With the fire closing in, Josephine slung her pack across her shoulders and started to climb. A few minutes later, she pulled herself over the lip of the roof and rolled onto her back. Sweat poured down her face and she worried the moisture would loosen the glue keeping her fake mustache and beard in place. Her left shoulder ached, and her fingertips were scuffed and bruised from the climb. The gloves had not worked as well as she had remembered. Before, she had climbed sheer walls with no problem . . .
Josephine held the gloves close to her face, but in the dim light she couldn’t make out what might have caused them to malfunction. Unless her father hadn’t cast any sort of permanency spell on them.
She tossed the gloves back in her pack. She’d worry about them later. Right now, she needed to find the stairs or some other way to get down again so she could warn the hotel manager about the spreading fire.
Her gaze landed on a huge water barrel standing in the center of the hotel’s roof. Josephine ran over, climbed the ladder and pressed an ear to the side. “FIRE!”
Sure enough, she heard a furious roar and a mighty slosh of water. The hotel had its own water elemental.
Josephine searched for a release hatch. Found it. The damn door wouldn’t budge. It was rusted shut. Of all the stupid things . . .
A lick of flames reached the edge of the roof. Smoke billowed out the side of the hotel. Still she heard no alarm. No whistles. Far to the southeast she spied more fires burning in Little Ryerton. A few others dotted the cityscape.
Were fires expected this evening?
A line of flames danced along the roof’s edge. She stepped a little more to the right. In the tank directly behind her now, the water elemental bellowed its rage. It could sense the flames closing in on it. Josephine took a deep breath. Any moment now . . .
There was a low groan followed by a loud creak, then a louder crack and suddenly she felt the cold wet water elemental behind her and she was thrown forward through the wall of fire and off the hotel’s roof.
chapter 13
“It’s just as big as your cabin was on the Serenity,” Kylpin tried to convince himself as he paced around the tiny cell, again. It was a lie. He stopped at the door and tried the handle. “But you were never locked inside . . .”
He moved over to his cot. Sat. Stood. Circled the tiny cell and sat again. After spending all last night racing around the docks with the Shi’kwaran and then standing by helplessly as Evie died, he was bone tired and emotionally drained. He closed his eyes. He couldn’t sleep. He stood and circled the cell again. Word had spread throughout the dungeon earlier. Ian’s verdict. Guilty on all charges, including high treason. Kylpin slammed a fist against the wall. The news was a bitter blow and it crushed his hopes of ever seeing his friend alive again.
He turned around and grabbed the thick bars set into the door and tried to force them apart. If he could just widen the space a little.
“You’ll never bend them,” Lumist call out from across the shadowy corridor.
Kylpin held his breath, fighting against the strength of the iron. The bars did not budge. Not even a little. After twenty tries, he shouldn’t be surprised. Frustrated, he growled at the door, and turned away, red-faced.
“We failed him, Lumist,” Kylpin shouted. “We failed him terribly, my friend!”
“Stay calm,” Lumist answered. “You do none of us any good . . .”
“I cannot stay calm!” Kylpin snapped. He circled his cell and returned to his door. “I am caged in here like an animal while my friend is being framed!” His voice rose as he railed against his own sense of helplessness. “Ian is innocent!”
His impassioned cry echoed up and down the dark hallway. A few prisoners cheered his words. Others shouted obscenities.
“It’s my fault you’re in here,” Lumist’s raspy voice cracked. “If I hadn’t been injured, you would never have met with me at the infirmary, and-”
“No, my friend,” Kylpin leaned against the bars and peered across the corridor. He could barely make out Lumist’s thin, shadowy outline. “If Glavinas hadn’t betrayed us, we would still be free.”
“And if Lord Ragget hadn’t orchestrated the schemes in the first place . . .” Lumist trailed off. Kylpin heard him sigh. “I suppose we can lay blame on top of blame, but none of that gets us out of here, or saves Ian.”
“Are you giving up?” Kylpin asked.
“Never,” Lumist replied sharply, the fire quickly returning to his voice.
“Then rest, my friend,” Kylpin said. “Let Theodora’s magic heal you.”
“Lumist please, listen to your friend,” Theodora said gently.
Kylpin slumped on the edge of his cot. Because of his serious condition, Lumist had been given a larger cell, and Theodora’s continued care. The sergeant’s insistence that Lumist be kept alive surprised Kylpin, until he realized it was all for show. As if Ian was not enough, the Yordician king and his cronies would parade the former Gyunwarian champion into the courtroom and proceed to break down his character until they reduced him to the role of a dangerous traitor and a threat to the crown. Lumist’s execution, like Ian’s, would be used to further widen the growing divide between the native Yordicians and the foreign Gyunwarians. Kylpin shook his head in disgust. His own execution would not accomplish nearly so much, but it still would benefit Ragget greatly. With him gone, only Lipscombe would know the safe route through the Northern Reef.
Kylpin’s lips pulled into a thin line. If he somehow escaped the executioner’s axe, he swore he would hunt down that murderous bastard and kill him! Lipscombe’s death would not only cripple Ragget’s control of Scylthia, but it would also satisfy his own needs for revenge. It seemed his kill list was only growing longer recently. The fire mage, the wind mage, Lipscombe, Lord Ragget. He only hoped he lived long enough to see it shortened.
He bowed his head. His life had spiraled so quickly out of his control. Only days earlier, he had been a happy man. He had the camaraderie of his men, the love of the sea and a fine ship to sail upon it, and a woman who . . .
Kylpin squeezed his eyes closed. Gentle Evie. She hadn’t caused anyone any harm. What had she done to deserve death? What purpose did her dying serve the gods? Had he not lost enough already?
He shook his head vehemently at that last one. That last one was pure selfishness. The loss of her own life was much greater than his loss of her occasional company. Even if it was love. Or at least what he thought was love . . .
After what he had witnessed with the Shi’kwarans, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Xo-Taro, Mai-Jun, Kin-Tar, they had all left the security of their trees to rescue Rai-Lin. Their love of her had been greater than their love of their home and they had sacrificed everything, EVERYTHING to see her safely returned. They had even gone so far as to trust a stranger with the task of rescuing her when their own failure was imminent. For a Shi’kwaran, that level of trust was unheard of. Their example of love put his idea of love to shame.
And they were the ones this society considered savage.
Kylpin stood and circled his cell again, trying to clear his mind, but the space was just too small. Instead, the walls closed in around him and he found himself gasping for air, trapped by his bleak thoughts.
His ship was destroyed.
His shipmates were all dead.
Evie was dead.
And if he couldn’t find a way to stop it, Ian would die at noon tomorrow.
Kylpin fell forward and pressed his forehead against the stone floor, overwhelmed.
“All of you will be avenged, I swear it!”
Though presently, he had no idea how he’d keep any of his promises.
An explosion rocked the dungeon. The door at the end of the corridor tore free of its hinges and bounced past Kylpin’s cell, driven on by a fist of fire. The flames did not spread into his tiny room, but the air immediately turned hot and dry and smoky. Kylpin coughed.
A caped figure emerged wraithlike from the gray and orange haze and stood
outside his cell holding a ring of keys.
“Captain Kylpin Caleachey?”
The voice was brittle and raspy. Kylpin climbed to his feet and nodded. “Yes?”
The figure fitted a key into the lock and moments later the cell door swung open.
“Please, sir, come with me,” the rasp said. “I need your help.”
chapter 14
In her nightmares, Josephine always drowned. She’d fight against the weights tied around her ankles, her wrists, and her waist and struggle mightily to regain the surface, to inhale clean, fresh air again, but in the end, she always failed. Water would fill her lungs and she would sink down, down, down into the dark, cold depths of hell.
Her father had told her once that while some believed hell to be a hot, fiery place, still others believed it to be a cold, wet realm.
“Which do you believe is true?” she’d asked him.
“Does it matter?”
For a long time, his answer had bothered her. She wanted to know the truth. How would the wicked be punished in the afterlife? Would they burn, or would they drown?
It wasn’t until after she witnessed her first execution that she understood what her father had meant. Two men were put to death. One was burnt at the stake. The other was hung upside down and repeatedly dunked headfirst into a trough of water until he drowned. Both had confessed their sins. Both had cried out for mercy. Both had suffered bitterly until the end.
Her father had been right. It didn’t matter which punishing afterlife existed.
Hell was hell.
Consciousness jerked her out of her drowning nightmare and she found herself lying face down on . . . on . . . on the courthouse roof. The caped man’s grappling hook was inches from her nose. She rose slowly, taking stock of herself. She was wet, but seemingly all in one piece, though perhaps with a few extra bumps and bruises. There were two tears in her stolen uniform, a small one below her right knee and a slightly larger one at her left elbow. The skin beneath was scuffed but the bleeding had already stopped. She touched her face. Miraculously, the fake beard and mustache were still in place.
Josephine climbed slowly to her feet and looked back at the hotel. The water elemental had escaped its wooden confine and as she had suspected, in the process of surging toward the fire it had flung her across the street. She had landed a little rougher than she would have liked, and her head still ached a bit, but in the grand scheme of things, she really couldn’t complain. Her pack and crossbow had survived, and everything appeared to be in working order. Across the street, the watery creature had disappeared inside her old room and was apparently attacking the flames in earnest.
She crouched beside the open window and peered inside. The vast courtroom was dark and quiet. A couple of lanterns fought a losing battle against the growing darkness. Josephine tugged on the grappling hook. It was still firmly lodged in place.
Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, Josephine grabbed the rope and lowered herself hand over hand into the empty amphitheater. From this point on, if she were confronted, she’d have to hope her slight disguise would fool the viewer. The shadows might play to her advantage, but then again, she wasn’t entirely sure where she was going. She’d never been in the dungeon. She only knew it was attached to the courthouse . . . somehow . . . and that Lord Ian was being held there . . . somewhere . . .
Then of course, there was the matter of getting back out again, if . . . no, when . . . she decided to remain positive . . . when she found Lord Ian. Halfway down the rope, Josephine realized just how ridiculous this entire matter was. She was attempting to rescue the man accused of killing the king, and she had absolutely no plan in place.
It was madness.
Stubbornly, she pressed on.
Josephine climbed down to the courtroom floor, dropping the last five feet and darted through the shadows toward the door along the far wall. It was the one used by the guards to usher in and remove prisoners. She assumed the doors would be locked. They stood ajar. Was this the work of the caped man who had gone before her?
Acting as if she belonged, Josephine pushed through the door and strolled down a couple of dark corridors, making sure she used a manly stride. She didn’t care what Edgar said, she didn’t swish that much when she walked. Still, it couldn’t hurt to be cautious . . .
At the end of the third corridor, she came upon a figure lying face down on the floor in front of another open door. Upon closer inspection, she discovered the dead man was a warden. He bore no obvious injuries, only an odd blackening of sorts around his mouth. Josephine left him where he lay and continued through the open door. Immediately, her nose was assaulted by the smell of death and decay and despair. No doubt about it, beyond awaited the royal dungeons. A surge of excitement flowed through her body. Perhaps this impromptu rescue might work.
An hour or so later, she was beginning to lose hope. She’d peered into hundreds of dark cells. Of the prisoners she’d seen, she was certain Lord Ian wasn’t numbered among them, and of the other seemingly empty cells, she’d whispered his name only to be answered from time to time by muttered curses. She found some ragged stairs and followed them down. The air was damp, and ripe with fear, and stank of long-term torture and dread. Echoed screams of pain gave her direction and reminded her of when she’d lived in the old tenement building by the docks. Someone was being repeatedly hurt nearby and this time, she had a pretty good idea who it might be.
Josephine stopped outside a cell and pressed an ear against the door.
“Did you kill the king?” a sinister voice asked.
Moments later, she heard a weak, “. . . Yes . . .”
“Say it!” the voice was triumphant. “Say it all.”
“I killed the king . . .”
“Excellent!”
Josephine sank against the wall. What had they done to Ian? Her hand rested on her crossbow. She might be able to burst into the cell, drop the man or men inside there with Lord Ian and together, they could make their escape . . .
But what if she missed? What if someone used Lord Ian as a shield? She had no margin for error. She wanted . . .
An explosion rocked the dungeon. Josephine was knocked off her feet. She heard a curse and footsteps. She gathered herself and scrambled away, hiding in the shadows just as a robed man stormed out of the cell and raced down the corridor away from her. Josephine lunged for the door and caught it before it could shut completely. Grabbing a stone, she wedged it underneath. Now was not the time to get trapped in a cell.
The man on the table had taken an incredible beating. His face was one big swollen mass of purple and black bruises. Only his dark hair revealed him to be a Gyunwarian. Gods! What had been done to him!
Josephine darted over to his side and quickly cut his binds. He was floating in and out of consciousness, but she thought it looked like he was happy to see her. Of course, with all the swelling, it was hard to tell one expression from another.
She helped him off the table, wrapped an arm around his waist and guided him out into the hall. Now was the tricky part. Getting through the maze of tunnels again, unnoticed.
The going was slow. At times, she was forced to carry Lord Ian over her shoulder. A couple of times she worried they were lost, but eventually, she found the stairs again. They were close now. Within minutes, she could be back at the rope, and if he couldn’t climb, perhaps she’d walk him out through the front doors . . .
“There was an explosion in the dungeon,” she’d say to anyone who stopped her, “I was told to evacuate this prisoner.”
“STOP!” a voice behind her commanded.
Josephine took a deep breath. Time to put on a show!
chapter 15
The rider pounded on the door and waited outside the closed city gates for someone to respond. Night had fallen hours before, but he had continued traveling north, his way guided by the faint light of the moon and his keen eyes.
An unkempt guard with an unruly mop of hair appeared on th
e walkway above the closed door and peered over the wall at him. “I ain’t opening the door for no . . . oh! Captain Rivers is that you?”
“Who else would it be?” Oliver Orrington growled.
“I thought you were escorting an exiled prisoner south to the border,” the guard mumbled, wiping sleep from his eyes. “Almost didn’t recognize you lookin’ so clean. Did you bathe in the river?”
“Tell me the news about Lord Ian Weatherall,” Oliver pressed, uninterested in answering the man’s questions. “How went his trial?”
The guard laughed. “As expected, sir. Guilty. His execution is scheduled for noon.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, later today . . . hell if I know if it’s before or after midnight. He dies the next time the carillon bells chime.”
“Excellent!” Oliver smiled. Despite the gruffness of the voice delivering the news, it was the best thing he’d heard all day.
chapter 16
Stay in character, stay in character . . .
“TURN AROUND!”
Josephine turned around. Three wardens were spread out in the tunnel junction about ten yards behind her. The one with the sword stood in the middle, while the two with crossbows blocked the tunnels leading off to the right and left. This close, they couldn’t miss.
“PUT THE PRISONER DOWN.”
“There was an explosion in one of the lower levels,” she said, making sure to rough up her voice. “I was told to take this prisoner upstairs . . .”
“PUT THE PRISONER DOWN.”
Josephine had little choice. They had cut off any avenue of escape and if she turned and tried the stairs, she’d be shot in the back.
“PUT YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD.”
She hesitated. “You’re making a serious mistake. I am a warden-”
“PUT YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD OR DIE.”
Stolen Crown Page 7
