by Hilari Bell
The cut above his elbow ached, but it had stopped bleeding toward the beginning of the ride. Now Edoran rolled up his sleeve and looked at it. Not too deep, and when he took the kerchief that had held his gag and used a bit of water from the flask to clean it, it appeared to be healing properly. He rolled his sleeve back down and looked around the room for something he could use, for either a weapon or to escape. There wasn’t much.
Most of the furniture was hidden under the dust sheets, and Edoran couldn’t reach it anyway. There was nothing near the fireplace except the woodpile—though he dismantled that, hoping that someone had dropped a knife down behind it. Or better yet, a pistol. Not surprisingly, no one had. There wasn’t even a striker to allow him to start a fire.
In fact, there was nothing within reach except the rug, the blankets, and the chamber pot Giles had left him. Edoran used the chamber pot and then, having nothing else to do, he restacked the wood, noting that the sticks on the bottom of the pile were still green.
This confirmed his belief that someone had been caring for the place recently, but that didn’t do him any good now.
Trying to think of something that would help, Edoran wrapped himself up in the blankets and sat back down on the rug. He really meant to come up with a plan, but it had been a long night. Soon he found himself lying on the rug, and a few minutes later he was asleep.
He didn’t wake till the door banged against the wall. Sitting up, blinking sleep from his eyes, he saw that it was dusk—just light enough for him to recognize Giles’ form in the doorway.
“Still here, I see,” said the fencing master pleasantly. “Excellent.”
“As you pointed out, I don’t have much choice.” Edoran tried to keep his voice pleasant too. If he didn’t provoke the man, perhaps he wouldn’t have to beg for a meal.
The fencing master looked around the room, then studied Edoran once more. When he was satisfied that all was as he’d left it, he went back outside. He didn’t return for so long that Edoran began to worry, but when he came in he carried a large burlap bag and a couple of glass bottles, the kind that, in Edoran’s experience, usually held rum or some other hard liquor. One of them was only partly full.
“Light first, I think,” he announced, and set his burden on the table before he went to kindle the lamps. Then he came over and started a fire in the big hearth, smiling when Edoran shrank from him.
He returned to the table and laid out provisions: a big chunk of ham, wrapped in oiled paper, and loaves of bread, cheese, assorted root vegetables, and a few apples, all a bit wrinkled from their long stay in some cellar bin. Edoran felt a flash of regret for the palace glasshouse, which put fresh vegetables, and even some fruits, on his table all through the year. But this was no time to complain about the quality of the food—Master Giles was perfectly capable of responding to such complaints by refusing to give him any.
He waited in silence while Giles made sandwiches, sliced up a turnip, and set a plate with a sandwich and half the turnip down beside the prince. He also took Edoran’s water flask and refilled it before eating his own meal. Edoran noted that Giles peeled his half of the turnip, but, tearing into the sandwich like a starving beggar, he had no intention of complaining. He picked up a piece of turnip in his hands and ate the flesh away from the peel. It was too strong, and woody, but by the time Edoran finished it he was full enough that he didn’t want to eat the skin—and when he’d started his meal he’d been considering it!
How dare Giles starve him like that?
He dared, Edoran thought, because he planned to sell the prince to someone who’d protect him from Edoran’s vengeance. But if he had nothing to fear from Edoran or Holis, then why was he drinking so much?
Watching the fencing master consume only half a sandwich, while he downed most of the remainder of the bottle, Edoran decided that he’d eaten earlier… and started drinking before he’d arrived here as well. He didn’t have a lot of experience with drunks. When one of his courtiers drank too much, his friends usually removed him from the royal presence before he could make a fool of himself. But he’d seen more than a few men in the early stages of inebriety, and one of the first things drink did was make them loose-tongued. So…
“Did you find the information you were looking for?” Edoran kept his voice light—just making conversation. It seemed to work, for Giles laughed abruptly.
“No. And yes. Which means Holis isn’t as smart as he thinks he is.”
Edoran frowned, wondering if Giles was more drunk than he appeared, but the fencing master went on, “He finally figured out that your valet was selling the information that you’d run to… well, anyone who paid him for it. He’s clapped up in a cell now, but that just makes the others more eager t’ gossip. With an old friend, at least.”
Was Giles’ voice slurring, just a bit?
“Was that how you found out about my disappearance so quickly? How clever of you.”
The admiring tone was evidently too much, even through Giles’ alcoholic fog, for he cast Edoran a suspicious glance. “They’re all talking now,” he said. “Every servant down to the stable boys, ’cept those personally loyal to Holis. And why not? The rumor of your disappearance is beginning to spread through the city now. The amount of the reward grows with every retelling, too, but it’s still not as much as I can prob’ly get… elsewhere.”
For a man looking forward to acquiring a fortune, he didn’t sound very happy, and Edoran was seized with sudden insight. “You’re afraid they’ll catch you before you can get away with the money. That’s why you’re drinking so much. Because you know a hanged man can’t spend it!”
He’d forgotten how quickly the fencing master moved. Even half-drunk, Giles had risen from the table and crossed the floor before Edoran struggled onto his knees. He threw up his hands to protect his face, but Giles swept them aside with his left hand and struck with his right.
The blow knocked Edoran to the floor, and bright bubbles obscured his vision. Through the ringing in his ears he heard Giles’ footsteps retreat, the scrape of his chair, the clink of bottle on glass.
He should have expected it. Giles was mean enough sober—he was bound to be a violent drunk.
When his head cleared, Edoran sat up again and gingerly felt the left side of his face. Giles’ blow had landed on top of the bruises the robbers had left him, and the flesh around his eye was beginning to swell. It certainly hurt.
Edoran dampened his kerchief with water and held it against his face. Giles might not be free to kill him, but he could still hurt Edoran in a dozen different ways. He had inflicted enough pain on the prince, even in the days when he hadn’t dared to leave a mark on him… and those days were clearly over.
If there was something else he’d needed to learn, Edoran might have risked it. But since he couldn’t think of any question that would help him, he kept his mouth shut, watching as Giles sent the level of liquor in the bottle down and down.
He almost finished it, and there was a lurch in his smooth movements when he finally rose to his feet. “Keep the fire going, boy.” He walked slowly over to a couch, one that stood well out of Edoran’s limited reach, and pulled off the dust cover. He contemplated it for a moment, then went to the messy pile of blankets Edoran had abandoned as the fire grew warmer. He took two of the three of them and smiled.
Edoran held hard to his resolution not to cringe, but Giles’ gaze was oddly unfocused. “On’y one blanket, you’ll have to keep it going.” The fencing master chuckled and turned back to his couch. “Use th’ wood on top,” he added. “On the bottom’s all green.”
He lay down, wrapping himself in blankets and dust sheet all together. Within moments his breathing settled into the rhythms of sleep.
Edoran watched him glumly. Chained to the hearth, with all this wood available, he would hardly freeze. On the other hand, he was no closer to escape with Giles drunk than he’d been with him sober—or gone.
Was there any chance he could throw a piece of
firewood hard and straight enough to knock Giles unconscious? He’d missed the door earlier, and it was a much larger target than a man’s head, half buried in blankets. But Giles was unconscious now, and it wasn’t doing Edoran any good. Even if he managed to hit the man, all he’d accomplish would be that Giles would wake with an even worse headache than his hangover would already supply. And if by some miracle Edoran struck hard enough to kill, the fencing master’s corpse would then keep him company while he starved to death.
In sight of food, too. A lot of food. Edoran eyed the supplies Giles had brought—enough to keep both him and the fencing master for several days, perhaps a week. But not, Edoran thought, enough to feed him while Giles rode to the Isolian border, made his deal, and returned. So Edoran had no way to know what the man planned to do next—and even if Giles left him alone, that still wouldn’t allow him to escape.
Finally Edoran decided to put the green wood on the fire. He didn’t know what it would do, but there had to be some reason Giles had told him not to.
In a burst of optimism he stacked a huge mound of green sticks on the fire… which soon started to go out. Edoran had only one blanket. He scorched his fingers pulling them out again, built up the fire with dry wood, and then set a few green pieces on top, by way of a controlled experiment.
They didn’t do much. They were slower to catch fire, and when they did burn they produced more smoke, and more crackling pops, but that was all.
On the other hand… If they made enough smoke, might some distant neighbor think the lodge was on fire and come to investigate?
Edoran hesitated. That would probably work better in the daylight, but in the day he might not be allowed to build a fire. It was dark now, but still early, and the moon was almost full. Try!
This time Edoran built his fire carefully, taking pains to keep it going as he added more and more green timber. Soon smoke poured up the chimney, sometimes puffing into the room as well, but it didn’t look like enough to Edoran. He thought it over and soaked one corner of his blanket. Then he wrapped it around the longest stick in the pile and held it over the blaze. It soon began to steam in a most satisfactory fashion… and if Edoran didn’t pull it out in time, he might have more fire than he wanted!
But he could smother the flames in the rug if he had to. Surely it could steam for a few more—
The door opened. Edoran heard the soft snick of the latch and spun, opening his mouth to shout for help, but the man who stood in the doorway raised a finger to his lips.
His hair, pulled back in an untidy queue at the nape of his neck, was almost all gray, and his face was lined, but he crept into the room with an ease that reminded Edoran of the way Arisa moved when she wanted to be quiet.
His eyes roamed over the lamp-lit room, taking in the chained prince, the sleeping fencing master, and the food on the table. He stepped over to the table and picked up the nearly empty bottle, sniffed it, and grinned.
Edoran couldn’t wait any longer. “Get me out of this!” he whispered. “Please! There’s a re—”
The man gestured for silence once more, his gaze on Master Giles. The laugh lines around his eyes deepened, and Edoran had to agree that the fencing master had earned his fate. Only then did the man walk silently over to Edoran.
“Where’s the key?” His soft murmur was quieter than Edoran’s whisper, and he’d gone straight to the point. Edoran approved. Unfortunately, he didn’t know.
“Giles put it in his pocket yesterday,” he murmured back. “But I don’t know if he put it somewhere else since.”
The man’s shaggy brows rose in appalled astonishment. “You’ve been chained here all day?”
Edoran nodded. “Can’t you pick the lock or something?”
The stranger snorted. “Not everyone is like your friend. In fact, very few are. A good thing, too.”
His friend? How did this man know about Weasel? Did he know who Edoran was?
The stranger showed no sign of the deference most people displayed on meeting the prince, bowing only to examine the lock that secured Edoran’s ankle, and frowning at the way the links bit into his flesh. He looked at the identical lock that fastened the chain around the post, grimaced, and then crept across to the sleeping fencing master.
Edoran watched as the man went slowly through Giles’ pockets. The fencing master was drunk, but anyone might be awakened by hands on their body.
The stranger might not be a pickpocket like Weasel, but his touch was light. He went for the easier targets first, searching the big pockets in the skirts of Giles’ coat, then the small pocket on the front of his vest. He appeared to be holding his breath as he eased his hand into the pocket of Giles’ britches, and Edoran held his breath too.
The fencing master stirred and wiggled deeper into the cushions, but he didn’t wake.
The stranger—who was he, anyway, and how had he come here?—pulled his hand free. It was empty. He stared down at the sleeping man, then turned to Edoran and lifted one hand, then the other. His expression proclaimed that the gesture was a question, but it took two repetitions before Edoran got it.
The prince pointed to Giles, then slowly raised his right hand. The fencing master was right-handed… and he was sleeping on his right side, making the right britches pocket—the pocket in which a right-handed man was most likely to keep keys—unreachable.
Edoran pantomimed striking a sleeping man on the head—with a piece of firewood, say.
The stranger shook his head and drifted out of the room, through the door that led to the rest of the house. He returned a few minutes later, carrying not a good blunt instrument, or the biggest knife in the kitchen, but, of all things, a long feather.
He tiptoed back to the couch, lowered himself to his knees, and began tickling the fencing master’s nose.
The nose wrinkled, and a muscle in Giles’ cheek twitched. The tip of the feather darted and danced, and Edoran scowled. Bashing Giles over the head would be less risky—and more likely to succeed.
But the stranger persisted, and suddenly Giles sneezed.
The stranger dropped instantly to the floor and slithered under the couch, just as Giles’ eyes blinked open.
His gaze went first to Edoran, who suddenly realized that he should probably be faking sleep, but it was too late now. He stared at the two men, one under the couch and one atop it, both of them looking at him. A giggle rose in his throat, but terror suppressed it.
Seeing the prince chained where he’d left him seemed to reassure the fencing master. He looked around the room and found nothing amiss. He reached up to rub his cheek, then rolled onto his left side, pulling the blankets around him once more.
The stranger seemed not even to be breathing, but his gaze was fixed on the prince’s face. He waited till Edoran signaled that the fencing master was asleep before dragging himself out and sliding his hand carefully under the blankets. Edoran saw his shoulders stiffen, and he knew, even before the man’s hand emerged, that the keys had been found.
Fighting down surges of fear and impatience, Edoran kept still as the man crept back to him. The click of the opening lock sounded horribly loud in the stillness, and they both froze. The fencing master’s steady breathing never faltered.
A hand under his elbow helped Edoran to his feet, and his knees were so wobbly he was grateful for it. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to run, but he picked up his boots and forced himself to creep quietly after the stranger—who was he?—to the door.
He’d left it ajar so the latch didn’t click, and the lodge’s absent caretaker had oiled the hinges. The door swung open without a sound, and Edoran stepped out into the night. The cold air was as refreshing as water on his sweaty skin. He hurried quietly off the porch, almost tripping on the steps in his haste.
There was a stocky dark horse tied to the rail at one side of the yard. Edoran had his boots on and the reins untied by the time the stranger had eased the door shut and come over to join him. He mounted, then reached down to
lift Edoran up behind him.
Edoran clutched the saddle’s hard rim. The horse’s rump rolled more than a saddle would, but he still wanted the rider to kick the beast into a gallop—to run and run into the night.
Of course, if he did, the sound of galloping hoof beats might rouse Giles, who might still catch up with them. Not to mention the risk of a fall, galloping in the dark. If they sneaked away while the fencing master slept the night through, he’d never be able to find them. So it made sense that the man was only walking his horse down the shadowed track. Still…
“Why didn’t you bash him on the head?” Edoran kept his voice low, though they were far enough from the lodge that a normal voice probably wouldn’t have carried. “We could have taken him prisoner. Chained him up!”
He could only see the back of the stranger’s head, but he had a feeling the man was smiling.
“It’s difficult to hit a man on the head hard enough to knock him out without killing him,” the stranger replied. His voice was louder than Edoran’s, and the prince found his spirits rising.
“Most of the time,” the stranger went on, “when people try to knock someone unconscious they either kill them, or they strike so softly they just make their victim angry. And I’d hate to do that.”
“He was drunk,” said Edoran. “You could have handled him.”
“Even drunk, he’s still the best swordsman in Deorthas,” said the stranger. “And I’m… not. No, thank you.”
He’d started to say something that he was, and Edoran wondered why he’d changed his mind. But if his rescuer wanted to keep his privacy, Edoran owed him that. And a lot more besides. He sighed.
“What?” the stranger asked.
“This is the second time in a week someone’s had to rescue me. I really am hopelessly incompetent.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said the stranger. “If Your Highness hadn’t sent up that smoke signal, I’d have passed right by the lodge. You can’t see it from the track. And if your Master Giles had been awake and sober… well, this could have gone much less smoothly. So don’t be too hard on yourself.”
