“Broken,” Jade finished for her. “When? When is this supposed to happen?”
“Sometime this week.”
Dasher slid his arm around Jade, and she turned into him, letting the tears come. This week. What could they possibly do for Venture with such short notice?
“Shh,” Dasher said. “We’ll think of something.”
Still holding Jade to his side, Dasher prodded the woman for more information. But she’d told all she was going to tell, and she hurried back out the way she’d come, into the chill of the night.
Jade’s face was still buried in Dasher’s chest when Flora came in.
Only it wasn’t Flora.
The stream of masculine curses that erupted from the doorway made that clear enough. Abruptly, Dasher released her. Jade stumbled, trying to get her bearings in the darkness, in her grief. Dasher caught her arm, but he let go again just as quickly.
Earnest’s eyes glowed with a hatred for Dasher that Jade had never thought possible. His voice was a low growl, rumbling with anger. “Go ahead, Dasher. Try to explain this one.”
“There’s nothing to explain,” Dasher said. There was a new edge of coldness to his usual calm.
“I thought I heard someone in the house,” Earnest said. “Turns out it was you, leaving. I was afraid something was wrong. I thought I should check the healer’s, but then I saw Lightning. And she led me straight here.” Earnest shook his head. His hands were shaking with fury. “I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t think it would be this. Not now.”
“Earnest,” Jade said desperately, “Flora will be here any minute. We’re here for Vent.”
“For Vent?” He turned to Dasher. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do for Vent, Dasher Starson. I—”
Soft footsteps sounded outside. The door creaked open. Flora blinked. “Oh,” she said. “Earnest is here? He knows?”
Jade shook her head. “Why don’t you tell him, Flora. Please.” The room was spinning. How much of what Earnest thought he’d seen—what he had seen—was the truth? Nothing, she told herself. There’s nothing there.
“We’re meeting with one of Dasher’s sources,” Flora said hastily, frowning at the tension. “She asked him to meet her here and—where is she?”
“You just missed her,” Dasher said.
“And you were just going to leave me out of it?” Earnest said.
“No . . .”
“That was my idea,” Jade said. She couldn’t let Dasher take the fall for this one, not after what Earnest was already thinking about him.
“Your idea?”
“I wasn’t sure what we were going to find out. I was afraid you’d try to keep me from getting involved.”
“I see. And of course Dasher wouldn’t stop you.”
“Who do you think I am, Earnest Goodview?”
“This wouldn’t be the first time your friends had to wonder who you are, Dauntless of the Glen!”
“Stop it, both of you!” Flora threw her arms out between them and held each man back with a hand. “Jade,” she said, “what’s wrong? What did you find out?”
The tears came again and Jade could only shake her head. This time Dasher didn’t dare reach out for her. His eyes stayed locked with Earnest, who was still staring him down, promising him that this wasn’t over. That when the ladies were out of the way, they’d settle it. Dasher would come out on top, but Earnest looked as though he didn’t care. That it would be worth a beating to cause Dasher as much pain as he possibly could, to make him pay for his betrayal.
“They’re going to kill him,” Dasher said. “We don’t have much time.”
Chapter Twelve
Hardy tossed a set of clothes into the cell. The suit from Venture’s hearing, the clothes he’d been wearing when they first locked him up. Without hesitation, without question, he put them on, then the boots that followed.
“You look like hell, Delving. You should really shave.”
Venture caught the razor Hardy hurled at him; the clothes were loose on his diminished body and he felt weak, but his reflexes were still sharp.
“Why?”
“You’ve got an important visitor coming.”
“Two visitors in a week?”
“Maybe Felsan is smiling on you this week.”
Felsan. God of pain and death. What’s that supposed to mean? Venture didn’t believe in Felsan, at least not that he was a god men could appeal to or make deals with in order to be spared. He did believe in an evil one, the cause of misery, the inspiration of wickedness. He often wondered if Reed and Hardy had a special relationship with him.
Hardy motioned for Venture to move to the back. Venture knew the routine. He stood with his back to the cell door, hands on the wall. Hardy shoved a bowl of hot water and soap through the trap door Venture’s meals came through. He pulled a scrap of a towel from his back pocket, wadded it up, and pitched it through the bars.
Venture shaved slowly, his back turned to Hardy so he couldn’t see how desperately grateful he was just to have his face clean again. Jade? he kept thinking. Is it Jade? He wanted so much to see her, but then, he didn’t want her to see him like this. He ran his hand over his face, feeling out the spots he’d missed. He passed the razor over them again. The blade was dull, and his hands, in spite of his efforts to will it away, grew unsteady with emotion.
He felt the sting as he nicked himself, and watched the drop of blood fall into the bowl, then dissipate into the water, froth, and bits of beard. He took a clump of his matted hair in one hand and the razor in the other and began to cut that off too.
“All right, that’s enough now. Let’s have it back.”
“Shut up!”
That bastard wasn’t going to let him see Jade. He was just messing with him, that was all. Venture gripped the handle of the razor. At the very least, this little instrument could buy him a few precious moments of power over Hardy.
“If you want it back, you’re going to have to come in here and get it,” Venture said.
“If you want to see your visitor, you’ll pass it out.”
That was predictable. But at least he could keep him waiting. Venture just shrugged and began to scrub at his hands. Maybe he would toss it back, right into Hardy’s throat. But that would do no good. Hardy never came near his cell alone with the keys. Even if he managed to kill him and he could reach the body, he’d still be stuck here. He wiped his hands and face one more time, dropped the razor into the bowl, and shoved it back out the hatch.
Hardy disappeared with it, only to reappear moments later with Reed and two other guards at his side. Reed held the keys and the others drew their swords.
Venture tightened the new knot he’d tied in his pendant’s broken leather cord. He slipped it over his head, then turned to the guards. “What’s going on?”
“It’s lunchtime,” Reed said.
“So?”
“So this is a big day for you. There’s a special meal waiting for you in the dining hall. Behave yourself, Delving, or you’re going to regret it.”
The key clicked in each of the three locks.
Special meal?
The door was open and Reed was standing there, looking at him impatiently. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Special meal. Last meal. “They can’t do this!” Venture said. “They can’t!”
“He really has lost his mind, hasn’t he?” one of the other guards said.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Hardy said. “Come and eat, and then your visitor can see you.”
“Who is it?”
“No more questions. He’ll be here any minute.”
He? Not Jade, then. Of course not. Justice was his next of kin, the one person they’d allow to say good-bye to him before he met the executioner. Were they going to do it quietly, in the lockup, or were they going to make a public example of him?
Had someone overheard him and Earnest talking? Had Dasher’s plan to stir up the public and pressure the governor to pardon him backfire
d so badly that they’d trumped up false charges against him? Were they going to hang him without a hearing? He was not going to the noose without a fight. But these guys were all on their guard now. He needed a minute to think, to come up with a plan. So he let them prod him at sword point, all the way down to the first floor, to the prisoners’ dining hall.
The room was unoccupied. A place setting for one, along with several covered dishes, had been laid out on the end of one of the long oaken tables. The smell of hot sausage nearly made him cry; he was so hungry for anything but mash, he nearly forgot the taint of death and injustice on this cursed meal.
Venture sat down. And that was when he realized they hadn’t shackled him. At first he thought that they figured four armed men were enough to deliver him safely to his death. But then the additional guards left him under Reed and Hardy’s watch. Venture waited a second, thinking surely they’d at least bind his hands in front of him while he ate.
“Go on,” Hardy said. “Nobody’s going to serve you.”
Venture uncovered a dish and grabbed a sausage. The table had been laid with regard to the criminal mind—no utensils, not even a wooden spoon. The plate and bowls were made of relatively harmless wood. There was nothing sharp or heavy to cut or to beat a man with. But this was as good as it was going to get. Now was his only chance.
Reed settled down at the table across from Venture, with a smirk on his face as though he were contemplating how to make Venture’s last meal even more miserable. Hardy stood directly behind Venture, hand on the hilt of his sword. Venture slowly chewed a bite of sausage, swallowed, and wiped his fingers on his napkin. Apart from the ways they tried to make his life unbearable, the two guards were very professional—no chatting about girls, no distraction. But today, professional or not, he would do what he liked with them, whether he got himself out of here alive or not.
Reed and Hardy were strong and in good shape, stronger than he was, in his weakened condition. And there were two of them, plus their swords. But there was the important matter of desire—their desire to do their jobs well versus his desire to live, or at least, to make them pay for standing in the way of the life he was meant to live. He didn’t see how their desire could surpass his.
Venture hadn’t prayed since New Year’s Day, the day he fell apart. He had no doubt that God existed, but he had his doubts about whether he was good, and sometimes whether he, Venture Delving, was any good, and whether either of these possibilities had anything to do with him being here in the lockup. But since he was facing the end, Venture closed his eyes and asked his maker, Please, if you really have something better in mind for me, help me get out of here, and if you don’t, forgive me for all the stupid things I’ve done and save me a place on the good side.
Venture opened his eyes. He bent his knee, raising his leg slightly under the table, not enough that anyone would notice. In a burst of energy and motion, he lifted his leg up backwards so that the sole of his boot was on the edge of the bench. He kicked the bench out from under himself and back into the legs of Hardy behind him, and he lunged across the table.
Venture fell on Reed before Reed had his sword half drawn. Reed tumbled back with Venture on top of him. Venture knelt on the wrist of Reed’s sword arm, grabbing his left arm before he could go for his dagger and forcing it up against the side of Reed’s own face. Venture wrapped his arms around the guard’s neck with Reed’s left arm in-between. He locked his hands together at the opposite side of Reed’s neck and pressed in.
Hardy scrambled to his feet and around the table. Venture kicked the table over, still holding Reed. Reed lost consciousness. Venture caught his sword just as Reed’s hand relaxed its grip.
With Reed’s sword in his right hand and his dagger in his left, Venture parried Hardy’s blow easily, and then he did something Hardy couldn’t have expected. He ducked behind him, hooked his left arm under Hardy’s left arm and behind again, and grasped the back of the guard’s shirt collar with his fingers, allowing the dagger to drop from his own hand. He did the same on the right side, flinging the sword away as he did so.
Hardy was still armed, but both of his arms were immobilized. Venture’s powerful forearms, right at Hardy’s elbows, pried up and backward painfully. Venture kept his grip on the collar, while working the first two fingers of each hand forward until they were just under Hardy’s ears. He wriggled the rest of his fingers into place. The guard swung his hips to the side, trying to escape, but Venture kneed him in the back just hard enough to make him cry out and sag a bit.
Venture lifted his heel through the space between Hardy’s legs, in front of his ankle, and swept the leg backward. Hardy fell to his knees as Venture rotated his knuckles inward, into the hollow between the muscles on Hardy’s neck.
This time Venture didn’t stop when the body first grew heavy in his arms. He watched Reed lying not two feet away, blinking, conscious, almost ready to rise. I’ve still got time. I need them both out cold. He pressed harder into the choke. Warmth spread over the front of Venture’s pant legs and the reek of urine filled the room. Hardy had lost control of himself. Venture released the choke hold and picked up Hardy’s sword. He pointed it at Reed.
“Don’t move.” Still holding the weapon, Venture dragged Hardy a little to the side with one arm and carefully laid him down, clear of the puddle. “Don’t make a sound,” he warned Reed. “Lie down. Face down! Do it now!”
Reed obeyed, shaking.
“Palms flat on the floor, next to your head!”
Once he was behind Reed, on his knees, Venture slid the sword away, across the floor.
“He’s alive. Just cooperate and everything will be fine.” Venture locked up his position on Reed. “I’m not a killer.” The words were more a reminder to himself than a reassurance to the guard.
Venture pressed the side of his head against Reed’s stubbly cheek so he could force him into the choke more quickly, more effectively.
It was done, just the way he liked. It would’ve been easier, faster if he’d used his fists, but that could get noisy. And the truth was, he didn’t trust himself not to ignite the rage and the dark pleasure at making them bleed. He’d spent countless hours imagining it in his cell. If he let himself start beating on them, he risked becoming so absorbed in it that he not only lost focus of his goal—escape, survival—but that he also lost who he was, who he was meant to be, for good.
With both men unconscious, Venture gathered the weapons. He found two more knives on the guards and tucked them in his boots.
He was holding a sword in each hand when the door swung open and two more guards entered the room with Hunter Longlake between them. Nick followed.
“Put them down!” one of the guards shouted. “Put the weapons down!”
Venture didn’t move; neither did the guards.
Longlake surveyed the room—table and benches overturned, bread and sausage and carrots and upside-down wooden dishes flung to the floor, and gravy dripping down the upset tabletop, onto the floor.
“What’s this?”
He looked straight at Venture, as though he were merely a naughty child. When Venture failed to answer, Longlake gestured to the guards to stay put. He thrust his hand at Nick. Nick placed the paper in his hand, and Longlake held it up. “Mr. Delving, do you know what this is? Did they not tell you?”
Venture slowly shook his head. Why was Longlake here? Why was he so calm?
Then, mercifully, Nick spoke up. “You’ve been pardoned.”
“Yes.” Longlake threw Nick a withering look.
“Pardoned?” Venture lowered the sword ever so slightly, then snapped it back up. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why else would I be here, Delving? We got you cleaned up, tried to feed you so you wouldn’t look so crazed and starved when we let you loose—My God, Delving, what have you done?”
“I—I didn’t kill them. They’re not dead.” To Venture’s great relief, as he pointed, Reed stirred and Hardy groaned.
&nb
sp; “Never mind. Governor Lockfield wants you out. No one needs to know about them. Worthless idiots,” he added under his breath. “The election is in two weeks and your friends have the whole Quarter all riled up. Do you want out of here or not?”
Venture stepped forward to get a closer look at the paper.
“Not with those.” Longlake waved his finger at the swords.
Venture slid them across the floor to him, wondering if this was a trap, if he was making the biggest mistake of his life. But a pardon would explain the guards’ lack of caution.
“Those too.” Longlake gestured knowingly at his boots.
Venture cast the knives aside.
Longlake held the paper out. Venture stayed as far away as possible. He eyed the guards as he snatched the paper.
It was a pardon, with his name on it, the official seal of the Governor of the Western Quarter pressed into a square of bright yellow wax. He’s done it! Dasher’s really done it for me.
“You,” Longlake said to the tallest of the guards. “Give him your pants.”
Venture frowned, then glanced at his dripping hems. The guard looked at Longlake, dumbfounded, then indignant. But Longlake’s glare was insistent. The guard pulled off his boots and began to unfasten his pants.
As Venture dressed, he asked, “Who’s here for me?”
“Here?”
“My brother?”
Longlake shook his head. “No one knows. Governor Lockfield does not wish to have a crowd.”
Venture paused and looked skeptically at Longlake. He wanted to keep a publicity stunt quiet? Predictably, Longlake ignored him. Venture focused on just getting out of there. Still, as he folded the pardon and put it in his coat pocket, he couldn’t help feeling uneasy.
Venture accepted the cloak Nick offered him. He didn’t want to be stared at any more than these people wanted him to make a scene. He made his way through the corridors, down the steps, and out a rear door of the lockup.
He kept the hood of the cloak up and tried to walk small, eyes on the ground, taking deep breaths of clean, fresh air. Once he was clear of the County Meeting House grounds, he relaxed a bit. He shuffled along, but he made good time, taking every alley short-cut, avoiding the open doors of shops and townhouses, until at last he turned off the cobblestone road to climb up the hillside above town—so close, so close to Jade.
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