‘Gods above,’ the officer muttered, stepping back. ‘Where’s that wagon?’
‘It’s here, sir,’ said another voice.
‘Get him in the back, and don’t treat him too kindly; the bastard’s just ruined my new boots.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Four crossbow-wielding militiamen came into view, while another two moved round to Corthie’s shoulders and began to lift him from the gutter. They heaved him up, then dragged him across the road to where a large wagon was waiting, a large, barred cage positioned upon its wide chassis. Inside were half a dozen others who had already been arrested by the militia – four men, a woman, and a young boy. The cage was unlocked and opened, then four of the militiamen pushed Corthie inside. His head struck the floor of the cage, and then his legs were shoved in and the cage was closed and locked. Corthie remained where he was, sprawled over the filthy wooden floor, and the wagon began to move, its wheels juddering over the uneven cobbles. He glanced out through the bars at the street, and caught a glimpse of Van, watching from the shadows by a market stall.
‘Could you move your leg?’ said a voice inside the cage.
Corthie turned. His left leg was tangled in the grimy old cloak of one of the men.
‘Aye, no bother,’ Corthie grunted. He pulled himself up into a sitting position and leaned against the bars.
‘Rough night, lad?’
‘I can’t remember a thing. Where are we going?’
The man grinned, displaying his lack of teeth. ‘This your first time being picked up in the old drunk wagon, eh?’
Corthie nodded at the young boy. ‘He’s a bit young to be drunk.’
‘The lad’s probably been picking pockets.’
‘No, I ain’t,’ said the boy, ‘so shut your mouth.’
The old man laughed. ‘We’re off to the city jail,’ he said to Corthie. ‘If it’s your first time, you might get let off with a fine, but only if you’re contrite and polite to the magistrate – he hates drunks.’
‘I might have smashed up a tavern as well.’
‘Then you’d better pray for a miracle, lad, cause the magistrate particularly hates violent drunks.’
‘I also threw up on an officer’s new boots; that I do remember.’
The old man cackled with glee.
Two of the other men in the cage were eyeing Corthie with suspicion.
‘You got a problem?’ he said.
‘Depends,’ said one. ‘You Banner?’
‘Nope. Why do folk round here assume I’m a Banner soldier?’
‘It’s your accent,’ said the old man; ‘it’s difficult to place, it is. Where you from?’
It was an obvious question, but Corthie had no ready answer. He had tried a variety of responses in the bars and taverns he had been frequenting, but none of them had convinced anyone.
‘He’s a Banner deserter,’ said one of the other men; ‘just look at him; he’d be as well having “soldier” stamped across his forehead.’
‘I have a military background,’ Corthie said, ‘but not with any Banner.’
‘Yeah?’ said the old man. ‘Who have you fought?’
‘Greenhides.’
Thinking it was a joke, most of the others in the cage laughed.
‘If you’ve served here in Kinell,’ said the old man, ‘then you’d better watch your step in the city jail, lad.’
‘I’ve never served in Kinell. I only arrived in Kin Dai a little while ago. And, I freely admit to knowing next to nothing about the politics of the place, or why you lot seem to hate everyone else in Khatanax. Especially the Fordians, apparently.’
‘Green-skinned scum,’ muttered one of the men.
The wagon pulled to the side of the road next to the waterfront, and they waited as the militia jumped down from the front and moved off into a crowd. Corthie closed his eyes against the harsh sunlight. Had he really trashed a tavern? His guts were churning, and his headache seemed to be peaking, sending bolts of pain through his skull. He remembered to check for his battle-vision and, to his surprise, found it stronger than ever, almost as strong as it had been before Yoneath. He immediately pulled on some, and his hangover eased a little. He almost cried out in relief, but kept his expression muted. Had his powers recovered? He opened his eyes and glanced around, and his battle-vision responded, flooding him with sensory information.
Great timing, he thought. His battle-vision had returned, and he was locked in the back of a drunk wagon. A memory from the previous evening flashed through him, an image of Naxor shouting about how they had to leave Kin Dai right away, and something about Belinda… That was right, Belinda had been in contact, and there was something else, good news he seemed to recall, though he couldn’t remember what it was.
Four armed militiamen approached the rear of the wagon, dragging a semi-conscious man along the street. They unlocked the cage, and threw the man in before anyone could react, then quickly locked it again. Corthie pushed the fallen man from his legs. He groaned, and fell unconscious again as the wagon jolted ahead. They turned away from the waterfront and entered a network of tight streets, where many of the buildings seemed older.
‘Is this the centre of Kin Dai?’ said Corthie.
‘It’s the Old Quarter,’ said the toothless man. ‘The city jail is close by; not far to go.’
Corthie nodded. ‘Why did you get picked up?’
‘They accused me of running a gambling den,’ he said. ‘It’s untrue, of course. Gambling’s illegal in this city.’
One of the other men snorted.
‘What if you’re found guilty?’ said Corthie.
The old man shrugged. ‘I’ll be fined again. They keep picking on me.’
The wagon pulled up in front of a ramshackle old building. It was several storeys tall, but its façade was crumbling. Large groups of militia were stationed outside the front doors next to a few tall palm trees, and they approached the wagon to speak to its escorts. For a long time nothing seemed to happen, then eventually the cage was unlocked, and the seven prisoners were led out, or carried, in the case of the unconscious man. The woman and boy were taken to a separate entrance, and the men were led down a set of stairs to the basement level where they were pushed into a large room that already contained a few dozen prisoners. There was nowhere to sit except for the stone floor, and once the door was locked, no guards came to check on them. Corthie’s height and obvious strength drew the glances of many, and he heard a few muttered words about ‘Banner scum,’ but he avoided confrontation, and no one bothered him.
He spent several hours in the holding cell, and he guessed it was well into the afternoon before soldiers opened the door and gestured for him to get up. They had been coming in at irregular intervals, either taking prisoners away, or adding more into the room, without any discernible pattern that Corthie could see.
His hangover had gone by the time he was escorted up a set of stairs and into a small, cramped room, where six militiamen were waiting.
‘Sit,’ said an officer, gesturing to the room’s only chair.
Corthie walked over to the chair and sat without a word.
‘You’re due to see the magistrate in ten minutes,’ the officer said. ‘The charges against you include the unlawful destruction of property and assaulting a citizen of Kin Dai. If you plead guilty, you’ll receive a fifty day sentence in a labour camp, but if you plead not guilty, then you’ll get ten years. Understand?’
Corthie’s eyes tightened, and he wondered what his mother would make of Kin Dai’s legal system.
The officer took out a stylus and wax-board. ‘Name?’
‘Aman.’
‘Of?’
‘Nowhere.’
The officer frowned at him. ‘Place of abode?’
‘Homeless.’
‘Profession?’
‘None.’
‘Place of birth?’
‘I don’t remember.’
The officer nodded to one of the militiamen, and
Corthie felt a stinging blow strike the back of his head. He grimaced in pain.
‘Half the militia here believe you’re a spy,’ the officer said, leaning in close to him. ‘A spy sent from Alea Tanton; a Banner soldier from Implacatus. Are you a spy?’
‘No, but would a spy say yes?’
‘What does Alea Tanton want? Why did they send you here?’
‘Would a spy trash a tavern and fall asleep in a gutter? I don’t know much about the Banners, but I do know their soldiers are professionals. Would they have sent me? I stick out here; my height, my accent. I don’t like the rulers of Alea Tanton much, but even I don’t think they’d be stupid enough to send someone like me.’
The club connected with the back of Corthie’s head again, knocking him off the chair and onto the cold, stone floor.
‘I’m going to recommend a long custodial sentence for you,’ said the officer, ‘just in case you’re lying, but also because I don’t like you.’ He nodded to the militiamen. ‘Take him to the magistrate.’
Corthie felt hands grip him under the shoulders, and he was dragged through a door and into a large, ceremonial chamber, with gilt-edged paintings on the walls and fine, stained glass windows. Several clerks were sitting at desks, while over a dozen militiamen were standing guard. Behind a high bench at the end of the room, an elderly man was sitting, peering down at Corthie. A clerk handed him a clutch of wax-boards, which he glanced at.
‘Aman of no fixed abode,’ he said, his voice deep, ‘how do you plead to the charges laid against you?’
Corthie glanced around, his head pounding.
‘Your lack of response will be taken as an admission of guilt,’ said the magistrate; ‘do you understand?’
‘I don’t remember trashing any tavern,’ said Corthie, ‘but if witnesses said I did it, then I guess I did. Sorry. I’ll try to behave better in future.’
The militia officer who had questioned him walked up to the magistrate and whispered in his ear.
‘Your guilty plea is acknowledged,’ said the magistrate, ‘and I hereby sentence you to twenty years in a labour camp. Next case.’
Corthie stared at the magistrate in disbelief, then two militiamen guided him through another door, their crossbows jabbing into his side. He was led down a flight of stairs into a different part of the basement and shoved into a small cell. The door slammed shut behind him and he was left alone, the back of his head still aching. There was a recess in a wall with a low stone bench, and he sat, settling down to wait.
Hours passed. The only light was coming from a barred window in the door that led into the lamp-lit passageway, and he had no way to tell what time of the day it was. He grew hungry, and longed for a few pints of water to relieve his dehydration. The door opened, and he was disappointed when another prisoner was pushed in, rather than it being his dinner.
The man tripped and fell to the floor as the door was closed and locked again, then he glanced up at Corthie, a look of fear on his face. He backed away, and crouched by the other wall.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Corthie; ‘I’m not going to eat you.’
The man burst into tears. ‘My life is over,’ he wailed. ‘Thirty years for insulting the rulers of Kin Dai, that’s what the magistrate gave me; thirty years!’
Corthie watched him for a moment. ‘I got twenty for trashing a tavern.’
‘A tavern?’ said the man. ‘That doesn’t sound right. You must have done something else.’
‘They accused me of being a spy.’
‘And are you?’
‘No.’
The man wiped his face. ‘That’s a pity. If you were, then you might be able to help me get out of here. All I did was say that the city authorities were corrupt, which they are, and now I’m going to rot in prison. I have a wife and two young children; who will feed them now? They’ll be thrown out onto the streets with nothing.’
‘That seems a little unfair.’
‘Unfair? It’s a travesty, that’s what it is. The system here in Kinell is rotten; it needs torn down. Don’t you agree?’
Corthie shrugged.
‘I wonder why they thought you were a spy,’ the man said.
‘My accent, probably.’
‘It does sound strange. Where are you from?’
‘Not Kinell.’
The man laughed. ‘That’s obvious. You sound like you might be from Implacatus, that’s probably what did it. After the occupation by Banner soldier a few years back, there’s a lot of mistrust here. The government might do whatever Alea Tanton commands, but only begrudgingly.’ He leaned forward, his voice lowering to a whisper. ‘If you were from Implacatus, then maybe you could ask your friends there to overthrow the corrupt government here in Kinell. And I could help you; I have contacts.’
Corthie narrowed his eyes. ‘What kind of contacts?’
‘If you agree to help me, I might even be able to get you out of this prison.’
‘How?’
‘You need to give me something first. You help me; I help you.’
‘What do you want me to give you?’
‘Answers,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘If you are a spy from Implacatus, then I could assist you in many ways, starting with our escape from here.’
‘And if I’m not a spy?’
‘I don’t get it. If you’re not a spy, then why didn’t you just tell them where you’re from?’
‘How did you know I didn’t tell them that?’
The man paused.
‘Look, I understand that you’re only doing your job,’ said Corthie, ‘but you’re not going to get me to confess to something I didn’t do. If you’re done, then you can ask the guards to let you back out again.’
The man stared at him. ‘Just tell me where you’re from. If you truly aren’t spying for Implacatus, then what harm could it do?’
‘A lot. Now get out of here before I change my mind about not eating you.’
‘Is your secret worth twenty years in prison?’ he said, as he got to his feet. ‘Think about that.’ He walked to the door and banged on it. ‘I’ve finished in here.’ There was no response. ‘Hello? Guards?’
A key sounded in the lock and the door opened. Two militiamen pushed the man back into the room and entered. For a split second Corthie thought they were going to attack him, but then he glanced at their faces.
‘Let’s go,’ said Van. ‘Now.’
Corthie stood. ‘What about this guy?’
Naxor, also dressed in a militiaman’s uniform, stared at the other man for a moment, then drew a sword and drove it through his chest.
‘Was that necessary?’ said Corthie, watching as the man fell lifeless to the stone floor.
Naxor cleaned the blade on the man’s clothes. ‘Yes. He wasn’t a real prisoner; he was working for the city authorities.’
‘Aye, I’d already guessed that.’
‘Then you should know why we couldn’t have left him alive. His blood is on your hands, though, not mine. If you hadn’t been stupid enough to get arrested, then he’d still be alive.’
‘Stop arguing and move,’ said Van. ‘Corthie, put your hands behind your back and clasp your wrists together as if they were bound. Naxor and I are escorting you to a new location, as your guards. Understood?’
Corthie nodded and did as he was told, then Van peered out into the passageway. He motioned with his fingers, and they followed him out, leaving the man lying in a pool of blood on the stone floor of the cell. Naxor closed the door and locked it, then he and Van flanked Corthie and led him down the passageway. They passed another militiaman, but he was sitting slumped in a seat by a door, his eyes closed. They went through the door, where two more guards were sleeping, their bodies propped up on a long bench.
‘There’s a courtyard at the top of the stairs,’ whispered Van, ‘and Sohul has a wagon parked just beyond the gates. We may have to run when we get out into the open. Can you manage that?’
‘Sure,’ said Corthie.
‘Halt,’ he said. ‘Where are you going?’
Naxor smiled. ‘We’re just going to walk out of here, if that’s alright with you. If it’s not, then perhaps you should have a little nap.’
The officer’s eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed to the ground.
‘Someone call for a doctor!’ Naxor cried, as Van starting shoving Corthie towards the gate.
Corthie and Van ran for the gate. Two militiamen hurried to block them, and Corthie powered his battle-vision, feeling a surge of euphoria as it rippled through his body. He sidestepped a lunge from a sword, and punched the first guard in the face, sending him flying through the air. He grabbed the second, and threw him into the crowd of pursuing militiamen, then he, Van and Naxor raced through the gates. Sohul was sitting on the driver’s bench of a small covered wagon and the three men jumped up onto the back as the lieutenant urged the two horses harnessed to the front into action. The wagon moved off, gaining speed with every second, as Naxor leaned out of the back and sent the first row of pursuers to sleep, their comrades colliding with them as they fell to the cobbles.
Sohul manoeuvred the wagon to the left, and they joined a busy road, slowing as they entered the flow of traffic. He turned his head to glance into the back of the wagon.
‘Everything fine back there?’ he said.
‘All good,’ said Van. ‘Take us south for half a mile, then we’ll ditch the wagon.’
Corthie started to laugh. ‘Thanks, everybody. Twenty years they gave me; can you believe that? Twenty years for ruining a tavern and breaking some guy’s nose.’
Naxor frowned at him. ‘If it had been up to me, I would have left you in that cell.’
‘I’ll bet you would have,’ Corthie said. He glanced at Van. ‘I assume it was your plan?’
Gates of Ruin (Magelands Eternal Siege, #6) Page 16
