by Bryan Davis
Marcelle drew a picture in her mind of a half-starved teenager sitting in chains with her own refuse scattered about. “How long have you been here?”
“A couple months. Why?”
“Perhaps we can help each other. After I finish my task here, I will do what I can to get you released.”
After a moment of silence, Elyssa’s voice sounded again. “I’m listening.”
“I’m looking for a gas line. Prescott said it was close, and my source tells me Prescott accesses it from this dungeon level.”
“He does. I can hear him scratching the wall at the end of the corridor, so I think that wall is probably a façade. I know it’s him, because he talks to himself, usually about the bitter film on his tongue. Fortunately, the gas doesn’t seep into my cell, so it’s not a death trap for me, at least not yet. In any case, he usually mumbles something about finding the right hole, so that must be the key to opening the wall.”
Marcelle licked her lips, again tasting the bitterness. “Why all the secrecy?”
“My guess is that the line leads to the gas company’s office. While Prescott makes pretense of visiting the poor wayward prisoners, he is actually committing a crime. He promotes policies that help the gas company, while he takes a share of the profits from invisible hands.”
Marcelle nodded. “My father mentioned doing an audit of that company, but when he became ill, it was all he could do to keep up with his routine duties.”
“As I said, the royal dining room has not served him well. It is safe only for friends of the regime.”
Marcelle regripped the window bar. So that was it! Her father would have discovered the graft and exposed Prescott, so they made sure he was unable to do the digging. “For a scullery maid, you certainly know a great deal.”
“I have my ways,” Elyssa said. “I am here because of my snooping.”
The girl in Marcelle’s mind slumped her shoulders, and her head dipped toward her chest. How sad! No, it was tragic! This poor girl was just a nosy maid, and here she wasted away in chains and filth. Something more had to be going on. Even Prescott wasn’t so cruel that he would cast a child into the lower level of the dungeon to rot.
Marcelle pushed as much confidence into her voice as she could. “Now it’s my turn to snoop. When I’m finished, I will do everything in my power to get you released, even if I have to steal the keys and break you out myself.”
A youthful laugh filtered out from the dark cell. “I believe you will try,” Elyssa said. “Maybe good fortune will be our friend. Even if you fail, at least I might have a cell mate. I have enjoyed our conversation.”
“As have I, Elyssa.” Tears crept into Marcelle’s eyes. “Until we meet again.”
She brushed away the tears and marched into the darkness. This was no time for weakness. She had to think like a warrior and get to that gas line.
When she arrived at the end of the corridor, she passed the glow stick slowly from left to right. Several holes had been drilled into the wall in a random pattern. She pushed her finger into one of them, but nothing happened. She then did the same for one hole after another until finally something clicked. A brick at her waist level slowly pushed out a few inches before stopping. She grasped it and pulled. Acting as a doorknob, the brick swung out a section of the wall that began at her ankles and reached to about chest level.
Again extending the glow stick, she ducked down, stepped through the hole, and emerged into yet another corridor, this one with a ceiling so low, she had to stay bent at the waist. A metal pipeline, sitting on the floor and rising to thigh level, took up most of the space in the passage. The long tube ran parallel to the wall and extended into darkness.
After following the pipe for a dozen or so paces, a Y-junction appeared in the glow. She touched a vertical metal wheel attached to the side. This had to be the valve mentioned in Drexel’s note, but the instructions didn’t say which way to turn it. She sheathed her sword, gripped the wheel with both hands, and pushed the top side toward the right, grunting as she set her feet and drove her body into the effort. The wheel wouldn’t budge.
“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “We’ll try the other way.”
Again setting her feet, she placed both hands on the right side of the wheel and thrust herself forward. The wheel turned slowly, making a high-pitched squeal as it rotated. A few seconds later, she had shifted it three-quarters of the way around.
She released the wheel and brushed her hands together. Five hours to get to the collection tank and too much to do beforehand. Time to get going.
After exiting the pipeline corridor and sealing the wall, she gave Elyssa another encouraging word before hurrying to the dungeon exit, the glow stick again lighting her way. When Gregor opened the door embedded in the ground, she emerged into failing daylight and blinked at the brightness. He held out manna bark shavings in his meaty palm. She pinched some and pushed them between her cheek and gum, preferring to allow her saliva to leech out the healing chemicals. Years ago, Mother made her chew it whenever she got a rash, and the stuff always left splinters between her teeth.
About a stone’s throw away, Drexel stood on the gallows platform, inspecting the dangling noose. “It is important,” he called, “to make sure executions run smoothly, don’t you think?”
Marcelle approached but stopped a few paces short of the steps leading up to the platform. “I assume that rope will carry traitors both large and small.”
He pushed the noose, making it swing. “Which is precisely the reason I prefer to watch others carry out my plans.”
As the noose passed back and forth, she eyed the cowardly conspirator. “I opened the valve, and I convinced Prescott to let me join some men he is sending out to kill an unnamed portal hunter. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know it’s Adrian. I think the two of us will have no trouble defending ourselves.”
“An interesting development.” He glanced at the palace behind him. “Perhaps the good governor has not been as forthcoming as I would like him to be. I assume, however, that he will soon alert me to the hour this mission will begin. He always wants his head sentry to know about the comings and goings of the soldiers.”
“I would tell you myself if I knew. I have other obligations to meet before Prescott will give me leave to go.”
His brow lifted. “Oh, really? Other obligations?”
Her cheeks burning, she gripped her sword’s hilt. “Need I remind you—”
“No. You need not. I merely want to ensure proper timing. You and your skeptical spirit must be in place before Adrian makes the delivery. You being in the company of soldiers who are not dedicated to our cause will result in an unfortunate delay, but it is unavoidable if we wish to help Adrian. You will either have to send them on a tangent away from your destination or else disable them. Either choice could delay you too much.” Drexel wrinkled his nose. “Yet, I suggest that you take the time to change your clothes.”
Marcelle looked down at her tunic, still bloodstained, marked with sweat rings, and emblazoned with a skewered dragon. “I will arrive before the five hours elapse and without Prescott’s men. If the dragon doesn’t keep to the bargain, Adrian and I will persuade him with the point of a sword.”
Drexel grabbed the noose, stopping its swing. “You had better be off to your obligations. I will be at the front entry for the invocation, and I have to supervise some cleanup and polishing details well before it begins. Apparently, His Excellency wants to show off tonight, so I have been given the honor of standing at the door and ushering in the peacock parade.”
“I know what you mean.” Marcelle took in a deep breath. Should she tell Drexel about Elyssa? Maybe he could aid in her release. “There’s something else. I met a girl in the dungeon. She seems to be innocent of any real wrongdoing, a political prisoner I suppose.”
“Yes,” Drexel said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Elyssa. I know about her. She is innocent of any evil. She just learned more about Prescott’s schemes than he co
uld tolerate.”
“Can you use your influence to get her out?”
Still hanging on to the noose, he looked toward Gregor who stood like a brawny boulder at the dungeon entrance. “I already have. She is an integral part of my plan.”
“Because she can expose Prescott’s corruption?”
“The reason matters nothing to you. She will be released soon. If all goes well, this very night.”
“And there’s another prisoner,” Marcelle said, raising a finger. “Tibalt, I think.”
Drexel laughed. “That old geezer is so addled, even if he was released, he wouldn’t know how to take care of himself. He would become a beggar, a wild man haunting the streets.”
“I think it’s an act. He seemed quite sharp to me.”
“Are you asking me to empty Prescott’s dungeon of every whining puppy you met? The price for your services is far too high.”
“Okay.” Marcelle breathed a sigh. At least Elyssa was taken care of, but there was something else. Oh, yes. The finger. She touched her shirt just below her clavicle. “Have you seen the glowing patch of skin on Prescott’s chest? He called it a litmus finger.”
Drexel’s jaw tightened, and his voice rose. “A litmus finger? Are you sure?”
She nodded. “He said something about it being able to guide someone—”
“To the portal. Yes, I know what it is.” His eyes rolled upward, and he loosened and tightened the noose several times before speaking again. “It seems that I can use this neck-stretcher in a productive way.”
“How so?”
A crafty smile spread across his face. “Never you mind, my dear. I think I have devised a plan that will make all your wishes come true. I will persuade the governor to send the traitor-hunting party out under my command. When you are finished with your obligations, come to the front gate to join them.”
Marcelle gave him a long, hard look. Could he be trusted? Probably only to do what was best for himself. Obviously planning the return of the Lost Ones would make him a hero, and he would use that for political gain. Rising to loftier seats was likely enough for him, but if not, who could tell what he might try to do?
She withdrew her sword. “When I return, if I find that you have deceived me, I will feed your body to the vultures.”
He waved a hand of dismissal. “Your perception will change soon enough. When you and Adrian return with the Lost Ones in tow, the adulation we all receive will confirm everything I have done. I will let nothing stand in the way of this rescue attempt, neither dragons, nor Prescott, nor a suspicious warrior maiden.”
Marcelle grumbled under her breath. “I have good reason to be suspicious.” She stalked by him, purposely flashing her blade as she passed. Trusting this self-seeking backstabber seemed like a fool’s gambit, but for anyone who wanted to make a real effort at rescuing the Lost Ones, Drexel stood as the gatekeeper. His status gave him access to resources no one else had.
After shoving her sword in place, she ran up the stairs toward the palace’s back entry, nodding at the mustachioed guard as she neared the tall double door. Grasping a curved handle that resembled a thick fishhook, the guard opened the right half, his face stoic but not unfriendly.
Keeping her gaze low, she hurried to the spiral staircase on the left, relieved that no visitors roamed the rear foyer. Soon, with the invocation of the new counselor, the palace would likely be crawling with nosy nobles who loved wandering in the public-accessible rooms. Later they would gossip about cracked marble tiles, dust on the sills of the stained-glass windows, and the lack of shine on brass doorknobs and banisters.
As she scrambled up the stairs, the wagging tongues played their poorly hidden venom in her mind. “The palace has seen better days, has it not? Try as he might, our good governor has not brought in sufficient revenue for upkeep. You would think with the new tax rates, fair as they are, he would be able to hire decent help.”
Then a counterpart would say something like, “You have identified the real problem. Who can find good help these days? The peasants have become such an ungrateful lot. We graciously provide employment, and they work as if entitled to their pay. I had to release one woman who constantly wanted time off to care for her father. I told her she had to decide between being a dying old man’s nursemaid or working a decent day for the generous wages I provide. Why should I pay for her personal choices?”
And so the clucking biddies would continue, having nothing better to do than to complain about nothing—cutting down those higher than they and building themselves up, though they did so with bricks of manure. That was all their self-compliments were worth.
At the top of the stairs, she turned left and strode along a dim hallway, bordered on one side by a railing that provided a view of the foyer below, and on the other by a wall filled with framed art—portraits of past governors, smiling in the midst of powder and blush; murals of battle scenes with horses rearing and their riders raising swords while enemy combatants cowered beneath the hooves; and a few sketches depicting recent scientific discoveries.
Marcelle paused at one of the sketches. Prescott loved boasting of the advances in technology that had taken place in Mesolantrum during his rule, and this particular diagram always piqued her interest. It showed a summary of the human genome, a smaller and abbreviated version of the enormous chart hanging downstairs. Although kingdom scientists had long understood basic genetics, they had solved some of the deepest mysteries only recently and used their discoveries in many applications, so Prescott was only too glad to take credit.
She stared at the complex code. The seneschal had employed it many times to identify criminals during the past twenty years. If only the worst of scoundrels, the one who had ruined her family’s life, had left behind a traceable genetic clue, maybe her obsessions would finally ease.
Shaking her head, she turned and hurried on, passing Drexel’s quarters as well as those of the counselor, the seneschal, and the head chef. Prescott wanted his trusted officials indebted to him, so he purchased their favor by providing opulent housing, free food, and high status.
She stopped in front of the door to her family’s rooms. How little Prescott knew. Drexel plotted against him constantly; the counselor announced his retirement, citing age, though everyone else knew he hated Prescott’s prying into religious affairs; and the seneschal ignored any legal edicts that interfered with his personal vendettas. Such was the flavor of the hand that fed them.
She turned the brass knob and pushed the door slowly open. Father would be resting. With the counselor’s invocation promising to keep him up late, he needed to sleep, but how could she depart on a dangerous mission without saying good-bye? And, of course, she had to warn him about the food. If he really was being poisoned, eating at the palace was out of the question, and until he could prove it one way or the other, he had to take precautions.
After tiptoeing into the room, she unbuckled her belt and laid the sword gently on the floor. Across the way, Father reclined on his bed, his back and head propped with pillows. His eyes were closed, and his hands rested on his wasted-away stomach, riding up and down with his uneven breaths.
She glided closer. Perhaps he was asleep, but he rarely slept soundly. Nightly eruptions of nausea saw to that. And now, as she replayed his symptoms in her mind, the evidence pointed again and again to poisoning, like slaps in the face accusing her of negligence. How could she have been so stupid? So naïve? Knowing what a scoundrel Drexel was, witnessing the counselor’s hypocrisy, and hearing stories of the seneschal’s corruption, how could she have overlooked the possibility that the chef might dirty his hands by polluting the soup?
Speaking of dirty … Marcelle looked down at her tunic. Presenting herself before her father in such array would be less than respectful. She turned and stepped quietly into her own room, using a narrow door that opened to the quarters she had called home for the past nine years.
Ever since Prescott appointed Father to his role as banker and elevat
ed him from peasant to noble because of his keen mind and unparalleled mathematics skills, they had shared this two-room domicile. Although it wasn’t any larger than their previous space in the commune, Prescott allowed them free access to the library, ballroom, dining hall, and courtyards, making this home seem as spacious as outdoors.
She looked at her bed—four ornate posts of rich dark wood surrounding a feather mattress covered with freshly washed sheets and a velvety purple comforter. Luxurious. Rich by any standard. Still, it never replaced her old bed in their real home. When Mother died fifteen years ago, the place they called home died with her—the smiles, the songs, the smells—every detail that brought warmth and joy melted away. And, try as her father might, his own songs never carried the same joy, his smiles wilted on the vine, and, of course, he could never fill their two-room living space with Mother’s gentle aromas—the perfume from flowers she often wore in her hair, and the scents embedded in her clothes when she had cooking duty. Ever since she passed away, the lilacs never seemed to bloom with the same glory, and every meal tasted like sand. Such was the curse when the heart of the home stopped beating.
Marcelle stripped the dirty shirt over her head and tossed it into a corner near her closet, a shallow cubbyhole across the room from her bed. No time for neatness. She would have to tidy up when she returned.
As her thoughts bounced around in her mind, the final three words echoed. When she returned. She looked at a mirror on the wall, an oval glass framed in mahogany, large enough to reflect her head and chest. Looking into her own eyes, now gleaming with tears, she breathed out a replacement. “If I return.”
After changing into black trousers and a clean black tunic, perfect for the tasks ahead, she spat out the manna bark, washed her face in a basin, dragged a brush through her hair, and tiptoed back to her father’s bed. She slid up onto the mattress and sat cross-legged at his side, angling her body to get a good look at his aging visage. With hair now gray from temple to temple and thinner than ever, and with deepening creases in his narrow face, he looked very little like the robust man who would dance with Mother on rainbow nights, those magical evenings when showers watered the garden, and the setting sun transformed the droplets into a magnificent spectrum in the sky.
