The Walls of Westernfort

by Jane Fletcher

  “We’re doing well. Only about fifty kilometers left before our rendezvous with the heretics.” Rohanna spoke quietly, although nobody else was anywhere within earshot.

  “What now?” Cal asked

  Rohanna weighed up the purse in her hand. “Well, this is the last town we go through. From here on, there’s only a scattering of hamlets, and we won’t find much to spend our money on. How about we splurge on a night at an inn?”

  “You could talk me into it.” Cal grinned.

  “Although we’ll have to stay in character and pick the cheapest one in town.”

  “As long as it has a roof over it and serves hot meals, I won’t complain.”

  Neither would Natasha. The long walk across the Homelands had been grueling. Hitched rides, like the last one, had been a rare break. Most nights, they had slept in the open or burrowed into haystacks. The weather had been kind for the first weeks of the journey, but with the start of autumn, rain had arrived. She still had not dried out properly after the last miserable night, with no more than a hedgerow for shelter.

  Newsteading offered a choice of three inns. A quick appraisal of the frontages left no doubt which would meet Rohanna’s role-playing requirement. Natasha looked around as they entered. The tavern was decidedly seedy, the furniture pitted and split with age, the flagstones sticky from spilled beer. Yet despite the shabby decor, the fire burning in the hearth was welcoming, and the warmth had attracted a fair crowd of locals. The most boisterous section was gathered around the fire, talking and jostling in a reasonably well-meaning way.

  Once Rohanna had bargained with the innkeeper for a room and a meal, the three Guards occupied a small table in a dark corner, well toward the rear. To Natasha’s surprise, Rohanna ordered them beer to drink with their food. Guards were supposed to renounce alcohol. Then Natasha smiled at her own inexperience. Of course—in such surroundings, abstinence would have made them very conspicuous.

  The beer arrived shortly, and she took a sip. The bitter taste brought back thoughts of her time in the Militia, as did the sounds and smells of the tavern. She eased down in her chair, and her eyes drifted idly over the scene. It had a distinctly rural feel but was not so very different from many bars in Landfall—such as the one where she had first kissed Beatrice. The memory jarred uncomfortably. Natasha batted it away.

  At the other side of the table, Rohanna and Cal were engaged in a conversation about the state of Cal’s boots; a mundane topic pursued with the casual familiarity of long-standing partners. Natasha listened intermittently, paying attention more to the affectionate tones than to the actual words. Over the previous month, the pair had developed a way of talking and a set of gestures to create such a good pretence of being lovers that even Natasha was sometimes half convinced that they were. They both displayed more tenderness toward Natasha than her real mother had ever shown. Natasha did not think, and did not want to think, that this was also purely an act.

  On the third day after leaving Landfall, when the blisters were at their most painful, the thought struck Natasha that they could have traveled most of the way openly as Guards, adopting their disguise only when the mountains were in sight. They could have ridden on horseback, changing mounts at military way stations, and completed the distance in less than half the time, allowing more opportunity for training. But Rohanna had been right; the most crucial thing was learning how to treat one another like family, and for this purpose, the journey had been ideal. They had been thrown into continuous close contact, working together for a common goal and isolated from all other support. It had fostered deep trust among them. Never had Natasha felt so close to her comrades as she did with Rohanna and Cal.

  She settled back in the warmth of the tavern and watched their faces. Not for the first time, she wondered what her childhood would have been like if they really had been her parents. They were people it would be easy to love, respect, and trust. She would never have felt like an unwanted encumbrance, never felt frightened to go home, never felt ashamed to acknowledge them.

  Natasha’s brooding was interrupted by the experimental twangs of someone tuning a guitar. She sighed and dismissed the pointless game of “If Only.” All around the tavern, people were looking expectantly at the woman with the guitar. Natasha hooked her arm over the back of her seat, twisting to get a better view of the musician. From the way the woman handled the instrument, she was clearly one of the locals, rather than a professional entertainer—a view confirmed when she began thumping out a simple set of chords. But her voice was passable.

  The western mountains tower high,

  Their rivers deep and cold,

  And there dwells Kimberly Ramon,

  The Ranger captain bold.

  The Guards have tried to conquer her,

  But she had victory.

  Now Captain Ramon’s Rangers ride

  The mountains, brave and free.

  For all the Sisters’ traps and plots,

  Ramon cannot be caught.

  She lives safe with her love behind

  The walls of Westernfort.

  The smile froze on Natasha’s face. The ban on the song was broken frequently. You would hear it sung in half the taverns in Landfall if you waited long enough, unless you were wearing a Guard’s uniform. And the singer here could not be blamed for being unaware that she had three Guards in her audience. Even so, the brazen glorification of Kimberly Ramon made Natasha scowl.

  Cal reached across the table and tapped her arm. Natasha leaned over to hear her whisper. “Smile. Remember, she’s our hero.”

  Natasha cursed herself. After all her preparation, she had let her role slip at the first provocation. Fortunately, no one in the tavern was looking in her direction, and at that moment, one of the bar staff arrived with the food to provide further distraction. Natasha forced a smile onto her face as she attacked her meal. Before long, she would be meeting Kimberly Ramon in person. And killing her.

  *

  The door was kicked in with a crash. Half-asleep, Natasha tried to struggle free of her bedding, but before she could rise, a harsh voice barked out, “Nobody move!” Someone was holding a lantern high. The swaying light filled the small inn room, little more than two meters square, with its tiny window set in the sloping roof. There were no furnishings apart from the two straw-stuffed pallets on the floor. There were also no weapons, no escape, and nowhere to hide.

  Natasha could see Rohanna and Cal on the other mattress, sitting up, surprise on their faces. Her fists clenched in reflex, and she was about to leap up, but Rohanna slowly raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. The action was backed up by an expression of fear, yet Natasha was certain that the response was part of an act. After a month in their company, Natasha knew her companions better than to think that either would panic so easily, and the memory of the instruction given her in Landfall echoed in her head: When in doubt, follow my lead. Rohanna wanted to keep up the pretense of being ordinary citizens.

  Natasha willed herself to remain lying on the mattress on the floor, with the blankets half thrown aside. She shielded her eyes from the light and peered up. In the doorway stood two members of the Militia in their black uniforms. One was a captain with a star and bar on her badge. Her fists rested arrogantly on her hips. The other was a private, holding the lantern, and clearly less confident; her free hand clutched the grip on her truncheon. In the dimness of the corridor beyond were at least three other Militiawomen.

  Natasha rested back on her elbows and stared at them, her initial alarm fading to confusion. Rohanna was right not to make trouble and draw more attention to themselves. The raid by the Militia had to be a misunderstanding; maybe they had been mistaken for some others. All that was needed was to sort out the mistake, and the Militia would leave—probably looking rather sheepish for disturbing the sleep of honest citizens.

  “Are we all awake now?” the captain jeered sarcastically.

  “Wh...what’s this?” Rohanna’s tone was of bewildered innocence.<
br />
  “What’s this all about?” The captain finished the sentence. “Well, why don’t you tell me?”

  “I...what?”

  The Militia captain glared at them each in turn and then snapped out the question, “What are your names?”

  “I’m Rohanna Korski; this is my partner, Calinda Rowse; and that’s our daughter, Jess.” Rohanna spoke meekly.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Clemswood, east of Landfall.”

  “You’re a long way from home.” The captain’s assertion was undeniable. “Why are you here?”

  “We’re on our way to Winterford. Cal’s sister lives there. She’s got us jobs in the town.” Rohanna gave the prearranged story.

  “Your sister lives in Winterford?” The captain snarled at Cal, who nodded in confirmation. “Well, call me a skeptic, but I don’t believe you. I think you’re a bunch of heretics hoping to scurry off into the wildlands.”

  Natasha could have laughed at the irony of it. She looked at Rohanna, wondering what the intelligence agent would do. Was there a code word by which she could identify herself? Rohanna did not slip from her role, however. “N...no, we are j...just—”

  The captain cut off Rohanna’s stuttering. “You’re just innocent weary travelers on your way.” She snorted. “Maybe you are. The good thing is that it won’t be hard to check your story, and the even better thing is that it ain’t my job to do it. There’s a company of Guards stationed up the road at Longhill. Tomorrow, I’ll send you to them. With a suitable escort. The Guards can try to find this sister of yours, and if they can’t find her, I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to deal with you...it’s the sort of thing they enjoy. But for tonight, I will offer you the hospitality of our humble town jail.” Her voice rose again to a shout. “Come on, now. On your feet, facing the wall, hands above your head.”

  Carefully, Rohanna moved to obey, avoiding any sudden action that might be misconstrued. Natasha and Cal exchanged an angry glance before following the lead of the intelligence agent. Neither was feeling kindly toward the aggressive woman in black. Once all three had complied with the order, the captain stepped aside and gestured her subordinates into the room. Natasha felt her hands dragged behind her back and bound; then she was roughly pushed out of the room while one of the Militiawomen collected their belongings.

  As they were taken through the tavern, Natasha saw the innkeeper watching them with a smug expression and jangling some coins in her hand. Natasha told herself that she should be pleased by the vigilance of the Militia, even if they did it by paying bribes to informers, but it was hard to muster the enthusiasm for heartfelt congratulations.

  From the position of the one visible moon, Natasha estimated that it was close to midnight. The streets of Newsteading were dark and deserted. The sound of the Militia boots on the cobbles echoed in the silence. The three prisoners were barefoot—something Natasha was painfully aware of on the cold, uneven surface. They wore only the light clothes they had been sleeping in. It was an extra disincentive to running away. Fortunately, it was only a two minute walk to the town jail.

  The street door opened directly into a large, well-lit room, its layout instantly familiar to Natasha from her time in the Landfall Militia. Station briefing rooms were the same across the Homelands, right down to the unwashed tea mugs and half-eaten sandwiches by the stove in the corner. A long table stood at one side, surrounded by an assortment of haphazardly arranged chairs. A weapon rack was bolted to one wall; wooden lockers covered another. Natasha would have laid money that at least a third of them contained illicit alcohol.

  A very solid door stood in one corner—presumably leading to the lockup. Natasha’s guess was confirmed when they were herded through, but she discovered two marked differences from a similar facility in Landfall. For one thing, the cell itself was quite small, little bigger than the room they had left behind at the inn, and second, they were alone. The lockups she had known would have held at least a dozen occupants by this time of night.

  Once they were in the cell, the Militiawomen removed the ropes from their wrists. The door was slammed shut, followed by the sound of the key turning in the lock. The captain muttered quietly for a while, obviously giving instructions that she did not want the prisoners to overhear. Then the street door opened and closed. It was a fair bet that the captain and some of the Militia had returned to their beds, but there were still at least two jailers left on duty, judging by the simultaneous screeching of chair legs on the tiled floor.

  It was dark in the cell. The high, barred window let in only a hint of starlight. The main source of illumination was the ten-centimeter gap under the door. Natasha’s eyes took a while to adjust, but even before she could see clearly, Rohanna put an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. Cal was also drawn into the embrace. Natasha realized immediately that the gesture was not merely intended to offer comfort, although that was how it would look if they were interrupted.

  With their heads close together, Rohanna started to whisper very softly. “Don’t worry. I can get us out.”

  “You know a code word to prove to intelligence agents who we really are?” Natasha said.

  “Well...I do, but I’m not going to tell it to anyone here. For one thing, they won’t recognize it, and for another, we can’t trust the local Militia. This close to the borders, it’s not unlikely for some to be in league with the heretics. If we tell the truth, the captain still won’t believe us, and spies might send word on ahead.”

  “So what do we do?” Cal whispered.

  “We do it the hard way and escape.” Rohanna grinned. “And as soon as possible. If we waste time going to Longhill, we’ll miss the rendezvous with our guide.”

  “And you know how to escape.” Cal’s tone contained humor rather than skepticism.

  “Of course.” Rohanna started fumbling at the waist of her pants. After a few seconds of manipulating the thick hem, she extracted a thin piece of metal. She stood and held it out. “I present...one lock pick.” Despite her triumphant tone, her voice stayed at a whisper.

  Natasha stared at the lock pick in astonishment—and admiration. The Intelligence Corps sent its agents out well prepared.

  Rohanna continued speaking. “We’ll give them another twenty minutes to calm down. Then, Jess, I want you to look under the door and warn me if anyone comes near. And Cal, can you make noise to cover the sound of the pick? Give us a song.”

  “My singing is pretty dire,” Cal warned. “Snoring would be better. And just as musical.”

  “That will be fine.”

  The twenty minutes passed painfully slowly, but eventually, Rohanna gave the signal to begin. The gap under the door was probably designed to allow food to be pushed in without unlocking the cell. It gave Natasha a good view of the briefing room when she lay down, pressing her cheek against the hard floor. There were three jailers, visible from the waist down. Judging by their conversation, the nearest two, sitting at the table, were playing cards. The third was next to the stove with her feet up on another chair.

  Natasha stayed a little way back from the door, close enough to see all three Militiawomen, but not so that her face was in the light, where it would be obvious to anyone glancing over. Rohanna stood above her, working carefully at the lock. From the rear of the cell, Cal gave an unbroken succession of snores, sufficient to mask any clinks or scratching but not so extreme as to seem false.

  Ten minutes passed before Rohanna tapped Natasha and indicated that she could leave her post as lookout. The older woman briefly took the vacated spot on the floor, studying the room outside. She stood up and said aloud, “Hey, Cal, you’re snoring. Can’t you give us some peace?”

  “Huh...what?” Cal joined in the act, sounding like someone roused from sleep.

  “You were snoring,” Rohanna repeated.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  In the following quiet, Rohanna gathered them together for a last set of instructions. “Right. That’s the first bit do
ne. The door’s unlocked, and there’s three Militiawomen to deal with, so we get one each. Cal, if you take the one on the left of the table, I’ll take the one on the right. Jess, you go for the one by the stove. She’s the farthest away, but I’m sure she’s asleep, so you should have no trouble in getting to her before she starts moving. Okay?”

  Natasha nodded. Rohanna moved to the door. On the fingers of one hand, she silently beat out the count of three. Then she threw the door open. Natasha leapt through immediately after the others. In three steps, she had crossed the room.

  As Rohanna had predicted, the sleeping jailer had barely opened her eyes by the time Natasha reached her. She was a big woman, her weight mainly muscle, although there was a touch too much fat as well. Her nose looked as if it had been broken more than once. There were healing scabs on her knuckles. Even before she was fully conscious, her face had twisted into a savage scowl, and her hands were clenched in fists. The station thug. Natasha recognized the type. The sort of Militiawoman who enjoyed a brawl and would deliberately start one when things got too quiet. She would be useful with her fists; otherwise, she would not have survived long in the job. Natasha smiled wryly; she was not without talent in such things herself. A childhood spent playing in the marketplace in Landfall was a good starting point, and the formal lessons in the Guards had sharpened her skills in unarmed combat.

  The woman dropped her feet to the floor and began to stand. She swung her arm wildly—an action clearly intended to keep Natasha away and allow herself time to rise—but Natasha ducked around the careless punch and thumped her own fist into the woman’s solar plexus. The jailer keeled over, bent almost double, wheezing. Natasha caught hold of her opponent’s arm, twisted it up her back, and then wrapped her own free arm around the woman’s throat, stifling any cry. Natasha felt very pleased with herself—until she smelled the alcohol and realized that the jailer was drunk, which took some of the satisfaction out of the easy victory.