Hell's Chimney

by Derek Smith

  That one, at least, he’d willingly concede.

  He shivered and took in the acrid smell. They hadn’t emptied the soil bucket from the last occupants. More prison economics, why empty it if no prisoner stayed longer than overnight? He’d been forced to use it himself, sitting on it holding his nose, flapping away flies.

  And that awful straw. How many had spent their last hours lying on it, crying into it, fouling it? Even as he yet would. But come the morning, one chop, one gurgled cry – and that would be that. Another severed head. Though he still hoped somebody out there would do something, so he could yet live and love. Surely it couldn’t end like this?

  But did all those others, brothers of the soil bucket, feel the same? Hoping against hope.

  Oh it was cold.

  He paced on, grasping his shoulders with crossed arms. Five paces wall to wall. Eighteen all the way round, not twenty as he first supposed, because of the width of his body. He tried it sideways, pressing himself against the wall. Nineteen paces.

  If he could walk through walls... But all he could do was scratch at them, as others had done. Their epitaphs to futility. One had written in a low corner: The Queen is the Devil. Did the man get away with those brave words or was he tortured until he broke?

  Might he too have been a healer?

  A thought came to him. The castle must have a healer. And if the Queen was executing healers in her anger, then surely he’d have been one of the first to go. But his workshop must be here. With his herbs and mixtures...

  He knew what he would do. He couldn’t though. But perhaps she could.

  Orly, he called, using the Voice. Find the healer’s workshop. He’s probably been executed. I don’t know what’s there, I can’t help you with that – but make a preparation for the Queen. Put it in her night-time drink. Do it tonight, and I might yet survive.

  And one more message. For another who might help.

  Toby, wherever you are. I am in the castle dungeon, and will be executed in the morning. Orly too is in the castle. But she is free and invisible. And looking for the healer’s workshop. She will make something for the Queen’s night-time drink. Her last, I hope.

  He had no wish to say more. To either of them. It would be only self-pity. How cold and afraid he was. Best be silent. Let them look after themselves. And leave him to walk round the damp walls.

  Chapter 67

  Orly had gone where she could in the castle. She’d followed a boy struggling with two buckets of water into the kitchen. And had to hide under the table in the peelings, it was so busy there. All the yelling and fury, with kitchen boys and serving girls running non-stop, big knives chopping vegetables, a pig roasting on the spit with a bare-chested boy, red as a strawberry, turning the spit and spooning fat over the browning animal. The long room was baking, steamy and foul with curses. The smells made her hungry. Orly worked her way under the lengthy table to a pyramid of hot rolls on a tray. She had taken a couple and the mountain had fallen. And a boy was whacked with a wooden spoon for it.

  Leaving the kitchen, she’d wandered into the guardhouse by the gate. Three soldiers were playing cards, half a dozen more were sleeping in the straw. Another washing in a bucket. The room stank of sweat and beer.

  At the stables she noted someone important had come back from a ride. Eight horses were being wiped down and watered by boys in leather aprons. As they were finished, a blanket was slapped over the animal’s back and they were given an oat bag. A larger horse was being put into the shafts of a wagon.

  Orly had been to the castle several years before. The last time was with her father; she had been a guest at a banquet held by the King and Queen. Before it, while her father had been busy on state business, a lady-in-waiting had taken her for a tour of the castle. And so now she was renewing her memory. She went again up to the battlements, and to the blacksmith’s workshop in the middle of the courtyard where half-naked men hammered white-hot iron.

  That time, years ago, she had been taken to the healer’s workshop. A large room with drying herbs hanging from the ceiling, with bottles and pots on shelves, where an old man and his wife worked with an assistant. Something foul-smelling was being brewed – but she remembered them as a cheerful group, who bowed to her when she entered. The place had little meaning for her then; she forgot the names the man used for his remedies as soon as he had said them. But now after her time with Erdy the equipment and potions would make more sense to her.

  And she must find the workshop once more. She had heard Far’s message. Wished to hear more, or perhaps to hear less as she could give him no comfort in return. But at least his message meant he was alive and not being tortured.

  She had thought of going down to the dungeons, doubted though that she could get him out, doubted whether she could get into his cell at all. But failing anything else – if she remained alive – then she would attempt to get into the dungeon for a last farewell. She rehearsed the words she would say. A reminder of happy times in the mountains, a promise to remember…

  And shook off the melancholy. She was far from giving up. Far had said – defeat the Queen and he might well stay alive.

  Her first attempt to find the workshop took her to the washhouse. There, five burly women with huge, pink arms were washing sheets in steaming tubs. They had a barrel of ale which they drank from freely. And their language was quite as foul as the cooks’.

  It amazed Orly that everyday work could go on amidst all the terror of the kingdom. But then, she reflected, the Queen too must eat, her sheets and clothes be washed. And how often would the Queen go to the washhouse or the kitchen? So long as the women washed well they could drink their beer and tell their bawdy jokes. So long as they said nothing more.

  Life had not been so fortunate for the healer. Orly came to the workshop through a small gateless arch. At the end of a short stone corridor were a number of doors, most of which were storerooms, but one was the healer’s workshop.

  Or rather had been.

  The door hung off its hinges and was badly smashed. It was held in the entrance by two planks of wood, nailed to the walls across the door in a forbidding X. There was just space in the broken door for Orly to squeeze through and into the workshop.

  It was nearly dark, but Orly had prepared for this. In her visit to the guardhouse she had left with an unlit lamp and flint. By keeping to the walls in the courtyard in the gloom, no-one had seen them move by themselves around the space.

  Once in the workshop, Orly lit her lamp. And the devastation hit her like a bolt. Shelves had been pulled down, the bench turned over and smashed, the top upside-down and the legs splayed out helplessly. Glass bottles were broken, bowls shattered. She walked in tentatively. The floor was a carpet of scattered herbs, glass and clay shards, pages from books, torn scrolls, scale pans, cracked mortars, powders and unknown liquids. She could see, mirrored in the wreckage, the time the soldiers burst in and trashed the place before carting off the bewildered mild threesome.

  It was so wicked. So senseless.

  She sighed deeply. What on earth could she find amongst this debris?

  She put the lamp in a corner, so that little light would spill out of the workshop. And then, down on her hands and knees, worked her way through the bits and pieces. Before the raid, everything had been ordered on the shelves and labelled. Now chaos reigned. Some of the dried herbs she recognised – but they were of little use to her. She didn’t want to bring down a fever or cure a cold. Not cure anyone at all.

  She was startled by a noise. A brown rat was in a corner, its ears twitching. Of course the animal could not see her, but could hear her well enough. She threw a pestle at it and the rat scuttled off into the debris.

  She returned to searching. If only Far were here. If she had paid more attention to Erdy’s teaching, read more. A broken bottle of hemlock infusion frustrated her. That would have done. But now it had soaked away into the boards.

  Outside were footsteps. Her heart jumped in her chest. Sh
e stilled herself and shielded the lamp in a piece of cloth. The footsteps approached; light and shadow from a swinging lamp came through the broken door, and passed up the corridor. A cupboard was opened, there was some shuffling, the door was closed, and the footsteps and lamp went back the way they had come.

  Orly waited a while, motionless. She must keep her wits about her. Make little noise, keep the light protected. She brought the lamp to her, and kept the cloth over most of it, just allowing a beam to play where she was looking. It meant she could cover the lamp quickly, if need be. Orly began one more looking through the remnants. A leather glove took her attention. She put it on, it was somewhat loose on her hand – but it would serve. There were unpleasant liquids and glass on the floor, and it was not her object to poison herself.

  She turned up a tiny brown bottle. It was still corked and labelled, but the label meant nothing to her. She needed an Erdy or a book. And with pages scattered about the floor there was scant chance of finding the one she needed. With her teeth she withdrew the cork and sniffed at the contents. A memory seeped back. She had smelt it before. It was sweet and pear-like but sharp too. What was it? Oh, she knew it! But she had smelt so much in Erdy’s workshop over the year. If she could think back when it had been. What was she doing? Oh, she knew it!

  She sniffed again, closed her eyes and tried to picture the time.

  And it came to her. When she had been ill, that was when. Erdy had given it to her to put her to sleep. And it had worked well enough. Yes, she was in the cavern, haughty to Far, calling him boy and peasant, refusing to confer with him. And Erdy had given her this draught.

  Orly corked the bottle and put it in her pocket.

  Chapter 68

  Toby lay on the damp grass. Night had fallen. It was overcast, without stars or moon. Difficult to see by, but difficult to be seen too. He was on the far side of the moat from the castle, gazing up at the battlements. He needed to know where the watch were.

  He’d kept a good pace through the forest following Sly. And still had the heat of it in him, though it was becoming chilly. He was renewed during his time at Maeg’s cottage: the hot, plentiful food, the soothing away of aches, physical and mental. And someone he could talk to without argument.

  One guard passed on the battlement. He must wait for the other, going the reverse way round. Far had told him that he was in the dungeon. Well, he’d have to stay there a while. And Orly was somewhere within those walls. He had no idea where, or what she was up to. Not the best way to do things. He blamed himself. They should have conferred, made a plan. Worked together.

  Except they hadn’t.

  Or rather he hadn’t. Next time he wouldn’t choose lovers. Especially if…

  He shook off the thought. What was the point of finding blame? He was where he was. And the other guard was coming. Toby lowered his head and listened. He could just hear the footfall on the battlements. He waited until it was in front of him, then counted twenty. That would be long enough. The first guard wouldn’t be back round for a minute or so.

  He crawled, legs first, down the bank. With a few feet to go, he turned on his front, then slipped down into the cold water lizard-fashion. He went under, hit the bottom and pushed up at an angle, staying below the surface. It was too dark to see where he was going; he swam blindly, holding his breath. His aim was no splashing, no ruffling of the surface water. He swam slowly, hoping he was going more or less straight to the wall. There was simply liquid blackness ahead.

  It seemed an awfully long way.

  Lungs bursting, his hand hit hardness. He felt along; it was the slime of the wall under water. Toby came to the surface and sucked in rapid breaths. Water rolled down his face as he looked up the stonework. A little out of position. He pulled himself along the wall, hand over hand, for a few yards. There.

  And began looking above him for handholds.

  Chapter 69

  Orly was at the top of stone steps. She had entered the main door when the upstairs guard changed. They’d made it easy for her. The new guard was chatting with the two outside guards and holding the door open. How kind of him. She slipped under his arm and was inside.

  She’d waited at the top of the steps, and a little later the new guard came past. He walked along the corridor to where the old guard was standing. They whispered a few words to each other and changed over. The old guard came along the corridor, past her and down the stairs.

  Good. Now there was just one to deal with.

  And surely, he was outside the Queen’s room. She vaguely remembered it from her tour two years ago. Of course, the Queen might have changed rooms. She had changed just about everything else. But these were the royal rooms, she knew that. And the guard was in the red livery of the household guard. The leggings were red, the jacket too, but it had thin, well-spaced gold piping down the length, also in the soft flat hat. The man held a spear and was picking his nose, thinking no-one present.

  Her father, she recalled, had told one off for leaning against a wall. Another he reprimanded for not wearing his hat straight. She had no intentions of delivering reprimands. Her task was to get by him, and inside the room that was his charge.

  She must distract him. She might be invisible but she still had to go through doors, and so must get him away from the one he guarded. Orly had considered this beforehand, and had picked up a few pebbles from the courtyard as she came. Now she crept a little way down the corridor and threw one at him. It struck him in the midriff. The guard looked around, surprised. Then picked up the stone, his brow furrowed.

  She threw another.

  It hit him on the forehead. He stared in the direction of the throw, and scratched his head. Clearly he could see no one, for there was no one to see. He opened his mouth, thinking of shouting – then closed it, not wanting to appear an idiot. The two stones were in one hand which he kept gazing at to convince himself they were real, then he stared up the corridor hoping to catch whatever it was. Then back to the stones.

  Orly went within a few yards of him and threw one at his face, hitting him on the cheek. He jerked back in astonishment and looked hard along the corridor. It was well lit, with a number of oil lamps along the wall. The stones in his pocket, the guard stalked up the hallway, spear before him, as if there might be a bear about to spring out at him.

  Orly passed him and went to the door he’d stood by. She turned the handle. It was well greased and didn’t squeak as it twisted. She pulled open the door a little way and squeezed inside, then closed the door behind her.

  There was a click as it shut.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  The Queen was sitting bolt upright in a four-poster bed. On the bedclothes before her was an untidy bundle of scrolls and documents, one of which she was holding. She was in her nightdress, worn under a black nightgown. Her face was white and smooth, a beauty like marble, her pigtails swinging about her neck – where hung, on a thin chain, the yellow jewel.

  ‘Who is there, I say?’ she called sharply.

  Orly did not dare move. The Queen was bent over, looking at the door which was to one side of her. Her hand was on the long bell rope by the bed. She shook her head and shrugged, took her hand off the rope and returned to the document she was reading.

  The bed was curtained, but they were open now that the weather was warmer. Not that the room was at all cold; a fire burned in the grate. Orly stood at the front of the bed. There lay the woman who had ordered the slaughter of her family. Reading. Such an ordinary task. Her own mother had sometimes gone over the household accounts in bed. But whose accounts were these? What estates? What lives to be paid? It made reading a dangerous task.

  The Queen gave out a long sigh and wiped an eye with the back of her hand. There were dark rings under her eyes, and dried tears down her cheeks. Orly could almost feel sorry for her. She was in mourning for her son, even to the black nightgown, and black ribbons on her pigtails. She may have been a sham widow but these tears were true. The lady wept for him in the
long night, tore her hair during the endless day.

  Beware the mourning mother. She has little to lose – and plenty of pain to spare.

  But beware, too, those you have orphaned.

  On either side of the bed were two low wooden cabinets. On both of these were oil lamps, the only lighting in the room apart from the fire, illuminating the Queen in the theatre of her bed. On her right-hand side was a goblet. Orly crept round to this, hoping she was still drinking from it. In it was a dark liquid, with a lemony, raspberry smell, still warm. She uncorked her little bottle, and held it to the rim of the goblet, tipping it slightly so the liquid would pour in slowly, without sound.

  Orly was recorking the bottle when the Queen absently stretched out and picked up the goblet. She sipped a little, then stopped and licked her lips. Had she detected the change of taste? Now what? She smiled, nodded her satisfaction – and drank some more.

  It was a cunning little drug, thought Orly, disguised in some heavenly sweetness. Over five minutes the Queen drank all of it. And when it had gone, looked into the cup for more.

  Would it work?

  Orly sat in a chair a little way beyond the bed, as if she were the night nurse, keeping watch. As she was. Nothing seemed to be happening, the Queen was still reading. Orly’s attention wandered. At the far end of the room, above the fire, was a picture she couldn’t make out at first, as the light was mostly at the Queen’s end. But growing more curious she went to look. It was Zeke, in heroic pose, on a white horse in armour and holding a lance. By the side, on a chest of drawers, were a pair of boots, black gauntlets, a number of rings, a velvet hat, and a white shirt with lace collar and cuffs forming a semi-circle around a tall vase of white lilies. This, she realised, was Zeke’s shrine, where the Queen kneeled and wept, and kissed the remnants of her beloved son. And changed the flowers daily.