The hand inside his codpiece suddenly grabbed his flesh and twisted it. Gasping, he tried to push her away from him, but then she brought up her knee into him, hard. Pain exploded in his groin, and from there spread in waves to every inch of his flesh. It was suddenly hard to breathe. Impossible to control his body. He doubled over with a cry—
—and the ewer came down upon the back of his head. Once. Twice. Blinded by pain, he could not protect himself. The third blow finally deprived him of consciousness, which seemed a mercy; he lay still, crumpled in a heap at her feet, his hands still clasped about his wounded pride.
She looked down at him for a moment, prodded him with her bare foot once to make sure he was really unconscious, and then set the ewer aside. A quick glance about the chamber revealed where his keys were hanging, on a large brass ring by the fireplace. She went to fetch them, peering into each prison cell as she passed. When she came to Rhys’ her eyes lingered just long enough to meet his own, then turned away.
Rhys had witnessed enough of Kato’s seduction through the small window in his cell’s door to catch the gist of what had happened, if not all the fine details. Holding his breath, he waited to see what she would do next. Clearly she meant to free someone here, and if that someone was not him, then he was ready to bargain with her.
But it was to his cell that she returned, and after throwing the bolt open, she entered the gloomy space.
“Rhys nas Kierdwyn, I assume?”
He tried to stand in a dignified manner, despite his shackles. “I am. And you are—”
“For now, a friend.” She came over to where he stood and knelt down by his feet. One after one she tried the keys on her ring in the locks of his shackles. “We can make proper introductions later.”
After three tries she found the one that fit the lock; the iron ring on one ankle fell open. The same key worked on its mate and he was free at last.
“Now bring him in here.” She nodded toward the sleeping turnkey.
Rhys’ leg wound throbbed as he hurried to collect the body, but he was pleased to see that the leg still supported him. The wound in his shoulder was not doing as well, and when he tried to lift the turnkey up he discovered that his arm wasn’t strong enough for such action yet; he had to settle for dragging the heavy body back into the cell where she was waiting for him.
She knelt by the side of the body and, in a methodical and efficient manner, stripped it of all its clothing. The body beneath was dirty and rank, with an ugly bruise already rising on its groin. The woman ripped the hem of the man’s shirt, tearing several long strips of fabric from it. When she began to tie the man up with them, Rhys crouched down by her side and helped. Soon they had the naked man trussed up like a pig for feast, with a gag in his mouth that would muffle any cries he tried to make. When that was done, the woman shackled him in Rhys’ place, then threw the threadbare blanket that Rhys had been given over him. In the darkness of the cell, one would have to look closely to see that anything was amiss.
“Wait here,” she said, and she left the cell. He waited. A moment later she came back with a bundle of clothing in her arms, and handed him the top half of it. A uniform, with several armored pieces wrapped in fabric.
“Don’t talk,” she warned, as he opened his mouth to ask her questions. “Just dress.”
Silently, he did so.
She had brought him a guard’s uniform, identical to those that his attackers had worn. She had one for herself as well. If she hadn’t warned him to silence he might have made some comment about how unlikely it was that she could pass for a man, but when she slipped on the leather cuirass and buckled it tightly at the side, he was glad he hadn’t. The stiff leather compressed her breasts and added bulk to her waist, and her broad shoulders added an additional note of verisimilitude. Up close the illusion would never hold, but from a distance, or in shadow perhaps it would work.
“Here.” She had something in her hand. A stick of charcoal? “Stand still.” She spat on her finger and rubbed it along the black stick, then applied the color to his eyebrows.
“Is that necessary?” he asked.
“Have you seen any blonds in this place?” She cocked her head as she regarded her work, and he noted that her own eyebrows had been darkened as well. On the woman the change seemed less unnatural; he had not even noticed it before.
Spitting in her palm, she added a bit of charcoal and then mixed it between her hands. The result she patted along his jawline; the shadow of a beard? You’re taller than the locals as well, you know. Try not to make that too obvious.”
He watched as she put her own half helm on, tucking her hair up into it so that its fiery red color was hidden. He did the same with his own. Though he could not imagine they would actually pass for locals, the attempt at subterfuge was comforting.
The blanket stirred a bit. A soft moan sounded from under it.
“I hope you’re strong enough for traveling,” she said. “We have a lot of distance to cover tonight if I’m to get you far enough south to send you home.”
His breath caught in his throat. “Home?”
“Yes. Kierdwyn, right? I’m guessing that a day’s travel can get us far enough that I can send you directly. All we will have to do is evade pursuit until then . . . and I have some tricks that will render our trail all but invisible to morati eyes.”
“Witchery?” he asked.
Her eyes sparkled in the shadows. “You might say that.”
A witch could send him home, all right, though she’d have to give up years of her life to do it. Transporting living creatures was one of the most strenuous magics in a witch’s repertoire, he’d been told. Which was why Guardians relied upon mundane vehicles of travel whenever possible.
But even if she were willing to make that sacrifice—even if she could get him home—that left so many questions unanswered . . .
“I need to go back north—” he began.
“I don’t think so.” She rolled up the turnkey’s clothes and her own discarded shirt into a tight bundle and tucked it under her arm. “The road to the north is swarming with soldiers. Unless you want a repeat performance of what happened to you last time. . . .” Her voice trailed off suggestively. “At any rate, my job is to get you out of here and bring you home, and that is exactly what I’m doing. So unless you want to walk all the way to Kierdwyn, we have to get far enough from the Wrath that I can transport you safely. That’s at least a day’s ride due south, by my calculations. I hope you’re up to it.”
He wanted to argue with her, and for a moment almost did. Didn’t she understand what was at stake here? The Wrath was unstable, a damaged Spear might be the cause, and now it looked like the Guardians of Alkali—or at least their leader—were insane enough to attack any foreigners passing through their land. If Rhys left this region now, it might become so well fortified later that no Guardian could get through at all. Surely that mattered more than his own personal safety!
But he saw the warning in her eyes, and said nothing. We will argue about it later, he promised himself, when we are somewhere safe.
“Very well,” he said. Whoever she was, she was risking her life to save his own; that was worthy of respect as well as gratitude. “Lead on.”
They locked the cell door behind them, and she added the ring of keys to her bundle. “If all goes well, we will have until the end of your jailer’s shift before this is discovered. If it doesn’t . . . well, less than that.” She picked up the lamp from the turnkey’s table. “Follow me.”
He did so.
Up one turn of the staircase she reached into what looked like a decorative alcove, felt about a bit, and finally opened a door. He would not have guessed it was there if she had not shown it to him. Beyond it was a narrow passage, with large, irregular blocks of rough-hewn stone for walls; the look and feel of the place was different from any part of the building he had seen so far. Almost like a different place entirely.
“Servant’s passage,” she whisp
ered. “Part of the original structure, or so they tell me.”
“They?”
She looked back at him; her lips twitched briefly into something that was almost a smile. “Servants and whores will talk to their own kind,” she said. “Especially if the listener has sympathy for their trials. I, of course, am the embodiment of feminine compassion.”
“Is that how you got the uniforms?”
Now she did smile, albeit briefly. “No, that was simple thievery. Not much of a challenge, I’m afraid. This place is rather isolated; I’m sure no one ever thought a common thief would wander through, so they took few measures against one.” The smile faded. “I couldn’t get to the armory, though. Not enough time. We’ll have to make do with what we’ve got.”
She led him through the narrow passageway, following what appeared to be a set of directions she’d memorized; frequently she had to stop and concentrate to remember the next bit of it. Who had given her such detailed information? A servant angry at his masters who saw a chance to work mischief? A slave seduced by her charms who dreamed of winning her favor? A soldier down on his luck aching for the kind of relief that only a woman’s caress could offer? He had seen her work her wiles on the turnkey and wouldn’t put anything past her.
And then they reached the place she was looking for. She felt about the wall until she found the latch that had been described to her, then shuttered her lantern. No telling what was on the other side.
Slowly, carefully, she eased the door open. No sound came from the room beyond. No light shone from any nearby source, though a faint ambient glow was coming from somewhere. She nodded to Rhys and then slipped through the opening, adjusting her lantern so that a tiny beam of light might be released. Only that, and no more.
He followed.
It was hard to make out what manner of room they had entered, for the lantern only illuminated one detail at a time. As she turned it from one side to another, Rhys saw a large trestle table, walls full of hanging pots, and at the end of the room, a fireplace as tall as a man with a cast iron rack inside it. A kitchen? She swung the light up, illuminating a handful of dead birds hanging from the ceiling, along with slabs of salted meat. “Get a few of those,” she whispered, as she laid the turnkey’s shirt on the table. He was just tall enough to pull them down. There were shelves full of supplies at the other side of the room, and they raided those as well. It was clear the woman had been here before and had already decided what she would take; the operation was smooth and silent, and when they were done, the stolen stores were wrapped into a tight bundle and tied securely with a strip of the turnkey’s shirt.
“You have two choices now,” she whispered. “We can sneak out of here by the back way, and I think we can get out safely enough without anyone noticing us, assuming the information I was given is accurate. . . .”
“But?”
She looked at him. “It will not get us horses.”
He bit his lip, considering. Under the best of circumstances he would not like to travel this region on foot. And these weren’t the best of circumstances. Within hours, if not sooner, the rogue Master Anukyat would realize that he had escaped, and would surely mobilize every Guardian in the vicinity to hunt him down. The only hope they had was to get far enough away before that happened. On horseback, that might be possible. On foot . . . he shook his head, his expression grim. “And if we want horses?” he asked. “What is required?”
“Subterfuge,” she said. “And the luck of the gods.”
He nodded grimly. “Then we let the gods decide.”
Taking up the bundle of supplies, he followed her to the far end of the room. There was a heavy door there, with a small window set into it; a trickle of light came in through the iron grate, making it easier to see. She peered out through the grate and then pushed open the heavy iron bolt on the door, trying to make as little noise as possible. As the door swung open one of the cast iron hinges groaned; the two of them froze, holding their breath while they waited to see if anyone would come to investigate. But no one did, and after a few more seconds of waiting the woman nodded, and pushed the heavy door all the way open.
Fresh air flowed across his face, cool and sweet. Never mind that if you smelled it closely you could make out the distant odors of horse manure and decaying garbage. To Rhys it smelled of freedom. For a moment he just drank it in, taking stock of the scene that surrounded him. Night had fallen during his imprisonment, and in the sky overhead he could see a single full moon, shining clear and white. It was close to midnight, then. They would have enough natural light to travel by for hours yet. That was good.
He wondered if she had taken the moon’s schedule into account in making her plans. He would not put it past her.
Once the door was safely shut behind them she led him to a shadowy path tucked behind a series of shelters and stalls, out of sight of the open courtyard. From one building he heard a brief bout of masculine laughter, drunken in tenor; the sounds of gambling. Barracks, most likely. Passing so close to Anukyat’s soldiers made his heart skip a beat, but no one noticed them. As she had noted, people here did not seem to worry about invasion from within.
Thus far the gods seemed to be favoring them.
Finally she paused, and waited for him to come up beside her. “Stable,” she whispered. Not that she needed to point it out. The smell of the building just ahead was thick and heavy, a mixture of hay and manure and well-oiled leather; no rider could have mistaken it. There was an open space they had to cross to get to it, and she paused warily, looking in all directions to see if there was anyone that might witness their passage. Finally she nodded to signal him that all was well, and they bolted toward the rear of the stable where the shadows would protect them once more. As he did so he turned his head back to steal a glance at the building he had so narrowly escaped from.
And he stopped.
And stared.
Behind them—directly behind the Citadel itself—a vast stone spire soared, so high that mists gathered about the summit, giving it a fairy aspect. Its surface was striated in the manner of wind-carved monuments, but dramatically so, magnificently so, with long, deep furrows running vertically toward the summit, punctuated by even deeper holes that gaped like caverns in its surface. Through one he even thought he saw moonlight shining, as if it passed all the way through. The Citadel grew outward from the monument’s base, and in the midnight darkness it was impossible to see where the natural structure ended and the man-made one began.
Then his rescuer struck him between the shoulder blades, hard enough to jar his damaged shoulder, and reminded him of what he was supposed to be doing.
He followed her into the darkness of the stable without another look back.
There was just enough moonlight coming into the stable that she did not need to unhood the lantern at first; they were able to see into the stalls as they passed by, measuring the occupants against their need. A few horses snorted quietly as they passed by, but most of them seemed to be asleep. Judging from the construction of the building, the stable had been small to start with, and then was expanded several times. The first section they passed through had stalls that were open to view, with nothing but a half wall to separate human visitors from the equine inhabitants, but a later addition had more enclosed stalls, with waist-high gates set between sections of planking as tall as Rhys himself. That promised cover, should they need it, and they chose a pair of animals whose stalls were of that type, and not in the direct line of sight from the entrance.
Moving to the end of the row, where the tack was hung, Rhys quickly gathered the supplies they would need to saddle their mounts. The woman let him make all the choices in that operation, taking items from him as he handed them down without comment, and carrying them quickly and silently to the stalls they had chosen. There were other supplies stored there as well, to outfit those guards who needed to travel long distances in pursuit of their duties, and he gathered up everything he thought they might need in the w
ilderness, if indeed they decided to travel all the way to the Spears. Extra blankets. Extra feed. Vessels for water. Canvas for shelter. It was obviously more than the two of them needed for the journey she had mandated—a simple day’s ride to the south to escape the Wrath’s influence—but she said nothing when he brought it back to the stalls. Maybe that was a good sign. Maybe she already knew that he would try to talk her into the longer journey, and was considering whether she might not agree.
In the vast open spaces of the Protectorates horses were an integral part of life; it was nigh impossible for someone to reach adulthood without knowing how to care for the creatures. Yet it was clear from the first few minutes that his companion knew nothing of saddling horses, not even the most elementary steps. She tried to help, following his lead, but it took less effort to just wave her back and do all the work himself, than to try to explain the fine points of equine gear under such circumstances. So where was she from, then? How did she get out here, in the middle of nowhere, without the basic skills that mountain travel required? Spreading an extra blanket under each saddle, wrapping some extra hardware in soft cloths before packing them inside the saddlebags so they would make less noise, he could barely contain his questions. How was it she had showed up just in time to rescue him? He didn’t dare start asking her until they were safely out of here. Gods alone knew if she would answer him, even then.
“Shhhh!” Her whispered warning made his heart skip a beat. Straining his senses to the utmost, he realized suddenly they were no longer alone. In an instant her lantern was hooded again; the only light they had now was the faint bit of moonlight coming from the far end of the stable, and the distant flicker of another lantern approaching. Rhys could hear footsteps coming toward them, and what sounded like a man singing softly under his breath as walked slowly from stall to stall, checking on their occupants.
Wings of Wrath Page 18