Chapter Seventy-Five. Walking and Talking.
Seventy-Five
Walking and Talking.
When my hearing returns, so, too, does my vision. The latter is spotty, however, so I get fuzzy visuals of the soldier leaning over me with suspicion. Over time—though surely it only feels like hours are passing—I am able to make a full impression of the man.
Of my victim.
He is solidly built and rather tall, and when he isn’t tilted toward me, he has the posture of a straight-backed chair.
Not much of his face registers, then again, he has forgettable features that are on the rat-like side.
His coloring is fair, his skin tanned as if he spends time out of doors, and for all the grime of the dungeon I am in, and however far we all traveled here from the gates, his navy blue and royal red uniform is pristine: Not a smudge or a streak, the slacks pressed to perfection, the riding boots polished to a mirrored shine.
There’s no reason to ever look into his eyes again. Needless to say, I’m never going to forget those pale irises and black, malevolent pupils.
Or what was revealed to me.
He’s muttering, seemingly to himself, and I use his distraction to get my bearings.
My cell has a front face of iron bars with an entry that appears to slide back on runners, and the rest of the floor, walls, and ceiling are grungy stone streaked with mineral deposits.
Oil lanterns hang in the aisle beyond, and across an open area full of tables, contraptions, and—are those buckets?
—there are more filthy cells, all of which seem to be empty.
I was hoping to see Merc somewhere.
A chest wound is fatal, though. Surely he is dead—
A moan comes out of my soul.
“Oh, you are awake.” The soldier smiles with all the warmth of a reptile. “I was afraid I’d lost you there.”
As he puts his hands on his hips, I note there’s a pistol mounted on each side of him, and I lock on to one of his ornate sidearms.
Forget the crystal knife. I want to kill him with what he shot Merc—
“Now, where were we.” His knees pop as he drops down to his haunches before me. “Ah, yes. I was about to enjoy the pleasure of you begging me—”
The footfalls are heavy and urgent, echoing around all the dungeon walls.
And then comes the shouting. A heartbeat later, a guard skids to a halt in front of my cell, and he speaks fast, in a foreign language—and even though I don’t understand the words, I can tell whatever it is, it’s urgent and important: His arms are flapping like he’s trying to take flight and his eyes are so big, I wonder if they aren’t going to pop out of his skull.
The soldier slowly stands up. “That cannot be.”
The guard shakes his head. Points at me. Flutters his hands.
This time, when my tormentor looks down, his expression is remote, instead of lascivious. “Well, we shall see about—”
The figure who strides into the open area makes me think of the difference between power that is truly held and a person who needs to believe they have authority.
Interestingly, it’s a woman who’s entered, and she’s dressed in black robes that fall to the slick stone floor.
Her silvery white hair is pulled back and plaited in a complicated way down past her shoulders, and her face is as hard and sharp as blade.
When she speaks, it is without emotion.
I don’t understand her words, either, but going by the ugly red flush that travels from the collar of the soldier’s jacket into his face, I guess she’s dressing him down.
Sure enough, he goes over to the cell entry—which was not locked, as it turned out—and steps through to stand just off to the side.
The woman stares over at me. And one would think the fact that we share the same sex would lead to clemency of some sort. Instead, I feel my situation has not improved.
And has possibly worsened.
She addresses the soldier tersely, and there’s only the most subtle of pauses before he bows in a deference he clearly does not feel, and then strides past the front of my cell.
His head tilts in my direction as if he’s glaring at me.
I will not meet his eyes, but I don’t doubt he looks at me with the promise of a rematch.
After his departure, orders are issued to the guard who ran in. As his eyes widen once again, it’s clear he does not want to be anywhere near me or her. Still, he enters the cell, helps me to my feet, and frees my wrists. Then he salutes her with a brisk flat hand to the brim of his hat.
The woman doesn’t so much leave as dematerialize: She’s there and then she’s gone, only her white plaited hair glowing in the darkness as she disappears on a float through some doorway.
“Follow me, missus.”
Except the guard puts himself behind me and points over my shoulder. “This way, missus.”
My legs are stiff, and one ankle is screaming, and I’m figuring out my balance as I step forward—only to stop short.
The center space around which the cells are set is filled with gruesome torture devices and stations.
The buckets? They’re to catch the blood and slop of intestines and organs, and several of them are half filled already.
Fates, everything that is made of wood is stained red and brown, all the metal is sharp and tarnished, and anything that is leather has buckles and spikes.
“Please, missus. This way.”
The guard points again.
As I shiver until my teeth clap together, I realize I’m soaking wet, and if I have any hope of loosening up, I have to get warm. Thank fates they didn’t take Lena’s felt skirt from me. The makeshift cloak is all that’s keeping my body temperature up.
Am I in shock? I wonder.
“Walking, please. Missus.”
Limping past the horrible display makes my stomach turn over again, and the drains in the floor with their congestions of gore make me gag.
Trying to keep control of myself, I glance back at the guard.
He’s averted his eyes, not that I had any intention of looking into them, and as he points to a lantern-lit archway off to the right, he puts even more distance between us.
This allows me to discreetly pass my left hand inside the felt cloak and feel for the pocket of Julion’s jodhpurs—
Thale’s crystal knife is where I put it after I used it on the webs.
My gasp hisses through my locked teeth. How did they miss it? Probably the bulky red felt that covers me, I decide as I enter a tunnel marked with many more archways.
For a brief moment, I consider palming the weapon and wheeling around to gouge out the guard’s stomach. But I have no idea where I am or how to get out, and I can hear the voices of what I’m assuming are other guards emanating from different offshoots of this subterranean maze we’ve entered.
This is a vast prison, and it’s better to bide my time: I now fully intend to kill that soldier—but I’m going to need an escape plan.
And as long as they don’t find the knife, I have a weapon. The weapon, as it were.
What I need additionally is information.
“Sir,” I say, in my best subordinate tone, “may I please know where my husband is?”
When he doesn’t reply, I glance back. “I beg of you. I know there is naught I can do, but I must know what has happened to him. Are you mated? Surely you’d feel the same if your wife was separated from you.”
“Face forward, missus. Please.”
I immediately comply, hoping he’ll view the deference as—
“He is alive, missus, but gravely injured. Further, he has been found guilty of trespass with intent to disarm the court in the Old Laws.”
I don’t have to feign the weeping that overtakes me, and only the smallest part of what I feel is relief that Merc survived the bullet.
The consequences of the charge are obvious in the guard’s tone.
“And w-what happens now?”
“He will be executed in the square tomorrow morning at first light.”
I spin around, focusing on the low rank insignia on his lapels. “May I see him, please. Before he—”
“That is enough, missus.” The guard puts his hand down to a sidearm that’s the same as the officer’s. “Face ahead and continue to walk. Now.”
“Please.” I want to grab him and shake him. “He’s all I have—”
“Do not make me hurt you, missus. You must keep walking.”
He’s not cruel, not like the soldier. But he is very serious, and I remind myself that if I get myself killed here and now, I’m no help to Merc—and I also don’t get my chance with the sadistic soldier.
I turn back around and keep limping. The rest of the procession through this lower level is a blur as my head spins with all kinds of bargains, some with fate, some with the man behind me, some with that woman with the white plaited hair.
But then we are mounting steps and coming to a double door that seems near the size of the gate that opened for us after the mist.
The guard barks a command or a password, and both sides are opened—
I recoil at the brightness, bringing my hands up.
“Go forward, then, missus.”
He doesn’t prod me physically, and his voice is surprisingly gentle, as if he feels sorry for me. I am determined to use this to my advantage when I can. If I can.
As soon as my eyes adjust, I continue forth into the blinding illumination, and promptly lose my stride.
We’ve entered the head of a marble colonnade that seems to stretch as far as the eye can see to the left.
Towering columns that taper to ornate headers hold up a lofty ceiling, and there are gold flourishes everywhere.
Guards, too: Pairs of uniformed sentries are posted at regular stations all the way down the impossibly long expanse.
Meanwhile, off to the right, there is a beautiful landscaped garden and then a high, high wall that clearly is intended to keep people out.
Torches are everywhere, and it is their flames that beat back the night, the fuel they use burning sweetly.
Or perhaps it’s all the flowers in the garden.
“This way then, missus.”
The guard yet again extends an arm over my shoulder and points down the colonnade.
As we proceed, we pass by many doors guarded by many pairs of men, and my mind wanders to all kind of priorities, a positive catalogue of things I urgently need to know: Where is the compass. Where is Lavante. Where is Merc.
Then it dawns on me that I should be keeping count of the doorways.
Glancing behind, I catch up thanks to the number of guard pairs we’ve passed.
Five it would be, and we’re approaching the sixth.
I tilt my head back and check the ceiling for any markings that can orientate me.
The roof is so high that the lanterns which dangle from golden chains are like suns in the sky, and coupled with the ones mounted by the sentries, their number seems more than I can count—
Six.
Beneath my feet, the marble tiles are so clean, I wonder if anybody has ever walked this way before. In other circumstances, I’d have been amazed at the scale of this building, and marveled at the ornate carved headers on the columns—
Seven.
Finally, an end appears, still quite a ways off, but there’s definitely a wall that terminates this grand and glorious promenade.
Statues are lined up down there, and in their graceful poses, they remind me of smaller versions of the goddess in the ruins.
The female forms are depicted in draped gowns that fall elegantly to their bare feet, and they appear to be carrying different objects—
Eight.
A lute. A book. Something I don’t recognize, but I guess is another instrument given the strings. The faces seem to be different, the individual features becoming clearer to me as I close in.
We finally reach the wall with the statuary after fourteen pairs of guards, and I’m surprised at the mammoth size of the female forms. They are twice my height, and the carving of the marble is expert to say the least.
“To the left, missus,” my escort tells me as he once again points over my shoulder.
I swallow another gasp. The lineup of statues continues down a long expanse; there must be fifty of the female forms—or maybe it’s even more.
And unlike before, there is just one set of sentries up ahead, at a pair of golden doors mounted halfway down the processional.
Unlike all the other men, these guards are dressed in red and there are two on both sides.
Our echoing footsteps drift off when we stop in front of the grand entry. My guard salutes and is saluted in return and then everybody looks at me.
I drop my stare to the polished white floor and try to look as small and nonthreatening as possible. Underneath the red felt skirt that I’m using as a cloak, I want to sneak a hand into my pocket and palm the crystal knife just to calm myself, but I can’t risk its discovery—
With a coordinated set of ceremonial moves, the inner two guards in red step forward, unlatch ornate ivory handles, and open wide the gold panels—
What is on the other side takes my breath away.