'Where did he go?' said one of the guards.
'No matter. We have one. Take him in.'
He grabbed the naked thief and took him away. None of the guards thought to question why he was naked.
'Lady, you are wounded!'
'It is nothing, my man. Take him away. I never want to see him again.'
'I will send men back to search for the other one. Tuman, stay and guard the house.'
'There is no need. He has gone.'
She watched them go from the door. Then she closed the door and stalked angrily toward the dining room.
'My love!' she cried as her husband walked toward her.
'It is nothing,' he said. 'Did you feed well?'
She smiled and led him toward the window. 'Does it hurt badly, sweetheart?'
'No. See? Already it returns,' he indicated his arm, where the flesh was growing back, a nub of bone stretching. Sinew and blood vessels whipped energetically around the bone.
'He was so fresh. I have never had the blood of a lord before.'
She stood before the window, watching as the guard led the thief away.
'Do you think the man with power will return? He was dangerous.'
'No, he will not return. Still,' he said with a sigh, 'This duty has proven onerous already. I wish we could get the crown away. I’ve a mind to throw it away…but the pull and power of the one who compels us is stronger than my own will. I imagine we shall have trouble because of it yet.'
His hand had grown now, and the skin was stretching from his elbow down to his wrist, thickening as the seconds passed.
Ellisindre fingered the hole in her dress thoughtfully.
'At least the blood did not wake our daughter.'
He listened with a cocked ear.
'No, she wakes. Send out the manservant. Find her some food. It is not safe for her to wander tonight. There will be questioning guards abroad and our family has had enough excitement for one night.
Shawford Crale put his arm around his wife’s shoulders, and together they watched the naked thief being led from their property, until even their preternatural eyes could no longer see him.
*
Chapter Forty-Five
Roskel was dragged through the streets, then finally carried between two guards, until after a journey that was largely lost to him, he stood before the captain of the guard in the guardhouse.
'Why, Ward, is this man naked?'
'I…ah…I’m not sure.'
'What do you mean you’re not sure?' said the captain, staring at the man.
Ward, the guard, felt uncomfortable under the captain’s scrutiny, as he always did, but even more so because he had no idea why the man was naked, or where he had come from, or even why they had dragged him all the way to jail, other than for being naked in public. It was not decent.
'I’m sorry, captain, but I…ah…I don’t know.'
'And these marks on him?'
'I don’t know that either.'
The captain sighed. Ward was usually a good man. Perhaps he had been at his cups on duty. He took a few steps until he was before his subordinate and smelled his breath. It smelled fresh, apart from the lingering stench of tooth decay.
'Very well. Get him some clothes and put him in the cells. We’ll question him when he comes to. No doubt he’s been on the smoke wheels in some tavern and thought he was a dryad, been trying to mate with trees or some such.'
'Yes, captain,' said Ward, and scurried off to find a shirt and trousers.
The guard captain put shackles on the prisoner and sat back, staring at him thoughtfully. There was something familiar about the man.
Did he know him?
He peered closely at the slack face.
Roskel started to come around as the sun glanced through the barred windows of the captain’s office. He opened one eye, then the second.
As animation flooded the thief’s face, recognition flooded the captain’s.
'Gods, it’s you!' he exclaimed.
Roskel blinked, took in his surrounding and his nakedness. He could barely raise his arms but he recognised a guard captain when he saw one. He tried to rise, but his legs collapsed underneath him. Then he felt shackles going around his wrists and passed into insensibility once more.
*
Chapter Forty-Six
Roskel took in his surroundings. He was in a dark cell. That didn’t take much deduction. How he came to be here was a blur. He remembered visiting Shawford Crale’s mansion and passing on the crown…at least he had not been captured with that. Afterwards was a hazy dream. He felt something trickling down his chest. There was dampness at his neck. He tried to feel it but could not reach.
So whoever had captured him was extremely careful. He had no doubt he’d been out of it for some time. He was not wearing his own shirt. He wore itchy, uncomfortable trousers that were too short for him and tight in the waist.
His arms ached from being pulled to the side. His shoulders were painful. His captor was not kind. Perhaps there would be a trial…but he didn’t hold out much hope. Justice was fickle and differed from place to place. He could only be thankful that his hair had grown and he had a thick moustache now. If the Thane of Ulbridge had captured him he would have been recognised and hung by now. It was the only light in an otherwise extremely dim situation.
Sparse daylight came through air holes leading outside, and a distant flickering candle glinted through the crack in the cell door.
'Oh, hell,' he said to himself, examining his shackles. He couldn’t even reach his arms over far enough to reach his face. The bolts on the shackles were thick. There were no locks to pick. He didn’t have a pick on him, but if he had been given a chance he could have fashioned a knife into a pick. No chance of that.
He tried to shift his shoulders to ease the pain, but could not. A steady throbbing had settled in. He rolled his shoulders as best he could. He could not afford for his arms to go numb. If that happened he would not be able to take the chance of escape when it came.
There was no doubt in his mind that the chance would come. No situation was hopeless. He would be let out eventually, or a guard would become careless.
Perhaps, even, someone would rescue him. The Skald would find him. Or the Thieves' Covenant…or the King’s guard…
Yes, he thought grimly, and perhaps a beautiful maiden would come to relieve him come nightfall. Perhaps he would be given wine and fine fruits.
He laughed to himself at the idiocy of a prisoner’s hopes and dream, but still did not doubt that his chance would come. He was ever the optimist.
He heard footsteps approaching.
He shuffled back until he could push himself up, using the wall to push against. He readied himself for his chance.
The door cracked open, but he couldn’t see the guard’s face, backlit as he was in the dim candlelight.
'At last,' his captor said, and approached.
Optimism fled in an instant. 'Oh, damn,' said Roskel.
The Thane of Ulbridge peered at him closely. There was anger on his face, unblunted by time. There was also a hint of grim satisfaction.
His cuckold’s face broke into a grin.
'At last I have the famous thief. An important man, now, too,' he said with a satisfied smile. 'I told you there would be a reckoning for sleeping with my wife.'
'Well, if it helps,' said Roskel, 'we didn’t do much sleeping.'
He didn’t even see the blow that split his lip.
His head already ached. It was just salt in a wound. He spat blood at the Thane. The Thane wiped his face with a handkerchief and thundered a blow into Roskel’s stomach, driving the wind from his lungs. The Thane was not a big man, but Roskel could not move to lessen the power of the blow. The punch was followed by another, then another…he lost count. Punches rained on his stomach and his ribs. Time drew out. Eventually, spent, the Thane ceased.
The Thane was puffing from exertion by the time the beating was over.
'I’
ve been looking forward to that for such a long time.'
'You’ve had your fun,' mumbled Roskel through his bloody lips. 'Let me go. I will be missed. Our little differences aside, I’m still Lord Protector of Sturma. You can’t keep me here.'
'Oh, I can. You’ll not be Lord Protector come the spring. You see, no one knows you’re here. Orvane Wense will take the country. I have hitched my wagon to his horse. As for you, only a few guards know about these dungeons. You’re below my mansion. No one can hear you cry out. I think I’ll be keeping you as my guest for a long, long time.'
The Thane turned and bolted the door from the outside. Roskel was plunged into darkness once again.
Despair descended on him, heavier than the darkness and undeniable.
Not a soul knew he was there. There was nothing he could do.
He thought about it for hours. The longer he thought, the more sure he was that he would never leave the cell alive.
*
Part V.
The Gaol
Chapter Forty-Seven
The outcast prowled the city streets. Winter had broken and something was in the air. Expectation, throughout the city. A buzz, and not the first insects of spring. He heard the music of the city and it spoke of a new beginning. He understood the rumours. This man, this Orvane Wense, had come and raised an army. He planned to march north…but it was more. He wore a crown. People thought he was the king.
The Drayman knew it was all false. The Thane of the northland region marched for another. Even without the music, the Drayman understood. This man did not rule his own heart. There was another. The Drayman had seen his kind once. The glamour did not hide him from the Drayman’s eyes. The alien could cloak his appearance, but he could not hide the sounds of his passing. He could not make his music different. The voice the outcast had heard while the Thane was taking in the city one fine winter’s day was bleak, harsh and guttural.
He did not understand such arcane arts, but to his eyes the man that was not a man had blood red eyes that leaked power with every stare.
The creatures name was Savan Retrice, and he was a hierarch.
Roskel was needed, and the Drayman needed to help him break free. But there was no chance. The Thieves' Covenant could not help, even though they seemed to hold some affection for the Lord Protector. He was an important man, but also a thief. He heard rumour that some lady wanted him free…but how? The Thieves' Covenant was weaker in the south, and they could not come from their strongholds through the winter.
Darwell allowed him to stay at the tavern, playing on occasion to earn his keep. Once a week Darwell met with a Thieves' Covenant contact who led him to believe that help would come in the spring.
All the while Roskel rotted in a gaol.
The Skald waited, and waited...until spring's first flush, hating the waiting, but this woman, this Queen of Thieves, told him wait, wait...
Roskel could command armies, but the army was preparing for war. Already rumour that the Thane of Kar had taken the crown for his own had reached the north.
Now war would come to this land. Only one man could avert it, and even then there was slim chance. If they could prove that the crown the Thane wore was false…
But there was no way to get the true crown. Besides, it was where it was supposed to be.
So the Drayman wandered the city streets, once more. He plotted out the route from the Thane’s mansion, round the city, figuring out their exits. Darwell’s place was safe, but not for long. If he ever managed to free the thief, if he had some help, they would have to flee. The city would not be safe for them even by a friend’s hearth.
Darwell had grown on the Drayman. He had become a friend, of sorts, although they could only truly communicate when they were alone, for the contact needed to facilitate his singing would have caused rumour and he could not afford to appear as he was, rather than a traveller wintering in the warm.
Always with his cloak pulled low and a mug of ale that he nursed all night, the Drayman had become a fixture.
There were two greens in the town, remnants of the village that had first been here. Sometimes he paced around in the snow, marvelling at its feel as it crunched underfoot. It was so beautiful. Pristine in the morning, only to be sullied by grime as the day wore on. He relished each morning’s fresh fall. Each snowfall drew him closer to spring.
At last, one morning, the song of the snow changed. The thaw began, and spring came.
And the Thieves' Covenant gave the Skald what he needed. What he'd waited for all along-- a way in.
*
Chapter Forty-Eight
The time to break the thief out of gaol came.
The Thieves' Covenant swore that no one had ever escaped the labyrinth beneath the mansion. Rumour told of a sprawling maze that spread out like roots underneath the city. They had never been mapped.
The Skald knew there was no more time to dally. He had to break Roskel free before the Thane reached the north. He knew enough of politics to know that if the Steward appeared he would be able to prove the crown was false. The Thane of Kar’s support would crumble, and the land would be able to find peace.
The Drayman had untold routes from the mansion to exits from the city and Darwell’s inn.
He saw the guard leaving the city, called to duty in the army. Already they were mustering outside the walls. He smiled to himself. It was the best chance he was going to get.
He returned to Darwell’s inn and spoke to his mind.
I can wait for aid no longer. I go tonight.
'Are you sure? It is probably suicide.'
Probably.
He squeezed the big innkeeper’s arm in a friendly gesture.
If I die, use the rest of Roskel’s gold to pay the Thieves' Covenant. Send messages north and tell them what has happened here. There must be a reckoning.
'I will,' said Darwell.
The Drayman nodded once and went to his room to rest. It would be a long night.
*
Chapter Forty-Nine
The snow turned to sludge underfoot. The Thane of Kar tested the ground with a stick. It was no longer frozen. Further north would still be in the grip of winter, but in the weeks it would take to march an army there, and pick up more support along the way, it would be thawed. Spring would be in full bloom. If all went to plan the capital would be his by summer.
He was prepared for a long siege. By all reports the Stewards were preparing for war. He didn’t expect to keep his activities secret for long, and he knew rumour travelled swiftly, irrespective of the snow.
The men arrayed before him bowed as he passed. At last, he thought, some respect.
The crown helped. He was no fool.
Savan Retrice touched his sleeve deferentially.
'What is it?' snapped the Thane.
'The weather will be steady. We should march in the morning.'
'Are the men ready?'
'To a man.'
The Thane nodded. 'Then bring me the captains. I will give the order tonight. We will dine in my tent. Make sure you are there.'
'Of course, my lord.'
The Thane of Kar smiled. At last, even the strange spy was showing him some respect. Fear was a useful tool. The man had seen his power and respected him and feared him, as he should, for soon he would be the most powerful man in Sturma.
*
Chapter Fifty
Winter had been hard and long. The ground had frozen, as had the lakes and rivers. Snow blizzards seemed to come every week. The land huddled in frozen misery. People stayed in their homes and stacked fires high with seasoned logs.
Many died in the winter. It was the coldest in living memory. So cold that livestock was found frozen stiff in the mornings and trees cracked when their sap froze.
Underground, it was warmer.
A thief saw the first melt of snow trickling down through the spy holes in the ceiling of his cell. At last, a hint of daylight.
With it came no hope. His beard w
as long, his nails uneven where he had been forced to file them on the stone he sat on. A chill had seeped into his bones, but the Thane of Ulbridge had not wanted him to die. He had fed him well and given him blankets to keep from freezing to death.
Even so, the thief’s hands were always numb.
Hope had fled for good. No rescue was coming. He was in the deepest of dungeons…his body and his mind.
The shackles clinked, he drew a breath, and finally gave up on what hopes he had. Would death be release? Would it hurt if he just refused to eat anymore? What would Tarn have thought if he just gave up and ended it all?
*
Chapter Fifty-One
Roskel awoke as the last of the meagre light fled from his cell. There was a candle burning somewhere outside, where he had heard guards going about their business. They played cards and swore and occasionally cursed the prisoners in the cells. There were other hopeless men and women in these cells. They would never see the light of day, either.
But when Roskel woke it was with a strange sense of hope. He had not felt like this since he had come to the cell in shackles.
The dream had been puzzling. A dream of Tarn. In the dream his friend had told him to be ready.
Ready for what?
All hope was not lost, his dream vision claimed.
Was it just a dream? Why would he dream of Tarn on a day like today? What could possibly be special about a day in late winter, when a man was shackled like a dangerous animal, his hair matted and infected with lice, his beard long enough to chew.
And yet… He thought the dream had power. Tarn was still a towering man even in spirit. His words demanded attention.
The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 14