“Thank you, Kolton,” Geran said quietly.
“Lord Sergen won’t like this,” the council sergeant said. “He said nothing about providing the prisoner with such comforts.”
“In that case, he didn’t say we couldn’t,” Hamil pointed out. “I heard about that fine room you gave him underneath your Council Hall. Maybe the Shieldsworn should give you beds just as comfortable as the one you gave Geran. After all, nothing requires the harmach to give your men any particular comforts, either.”
The council sergeant chose not to argue the point any further—a wise decision, in Geran’s view. Kolton suppressed a smile and motioned to his council counterpart. “Post a couple o’ men by the door if you like, and I’ll show the rest o’ you to your guardroom and quarters.”
“Very well,” the sergeant said. He detailed off two of his men, who took up positions on each side of Geran’s doorway.
Kolton looked back to Geran and said, “I’m sorry, Lord Geran, but I’ll have to leave the mage shackles on you.”
The swordmage grimaced. His wrists were more than a little sore and bruised, and he wanted the damned manacles off his hands. As long as Harmach Grigor had given his word that he’d make no attempt to escape, Geran wouldn’t use his magic. But at least the cell looked like a substantial improvement on the old one. “It’s not your fault, Kolton,” he said.
“These fellows’ll be standing watch, but there will always be a couple o’ Shieldsworn within earshot. Just shout if you need anything.” Kolton touched his hand to his brow in salute and backed out of the cell with the Council Watch leader following him.
“As much as I’d like to stay here and entertain you, I’m afraid I have some things to look after in town,” Hamil said.
“Things to look after?”
“I’ve taken it upon myself to prepare your defense, so I’ve been talking to every witness to your duel that I can find.” Hamil pointed an accusing finger at Geran. “The next time you find yourself embroiled in a fight like the one that preceded your duel, I advise you to kill your enemies rather than wound and cripple them. You left House Veruna with four more witnesses than you needed to, and they naturally have agreed upon a version of events that depicts you in a very poor light. Though I suspect the one with the badly broken jaw and no teeth remaining doesn’t really remember anything that’s happened since last month and is making up his story outright.”
“Then go to it, Hamil. I’ve got every confidence in you.” Geran took his hand, and then Hamil nodded and followed the guards out. The council soldiers swung the door shut and locked it with a heavy iron clanking. Geran looked at the door for a long moment; he’d been in one cell or another for days now, and he was well and truly looking forward to his liberty. But it sounded as if it might be a few more days. He shuffled over to look out the small window—it was not much more than a foot square—and to watch the town slowly wake up to another dreary spring morning.
An hour later he discovered that his comforts were not limited to simple furnishings; the castle kitchens provided him with a hearty breakfast of eggs, ham, cheese, and bread with good apple cider to wash it down, which he was able to eat while seated at his table. After days of sitting on the floor of the council’s cell eating bland porridge, it was a significant improvement. “The only thing I lack is my freedom,” he observed when the servants and guards withdrew.
He selected a book at random from the shelf and passed much of the day with a long lay written three centuries before about the fall of Ascalhorn and the escape of one of its lords and his family. He spent an hour pacing and exercising as best he could in the small space allotted to him and even tried to practice his forms by imagining the weight of a sword in his hand and ignoring the shackles on his wrists. Eventually he grew tired and stretched himself out on top of the bed to sleep for a time. Long, cold nights on the stone floor of the council dungeon had not given him much opportunity to sleep well at night. He arranged his irons as best as he could and drifted off while lying on his back with his hands at his waist and the chain over his belt.
He found himself caught between a dream and a memory, something perhaps a little like the Reverie of elvenkind. He stood in the thin frost of a forest clearing in Myth Drannor, watching as Alliere turned her back on him and fled into the shadows under the dying leaves. She wore a dress of rich blue with delicate silver embroidery and a light hood of pearl-gray over her shoulders; she held her skirts as she darted away, her long dark hair streaming behind her. “Alliere, come back!” he called. “I love you!” She paused once, a single glance over her shoulder. But when her eyes met his, she turned away. He took a step after her, and—
The dream ended then, as it always did. Geran came to wakefulness and found himself staring up at the ceiling of his small cell. The light from the window had changed; it was the middle of the afternoon. He’d been asleep for a couple of hours. He started to sit up, found that his shackles hampered him still, and carefully gathered them up so that he could put one hand to the side of the bed and push himself upright. A year and a half now, and still that memory torments me, he reflected. He deserved worse. All of his life he’d wandered with his eye on the road ahead, never content to be where he was, seeking something that seemed to retreat away from him every time he drew near to it. In Myth Drannor he’d found what he was longing for, at least for a short time. And yet he’d managed to ruin it so completely with one self-destructive act he still couldn’t explain to himself. It was as if some hidden part of him recognized that he’d found contentment and deliberately sought a way to restore his wayward heart to its true nature. All of his life, his passion, his heart had been waiting for a love such as the one he’d found in Alliere, but he’d driven her away, and he still didn’t know why.
He sighed and looked at the small cell. “Maybe I belong in here after all,” he murmured. To keep his mind from memories of Myth Drannor and Alliere, he chose another book and tried to read some more. Eventually the afternoon passed, and he found that the shades of the past didn’t trouble him so much.
At sunset Hamil came down and joined him for supper, which cheered him. His friend had little news to report other than the growing anxiety in town about the Bloody Skulls.
“Where are they now?” Geran asked him.
“Raiding parties have ventured into the Vale at several points, but they haven’t done much damage yet,” Hamil said. “Kara got her soldiers up to the post-towers at the north end of the Vale, or so I’m told. What are they, anyway?”
“Watchtowers, really. Each has a small barracks that can accommodate about ten soldiers, and a small stone tower. There are about half a dozen scattered around the borders of Hulburg’s lands.”
“That doesn’t seem a very useful fortification.”
“They aren’t. I expect that Kara’s simply mustering her forces near one of the watchposts that overlooks the head of the Winterspear Vale. There aren’t many trails a large army can use to descend into the Vale safely, so I’d guess she’s trying to defend the most likely routes. If the Bloody Skull horde is as large as it’s been reported to be, then she’s got a chance to bottle them up on a narrow track and take away their advantage in numbers. On the other hand, if she lets them get into the Vale, they’ll be able to spread out again, and there really isn’t anything to stop them before they reach the city.”
Hamil grimaced. “Murder, vengeance, tomb-robbing, and treachery are one thing, Geran, but I didn’t come to Hulburg for a war.”
“You don’t have to stay, Hamil,” Geran told him. “In all seriousness, someone ought to be looking after Red Sail business, and I might be stuck here for days whether you help or not. Maybe you should leave.”
“I’ll give it another day or two.” Hamil rose from his seat and set his napkin on the table. “I’ll be back tomorrow to look in on you again. I don’t entirely trust these council thugs, even if they’re in the middle of your family’s castle. There are ten of them now, just to keep watch on yo
u, Geran.”
Geran saw his friend out—not very hard to do, given the size of the room—and returned to the bookshelf, looking for something new. Late in the evening, a knock at his door interrupted him. Keys turned in the lock, and the Council Watch soldiers admitted Sergen. The lord stepped in with a look of distaste on his face, frowning as he took in the bed, the books, and the desk. “Well, it seems that there’s some justice in this world after all,” he said. “A cell is a cell, regardless of its comforts. You’ve finally found your proper station in life, Geran, and I’m here to ensure that you remain in it for the rest of your days.”
“There’s much to recommend the room, if you like it, Sergen,” Geran said. He rose to face his stepcousin, clenching his fists beneath the shackles. He could loop the chain around Sergen’s neck and strangle him easily enough … but the council soldiers standing behind their master would likely interfere. There was no point in allowing Sergen’s barbs to anger him. “You can’t paint the truth for long, Sergen,” he answered. “It has a way of showing through the lies you slather over it. I’ll go through the trial your dear Darsi Veruna is demanding for me, her mercenaries will be shown to be liars, and I’ll be freed soon enough.”
Sergen smirked. “Spare me your sanctimonious metaphors, Geran. Of course the charges against you have no merit. But still, here you sit incarcerated in this small room until you can defend yourself against them. And who knows how long it might take before the eyewitnesses you referred to can be spared from the vital duty of defending Hulburg from the orcs? Why, it might be days.”
“I’ll wait.”
“Indeed you will.” Sergen spied the remains of Geran’s dinner and smiled sourly. “I suppose that your friends here in Griffonwatch are looking after you. I must see what I can do about that.” He picked up the jug of wine and an unused goblet from the table and poured himself some. He swirled the wine once, inhaled its aroma, and took a taste. “A Sembian, if I’m not mistaken. Yes, I must protest this lavish treatment you’re receiving. How can there be justice in Hulburg if a Hulmaster charged with murder lives like a king, while a common man languishes in a dank dungeon? It’s unseemly, Geran.”
Sergen set down the goblet, and something under his collar caught Geran’s eye—an old amulet of copper, green with verdigris. Its top was shaped like a crowned skull, with two small emeralds for its eyes. It struck him as unusual because Sergen was otherwise attired in resplendent fashion, with an elegant silver-trimmed black tabard cut with violet pleats, high suede boots, and his great gold pendant. I’ve seen a medallion like that recently, Geran realized. But where and when?
Geran frowned and thought for a moment, and it came to him: It was the amulet that Aesperus gave to Urdinger in payment for the Infiernadex. He hadn’t gotten a very good look at it that night. The lich had been standing ten yards away, and the lighting had been poor—torchlight at best. But the size and shape were right, and even with the mage shackles clasped around his wrists he could sense the dark whisper of magic in the old copper. What did the King in Copper say when he gave the thing to Urdinger?
Sergen noticed Geran’s sudden distraction and glanced down. “What are you looking at?” he demanded.
“The distance to your heart,” Geran answered, thinking quickly. “I was wondering whether I should draw your blade and stab you now or wait until after my acquittal to finally rid House Hulmaster of your particular stench.”
“Brave words from a man with his hands in shackles.” Sergen snorted in amusement and lowered his voice. “Do not trouble yourself too much with plans for your acquittal, Geran. You’re exactly where I want you to be, and here you will stay. Good-bye, my dear cousin. Forgive me if I say that I shall not miss you much.”
“You and I have business to settle when I’m freed.” Geran glowered fiercely at his stepcousin, concealing his relief at deflecting Sergen’s attention. Sergen doesn’t know that I saw Aesperus give the amulet to Urdinger, he realized. But why does he have it?
“I see no point in continuing this conversation.” Sergen bowed mockingly and withdrew. “See to it that he has no more visitors,” he told the council guards. “Requests for a visit with the prisoner must be submitted in writing to the Merchant Council. Do you understand?”
“Aye, Lord Sergen,” the men outside replied. They shut the door behind Sergen and turned the key in the lock with an ugly and final sound.
Geran growled in frustration and kicked at the wall. He remembered what Aesperus had told Urdinger, all right. The lich had said that whoever wore the amulet could call on his minions. If Sergen was wearing the amulet, then he must have been planning on using its powers. The question was, for what purpose?” To slay someone, of course,” Geran muttered to himself. Better yet, it would be a murder that could not be laid at Sergen’s feet. Everyone would believe that the King in Copper had sent his specters for reasons of his own, not suspecting that Aesperus was simply fulfilling a bargain he’d made with House Veruna. “And who would Sergen want dead?”
Obviously, Geran himself was likely high on the list. But somehow the swordmage doubted that Sergen would invoke Aesperus’s minions for that. Sergen had already neutralized him with his exaggerated charges. Could he be planning to destroy a rival merchant company? Possibly, but Geran couldn’t see why Sergen would want to. They all supported him through the Merchant Council. That left the nascent Moonshields … or the harmach. That must be it, Geran thought bleakly. If the harmach and House Hulmaster were destroyed by some outside force, then Sergen would appear blameless. He could succeed where his father had failed and make himself the lord of Hulburg. As long as all the other Hulmasters died, no one would stand between Sergen and the harmach’s seat.
“Not even Sergen could be that ruthless,” Geran murmured. But he didn’t believe it. The more he thought on it, the clearer it became. With the orc horde threatening Hulburg, the castle defenses were stripped to a minimum. Kara was away from Griffonwatch, so Sergen would need some way to deal with his stepsister. But all the other Hulmasters were conveniently gathered in one place—including Geran. And Sergen had been the author of the compromise that transferred him to Griffonwatch, hadn’t he?
He needed to warn someone. But Sergen had just given orders that no one was to see him, and it might take hours or days before Hamil or Kolton or someone else managed to force the Council Watch to permit a visit. Geran stared at the cell holding him then at the shackles around his wrists.
Somehow, he had to escape.
TWENTY-THREE
10 Tarsakh, the Year of the Ageless One
Hours of anxious pacing and a furious examination of every furnishing in his cell did not provide Geran with any obvious way to slip free of the mage shackles. He considered feigning sickness or injury to bring one or two of his jailors into the cell but dismissed the idea quickly. He couldn’t imagine that anyone ever really fell for that ruse, and even if they did, there were simply too many men outside. He might be able to overcome one or two guards with surprise and a cudgel made from the leg of a table, but what then? And the Shieldsworn garrisoning the castle would be duty bound to try to stop him, as well. Some of them—Kolton, for example—might turn a blind eye to any escape attempt or even aid his efforts, but others would try to discharge their duty no matter what they thought of their orders. For that matter, there might be a few among the Shieldsworn who would act against Geran for less worthy reasons. Jarad Erstenwold had chosen to keep his mission in the Highfells secret from his own soldiers; that suggested to Geran that Jarad might’ve suspected that at least a few of his men might be in the pay of the Merchant Council or one of the foreign companies.
He studied his window for a time and tested its bars. Given a month he might be able to wear away the mortar and brick anchoring the bars in place and widen the window enough to wriggle through—but that would leave him clinging to a sheer cliff face, and he doubted that he had a month.
No, what I need to do is to get word to Hamil that I must be free
d, Geran decided. Or at least get word to Hamil to warn the harmach of my suspicions. He can handle things from there.
The question was, how to smuggle out a message? He could try to tear a page from one of the books in the cell, weight it somehow, and drop it out the window … but it would be a matter of chance if the right passerby picked it up and delivered it. And the night was wet, so his note would be in poor condition by the time anyone happened across it. He searched through his cell contents again, and his eye fell upon a small, dusty case in his bookshelf—a set of dragon’s-teeth tiles. Geran didn’t know any solitaire games to play with them, so he hadn’t given them much attention before. Now he opened the case and examined the tiles more carefully, laying them out on his table. Coins, bars, swords … dragons and griffons … they all were said to have a meaning. “If only I knew Dwarvish,” he murmured to himself. Of course, little Dwarvish remained to be seen in the iconography of the game, only a handful of Dethek runes to accompany the images. He studied the clay tiles for a moment, running his fingers over the glazed surfaces. People played the game all over Faerûn, different variations in every country…. An idea began to take shape in his mind. Geran chose two of the tiles and set them aside, then he put the rest away and carefully stretched himself out on the bed to rest until morning. If it didn’t work, he could always use the tiles to weight letters he tossed out the window.
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