“Then we leave by the same way,” Jaren said, looking to Reit, who nodded his approval. With a whistle, Jaren called the other emeralds from their respective posts, and they all set out from the cell.
Retzu led the way toward the guard shack at the far end of the courtyard. Sal saw that his own cave-like cell had been flanked by others—these being man-made—-complete with their own allotment of snoozing inmates.
Another emerald mage came out of the guard shack, with a gold-hilted sword in one hand, and a brown glass bottle in the other. Retzu took the sword from the mage and strapped it across his back, sighing with relief as it settled into the hollow between his shoulders. The mage handed the bottle to Reit. “Compliments of the management,” he said with a grin which Reit returned. They stood to one side as Retzu passed, easing his sword from its sheath as he entered the shack, the mage’s face visibly growing pale, even in the darkness of the compound. Moments later Retzu reemerged, wiping blood from his blade.
“Thank you, milord,” the mage by the doorway said, swallowing slightly.
Retzu winked reassuringly. “No worries. Yours is to give life, whereas mine is to take it. We all have our place, mate.” Still, the mage bowed his gratitude.
Jaren stepped to the forefront and addressed the other emerald. “As soon as we’re out of sight, awaken the rest of the prisoners. They’ll be glad for the chance at freedom, and the confusion may serve to cover our trail.” The mage nodded his assent, and turned toward the courtyard as Retzu led the troop away from it.
“What about that last guy?” Sal whispered as they hurried on.
“Laryn? He lives here,” Jaren answered. “After he wakes the prisoners in the cell, he’ll duck out of there and give them a chance to escape ‘unseen’. They’ll bless their good fortune and scatter, and no one will be the wiser that we were the architects of their escape, or that Laryn had given assistance.”
“And even if they do figure it out,” Reit interjected, after a meaningful look at Jaren, “we’ll be long gone by the time the Highest gets wind of it.”
It seemed that there was an answer to every question Sal had, though the answer may be more incredible than the question. Curiosity sated—as much as it could be satisfied given the situation—Sal trotted on in silence. Extreme as the night’s activity had been, it had all run very smoothly, testimony to the hours that had no doubt gone into the planning. It was just as well, anyway. Sal was so thoroughly bewildered that he could barely form a coherent thought, let alone offer any help to his rescuers.
As they fled the prison courtyard and made their way out into the city, Sal’s bewilderment gave way to pure awe. The city was gorgeous! Logistically, Sal couldn’t imagine the prison being anywhere but the worst part of the city, but the streets or buildings surrounding the prison gave only the barest indication that the prison even existed. The buildings, though wooden, were nothing short of elegant. Filigreed doorways, lacquered and polished roof slats, decorative columns; even the bars on the windows were intricate ivies of hammered bronze. Some of the buildings were smaller, plainer, having roofs of thatch instead of plank, but even these thatched roofs were tightly bound and freshly maintained. He may have been in the bad side of town, but Sal had to admit, the local slum lord definitely had a knack for architectural genius and took great pride in his work.
The rescuers and their wards made their way eastward along a cobbled avenue, staying in the shadows as much as possible. Retzu led the group, with sword drawn and making not a sound as he went. Reit followed close behind, having picked up a mean looking cudgel along the way. Sal and Jaren came next, the mage’s eyes blazing brilliantly as they scanned the night darkened streets before them. The other emeralds, led by Tavin, brought up the rear.
The cobbled lane eventually gave way to a much wider avenue, sporting a central colonnade, and with a number of smaller streets dumping into the avenue like tributaries. Thatch and slat roofed structures continued to line both sides of the road, but Sal was able to pick out a few buildings with clay shingles. The party headed toward a large shop with a wraparound porch, a second story, and expensive looking glazed tiles on the roof. Sal took it to be an inn.
All the windows were dark, but as they neared, a rotund old man appeared in the front door. Making shushing gestures, he hurried them inside. He eased the door shut behind him, and waved the group forward, herding them silently through a tavern area toward a doorway in the back. They pushed through the double swinging doors, and firelight spilled out from the kitchen beyond, where cooks and wenches were already slaving away over the cooking fires. As the doors swung shut behind the fugitives, a muted celebration took place.
“Excellent work, Duffer,” Reit praised the chubby, cheery faced innkeeper, who caught him up in a bear hug.
“Blessed Crafter, it’s good to see you, milord,” the innkeeper gushed, hugging Reit ever tighter. The bearded twin slapped Duffer’s back, though Sal couldn’t tell if it was out of joy or a need to keep from passing out.
Taking a cue from their employer, the cooks and wenches followed suit, congratulating fugitive and rescuer alike on the success of the night’s operation. Even Sal was made welcome, embraced by one pretty wench with big blue eyes and... other lively features. But before he could get the young woman’s name, Duffer sent her off to round up some supplies. With a sigh and an apologetic smile, she slipped from Sal’s arms and vanished through one of the many doors that led from the kitchen.
Celebration was soon set aside, and Reit was all business again. Did you get all my messages? Were there any problems? Did anyone notice the emeralds? Were any of the inn’s patrons suspicious of Duffer or his employees? Reit peppered the innkeeper with questions, and Duffer fired answers back just as quickly.
The language was vague, though Sal doubted it was for his benefit. As a stranger, Reit may have considered him a liability, but he and Duffer were talking too fast to be circumspect about anything. It wasn’t long, though, before he got the basics of what was going on, and the answers to some of his own questions as well.
First and most obvious was that the inn was the safe house that the mage Tavin had mentioned, and that Duffer was a point of contact for the resistance movement against the Highest.
Second, and more enlightening, was that Reit was the head of the resistance—not just any old leader, but the Top Dog himself!
Sal was still pondering the implications when his serving girl returned, arms laden with packs for the fugitives. As Sal received his, he undid the leather strips that held it closed and looked inside… and his heart leap for joy.
Food! Real food!
“Now, now, that’s for your journey,” Duffer admonished, rewinding the pack straps around their moorings as if he’d known Sal his whole life. Sal’s belly nearly screamed in protest, but the innkeeper was right. They were far from safe here, still well within the confines of the city. A full stomach would be a poor consolation for him being recaptured by the local constabulary.
But the innkeeper was not without a heart. He snagged each man a small loaf of warm sourdough bread as he herded them out of the kitchen, down some stairs into a cellar. One of his cooks went before them, carrying a torch to light the way. Sal’s bread had vanished before he was even halfway down the stairwell.
At the bottom, Sal took in the cellar—dimly lit, and ringed with enormous wine barrels neatly arranged along the walls, each already lying on its side and tapped—and he gained a new respect for Duffer. There was not a cobweb to be found. The flagstone floor was well swept. The brass barrel taps were all polished, gleaming in the unaccustomed light of the torch. Even down here where no customer ever ventured, Duffer took pride in his work.
The cook hung his torch in a nearby socket, and then joined the innkeeper where he’d set upon working the lid off one of the barrels. Dark liquid dripped from the widening lip of the cask, but it didn’t gush forth as Sal would have expected. As the innkeeper hefted the lid to one side, Sal saw why. A false bac
k had been built into the cask lid, one that held just enough wine to feed the tap, were it ever to be opened. Pretty slick, Sal thought with genuine appreciation, an emotion that grew as Sal stooped to peer into the cask.
The interior of the vat was pitch black, much darker than one would expect a simple cask would be, even in the confines of the wine cellar. The darkness seemed to extend beyond the wall that the cask was propped up against. And all at once, it was clear to Sal how the other emeralds had gotten into the city, and how they expected to get out. In the far distance deep within the “cask”, he could see a handful of flickering sconces, receding into a seemingly endless tunnel.
No sooner had the lid been laid aside that Reit started ushering the fugitives through the portal. The innkeeper shuffled up to Reit with almost childlike awkwardness, his skin flushing visibly even in the almost cryptic darkness. How strange that the old man would place such esteem upon a man who had to be more than thirty years his junior!
“Duffer, I can’t begin to thank you,” Reit said softly. “What you do for us, the risks you take… we can’t begin to repay you.”
“Your gratitude is payment enough, el’Yatza,” the innkeeper replied sincerely, bowing slightly with the odd title he’d given Reit. He seemed to want to say more, but instead made his farewells, as his customers would soon be making their morning demands. One hearty “Crafter shelter you,” and he was gone, leaving the cook to replace the lid.
Once inside the tunnel, Sal was relieved to find that it was taller, if not wider, than its camouflaged entrance. No crawling for miles like some dang Viet Cong throwback, at least, he thought gratefully. The floor of the tunnel was gravel, the walls and ceiling rough-hewn from the rock upon with the city was founded. The passageway was tight, but functional. Sal once might have thought the tunnel to be absolutely claustrophobic, but ironically, Sal had never felt freer, trudging down the cramped passage with only a handful of torches to light their way in the subterranean darkness.
There were very few attempts at conversation, as nobody seemed to be interested. It wasn’t that there was nothing to talk about. Far from it; Sal could start right away and ask questions until he was an old man! But that abysmal channel was oppressive to the point that conversation seemed more an irritant than a pastime. Just as well; Sal put his feet on autopilot and let his mind endlessly drift over his circumstances.
There was no way to tell how long they stayed in the tunnel. Sal tried to count his paces, then, when the number got too high to keep track of easily, he took to counting the sparse torches, set some fifty feet apart. That was even easier, as he could hear the sputtering hiss behind him as one of the emeralds extinguished each torch they passed. Finally, when Sal was well over a hundred torches along, the tunnel took a sharp left turn and began climbing. Floor became steps. Darkness gave way to dim light. When Sal reached the top of the steps, he found himself in a water cut cavern, with the late morning sun beating a path through the foliage at the cave mouth. Their orderly marching rapidly became chaos, as eight souls leapt for the shadows to embrace the light of day.
Sal just stood there for long moments letting the sun warm his face, unfettered by iron bars. His eyes were dazzled by the brilliance of the mid-morning sky and slow to adjust, his left eye a bit slower than his right. Blinking, he looked to his friends and the four mages—one was a woman—and saw his awe and relief mirrored on their faces as well.
Even Reit looked less careworn as he spoke to Sal. But only slightly. “You’re a free man, Salvatori” said the rebel leader, in a voice more gracious and respectful than any politico Sal had ever seen. “Go with my blessing, my friend, though I would warn you not to return to Schel Veylin. I’m sure you understand that recapture would not be your only concern.”
Indeed he did. Sal had seen Duffer’s face, as well as Laryn’s. And they had seen his—the only stranger in the ragtag group. Should either of the insiders be captured, Sal would immediately be suspect. He probably wouldn’t live to see the next sunrise.
All of which was a moot point, of course. Sal had no intention of leaving unless he had to. Taking a deep breath to quell a sudden swarm of butterflies, he stated simply, “My friends call me Sal. And I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
Reit flicked glance at Jaren, who merely quirked an eyebrow, then turned his attention back to Sal. Apparently, the two had spoken of this possibility before, but no one said anything either in his defense or otherwise. He guessed that nothing had been determined, so he pressed on. “I’d be stupid to go back to Schel Veylin, but I don’t know the area either. And y’all are the closest things I’ve got to friends, so I’d say my options are pretty clear. I could either wander aimlessly, doing my best to avoid all human contact while at the same time trying to learn the lay of the land, or I could throw myself upon your mercy. I know you got no reason to trust me, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to tag along.”
Another silent conversation, this time including Retzu, who shrugged slightly and then nodded back to Reit. Whatever decision was being made, it was Reit’s to make. “You are... different, to say the least. You don’t carry yourself like a typical Valenese, but neither are you Norean like me. You don’t show any of the cultural trademarks that I’m familiar with. Even your clothes, ragged though they are, are outlandish. To be honest, I don’t know quite what to make of you…” He paused, then added, “…but perhaps that’s not such a bad thing, Sal. You see the world for a unique perspective. I may be able to put that perspective to some use.” That said, he offered his hand, which Sal promptly took up.
“Being with us can be a dangerous business,” the rebel warned.
Sal grinned wickedly. “Trust me, I can do dangerous.”
***
“How could this have happened?” Warden Ter’Nal demanded, glaring at Dunbar. He’d been on duty that night, posted in the Overseer’s building where the detection orb was held, just down the street from the prison proper, so he’d been spared the slit throat his comrades had received. He rubbed the sweat where it dripped down the side of his neck, almost feeling the neat parting that could have been there, through skin and sinew, had it been another night.
“There’s nothing he could have done, warden,” Laryn said, leaping to Dunbar’s defense. He scanned the ground in front of the cell as he talked. “He was no doubt ensorcelled before the escape took place.”
Ter’Nal’s icy glare swept from Dunbar to the mage. The guard’s shoulders slumped in relief. The warden squared his shoulders back in a clatter of armor that was largely ceremonial in Dunbar’s opinion. “How would you know?” the warden sneered.
The emerald stooped to point out something that both the warden and Dunbar had missed. “These rust fragments here... On this bar to the right, they fall to the outside of the cell. Same as this one in the center,” he said, indicating the stumps of the missing bars. “But on this one, the rust falls on the inside.”
The warden was not impressed. “But ain’t that what you Greens are good at? ‘Vitality and decay’ or some such?”
The mage winced visibly at the informal reference to his Emerald Order. Had it been uttered by a friend, the term would have been acceptable, even preferred in certain settings, but in this instance, “Green” sounded derogatory even in Dunbar’s ears, a disrespectful jab at the mage who would dare question the warden’s powers of observation.
Laryn clenched his jaws, no doubt biting back an oath that would likely be… unproductive to the situation. He straightened, rising to full height within his green-with-gold-trim robe, and cast his fiery emerald gaze at the warden. “Yes, but you miss my point,” he hissed with exaggerated politeness. “Only one bar was snapped from within the cell. The others were snapped from without.”
Slowly, the warden caught on. “You mean to tell me that—”
“The prisoners had help,” interrupted the man in a brown hooded cape, who had remained silent until now. “Probably three or four mages total, Greens or Blues”—this t
ime said with the proper respect—”in order to keep the other inmates subdued while they worked.”
“B-b-but the orb-”
The hooded man cut the blustering warden off with a wave of his hand. “If your man was ensorcelled, your detection orb could have outshone the sun for all the good it would have done him. Remember, two of the escaped prisoners are that rebel leader and his mage friend. I assure you that if they had help from outside, the guards were their first target.”
The hooded man turned from Ter’Nal to Dunbar, all but forgotten in this exchange. He casually pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing a face seemingly chiseled from the solid rock his eyes resembled. A polished grey-brown, with tiny black specks, those eyes held no emotion whatsoever. No anger. No malice. Nothing but cold logic and efficiency. Dunbar felt his bowels liquefy.
“Tell me, Guard Dunbar, where is the Overseer’s post?” His tone was that of a man asking the time.
“Down the street, milord mage, tending the orb out of the range of any mages that might be imprisoned,” Dunbar answered, swallowing bile that threatened to deposit itself at the granite mage’s feet.
“And are you allowed to sleep while in the Overseer’s building?”
“No sir!” Dunbar answered vehemently. “In fact, orb duty is rotated every watch cycle to ensure that a fresh pair of eyes is always on the orb.”
“I see. And what watch cycle were you?”
“Third, milord mage.”
“So fourth watch never came to relieve you,” the granite mage stated rhetorically, “giving the escapees three hours at least, maybe as much as six, to make good their escape. What of the guards in the shack? Do they not standing watch outside? No regular rounds? Not even a single man out of the entire night shift to conduct continuous patrol?”
The blood drained from Dunbar’s face. It was a security issue he’d personally taken up with Ter’Nal a hundred times. But the warden was a proud man, set in his ways, and he threatened Dunbar with his own prison sentence if he persisted in being insubordinate. Marshaling what little remained of his flagging courage, Dunbar set his chin and drew himself straight enough to look the granite mage in the eye. He’d followed every procedure to the letter. The escape was no fault of his, but if he should die for it, there was no way in the Abyss that he’d be meeting the Crafter in a puddle of his own cowardice.
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