14 #3
“No need,” said Myria, beckoning him nearer. “Take a seat, old boy. Cassia, turn the phaeton around. Head back toward Haideum.”
“What?” her friends exclaimed in unison.
“Trust me,” she said. Leo threw her a wary look.
“The prefecture’s bound to be out on all sides, and there’ll be more around the castle.”
“There certainly shall. They’ll stop you at the curtain wall. When they do, tell them you’re here to pick up the night soil. Ask if they’ll let you in. Grumble when they don’t. They’ll turn you around and direct you to leave.”
Enlightenment struck Leo’s eyes. “Of course.” A grin flashed across his face. “They’re looking for someone trying to escape, not someone trying to get in.”
“But a stinking great night soil cart demanding entry while they’re trying to secure the castle? You’ll be a problem they can’t wait to be rid of.”
“And if they want to search the wagon?”
“Do as we discussed.”
“Good-o.”
Leo took the seat beside the driver’s perch, and Myria dropped back inside the wagon. Lysander still stood working at the fabric of his own arcana like a craftsman weaving silk. Best not to distract him with the news that it’d gone a bit pear shaped. Not yet.
She took a seat on an upturned bucket, trying not to think where it might’ve been.
The streets began to blur past again. She could see a sliver of the outside through a hair-thin gap between the planks—just enough to mark where they were heading.
Myria flicked her pocket watch open in her hand, counting the minutes.
Each mile of their aborted escape had felt like running on sand. As they drove back toward Haideum, though, time took wing. It seemed like only moments before the shadow of the castle fell across them.
“Lysander,” she said delicately, “have you finished?”
“Almost, my dear.”
“Good. We’re about to have a close encounter with the prefecture.”
“I see. I’ll be ready.”
“This is a night soil phaeton, by the way. Could you conjure up a scent to match?”
“First thing every schoolboy learns. Just say the word.”
In spite of everything, she smiled.
With that, the moment was upon them. The ravaging wind died down as they drew into the lee of the walls. A loud voice hailed them, and the phaeton lurched to a halt. Lysander lowered his hands and fell still.
“What’s all this palaver?” said Cassia.
“You can’t come through here, sir,” a man answered in that regulation prefecture tone. He sounded oddly bored, all things considered. Myria nodded to Lysander, and he brushed his fingertips together. A subtle stench began to creep out from the wagon.
“We’ve got to. Goods to pick up, don’t you know?”
“Doesn’t matter. The castle’s closed.” A slight cough followed the words, and she thought she heard the man shuffle back. A boyish grin lit Lysander’s face.
“What, even to the night soil run?”
“Yes. Please turn about, sir. You can’t go any further.”
“Hmph. They’re going to have to pay us for a double run if they expect us back here later.”
“That’s a matter for them,” the man answered with another cough. “You’ll have to be escorted past the cordon. How many aboard?”
“Three,” said Cassia.
Arcana seeped under the wagon doors and crept across the floor.
Myria felt it singing out like a call into a cavern, striking echoes from every fiber of arcana that it touched—but it passed on through her, waking no responding chord.
The spell would return to its master with a report of three arcanic imprints, none of which appeared on any prefecture register.
“There’s someone in there?” the prefect said. Cassia snorted and banged the wagon top.
“Oi. Missy. Get out.”
Myria sent up a few knocks and grumbles, then shoved open the hatch and poked her head out into the storm.
“What?” she said, wrinkling her nose.
“Prefect wants to see you.”
“Each to their own. What’s happened?”
“Haideum’s closed for business.”
“Who burned their bleedin’ toast this time?”
“Ma’am, might I ask what you were doing inside?” the prefect said, squinting up at her against the rain.
“Sitting on my arse. Nice dry arse it was, too.”
“In there?”
“It’s empty,” she said lazily. “’Sides, you get used to the stink.”
He looked at her like a man who didn’t want to test the theory, then waved them on.
Moments later, they were rolling back toward the cordon, two prefects marching at their side. Myria tried not to grin as she watched the streets wheel past. The lightning flickered faster in her spirits. It was working.
The copper wall drew closer. There were no arcani at the border to oppose them. A black therical pillar stood nearby instead, blasting a spire of power into the sky.
Low Gods bless the sixth science . . .
One of the prefects went to the pillar and pulled a lever. The barrier split like an unfurling scroll. Cassia shunted the phaeton back into gear.
They rolled toward the gap. Some part of her expected the alarm cry at any moment, the flash of a curse, the burn of arcanic light—
Three . . . two . . . one . . .
And they were free.
They scarcely dared exchange a word until they were a full five miles into the city.
Only once the walls of Haideum were far behind them did Myria lift the hatch and raise her head into the rain.
They were rumbling at a merry pace along the outer roads, now, just one more phaeton amid the manufactory traffic.
“All’s well?” she called. Cassia and Leo nodded, lips pressed hard together to contain their grins.
Then, at last, the bonds of caution snapped. Her smile broke loose. They’d done it. They’d cracked Haideum Castle and swept away, scot-free.
Myria beamed into the storm-lit sky. The wind turned to a heated thunder in her hair, and she laughed into the din of it.
Rain dashed warm and hard across her face, and lightning flashed in sheets across the dark.
She let the thrill sweep her away—the speed, the breaking storm and the sheer relief of victory.
We did it, Hadria. We did it.