Morticai's Luck

by Darlene Bolesny

  Luthekar’s words echoed in his mind: The offer will continue to stand until you die.

  “No!” Morticai cried in denial. He grabbed the chains above his wrists and jerked. “No!” he cried, and he jerked again.

  With a pop, the right chain dropped an inch.

  Morticai froze. Pain shot through his arms, but he couldn’t deny it—his right hand hung lower. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. “Damn!” He wished that he could see the ceiling. He tilted his head back, as though the movement could somehow let him sense what lay beyond his blindness.

  For an instant, he was gripped by the fear that someone might be watching. But all remained quiet—no doors were slammed, no alarm was raised. No, he must still be alone. Biting his lower lip, he twisted and pulled on the chain. It felt … strange. Morticai’s sigh was almost a sob. He couldn’t tell anything. He guessed that one side of the anchoring bracket must have pulled loose. But what of the other side? As he continued twisting, new thoughts tumbled through his mind.

  What if he pulled it down? What good would it do? Was the key still on the table? For that matter, was the table even still there? Even if it was, and even if he could reach it, how far could he hope to get? How could a blind man hope to find his way out, to avoid the guards?

  He stopped. Despair suddenly overwhelmed him, and with a sob he found himself praying to Glawres, as his anger of moments before quickly faded.

  Forgive me, Glawres, he prayed silently. I just wanted it to be simple. I wanted it to be over with. But I-I’ve wanted to fight them for so long. I can’t just give up. Please, I hope it’s what you want. Maybe I am a fool—but I can’t help it. I hate them, Glawres. Please, don’t let them defeat me, please.

  He took another deep breath, and repositioning his hand on the chain, he started to twist.

  * * *

  The dawn air was still cool. Nearby, a mourning dove cooed softly. Paxton paused in the alley, easing his large pack to the ground. A servant walked toward him carrying a basket loaded with vegetables and a woven rope bag, filled with fresh eggs for her master’s breakfast.

  Paxton opened his pack. The servant turned in at a gate several houses away and vanished. Paxton straightened.

  Well, mate, all’s clear this far, he thought as he ran a hand through his grey hair. “Hmm …” He checked the ragged clothing he wore, and, picking up a handful of sand, he brushed it down the side of his right pant leg. Then, reaching into his tatty vest’s inner pocket, he retrieved a flask and took a small sip. There, that should do it, he thought with a wry smile. Old peddler Jenkins would laugh to see me now!

  He looked behind him and gave a final nod to Nelerek, who sat with the wagon at the far end of the alley. Nelerek nodded in reply. The aging innkeeper picked up the pack and continued on at an easy pace. He noted that traffic was beginning to pick up as he reached the main road. More servants were walking his way, chattering amongst themselves.

  “Ladies,” he greeted, nodding deeply. “Would ya perhaps be needin’ a new egg bag, on this fine day?”

  They shook their heads, mumbling amongst themselves.

  “Or a new spoon, perhaps?”

  One of the women stopped, “Do ye have any pot lids, peddler?”

  “What size of pot, madam,” he said.

  She blinked and slowly replied, “Oh, abou’ this big.” She held her hands a few inches apart.

  “Sorry,” Paxton replied, “I’ve no’ got any tha’ small.”

  She smiled and nodded. “Ah, well, I’ll jus’ keep lookin’.”

  Paxton raised his hands, gesturing that he was sorry he couldn’t help her. She turned and trotted off to catch up to her friends. Paxton let out a sigh. Dammit, ya’ foolish ol’ geezer, he inwardly chided himself, you’ve got to watch your tongue! You know a peddler doesn’t talk like an innkeeper! He found that he was thankful for the encounter, though, as he continued on. It wouldn’t do to make that type of mistake where he was headed.

  A young man sat on a doorstep, whittling a piece of wood; the man winked at him as he passed, and Paxton had to repress a smile. Scatla’s gonna’ turn out a lot like Dyluth, he found himself thinking.

  Still, it was good to know that he was being covered by the half-dozen Arluthians who were discreetly watching. They had already lost one Arluthian too many. He was surprised that Nelerek had gone along with his crazy plan to gather information, but their informants on the streets had found nothing, and Nelerek’s concern was quickly turning into desperation.

  Paxton stopped before Ellenwood’s open court gate. Everything appeared normal. “Well, ’ere goes,” he muttered. Soon, he was standing before the servant’s door to the kitchen, rapping lightly. A rotund woman, her size magnified by the large apron she wore, swung the door open. She looked Paxton up and down, frowning.

  “We don’t need anything, peddler,” she said sternly.

  “Ah, but m’lovely lass,” Paxton quickly replied, “I’m new t’ this port an’ have some marvelous things here …” he gestured to his pack “… things tha’ ya canno’ find ’round here. Things from Bracar.” With a smooth flourish he swept a tiny alabaster box out of a top pocket in the pack and waved it under the woman’s nose.

  She blinked and, despite herself, she sighed admiringly. Paxton opened the box lid and held it up for her to sniff.

  “That is a lovely scent,” she admitted. “But we’ve no money here for trinkets the likes of that,” she finished, a hint of disappointment in her tone.

  “For a lady whose eyes sparkle like th’ sea itself,” Paxton cooed, “it would be m’pleasure t’ give it t’ ya.” With another flourish, he pressed it into her large palm.

  “Oh,” she said, startled. “Oh, I, I couldn’t.”

  “Ah, m’dear lady, o’ course ya can. ’Tis only a little thing.”

  A smile crept onto her face. She snorted. “Come on in, peddler! I suppose we could at least look at what you’ve got. But you’d best not slow down my kitchen,” she warned, shaking a fat finger at him.

  “Never come ’tween a master cook an’ ’er kitchen,” Paxton replied wisely.

  Smiling, she led him inside. The kitchen was large and busy. A young woman, who wore a single long braid that hung down her back, stood before a counter, plucking a chicken. A child sat on the floor, shelling a bowl of fresh peas. A man, who was dressed in chatelain’s livery, sat at the heavy worktable, smoking a pipe. All activity ceased as Paxton entered. The man frowned.

  “Do you need something, Hilda?” the man asked the cook. “I thought you bought all you needed from the last peddler.”

  “Well, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take a look,” she retorted. “This peddler has things from far away. After all, if you’ll remember, it was a peddler who gave me that bethroot that stopped that awful hacking of yours!”

  The man wrinkled up his nose. “Well, be quick about it,” he snapped at Paxton.

  “Certainly, m’ lord.”

  Paxton opened his pack and began to show the cook his wares. Unfortunately, the chatelain remained. The child and servant silently returned to their chores.

  “Ah yes,” Paxton said, hoping to start a conversation, “I’ve come through many a port t’ reach this fair city.” He pulled out more imported wares. “Have ya ever seen such a marvelous work of art?” he asked, as he handed the cook an intricately carved Lorredrian spoon.

  “Never known peddlers to travel much by sea,” the chatelain said.

  “I was a sailor, in m’ younger days,” Paxton replied. “’Tis a good way t’ find some beautiful an’ useful things! An’,” he added sheepishly, “when ya get t’ be my age, ’tis much easier t’ gain passage with an old friend than t’ walk ’tween ’ere an’ Menelcar.”

  The man straightened and stared intently at Paxton. “Will you be returning to the docks, peddler?”

  “Aye, i
n a couple o’ days,” Paxton replied. “I’ll peddle m’wares here an’ then head back down th’ coast.”

  “I’ve got something to sell you, if you’re looking to buy as well as sell,” the chatelain said.

  “O’ course!” Paxton replied.

  The chatelain left the room.

  “Oh!” the cook exclaimed. “Isn’t this pretty, Miranda?” She held up a carved wooden bowl for the servant to see.

  “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

  “How much would you like for this?” she asked Paxton.

  “Well, m’lady, I’d be ’appy t’ let ya have it for twenty ferdhyn.”

  She wrinkled her nose, “Seems a bit much.”

  The chatelain returned carrying a black silk pack. Tossing it onto the table, he said, “Take a look at that peddler, and tell me what you’d give me for it.”

  Paxton took in a sharp breath, and then coughed, long and loudly, to cover the mistake. The ploy seemed to work, as the room’s occupants politely glanced away.

  “’Scuse me, m’lord,” Paxton said. “I’d be ’appy t’ look at your pack.” He picked it up and opened it. Inside, the pack contained the full accouterments of a thief—rope, dismantled grapple, oil, a pouch Paxton knew would contain lock picks. Paxton looked at the chatelaine and raised his eyebrows.

  “We were fortunate enough to catch a thief a few days ago,” the chatelain explained. “It shall be a long time before he sees anything outside of Gull’s Cliff Prison!” he added, chuckling.

  I’ll wager! Paxton thought acidly, but he replied, “Aye, ya were lucky t’ catch ’im. Hmm. I could resell th’ pack, an’ th’ rope. I’ll give ya a korun for it.”

  “Excellent!” the chatelain replied.

  Paxton dug into an inner pocket of the vest and pulled out the promised coin. “’Ere m’lord,” he said, handing it to the chatelain. “Is there anythin’ ’ere m’lady would like?” he asked the cook.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll take this spoon, and those bowls. How much will that be?”

  “Fifteen ferdhyn.”

  The cook went to a small crock and dug out the coinage.

  “You know, peddler,” the chatelain remarked, “if I were you, I wouldn’t try to sell that pack here in Watchaven.”

  “Oh?” Paxton asked innocently.

  “Well,” the chatelain explained, “that thief might have friends in the city, you know.”

  “Ah,” Paxton replied. “Aye, right ya are, m’lord. Thank ya for th’ warning.” Indeed, he does have friends, he thought. The transactions finished, Paxton reloaded his pack, placing the silk pack on the top. Then, closing it up he nodded politely to the chatelain.

  “Well, m’lord an’ ladies,” he said, taking his leave, “I thank ya an’ pray that Glawres’ blessins’ fall upon ya like the spring rains.”

  The door shut behind him, and, gritting his teeth, he made his way back the way he had come. Scatla saw the look in his eyes. Hopping to his feet, he crossed the street and headed the same direction as the Arluthian innkeeper. Nelerek saw the look, as well.

  “Paxton?” he asked anxiously as the ‘peddler’ reached the coach.

  He opened his pack. “Take a look at this!” Paxton said, anger marking his words. Scatla trotted up as Paxton tossed Morticai’s black pack to Nelerek.

  “Blessed Benek!” Scatla exclaimed.

  “You’ve checked Gull’s Cliff Prison, haven’t you?” Paxton continued.

  “Yes,” Nelerek replied evenly.

  Paxton nodded. “I expected you had. According to Ellenwood’s chatelain, the thief they caught is in Gull’s Cliff. He sold me the pack for a korun.”

  Nelerek checked the pack’s contents.

  “Is it Dyluth’s?” Scatla asked anxiously.

  Nelerek bit his lower lip. “I’d say so,” he replied softly, holding up the small container of oil and examining it.

  “I’m sorry, Brother,” Paxton replied. “It looks bad for him, right enough.”

  Nelerek leveled an even stare at him. “Don’t be sorry, Brother,” he said. “We’re going to go in and get him.”

  Paxton blinked.

  “Yeah!” Scatla said eagerly. “That man of Faith says he’s alive, so let’s go get him!”

  Paxton’s worried eyes met Nelerek’s. Apparently, Nelerek hadn’t passed the word around that ‘that man of Faith’ had told Dyluth’s captain he expected Dyluth to die at any moment.

  “I know he might be dead, Paxton,” Nelerek said softly. “I’m prepared for that. But we’ve got to try. And if he’s dead, they’ll pay,” he finished coldly. “Scatla,” he directed, “unhitch this horse and take a message to Captain Coryden.”

  * * *

  At last, the chain crashed to the floor; Morticai cried out involuntarily and then tried to stifle the moans that threatened to escape him. He was only partially successful, and as he panted from the exertion, he moaned in short, hiccupy bursts. Dizziness seized him and threatened to plunge him back into unconsciousness.

  “Well,” he whispered, once he had regained his remaining senses, “I guess no one heard. Glawres only knows, I gave them plenty of time to call for help.” He gingerly tried to move his right arm. The pain of the movement was excruciating, and he desperately fought back a sob. He took a deep breath and tried again. This time, he was able to lift his arm, though the dizziness tried once more to take hold of him. He fought through it, and did not stop the movement until his hand lay on the edge of the table.

  Thank Glawres! he thought. It’s still here!

  But would the key still be there? A sob escaped as he slid his hand along the edge of the table and pain shot up his arm. He began to tremble as his hand slid over two cold metal items—they were not the key—he could tell by the feel that they were other things that he didn’t want to remember. At last, he found the key.

  He stopped, and for a while just let his hand lie atop it as, again, he panted in fear. Trembling, he commanded his fingers to close around it. He was suddenly seized by a new fear that he would be unable to work his fingers, but his numb fingers obeyed.

  Wild thoughts tumbled through his mind. Surely someone had heard, and they were watching him from the edge of the room. Or, maybe the key didn’t even work the manacles—Luthekar could have laid any key on the table. He pushed the thoughts away. There was only one way to find out.

  Bringing his hand back to his body was easy, though noisy. It fell to his side with a thump. Then, with his heart pounding, he gritted his teeth and pulled the key up to his left wrist.

  He couldn’t get it into the lock; not because it didn’t fit, but because he couldn’t keep his hand steady enough. Unsuccessful, he had to let his hand drop again. A couple of minutes of rest and an anxious prayer later, he tried again.

  This time, he got the key in and, after another short pause, turned it. He heard a click, but the manacle remained shut. Morticai inhaled sharply, thinking at first that the key had broken in the lock, but then he realized what had happened—he had unlocked the manacle, but the spikes were keeping it closed.

  Damn!

  Morticai’s right hand still clung to the key in the lock. With more effort, he pulled the key out and slid his hand up to the manacle itself—and instantly regretted it. As the weight of his right hand settled, the left manacle popped open. The spikes tore free, and even as Morticai cried out from the pain, he felt himself toppling forward. With a thud, he landed face down on the platform, and the blackness that filled his vision exploded to fill his mind.

  * * *

  Morticai awoke with a start. He still lay on the platform, could still feel the cold stone beneath him. As soon as his pounding heart quieted, he held his breath and listened. He could have been in a tomb, for all the silence. He slowly released the breath and began, once more, to assess his situation.

  He was shocked
to realize that he still gripped the key—loosely, but at least it still lay in the fingers of his right hand. His body was both numbed and filled with pain; thinking through all the sensations proved difficult. He knew he had to reach down to his calves and ankles if he were to truly free himself. It all seemed so useless. He told himself to give it up, but a moment later, he mustered the strength to move his hand down to his right knee. His mind filled with crazy thoughts. He spent as much time fighting the thoughts as he did fighting the pain.

  As his hand reached his knee, he dropped the key. Panic seized him. He frantically patted the floor beside him, but soon found it—it hadn’t fallen out of reach. Shortly thereafter, he unlocked the iron on his right calf.

  He needed to transfer the key to his left hand to remove the manacle from his right wrist. He choked back his fear as he made the transfer; he couldn’t afford to drop the damned key again. At last, he freed his right wrist from the spiked manacle and his legs from the irons.

  With more effort, he rolled onto his back, and, for a time, he lay still. He knew he should keep moving—and yet he wanted to lie still, just a little while longer. Just a …

  * * *

  Morticai started, and wondered if he had made his way back to awareness as quickly as he felt he had, or if he had, in fact, fallen asleep. His mind filled with panic. How long had it taken him to pull the chain down and free himself? It had to have been hours. Trembling, he rolled over and tried to orient himself. He knew that the way out lay behind him somewhere. He tried to crawl. It was an effort, but he found he could pull himself forward.

  Gods, he thought, you must be a sorry sight!

  He bumped into something and fear gripped him—and then he sighed, realizing it was the table. He must have gotten turned around. Great! He was crawling toward the front door. He turned around and began again. It seemed to go quicker than he thought it would, or perhaps he’d just lost all sense of time. He couldn’t tell. But at last he found the edge of the room. He suspected that he had gone off course, so he edged along, searching for a crack that would tell him he had found the door.