Then it hit me. “Rain,” I said, quietly, more to myself than anyone, thinking out loud.
Azmorgon gave me a beady glare. “What? What did you plaguing say?”
“The Deserters. They’re foiled by rain.”
The captain had the briefest hint of a smile on his face, but it wasn’t twitching and didn’t disappear. “Elaborate.”
I said, “The other day, when it was raining hard, there wasn’t a single Deserter out, was there?”
Azmorgon said, “So what? So plaguing what? Maybe they don’t like plaguing water? What’s that got to do with—”
“Let him plaguing talk, you big floppy twat.” Mulldoos said.
I gave Mulldoos a surprised and grateful nod. “When we were in the water chamber, the Matriarch showed us how they see things without needing eyes. The hand. Remember the hand?” Vendurro nodded, and I said, “That was a memory. Of theirs. They somehow project their memories out, feel them rebound off everything around them, take in the contours, shapes, textures of all the objects, in all directions.”
I began to talk faster as everything started to fall together, my hands waving as I gestured. “That is how they perceive the world. They send out memories, and see what they bounce off.”
“Makes no plaguing sense,” Azmorgon growled.
Soffjian replied, “Yes, as if a barless prison created by eyeless giants who are just south of being gods makes a tremendous amount of sense.”
Rudgi had a broad grin, her top lip so thin it nearly disappeared, and she suddenly looked lovely. “That’s why they have all those layers and baubles and embroidery on their clothing! They can’t see a blue sky, but they see texture, and to them, that’s attractive, am I right?”
Vendurro added, “And the buildings, with all those grooves and panels and carvings and grottoes and whatnot. Same thing.”
“And probably,” Rudgi said, excited, “why they carve those runes or designs into their skin, scar themselves like that.” She shook her head. “Textures. The eyeless bastards see textures. With memories. Huh. Queerest thing ever, isn’t—”
“Rain,” Braylar said, clearly impatient. “What of the rain, Arki?”
“Well,” I said, “They don’t need light to see the shapes of things. But rain . . . the raindrops are objects too. Tiny, fast moving. And if there are a lot of them, falling hard enough, I bet that effectively blinds them. That’s why they all fled inside when it rained. They’d be wandering around blind otherwise, or close to it.”
Everyone silently chewed on that for a few moments. Azmorgon was the first to speak, such as it was. “Sooooooo . . . ?”
“So,” Vendurro said with a big toothy grin, “If we waited to climb down during the rain, they couldn’t see us.”
Mulldoos wiped some spit off the corner of his lips. He did not look lovely. “Maybe the scribbler’s right. Maybe. Makes sense. Well, as much as anything can plaguing make sense on the wrong side of the world. But even if the Deserters couldn’t see us, the lickspittle thralls down there might, and they could raise an alarm. And then there’s the other thing. Even if no one paid us any mind at all and no alarm went up—real plaguing unlikely, but for the sake of arguing here—the chances of us climbing hundreds of feet down with no wall to brace ourselves, on rain-slicked makeshift ropes, when all it takes is one man to slip and bring the whole lot of us down to the stones . . . Well, worse than plaguing slim. Pretty much impossible. So there’s plaguing that.”
Vendurro said, “Alright, can’t climb down. Suicidal, like you said. But we can go sideways”
Mulldoos started to object but Braylar said, “Sideways?”
Vendurro looked at the captain. “Got to figure they keep the wards on the doors for prisoners or slaves, right? Ours, maybe some others. But betting they don’t have traps on all of them. Storage rooms. Something like that. So, supposing someone climbs along this level, works their way around to another window, climbs through. No slick ropes. Less chance of being seen by human folk. So it stands to reason that someone could sneak out of whatever room that is, and . . .”
“And what?” Mulldoos asked. “Get killed in that other room instead of this one.”
“Nope,” Vendurro replied. “But we got to bust out of here somehow, don’t we? Seems the window to window could work.”
Soffjian added, “I like an impossibly ambitious escape plan as much as the next person, but before we go too far, there is one other rather annoying wrinkle.”
“What’s that?” Vendurro asked.
“Two, actually. Even if we somehow escape this keep—premature, I know, as we’ve only just gotten someone into another room. But even if we escape, we have the Veildome around the city to contend with in this daring scenario. And even if we somehow circumvented that, we still have the Godveil beyond. Without Bloodsounder, we are still very much trapped on this side of the Veil.” She managed to say this flatly, but the blunt reality of the statement still delivered a vicious blow.
Mulldoos said, “She’s got a point. You thinking our wall climber’s going to sneak around peeking in every door on every floor until he finds that blasted thing without getting caught?”
Vendurro was at a loss, but Braylar wasn’t. “You all forget something. According to the manuscripts and even our captors, I am Bloodsounder. I can feel it. It’s not far. Certainly not half as far as when you all stole it once and stashed it back in the earth. It might even be on this level somewhere.”
Soffjian gave her brother a long look. “You fell out of a small tree and broke your arm when you were a tenyear, Bray. It had a lot of branches. It might as well have been a ladder—a one-armed man could have climbed it blindfolded. As much as I would enjoy watching you make the attempt, do you really think you are in the best shape to scurry around a stone wall with scant footholds or toeholds, in the rain, while your mind is clouded and limbs weak?”
Braylar twitch-smiled. “I do hate to disappoint, but I am not so enfeebled as all that, sister. I will manage.”
Mulldoos raised both hands in the air. “Whoa, whoa, before anybody gets out on that wall, I got some other objections.”
“But of course you do,” Braylar replied.
Mulldoos said, “Let’s say you or someone else can find your blasted flail. That gets us through the Godveil, but that still doesn’t get us out of this plaguing domicile. Still got the ward on this plaguing door.”
Azmorgon said, “Maybe it’ll do the same with the ward. Bypass it.”
“And maybe you got a brain no bigger than a walnut,” Mulldoos said. “If you had said it could get us through the barrier around the city, I might be nodding—similar thing. But I’m guessing this ward is something else altogether.” He looked at Soffjian. “You know anything about that, witch?”
Soffjian replied, “Seeing as you asked so cordially, you pale ass, I will offer my expertise. I have no idea. Memoridons have never erected a Godveil or built an invisible memory trap, so far as I know. But so long as we are bandying about guesses, I will say that it seems likely they are constructed differently, and would require different mechanisms to bypass them.”
“Guessing, guessing, guessing,” Azmorgon said, waving a big hairy hand in slow circles. “How about less of that and more doing, eh? We got to do something. We all agree there, don’t we? Got to do something.”
Mulldoos replied, “Got to do something, yeah. But something that makes some kind of sense and doesn’t get us all killed. While the rest of us figure that out, why don’t you go run into the doorway. Maybe you’ll have better luck than that plaguing idiot Benk.”
Azmorgon was about to reply when I said, “What if we captured someone who could undo the trap? Release the mechanism somehow, or free us to pass, as it obviously only prevents some from passing?”
Mulldoos said, “Like who, scribbler? One of the Deserter bitches accompanying that Matriarch? You figure one might just be strolling the halls, ripe for abduction by an unarmed Syldoon?”
“I though
t you told me a Syldoon is never truly unarmed?” His eyes were narrowing and a hostile rebuttal was building when I continued, “But no, I didn’t mean one of them. Far too dangerous and unlikely. But what of the women, one of the human Foci? They have short leashes and aren’t as powerful as Memoridons, but they are skilled in some memory magic. Perhaps one of them could walk us through, or stop the trigger.”
Mulldoos was chewing on that idea when Soffjian added, “It is possible, Arki. Perhaps even likely. But then we come full circle—we have no idea where they reside in this keep, or how well guarded they are.”
“Not yet,” I concurred. “But we could. I’m sure Bulto would know.”
Vendurro said, “Last time you tried talking to him, you nearly got your brainpan stove in.”
“That is true. But that was before they interrogated us.” I looked at Rudgi. “The last slaves who came did so with a light guard, you said.”
Rudgi nodded. “Aye. Guessing they figure they got us well cowed now.”
I looked at Braylar. “I’m willing to try it, Captain. The next time he comes with food, I’ll see if we can find out where the Foci reside, where our weapons and armor might be, especially Bloodsounder, to make hunting easier.”
Braylar gave me a long look as everyone waited for his response. “We might not be cowed, but that lad is. He will not be in any hurry to reveal anything to you, if he opens his mouth at all.”
“But it is worth a try, isn’t it?”
Braylar gave the smallest of nods. “Perhaps.” He looked at his council. “I would hear your thoughts before deciding on a course. All our lives are on the scales.”
Azmorgon said, “We’ll be trimming the sails and manning the oars, or the other way around—never did understand nothing about sailing—but you got to captain, Cap. Tell us what direction to go in here, and we’re going, but I’m with the pale bastard. We can’t wait around and list into the plaguing reefs. You got to steer the ship. We’ll do the rest.”
“Downright nautical,” Vendurro said. “You sure you never sailed?”
Braylar didn’t give him a chance to respond, and thankfully discontinued the muddied sailing metaphors. “What say the rest of you?”
Vendurro looked at the older lieutenants, then at the captain. “You know I’ll follow your lead, Cap, and if your lead is to sit tight and think things through a bit more, I’ll be right there, watching you think. But I got to agree on one point—the longer we wait, the less chance we got of making something happen the way we want it to. Better to act, than react. Ain’t that what you always say?”
Braylar gave a wry smile, however brief. “Always is a bit extreme, but point taken. And you, Rudgi?”
Rudgi winked at Vendurro. “Better to act than react.”
Braylar nodded and looked at his sister and me. “And what of you two?”
Azmorgon started to say something, certainly no compliment, but Mulldoos elbowed him in the side and the huge man shut his mouth, reluctantly.
Soffjian said, “The last time you asked my counsel was nearly three tenyear ago. Forgive me if I am a bit stunned. But we can safely surmise that now that the Deserters are confident we are not the vanguard of a human invasion, we will either be killed outright, husked, or enslaved. I suspect killed outright. I say we act as soon as possible.”
Braylar gave a small nod, then looked out the window as he asked, “And you, Arki?”
Azmorgon couldn’t contain himself anymore. “Asking a pen monkey and mind witch for advice? Plague me.”
I ignored him as I replied, “Better to act than react. I think.”
“Very good.” He looked at Azmorgon. “Have the men alternate watch on the door. We might not have much time, so we need to know the moment that boy returns.”
“Aye, Cap.”
“We see what information we can glean. And we go from there, yes?”
Everyone said “Aye” or saluted.
Mulldoos only nodded, not liking this plan at all, but seeming to know more rebuttals weren’t getting him anywhere. He stood, joints creaking, wobbling slightly, and spoke to me. “Best see if you can glean a knife or fork from that skinny bastard too. Real hard to abduct someone with a spoon or just your elbows.”
I was about to say his elbows would likely do just fine, but bit the reply back and nodded. I looked back and saw the captain staring out the window at the shroud of clouds, and couldn’t help feeling glad not to bear the burden of responsibility, in addition to whatever other unseen devils sought to malign him.
Slaves came with food and to change chamber pots two more times that day, and the Deserter guards were lax, standing just outside the door one time, and barely inside the other as the slaves went about their business. But there was no sign of Bulto, and I began to fear he’d been permanently reassigned (or permanently disposed of).
The next morning, Rudgi alerted me that Bulto was among the group of slaves that showed up. I entered the main chamber quickly, saw that the Deserters were standing just outside our deceptively barless cell, and not especially interested. But I knew any delays would alert them to something, so I moved over to Bulto as quickly as I could manage. Vendurro and Mulldoos were lingering nearby, eating dark bread, ready to cause a distraction if necessary or alert me if I needed to withdraw.
Bulto saw me heading towards him and immediately started shaking his head and looking around, anticipating the next blow.
Looking nervous, he kept distributing plates of food, and after I accepted mine and made sure none of the Deserters had entered the chamber, I said, “I need your help, Bulto.”
He shook his head again. “Do you like pain? I don’t.”
I said, “We need to leave this place, and we need your help. Where—”
“There is no leaving. None. No leaving.”
“We are leaving, Bulto,” I said as urgently as I could while whispering. “But we need to know some things.” I glanced at the Syldoon monitoring the door. No sign yet. “Where are the weapons and armor we had when they brought us here?”
Bulto’s hands were shaking as he handed out another plate of squash, peppers, and bread, and his face and neck had turned a violent crimson. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“You do,” I pressed. “I know you do. You know things. Where is our gear? And where is Bloodsounder? The flail? The captain’s flail?”
His head jerked up at the name, and I knew he had heard it before. But he maintained feigned ignorance. He said, “I do not wish to die,” or something close to that—he spoke too quickly for me to entirely follow.
“Neither do we, Bulto. And we will if we remain here. You must help us.”
He glared at me. “Must I? Or must I tell the Matriarch and earn favor?”
I pressed on, even as his too-narrow eyes challenged me. “Please. A few questions. Tell us where the arms are. The flail. And our horses. And tell us where the Foci sleep.”
His head jerked around as he nearly dropped a plate looking back to the door. “You must not speak of them. Do not.”
“I have. And I will. Tell me.” I suddenly remembered another important detail. “And the other rooms. Are they warded like this one?” He didn’t seem to understand so I tried again, “Trapped? With the memory trap, by the door? Sound, light?”
Another Syldoon nonchalantly took the proffered plate and moved off as if I weren’t risking my neck, maybe all of ours, with this illicit conversation.
Bulto’s lips were a tight line, nearly disappearing. “Why? Why should I help?”
Without thinking it through at all, I blurted out, “We’ll take you with us. Away from here.” I had no idea if that was true, but tried to will the uncertainty away from my face.
Bulto looked around nervously again, fidgeting, as if merely hearing such a proposal might spell his doom. “Away?”
“Yes, help us escape, and you escape with us,” I said, hoping I wasn’t lying.
Bulto handed out another plate, slowly. He only had a few left. The o
ther slaves were nearly done distributing the food. He seemed to be wrestling with himself. I waited, glancing at the door as he handed out two more. Finally, whispering, Bulto said, “Only rooms for prisoner are like this one.”
“What room is next to us with a window? Down the hall?”
He thought about it for a moment and said, “Storage.”
“Good. And our horses.” He looked confused and I added, “The four-legged beasts that came with us to Roxtiniak.”
“Your beasts? I do not know. I assume in the rooter pens. East of here. Due east.”
“Excellent. And our gear? The Foci?”
He was so skittish, I thought he might bolt at any moment, but after a quick look to the door he said, “Your gear is one floor below . . . ten . . .” he thought about it and nodded. “Ten doors down. West. West of here. In a storage room. Lakeside. I do not know if the flail is there. Bloodsounder. It might be. They . . . they do not like it.” He looked at the other slaves heading back to the door. “The Foci, they are in several quarters. They separate. Our masters keep them separate.”
“A woman,” I said, “Nustenzia. White or silver hair.”
Bulto started heading back to the doorway. I grabbed his arm, and he said, “You will take me? How?”
I had no idea. “Tell me where she is. Then tell me where you are. When we break free, we will find you.”
It was hard to tell which was more evident on his face, boyish hope or seasoned skepticism. “She is on this level. Halfway around. Four doors from the stairwell. Lakeside.”
I released his arm. “And you?”
He gave me a plaintive look. Hopeful won out. “Three floors below. Cityside. Four doors from the stairwell.” But then some bitterness reclaimed his expression and he shook his head. “But you will die before you get one floor down.” Then he turned and nearly ran for the door to catch up with the rest of the exiting slaves.
I neglected to ask about cutlery. But I hoped Mulldoos would forgive me.
I was too anxious to even eat as I walked with my plate to find Braylar. Several Syldoon looked at me as I passed, and it felt as if they knew that I carried some news of portent. But that might have simply been my imagination or an uneasy and empty stomach.
Chains of the Heretic Page 27
