Beyond Ragnarok

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Desperate situations required desperate answers. What would my father do? The need to think like Weile bothered Tae, yet he knew his answer, if it existed, would almost certainly come from that source. His father’s strength lay in leadership and the ability to organize those who most people dismissed as the callous damned. Tae’s thoughts froze in place. He had categorized his cell mates in a like fashion hours ago, yet one had already approached him. On his own, he could never hope for escape. But if he dared take a lesson from Weile Kahn, he might pool their various talents and find answer where none previously existed.

  In his excitement, Tae lost track of his aches and pains. “Lador, I may have the answer. You’ll need to tell me about yourself and as much as you know of the others.”

  Again, Lador stared at Tae. Then, apparently trusting the newcomer’s zeal, he smiled cautiously. “Can’t see what that’ll do for you, but it’ll give us something to talk about, at least. I’m the only one here who seems to care whether he exercises his voice or not.”

  Tae suspected the reason for Lador’s tolerance for company would come out in his story. Weile often said that those who grew up with families made far better allies because they liked people and needed companions of one sort or another. “Exercise away,” Tae encouraged. Only then, his own suspicions finally awakened. Could Pudar have planted an informant among us? He dismissed the thought instantly. Not even the most devout patriot would condemn himself to such a life. No one forced to do so, by duty or command, could remain loyal long. Besides, Tae reasoned, he had nothing to lose. They already had him for a crime serious enough to punish him in any manner they wished.

  “I was a locksmith,” Lador began, green-gray eyes distant, as if recounting another person’s life. Surely, a long time had passed since history accounted for anything. “A damned good one, too.” He did not boast, simply recited what he believed to be the truth.

  Tae suspected Kevral could learn from Lador’s easy style, ranking himself among the best without disparaging those of lesser skill.

  “I could build a lock to thwart almost any thief, then I could find the means to open it if the owner lost his key.” Lador chuckled softly so as not to wake the others. “That’s the paradox, you see. If I could break into it, surely someone else of skill could do it, too.” Lador’s expression turned even more grave, if possible. “Obsession with that idea became my downfall.” Though unnecessary, he searched for an analogy. “You’re an Easterner, right?”

  Tae made a gesture of acknowledgment. His accent, if not the darkness of his hair, eyes, and skin, always gave him away.

  “I got a few friends from your side of the world. Anyway, every time we’d get down to arguing religion, they’d point out they only needed one god to our bunch. Their god, Sheriva they’d call him, was so powerful he could do anything, including squashing all of ours. So, I’d always ask the stumper question: If he can do anything, can he make a maze so twisty he can’t get out of it?”

  “And they wouldn’t have an answer to that one?” Tae guessed, having heard the age-old dilemma posed many ways, more often regarding the weight of a created object.

  “No, and mostly they’d get mad I asked.” A slight smile twitched onto Lador’s face at the memory, so mild Tae could not be certain he saw it. “Anyway, I took it as a challenge to create a lock I couldn’t open.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. No, I couldn’t. I always knew too much about the mechanism. So, then I started working on locks other people made.” Lador scratched at his wrist, revealing a rash Tae knew as scabies.

  Tae resisted the natural urge to scratch himself. He had lived among companions covered with mites, lice, and fleas too many times to worry. Many people who lived among scabetics all their lives never got the rash, and Tae counted himself among them.

  “So I started trying other people’s locks, secretly, of course. When I got these open, I started noticing the things people keep behind them. I took some things I shouldn’t have, and I wound up here.”

  “Tossed into a cell with murderers.”

  Lador glanced around at their cell mates. “Only two murderers. This is the lifer cell—for those they can’t rehabilitate but they don’t think deserve death. They keep the ones in here who get executed, too. Prior to trial.”

  “That’s where I fit in,” Tae guessed.

  Lador shrugged. “They’re not going to let you live after killing the prince. . . .” He trailed off, a polite request for details that Tae ignored. He could not sort things out in his own mind enough to even attempt explanation to another.

  “So you’re unrehabilitable?”

  “It’s an obsession,” Lador admitted. “But mostly I think I just took from the wrong people. The most powerful people can afford the best locks.”

  Tae continued to take the emphasis off of himself. “So how about the others?”

  Again, Lador turned his focus to his cell mates, keeping his voice soft under the snores. “You’ve met Danamelio.”

  “The other murderer?” Tae guessed.

  “Wrong. Child molestation. He’d done it for years out on the streets, but no one worried about it until he snagged one of royal blood. Just a distant cousin of some sort, but that was enough.”

  Tae had hit the streets too old to fall victim to similar vermin, but a girlfriend had once recounted some of her early experiences. Revolted by the images brought to mind, Tae could not help finally recognizing the relationship that had confounded him until that moment. “That explains the little one.” He gestured at the smallest of the prisoners.

  Lador nodded. “Sick, isn’t it? I don’t know his real name, but we call him the Flea. He’s no child; he’s in his thirties. But I guess you take what you can in a place like this.”

  Tae squirmed, wishing to talk about anything but the current topic of conversation. “Does the Flea have any talents?”

  Lador seemed to enjoy Tae’s discomfort. “You mean other talents? None that I know of. He’s in for big-time vandalism.”

  “Royal property?” Tae guessed.

  “No doubt.”

  “Hmmm.”

  Lador moved on. “We call the tall one Stick.” He gestured the one who had drank from the trough at the same time as himself. “I’ve never heard him talk. The guards said he killed someone. Never seen him do anything violent, but he’s got a dangerous feel to him if you know what I mean.”

  Knowing exactly from past experience, Tae nodded.

  “Used to have a lot of muscle on him, but now he’s mostly just tall and skinny, hence the name. When he stops slouching, he towers over even Danamelio.”

  Tae made an interested noise.

  Lador pointed toward a sandy-haired, nondescript man in a corner. “That’s Tadda. He’s in for theft. Still protesting his innocence, but he’s skilled as hell.” Lador lowered his voice to an almost inaudible whisper. “Takes his food from Danamelio’s stack and never gets caught.”

  “I’m impressed,” Tae said honestly. “I was watching pretty closely, and I didn’t even see him get close.”

  “I noticed once or twice while I was doing the same thing. Otherwise, I’d have never known it either. Real acrobat, too.”

  Lador indicated the last of the bunch, a scrawny, dirty bundle of rags. “Street rat. Name Peter. Says he’s taking the rap for his buddies, and I think I believe him. No physical skills that I’ve noticed, but he does have a tremendous eye for direction and detail. From what he says, he used to memorize the routes and locations so the others could do the stealing.”

  “Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Tae could see a use for that talent as well.

  “Fits his character all right.” Lador turned Tae an evil grin. “That’s the lot. So, you got us out of this place yet?”

  Ideas stirred through Tae’s thoughts, as yet vague and formless, but promising. His father’s greatest asset, bringing together those who usually trusted no one, would serve him well now. Resentment became a tense knot in
his gut that scarcely grazed the excitement of the challenge. The obvious and necessary comparison to Weile Kahn chafed, but the lessons learned would prove invaluable. He discovered the first glimmer of talent in the most obvious, yet least likely place: his childhood. He would not allow bitterness to taint a strategy necessary to spare his life. Accused of murdering Pudar’s crown prince, his slow, agonizing death now held more value than his life. He could not afford mistakes.

  His question unanswered, Lador eyeballed Tae, expression demanding.

  Tae allowed a smile to creep onto his features. “Have I gotten us out of this place yet? Maybe. I need more information.”

  Lador lowered and raised his head once, an obvious gesture. He would supply any knowledge at his disposal.

  Tae chewed his lower lip, deep in concentration. Without a coherent strategy, he found it difficult to direct his queries. “Locksmith, what do you think about these?”

  “These?” Lador indicated the three by pointing, from the lowest to the highest. “Well-made, of course. But not the most complicated I’ve seen.” He amended, truth usurping pride. “Close, though.” He rose to demonstrate. “The one near the ground’s the only one I’ve gotten a good look at. This one . . .” He indicated the middle one by inclining his head toward it. “. . . is impossible to feel or see because of the side bars.”

  Tae nodded, recalling the arrangement from his observation. Metal side walls jutted from the bars, effectively blocking it from view or reach.

  “The upper lock’s beyond even the Stick’s highest reach. The guards use a ladder to get to it. I’ve never gotten near enough to examine it, though I’d bet it’s not much different than the lowest.” Lador scratched more deliberately at his arms. The scabies itch always worsened after nightfall. “I’ve made a crude key I think might work in the low one. Took me months to work a piece of metal loose from the water trough and years of bending and scraping to design it. Mostly, though, it’s been an exercise in futility. Fits in all right, and I think it’d turn, too. But when you’re working with tools this crude, you can’t be sure you can relock what you undo. So, as much as I’ve wanted to test it, I can’t.”

  Excitement turned Tae’s heartbeat to a heavy cadence. “I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be.” Lador dismissed the praise. “It’s my job and my obsession, and it’s not worth much. One out of three won’t get us free.” He chuckled at the unintentional rhyme.

  “It’s a start.” Tae refused to deny the usefulness of talent so remarkable. “How often do the guards come?”

  “Twice a day. Morning and evening. To check on us and to feed us. There’re always three. One does the work and the others threaten. Just like you saw tonight. The only other times they come, and the only time they open the cage, it’s to throw someone new in. Then, there’re usually a bunch of them.”

  Tae pressed for details. “A bunch meaning?”

  “Anything from seven or eight to a couple dozen. Just depends on whether they anticipate trouble, I guess. I’m not sure whether that’s trouble from the prisoner or us, though. You got just a few since you were unconscious. Danamelio got more like a regiment.”

  Tae did not like those odds. A quiet jailbreak between guard watches seemed far more effective and decidedly safer. “Once we’re out, do you know what we’d have to deal with?”

  “You mean as far as passageways, doors, locks, guards, and the like?”

  “Right.”

  Lador shrugged. “I’ve been here six years. Even if I could remember, it’s probably changed. You, being the most recent, ought to have the best knowledge.”

  “I was unconscious,” Tae reminded.

  “Right.”

  “Who’s next most recent?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  Tae thought the question odd. “Should it be?”

  Lador explained. “Once they started giving more food for more living prisoners, murder became less of a problem down here. But even though no one’ll usually kill you outright anymore, you starve to death if you’re not either aggressive or quick-handed.” He glanced at the Flea. “Or favored by one who is.”

  Tae considered Lador’s description and found a warped logic to it. He also figured out who the second newest cell mate had to be, the only meek one without a penchant for theft. He glanced at the young street tough with a mild pity he had not expected. “Peter.” He smiled. The youngster’s single confessed talent, knowledge of routes, would serve him well in this situation, if panic had not stripped him of his observational abilities.

  Tae asked a few more questions, about the routine in the lifers’ cell as well as minor details, including the personalities and foibles of this odd band of criminals with which his lot had become inexorably entwined. He would not have chosen them in any capacity and would not have attempted to talk them into working together on a high-stakes wager or a dare. But now, his life depended on his ability to draw them all together and lead. No doubt, the very talents that condemned them would prove invaluable when it came to escape. A random group of citizens would not have provided him with the many peculiarly useful abilities, but they also would willingly work as a team, without the need to placate egos, threaten, cajole, or coerce. This escape, if it happened, would not come easily.

  Once Weile’s plans, dreams, and decisions had seemed absurd to the brink of insanity. Now, Tae mulled the potential of his cell mates and found it staggering. Small-time hoods and street rats, disparaged and despised by the populace, were not the worthless, brainless fools common folk and the wealthy proclaimed them. Most believed they fell into crime because they lacked other skills. Now, Tae, realized, they possessed a wide array of underappreciated talents. Alone, they became a nuisance and reviled. Together, they could bind into a community whose capabilities boggled the mind. The man who organized criminals, who could stir loyalty where none seemed to exist, could take down the loftiest of kingdoms. In his own way, Tae finally realized, Weile Kahn ruled the world. And Tae was a crown prince, of a sort, in his own right.

  There, the image broke down. Tae frowned as other thoughts came to shatter the theoretical castle he had built from understanding. Weile was a king plagued by assassins, any or all of whom could usurp his throne without need for bloodline. A king who did not dare to sleep, who spent his life always with his hands beweaponed and his eyes darting over his shoulders was a prisoner in his own castle. For all its power, Tae found little attractive about his father’s life. Bitterness swelled into a tidal wave. No matter his lifestyle, his father had treated his own son with unforgivable cruelty. He had failed at protecting his wife and child, those he claimed to love. And the coldness he inflicted upon his only son demonstrated little of the caring he claimed in words. Actions spoke louder.

  Tae turned his anger into fuel for a nearer fire. His features set with purpose, he glared into Lador’s eyes. “By this time tomorrow,” he promised, “I’ll have a workable plan.”

  Chapter 26

  Ravn’s Lesson

  If you learn to quit when you get tired, you will die when you get tired.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Fatigue had claimed Ravn an hour ago, but his father’s sword cuts rained down on him without mercy. The spar had long outlasted his skill or his patience; but Ravn knew better than to question Colbey’s judgment, even if he could spare the breath for questions. His lungs gasped for air desperately, scarcely obedient to his mental efforts to regulate them. Sweat glazed his ivory skin and greased his palms until his grip on both sword hilts threatened to fail with every blow. He did not know which would give out first, his aching muscles or his hold on a haft that had gone slippery as a fish; but it seemed certain he could not last much longer. His air-starved lungs had dried to a rawness that made each rapid breath agony. Sweat stung blue eyes that remained open only from urgent need, and his yellow hair flopped into and out of his eyes with each move. Every lethal trick at his disposal had fallen prey to Colbey’s unbeatable defense. Ravn had lost
enough ground to wonder if they still sparred within the confines of Asgard.

  Still, the relentless assault did not let up. The trained need to commit to every stroke had worn Ravn to a frazzle, but he knew better than to slacken, even in spar. Any mistake, no matter how tiny or how well couched in skill, would never escape Colbey’s notice. The Keeper of the Balance would find a way to punish his son’s slightest hint of laziness with humiliation and effort that made even this seem paltry. Ravn had finally reached the point where he doubted, but did not question, his father’s ability to do so. Is it possible to feel tireder or achier than this? Ravn’s answer came more swiftly than he would have guessed. The spar continued, each movement stretching into a bleak and painful eternity.

  Ravn’s consciousness stretched and pulled, black dizziness interrupting thought and memory at intervals. Then, just as he felt certain he would collapse, Colbey ceased his assault. His two swords glided into a defensive position, and his blue-gray eyes studied his son coldly.

  Ravn avoided his father’s gaze; though a sure sign of weakness in itself, it afforded the opportunity to hide others. He closed his mouth, sucking gulps of air through gritted teeth and lowered his head to hide the expression of pain. Sweat ran like blood down his blades.

  Colbey remained silent for quite some time. Ravn could feel the eyes upon him and the unseen glower of disapproval. Usually, he enjoyed practice of any kind, disappointed when his father ended sessions to spar his mother or for his own svergelse. Hard work gave Ravn a satisfaction few other pleasures could match. Any session ended without pain seemed hollow and worthless, leaving him craving more. He had always believed that to be his father’s greatest strength as a torke, a teacher of Renshai. Colbey always managed to work his student to a point that left him more knowledgeable but still yearning. The eternity that immortality offered the product of a union between a half-god and a goddess never seemed enough time to learn all his father could teach. In his mortal years, Colbey had dedicated his life to his sword, forgoing eating and sleeping when they interfered with his practice. His responsibilities to the cause of Balance rarely took much of his time, and Colbey would always have three and a half centuries of practice over Ravn no matter how long and consistently he worked himself.