“I am glad to help,” said Louie.
“The usual fee?” Phillip asked.
“That will suffice, sir,” said Louie.
“Two hundred silver rosuns,” Phillip told Thomas, who drew out his purse, counted the rosuns and handed them over. “We also need to hire three griffins. Is Big Dimitri still in business?”
“Alas, Big Dimitri is dead, Master Pip,” said Louie. “A wyvern bite turned gangrenous. His son, Little Dimitri, has taken over.”
Louie placed the silver coins in a cloth bag. Excusing himself, he carried the bag into his shop and presumably locked them away, for he returned without them. He then led them into a neat, tidy kitchen and indicated they were to sit down at the table. Disappearing again, he returned with paper, pen, and ink. As they watched, he swiftly sketched a layout of the prison.
“Is your friend a crafter?” he asked.
“She is,” said Phillip.
“Then she will be in one of these magic-damping cells,” said Louie, indicating a row of cells on the second floor. “Since she is going to be hanged, the guards will put her in a cell overlooking the courtyard, so that she can easily hear them building the scaffold, and if she looks out her window, she’ll be forced to see it.”
Thomas shuddered. Louie, absorbed in his drawing, did not appear to notice.
“They will put her in one of these three cells,” he was saying, noting each with a neat check mark. “You should not have trouble finding the correct one. Since she is to be executed, they will place a guard directly outside her cell door.”
“When do the guards change shifts?” Phillip asked.
“The night guard remains on duty until morning.” Louie looked up from his work. “Do you need lock picks, Master Pip? The padlocks on the cells are somewhat difficult, but you were always a quick study, sir.”
“No, thank you, not this time, Louie,” said Phillip, smiling. He glanced at Thomas, by way of asking if he should tell Louie their plan. Thomas nodded, and Phillip continued. “We could use information on the priests that come to sit with those about to be executed.”
Louie understood at once, and quirked an eyebrow in admiration. “I believe that could work, Master Pip. But only one priest visits and he generally arrives an hour prior to the execution to spend his time in prayer with the prisoner.”
Phillip and Thomas again exchanged glances, this time in dismay.
“An hour won’t give us enough time, Louie,” said Phillip. “And we both need to be there.”
“And we don’t want to risk bumping into the real priest,” Thomas added.
While Louie sat mulling over their problem, Thomas and Phillip discussed the man who had put Kate in such danger.
“I believe I will mention Favager’s name to the Countess de Marjolaine,” Thomas said. “She is friends with the king. A word from her, and Favager will not be attending any more dinner parties. He will be swabbing decks.…”
Thomas stopped talking. Recalling the conversation among the officers attending the dinner party, he rolled up Louie’s map and tucked it into an inner pocket of his jacket.
“I have an idea. Thank you, Louie, you have been an immense help,” he said, gratefully shaking hands. “Forgive me if I don’t explain further, but the less you know the better.”
“Such has always been my motto, sir,” said Louie. “One moment.”
He disappeared, going through a door into an interior room. They heard him rummaging about. He returned, carrying a leather pouch. He handed it to Thomas.
“Similar to the scrips carried by the priests,” said Louie. “They bring in all manner of potions and herbal concoctions. You could take that into the prison without causing comment.”
“Will the guards search it?” Thomas asked.
“They might,” said Louie. “And thus, we have this.”
He opened the scrip, spoke a word, and drew his finger across the leather to reveal a secret pocket.
“From the old days,” he said wistfully. “I regret to say you could not conceal a pistol, for they would see the bulge. You could conceal banknotes, however. Money is always useful.”
He escorted them to the door and once more embraced Phillip.
“Seeing you again has taken me back to those old days, Master Pip. What glorious times we had then!” Louie wiped a little moisture from his eyes. “How is Captain Northrop? I hear he has turned respectable.”
Judging by his sorrowful tone, Louie appeared to take the captain’s downfall very much to heart.
Phillip laughed. “Do not worry about Captain Northrop, Louie. Alan does have his commission in the navy now, but no one would ever accuse him of being respectable. Good-bye, my friend, and thank you again.”
“Indeed, I cannot thank you enough, Louie,” said Thomas.
“If you ever require a lock, Master Tom, please call upon me,” said Louie with another of his bobbing bows. “Remember: magical and mechanical.”
He opened the door, cast a sweeping look up and down the street, told them it was safe to leave, and shut the door behind them.
“What is your idea?” Phillip asked, mystified.
“Think back to the conversation during the fish course,” said Thomas. “If you will lead the way to Little Dimitri, I will explain as we go along.”
THREE
“Big Dimitri was a big man with a heart to match,” said Phillip, once again leading Thomas through the streets of Maribeau. “I am sorry to hear he has died. I knew his son from back in the old days. Little Dimitri is bigger than his father and will be a worthy successor.”
Cobblestone streets gave way to dirt roads. They passed a blacksmith’s shop, a tannery, and a brewery. The odors of hops and tanned hides seemed to be trying to outdo one another to see which was the most vile.
Evening was coming on by the time Phillip turned down a narrow side street. Thomas could smell the stable yards before he saw them. He waited while Phillip went up to a small house, knocked on the door, and spoke briefly to the woman who answered. She directed them to stables in back of the house, and sent one of her children running to find her husband and tell him he had customers.
“Say Master Pip needs him,” Phillip added.
Little Dimitri came out from one of the horse stalls, wiping his hands on a rag. He was large and broad-shouldered, with long, black hair and a full beard. Thomas could picture him wrestling wyverns into their harnesses with ease.
“Master Pip!” Little Dimitri said in a booming baritone. “Good to see you, sir!”
“I am sorry to hear about your father,” said Phillip, shaking hands. “He was a great man.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Little Dimitri. “He was that. How can I help you?”
“We need three griffins, saddled and ready to ride this night,” said Phillip.
“You will have my three best, provided they agree, of course,” said Little Dimitri.
Griffins were proud beasts who considered themselves the equal of humans, and nothing infuriated them more than being compared to wyverns or horses. They would agree to carry human riders, but only on their own terms.
“As you probably know, the griffins don’t work for me,” said Little Dimitri. “To their way of thinking, I work for them. I accept payment on their behalf in coin and provide them with sheep and goats, which they carry to their eyries in the mountains.”
Little Dimitri took them to the griffin stables and introduced them. Thomas and Phillip were both familiar with griffins. They expressed their pleasure in meeting them and took time to make polite conversation, as one might at afternoon tea, asking after the health of their families and discussing whether or not they might encounter rain. Once the formalities had been concluded, they asked if the griffins would deign to carry them and a companion on a journey this night.
The griffins were extremely pleased with the courtly manners of both humans. As Little Dimitri later confided to Phillip, his griffins were accustomed to a rougher sort of clientele. The grif
fins grumbled some about having to fly on such short notice, but at last agreed, on the condition that Thomas pay double. Finally they wanted to know their destination.
“We are flying to Wellinsport,” said Phillip. “I know it’s a long flight. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
The griffins were amenable.
Phillip turned to Little Dimitri. “That’s settled. Will you see to the stealing of the boat?”
Little Dimitri’s expression softened. “By God, Master Pip, I had forgotten about the stolen-boat ruse! Ah, that does take me back to the old days. I will steal Pa’s for you. He would have wanted that.”
Phillip thanked him. Thomas paid him and the two departed.
“Steal a boat?” Thomas asked. “We’re traveling by griffin. Why does Little Dimitri need to steal his father’s boat?”
“To throw off pursuit,” Phillip explained. “Big Dimitri came up with the idea. If any of us needed to flee Maribeau in a hurry, he would steal a boat—either his own, or one belonging to a crony. He would report the theft of the boat to the authorities, and while the constables were searching for a boat, we would fly out on griffins. Big Dimitri would hide the boat away until the hunt died down, then miraculously discover it.”
Thomas regarded his friend with admiration. “You have hidden depths, Pip.”
They went back to their lodgings to eat a late supper and commit Louie’s map to memory. After that, they pulled the monks’ homespun wool tunics over their breeches and shirts and covered the tunics with the scapulars. Phillip cut lengths of rope to tie around their waists. Only then did they realize they had a problem. The tunics stopped short at their ankles, revealing their boots, which were far too expensive and elegant to be worn by monks.
“We should have thought of that,” said Thomas.
“No help for it,” said Phillip. “We can’t go barefoot. The light will be dim and there’s no reason anyone would be staring at our feet. They’re covered with muck from the stable and we can muddy them up some more on the way.”
They hung bull’s-eye lanterns around their necks, concealed by the robes, and tucked pocket pistols into their boots. Taking Louie’s advice, they stuffed the scrip’s secret pocket with currency, then filled it with some potions they had picked up at an apothecary’s.
After that, they had nothing to do but wait.
Time had never passed so slowly. Thomas checked his watch repeatedly, convinced that every clock in the city had quit working. At last the clocks chimed eleven times and Phillip said they should go.
They made their way up the hill to the fort, avoiding the well-lighted main streets, instead taking dark side streets and alleys. They walked with their hands in their sleeves and their heads bowed, their cowls pulled low.
Monks were often called upon at night to tend the sick or minister to the dying, and the few people they met paid no attention to them. A night watchman, walking his rounds, asked if they needed any help. Phillip thanked him, said they knew the way, and gave him his blessing.
Finally, the city streets were at an end, and they were forced to take the wide, paved road that led up the side of the cliff at a steep angle. A beacon light flashed from a lighthouse tower on the shore near the fort, serving as a guide to friendly ships and a warning to those that were not so friendly.
The fort walls were constructed of granite and were sheer and steep, long and low. The front of the fort facing the harbor had no windows, while the back of the fort, overlooking the city, had a few windows and those, according to Louie, were covered with iron grates. Each tower was topped by a battery of cannons, and more cannons stood on a rock platform facing the harbor. All the cannons were mounted on wheels and could be moved if need arose in order to repel an attack either from the land or the Breath.
The night was clear, the sky filled with stars, and a half-moon seemed to shine as bright as the sun. The walls of the fort glimmered a cold, pale gray in the moonlight.
Thomas peered out from beneath his cowl, unable to take his eyes from the fort as they trudged up the empty street. He was oppressed by the sight of the massive walls, the black-barred windows, and the narrow, walled ramp, bathed in moonlight, that led from the street to the gatehouse.
“A mouse crawling along that ramp would be visible to the naked eye at thirty paces,” he muttered. “Isn’t there another way inside?”
“The only other way is through that large portcullis, which is always closed and locked. Now you see why Fort Saint-Jean has never fallen to an enemy,” Phillip replied. “The Bottom Dwellers attacked it with three of their black ships and lost all three of them. That ended their attempt to seize Maribeau, which they had hoped to make a base of operations.”
“I begin to think we are fools,” Thomas said.
“I have heard it said that the definition of a hero is a fool who won’t take no for an answer,” Phillip returned with a smile.
“Good old Pip,” said Thomas. “You can pick locks, you know giant griffin keepers named ‘Little Dimitri,’ and you never say things such as ‘We can always turn back’ or ‘Perhaps we should reconsider.’”
“Because I know I would be wasting my breath,” said Phillip wryly. “Seriously, Tom, Kate is my friend, too. I have known her for years and I could not live with myself if I did not do everything in my power to save her.”
They came to the narrow stone walkway that led to the guardhouse. The walkway had waist-high walls and was only wide enough for two men to walk side by side.
Thomas peered over the wall on his left to see the mists of the Breath, ghostly in the moonlight, drifting below. To the right stood the first of the three towers, its wall pierced by arrow-slit windows. When the fort had first been built, archers standing at those windows could, at their leisure, pick off an enemy attempting to storm the fort.
The days of the archer had long passed, but riflemen would have an even easier time. Thomas glanced at the windows. Fortunately, Maribeau was not at war. Soldiers were not at their posts. The riflemen would have to be roused from their beds, and by the time they were awake, he and Phillip and Kate would be far from this grim place.
They walked across the ramp in silence. At the thought of the coming action, Thomas felt his pulse quicken, his heart beat faster. The oppressive clouds of doubt and misgiving lifted, and his senses heightened. Despite the late hour, he could see, hear, and think with extraordinary clarity.
The guards in the gatehouse were chatting as they approached. They broke off their conversation when they saw they had visitors. They were not alarmed. Monks often came and went from the prison.
“Good evening, Brothers,” said one of the guards, emerging from the gatehouse with a lantern. “What brings you here at this time of night?”
Thomas and Phillip cast troubled glances at each other.
“Did no one tell you to expect us?” Phillip asked. “We are healers, summoned to treat a prisoner said to be suffering from a virulent fever.”
“We fear it could be yellow jack,” Thomas added.
“Yellow jack!” one of the guards gasped.
“Do not be an alarmist, Brother Sebastian,” Phillip chided. “We do not know that for certain until we have examined the poor man. We don’t want to start a panic.”
The panic had already started. The guards hurriedly conferred in agitated voices, then hurried out to open the gate. Prisoners lived in crowded conditions. An outbreak of yellow jack in a prison could be dire, taking its toll on both prisoners and those who guarded them.
“I assume you know the way to the cellblock, Brothers,” said the guard, clearly not eager to escort them.
“We have been here before,” Phillip replied. “Come along, Brother Sebastian. And mind that gossiping tongue of yours. You know what Father Abbot is always telling you.”
“I am sorry, Brother Gregory,” said Thomas, chastened.
He bowed his head and followed Phillip. They could hear the guards commiserating in frightened tones.
They proceeded down a narrow corridor, carrying Louie’s map in their heads. The fort’s architect must have been a military man not much given to flights of fancy, eschewing the romantic and picturesque labyrinthine corridors of novels in favor of wide, straight hallways that took soldiers straight to where they needed to go.
Lanterns hung from the walls at intervals, and the staircases were broad and easy to climb. Thomas could picture a flood of soldiers running down the stairs in pursuit of jail breakers. He immediately banished the thought from his mind.
“Right turn, walk to the end, right turn, up the stairs,” Phillip was murmuring as they went along. “Down the corridor, right turn, left turn.”
He stopped to look around. “We should be close to the cellblock.”
“Judging by the stench, we are,” said Thomas.
The hall stank of chamber pots, unwashed bodies, sickness, and vomit. Thomas thought of Kate, imagined her terror, loneliness, and fear. He could not bear that another minute should pass for her in this horrible place, and he had to exert all his self-control to keep from rushing down the corridor in search of her.
He marveled at Phillip, who seemed as calm and cool as though they were entering a ballroom, not breaking into a prison which, if they were discovered, could turn into their permanent residence. Phillip seemed to have transformed into the monk he was impersonating. Sighting the jailer, he approached him with brisk confidence and an air of authority that came from God.
The night jailer was seated at a small desk beneath an overhanging lantern, munching on bread and cold meat and engaged in writing something in a large book.
“God be with you this night, sir,” Phillip said, walking up to the desk.
The jailer gave a violent start and dropped his sandwich. He was clearly not expecting visitors at this hour and he stared at the monks in astonishment.
“Brothers! What are you doing here?”
“We received a message that a prisoner is exhibiting symptoms of yellow jack,” said Phillip.
The jailer blanched.
“I know nothing about this,” he said.
“We received the message from the commander late this afternoon,” said Phillip.
Privateer Page 3
