren shove the lid away from another of the Holes. The smell that rose from the shaft was unmistakable. Someone had died at the bottom of the oubliette. Blaine joined Taren and once again held the torch as low as he dared. He recoiled, swallowing hard to keep from retching. The body at the bottom had been down there far longer than Dawe had been absent.
Together, Blaine and Taren headed for the two remaining Holes. Blaine wrested the next door free. The smell that greeted him was of shit and blood.
“Dawe! Dawe Killick!”
“Mick?” The voice that answered was faint and shaky. “By the gods! I must be dead or dreaming.”
“Neither. Can you stand?”
“Doubtful.”
Blaine cursed under his breath. “All right. I’ve got a rope. I’ll make a loop in it and toss it down. Can you manage to get the loop under your arms?”
“Yep.”
As Blaine tied a solid knot in the rope, he looked over toward Taren. “Anyone in there?”
Taren nodded. “Not much better off than your friend, I wager. Once we bring him up, we’ll need to do the same here.”
Blaine tossed the rope down to Dawe, and waited. The rope jerked. “I’m ready,” Dawe rasped.
Together, Blaine and Taren pulled on the rope. Length by length they drew it up from the bottom of the shaft, until Dawe’s head and shoulders appeared. Dawe’s face was purple with bruises, and one eye was swollen shut. His lip was split. But to Blaine’s great relief, his friend had not been whipped and had been thrown into the Hole fully dressed.
Blaine looked around and grabbed a sooty piece of oilcloth from where it was stretched over the blacksmith’s wood to shelter it from the snow. “As soon as we get someone out of the other Hole, we’ll steal you a coat,” he said.
Dawe was shaking with cold, and his swollen lips had a bluish tint, but he managed a semblance of a smile. “I’m not complaining. I thought for sure I was going to die down there.”
Blaine and Taren hauled up the second man from the Hole. Though he had been able to get the rope under his arms, the man looked much worse than Dawe, with several gashes that had the smell of a wound gone bad and a chalky, gray cast to his skin.
“Let’s get them both to shelter and find them coats,” Blaine said. But when Taren went to get under the other man’s shoulder to help him to the barns, it quickly became apparent that it would take both Blaine and Taren together to carry the man to safety.
“Take care of that man first,” Dawe said through chattering teeth. “I’ll be all right for a few more minutes.”
Blaine took the prisoner’s shoulders, while Taren got his feet. Together, they hefted him across the open space and into the closest of the barns. The surviving convicts gathered around them as they entered.
“That’s Ivar!” one of the convicts said in recognition. “Good thing you could get into the Hole. He’s been out there for a couple of days.”
“Go find some clothes,” Blaine said to the convict. “We’ll need two coats—there’s another man who’s waiting for us to come back.” The convict ran for the door and came back a few minutes later with two uniform coats plus shirts and pants.
“We can care for Ivar,” one of the women assured Blaine. “Go get your friend.”
Blaine and Taren went back to where Dawe waited. He was shaking with cold, but he managed a wan smile. “Thought you got lost,” he said.
“Let’s get you inside and into some warmer clothing,” Blaine said.
Dawe eyed the uniform coat and managed a smile. “Can I be a colonel? I’ve always wanted to be a colonel.”
Blaine chuckled despite the situation. “Can’t guarantee the rank, mate. I wager my helper stripped the first corpse he came to.”
After they got Dawe to shelter, Blaine looked around at the convicts, who were now refugees from the burned prison. “I’m going to go see about arranging for transportation back to Bay-town,” he said. “And if there are coats and blankets to be found, I’ll get them to you.”
He looked to Taren, his accidental deputy. “Stay here. Try to get a good count of how many people we’ve got who can’t make the walk back to Bay-town. I’ll need that for the wagons.” He didn’t say it, but the survivors he and Taren had found were just a fraction of the convicts he had expected to find inside Velant. Unless several hundred could be accounted for from the mines and fields, the death toll from the fire had been terribly high.
Blaine headed out of the barn and found Piran walking his way. “Are the guards accounted for?” Blaine asked.
Piran nodded. “All that didn’t run off. We found several uniforms behind one of the buildings. My bet is that a dozen or so guards chucked their uniforms and changed into convict garb when it became clear Prokief wasn’t going to hold the gate.”
Blaine shrugged. “As long as they don’t give us any trouble, that suits me. They’ll have to learn to live with the other colonists unless they plan to row home.” He paused. “And the rest? Did they surrender?”
“Without a fight. Threw down their weapons and knelt down as pretty as you please.”
“Before they scatter, let’s find out what they know about the war in Donderath. It could be worse than we know. Besides, we need to get some kind of oath from them that they won’t turn on us if a ship from home does happen to turn up.”
“Do you think that’s likely?” Piran’s expression was grim, and Blaine was sure his friend guessed the answer.
“No, I don’t. I think we’re totally on our own now.”
“Any sign of Prokief?”
“Dead.” Briefly, Blaine recounted the fight he and Taren had in the carriage barn, and the deaths of Prokief and Ejnar.
Piran gave a low whistle. “So you got to be the one to kill Prokief, huh? Can’t say I’ll mourn him. Saves us the bother of hanging him.”
“Did you find any other warden-mages?”
“Yeah.” Piran’s expression hardened. “We spared the soldiers, but the mages we killed. Can’t chance having the magic come back.”
Blaine looked out over the ruins of the camp. “We’re rid of Prokief, but we’re going to have a whole new set of problems with all these new colonists who’ve got nowhere to go. The guards won’t be harassing us, but they won’t be policing, either.” He met Piran’s gaze. “We’d better figure out how to keep a lid on things with the long dark coming, or we might not be around by the time the sun rises again.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
IT WAS THE MID-MORNING BEFORE BLAINE, DAWE, and Piran, exhausted from the night’s work, caught a ride on the last wagon out of Velant bound for town. Taren had taken a group of men and a few wagons out to the mines and the prison farm to search for convicts or guards who did not know that Velant had fallen.
“Guess it’s better this happened while we still have light,” Piran muttered, leaning against the side of the wagon with his eyes shut.
Blaine shrugged. “Only a couple of weeks until the long dark falls. We’ll have a few thousand people who have nowhere to live and no work to support them. It could get nasty pretty quickly if we’re not careful.”
Piran opened one eye and looked at him. “You know, for a convict, you think like a damned officer.”
Blaine grinned. “Someone has to. Prokief ran the colony as much as he did the prison. We’ll have to choose some kind of governing body if we don’t want total chaos.”
Piran closed his eyes again. “Wake me when you’re done. I’m a soldier. I take orders.”
“I don’t know—you did just fine on your own organizing the guards’ surrender.”
“Don’t tell anyone. Once the officers find out you can think, they either shoot you or promote you, and I don’t like either choice.”
Dawe was quiet, and his eyes were haunted. Blaine thought his friend still looked ashen and haggard. “Feeling warmer?” Blaine asked with a gentle nudge.
Dawe nodded. “Thanks for getting me out of there. I was pretty sure I was going to die.
”
“Kestel would have killed Piran and me if we hadn’t figured a way to rescue you. I’d have been afraid to sleep in my own bed if we hadn’t succeeded.”
Dawe gave a weak laugh. “And she’d do it, too,” he said quietly.
“Let’s stop in town to get you some food and drink before we head all the way back to the homestead.”
Dawe nodded and stifled a cough. “I could do with some whiskey.” He coughed again and Blaine glanced at him with concern.
“Need to see a healer?”
Dawe met his eyes. “What for? The magic’s gone—remember?”
“Let’s hope that wasn’t the only thing we had going for us, or we’ve got bigger problems than whether a colony full of convicts can avoid robbing each other blind without guards.”
Dawe met his gaze. “I’m really not worried about that last part. Do you have any idea how many of the people here stole bread or clothes to live, or didn’t do what they were accused of?”
“You’re right, although some of us earned our sentences,” Blaine replied. “But I’d wager most of the murderers in Velant killed one person who had it coming, and won’t make a habit of it.” He grimaced. “On the other hand, we both knew some bad seed who will make trouble for everyone.”
“Hire the guards.” Piran’s voice startled Blaine, who had thought the other was asleep. Piran opened his eyes halfway to meet his gaze. “Seriously. They’re military. They’ll follow orders. Weed out the few rotters who enjoyed pushing people around.”
“He’s got a point,” Dawe said. The tonelessness in his voice made Blaine wince. “Most of the guards were as much prisoners as we were. They could have made it worse for us than they did. We all know who the bad ones were. My guess is that they’ll be found dead within a week. After that, the rest will probably be grateful for a job.”
Blaine chuckled. “You may be right.”
The rest of the ride back to town was quiet. Blaine kept replaying his final conversation with Prokief in his mind. Why Pollard? he wondered. Vedran Pollard hated Father almost as much as I did. If he’d hated him just a little bit more, maybe Pollard would have been sent to Velant and I’d have been spared the trouble. He struggled to remember much about Pollard: tall and sinewy, with hawk-like features and a nasty temper. Pollard and Ian McFadden couldn’t be in the same room together without harsh words escalating to threats and, on more than one occasion, to blows.
Still, I always had the feeling Merrill liked Father better than he liked Pollard, and that Pollard knew it, Blaine mused. And as far as I can remember, Pollard never spared me a second glance. What would make Prokief connect me with him?
A half-forgotten memory triggered. There were always rumors that Prokief had a wealthy supporter back home, someone who sent him luxuries in return for—what? The rest of the old rumors surfaced in memory. Once in a while, a convict would disappear without a burial or even a confirmation of death. Blaine always assumed they were victims of the warden-mages, or the Hole, but there had been whispers that the men who had disappeared had been spirited back to Donderath, with bribes sufficient to make the ship captains turn a blind eye.
Prokief was Pollard’s man, Blaine thought. It would certainly explain why Prokief had it in for me. But if so, without ships from home, even Prokief would be cut off. So what did he mean, that I’m dead and don’t know it?
There would be no answers to his questions just now, but Blaine resolved to see if the remains of Prokief’s office harbored any clues. The wagon bumped its way along the rutted icy roads and Blaine found himself looking out toward the wharves, to the empty piers where the supply ships from Donderath usually sat. When they rounded the turn into Bay-town, the streets were alive with people. The town had a festive air about it, and Blaine could hear music playing in the distance.
“Would you look at that?” he said, grinning. Bay-town merchants had taken advantage of the situation and an impromptu street fair ranged down the main waterfront, where just the night before, waves had slammed inland. In the distance, Estendall still billowed smoke, its eruption all but forgotten amid the news of Velant’s fall. Blaine looked behind them. High on its cliff, clouds of smoke rose from Velant’s ruined buildings like a twin volcano.
Piran sat up and took in the scene. “I could use some ale myself, come to think of it,” he said as the wagon rumbled to a stop. Piran and Blaine jumped down and gave Dawe a hand, each of them gripping him by the arms to help him down. They were followed by the other newly freed convicts, who regarded the town wide-eyed, as if expecting guards to appear to drag them back to the prison.
From the sound of it, the Crooked House was already doing a good business despite the early hour, and Blaine guessed that its patrons had been up all night. The tavern was crowded shoulder to shoulder. The room buzzed with excited talk, and musicians strained to play above the din.
Ifrem was behind the bar, filling tankards of ale at a brisk pace. To Blaine’s amazement, Kestel was helping dispense drinks to the crowd, sashaying through the tavern like a barmaid carrying a tray of tankards with her uninjured arm. From the grin on her face and the excitement in her eyes, Blaine guessed Kestel was as caught up in the celebration as the rest of the crowd.
“I’ll bet you two silvers that if Kestel’s here, so’s Verran,” Piran said with a nudge to Blaine’s ribs.
Blaine bumped into a drunk who was wavering on his stool. The man slipped to the ground, and Blaine snagged the stool and nudged it behind Dawe with his foot. “Sit. We’ll get you food and drink. You’ll be warm enough in here, I wager, with half the town pressed in the room.”
“And as much smoke from the pipes as there is from that damned volcano,” Piran muttered, stifling a cough.
Blaine nodded. He looked around, aware that something was different and not quite sure what had changed.
Two of the whores who had flounced among the inn’s patrons the night before stood near the fireplace. Both of them looked older and harder than Blaine remembered, and he wondered if it had been a bit of magic that had added to their glamour. In a corner, the woman who often told fortunes for Ifrem’s guests sat staring at her cards, a baffled expression on her face. Near the bar, two people Blaine recognized as healers were talking, gesturing unhappily.
Blaine led the way, edging through the crowd toward where Ifrem stood behind the bar. The townspeople who had filled his common room had ordered ale and whiskey, but Blaine noticed that most people stood with a half-full tankard in hand.
“Use a little magic to sweeten the taste of your wares?” Blaine asked quietly. Ifrem glowered in response, providing the answer.
Kestel returned to the bar after delivering a full tray of tankards. “Dawe! Thank Charrot you’re safe!” She wiped her hands on her apron and embraced Dawe, giving him a peck on the cheek. Some of the patrons grinned and winked, and a few cheered. Kestel laughed.
“I’m glad you’re safe, too,” she said to Blaine and Piran, blinking away tears. She hugged each of them hard enough that Blaine realized just how worried she had been.
The musicians finished their tune and a few moments later, Verran elbowed his way through the crowd. “Glad you’re back,” he said, clapping them on the shoulder.
Ifrem poured Blaine a tankard of ale and waved off payment. Blaine took a sip and his eyes widened at the taste; it had a strong note of burned mash, proof that Ifrem’s mages had definitely improved the flavor of the ale, though from the demand for drinks, the tavern’s patrons did not seem to care.
Verran sighed. “I can play right well without magic, but a little glamour always helped increase the coins people threw our way.”
“And your luck with the ladies?” Piran asked.
Verran grimaced. “Another casualty. ’Twas always my music and my magic that won me the lasses.” He gave a gap-toothed grin. “I’ve got the music, but losing the magic will make it harder to win me a lady for the night.”
“Look on the bright side,” Blaine said with a nod
toward two whores in the corner who had lost their beauty along with their magic. “At least without magic, you’ll know for certain what your lady friend really looks like.”
“Ah, but she’ll have had an equally good look at me,” Verran said, his regret only partially feigned. “I might as well resign myself to solitude now.”
Ifrem paused after filling several tankards and leaned across the bar, catching Blaine’s eye and giving a quick jerk of his head to summon Blaine and Piran closer. “Good to see you boys back in one piece. Thought you’d want to know—while you were burning down the prison, some of the merchants and the fishing-boat owners and such got together to figure out what to do in case things changed in a big way.”
Blaine nodded. “Good idea. Prokief is dead. His soldiers surrendered. But without the guards, there’s no law to speak of—”
“Which isn’t good for the townsfolk,” Ifrem finished. He raised an eyebrow. “Funny to hear this coming from a former convict, but civilized people do need some law, so long as it’s just.”
“No more curfews, no more papers,” Piran supplied.
Ifrem’s mouth was a hard line. “No more demanding payments from merchants to avoid having our stores looted or our windows broken.” He paused to fill a few more tankards. “On the other hand, we can’t have highwaymen on the roads and in the alleys. Bad for business.”
“And what did this group of your merchant friends decide?” Blaine asked. He leaned against the bar, beginning to feel the activity of the last several hours in every aching bone and muscle.
“They formed a group they’re calling the Freedmen’s Council to govern the colony, at least until someone comes up with something better. Folks got wind of it and demanded there be representatives from the colonists who aren’t merchants—”
Blaine held up a hand, having a good idea of where Ifrem was going with this. “Oh no. You’re not roping me into—”
Ice Forged (The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga) Page 21
