She landed in a service room, facing an angry, bloody-nosed guard.
This, not Ryvček’s elegant fencing, was what Ren was made for. She didn’t bother rising; she just kicked hard against his ankle, then his knee. The guard yelped as his leg gave out, and she prayed nobody heard the scuffle, but one problem at a time. Ren caught him in a new choke hold as he dropped, and held it just long enough for him to go limp.
But now she had to figure out what to do with him. She had enough cord to bind him, but a gag wouldn’t silence him, and he was already stirring.
Through the open doors of the dumbwaiter, she saw the platform creaking downward again, Vargo returning it to its starting position.
Ren moved fast, tying the guard’s hands and stuffing a wad of cloth into his mouth. Then she heaved him into the dumbwaiter and shut the doors to muffle the sound of the platform snapping and crashing to the floor below.
Let Vargo and the Rook deal with that.
In the corridor outside, she heard a low murmur of noise from the cells where convicts destined for the penal ships were kept. For a brief instant, she entertained visions of breaking them all out—but causing that much chaos would only make the rest of the job harder. Better to strike at the ships themselves before they set sail.
Now you’re thinking like the Rook. Maybe the two of them could discuss that idea once they’d finished with their current recklessness.
Ren slipped downstairs to the door and pressed her ear to it. On the far side, everything seemed quiet. That meant either the guard was dealt with and Vargo was waiting… or something had gone very wrong while she was busy.
Only one way to find out. Ren tapped twice and waited, her hand hovering above the removable piece of the numinat.
A moment later, more tapping replied, in a steady beat. Uniat, Tuat, Tricat—
On Quarat she pulled it free, wincing as a small shock jolted her hand.
The door swung open.
Dockwall Prison, Lower Bank: Lepilun 26
The cold-room was a safe enough place to stash the guard who’d come crashing down the dumbwaiter shaft. The Rook even left a chilled flank of goat meat wrapped in a cloth to leech away the pain of the man’s busted nose—after sticking him with a dart tipped with an imbued sedative, to make sure there weren’t any disturbances. By the time the Rook rejoined Vargo, the door was already open, the Rose waiting on the far side with a cocky grin.
“Thanks for the gift,” the Rook said, returning her grin. “And so nicely wrapped. I didn’t get you anything.”
“You’re giving me an entertaining evening. Isn’t that enough?”
“Do you flirt with everyone?” Vargo muttered, which almost made the Rook laugh despite his doubled hatred of the man.
“Not everyone,” he said. Only her. “I have no interest in flirting with you.”
“I’m devastated,” Vargo said, deadpan. “If you’re just going to ignore me, then I have a distraction to arrange.”
And the Rook had an escape to see through… among other things. “Go. We’ll take it from here.”
Vargo didn’t need to be told twice. As he disappeared down the corridor, the Rook nodded for the Rose to follow. Together, they made their way up the stairs.
This was where the Cinquerat kept their important prisoners: those of high rank, and those they couldn’t risk in the mass cells. Either because they might try to organize a breakout, or because they’d be murdered by their fellow inmates. The three Anduske had no rank to recommend them, but both of the latter risks were distinctly possible.
There was no way into this area that didn’t pass by the first and largest cell. And from the bars in its door came a tenor voice. “If I shout for the guards and they catch you, there’s a proper dinner in it for me.”
“Eret Contorio,” the Rook said softly. “It’s been a while.”
“Two years. What happened? Did you decide this information cow had dried up, and there was no more milk to be had from her?” There was a shelf below the bars, meant to hold trays of food; the man in the cell rested his elbows on it. His face was as pale as uncooked dough from years spent in a room with only one high window; his once-trimmed beard had gone to seed, grey rooting amid the dusty brown like weeds.
Ryvček was the reason Contorio had been in Dockwall for the last twelve years, the only survivor of a noble house that once held the Argentet seat in the Cinquerat—and the medallion that went with it. But although she’d put him here, she spoke of him with odd fondness. Ryvček had always enjoyed interweaving flirtation with her work as the Rook. Even flirtation with nobles.
But Grey had never met the man, and flirtations soured when left too long unattended. “For the Rook, I’d get much more than one proper dinner,” Contorio said. “A whole month of them, at least.”
“Forgive me for intruding,” the Rose said, “but I’m clearly the stranger here. To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”
The Rook heard a thread of Renata’s courtesy in that question. It was a ploy, and an effective one; Contorio prided himself on retaining his nobility despite his long imprisonment. “Eret Octale Contorio, last of my house,” he said, sketching a small bow. “And you must be the Black Rose my guards so love to gossip about.”
She feigned modesty. “My name has reached this far? I wonder what you’ve been told.”
“Mostly that you’re the spirit of the Wellspring of Ažerais. Based on that, I’ll venture a guess that you’re here for the new Vraszenian prisoners.” Contorio’s gaze cut sideways to the Rook. “I should have known better than to think he was here for me.”
It wasn’t the kind of bitterness that refused reconciliation. On the contrary, it begged for it. Contorio didn’t want to call the guards; he wanted to be given a reason not to. A reason to believe the Rook hadn’t simply used him and discarded him.
I’m not Ryvček. He couldn’t fully mimic her panache, nor her depth of history with this man. If he failed to talk their way past this obstacle, he had another sedative dart tucked into the palm of his glove. But he would try talking first.
“Apologies for my absence,” he said, stepping closer to the bars. “Quientis has made this place harder to infiltrate. But if you tell us which corridor the Anduske are being kept in, I pledge to come back and play hexboard with you again.”
Contorio’s eyes gleamed. “I persuaded one of the guards to bring me a book on strategy. I wager I could beat you now.”
He definitely could beat this Rook—but that wouldn’t be the one who visited him. “We’ll see about that when next I’m here.”
The Rose drifted closer. “I’d challenge you to a game of nytsa myself, but we left someone tied up downstairs, which means a clock is ticking. Which way should we go?”
“Nytsa, hmm?” Contorio didn’t seem much moved by her urgency. “How Vraszenian of you. Tell me, Black Rose… are you really the spirit of Ažerais’s wellspring?”
Her pause was so brief, the Rook suspected only he noticed it. “Not exactly,” she said. “But I am born of Ažerais’s Dream.”
Contorio’s smile was oddly hesitant. “Good enough. Will you do something for me as well?” When she nodded, he said, “Bless me. In Ažerais’s name.”
The Rook was glad for the shadows of his hood, which hid his surprise. Contorio was as Liganti as they came, his blood pure register ink all the way back to the northern continent. No Vraszenian had ever darkened his lineage.
As if Contorio could feel the Rook’s disbelief, he said defensively, “I was born in Nadežra, wasn’t I? It’s foolish to ignore the local divinities. And—well. My usual gods have had twelve years to get me out of here, and see how much they’ve done. I dream of freedom, and Ažerais is a goddess of dreams. Why not seek her blessing?”
Freedom—something the Rook had never offered him. To the best of his knowledge, Contorio had never asked. As if he knew there was a limit on how far any friendship between the Rook and a noble could go.
An uncomfortable th
ought, with the heir of House Traementis standing right there.
“Ažerais is a goddess of pattern,” the Rose said. “But every person has more than one future: the good, the ill, and that which is neither. May you see the Face and not the Mask.”
Contorio nodded again, lifting his chin like it might keep a tear from spilling. “Thank you. They’re down the left-hand corridor. Are you planning on hitting the guards over the head?”
“If we have to,” the Rook said.
Contorio frowned. “Fulvet’s been hiring a higher class of guard lately. They’re much better fellows than the previous lot, and don’t deserve cracked skulls. Hide over there—I’ll distract them for you.”
Dockwall Prison, Lower Bank: Lepilun 26
Ren had to give credit where it was due. Octale Contorio put on a splendid performance as a finicky, demanding nobleman who would not relinquish one sliver of his rank just because he was imprisoned. It was clearly a role he’d played before; the guards’ responses as they came to his summons were weary and long-suffering, without a hint of suspicion.
It was a damn sight better than having the Rook be the distraction. By now he was well on his own way out of the prison, going to set up the route by which Ren and the Anduske would escape. He’d left her with four pieces of metal bent almost in a circle, each with a length of rope tied through one end and looped to hook over the other. Ren would have sworn the sack they came out of wasn’t big enough to hold all four. Another mystery of the Rook, I suppose.
“Flash your lightstone when you’re ready,” he’d told her. “And then stand back.”
She found the cells with the Anduske easily enough. But to her dismay, all three prisoners were lying motionless on the floor. One at least needed to be able to walk well enough to support someone else; otherwise she wouldn’t be able to get them out.
Unlike the door downstairs, these lacked numinata protecting the locks, but Ren took the precaution of oiling the hinges before she began trying skeleton keys. The sixth one turned, and she eased the first door open just far enough to slide through.
The huddled figure didn’t even twitch when Ren touched their shoulder. In the dim light, she couldn’t tell who was under the tangle of filthy, half-unraveled braids. “I’m a friend,” she whispered. In Vraszenian, even though it was a risk—she sounded more like Arenza in that language.
The figure moaned and turned under her hand. It was Andrejek, barely recognizable through the bruises and splits in his skin. “No…” he mumbled.
He was only semiconscious. Ren clenched her teeth, debating. Then she rose, pulled the cell door nearly to, and tried the next one over.
Ljunan had roused and backed into the corner of his cell. Ren held up her hands, with the lightstone in one to show her face—or rather, her black lace mask. “Thank the ancestors,” he breathed when he saw her.
“Can you walk?” she asked. At his nod, she said, “Take these medicines and try to get them down Andrejek’s throat. He knows you.” Though right now she was more worried about him not being able to swallow than him fighting back.
Into the corridor again, and the door of the third cell. Ren glanced through the window before sliding her key into the lock—and realized the third figure was gone from the floor.
Instead of opening the door, she whispered as loudly as she dared. “I am the Black Rose of Ažerais. May the Masks curse me through nine lifetimes to come if I mean you harm.”
That was enough to make Idusza edge into view. Half her face was veiled with dried blood, matting her hair and gluing one swollen eye shut, but she looked no less fierce for that. “How came you here?”
Ren briefly considered a mysterious answer, then discarded it. “With the help of Vargo and the Rook—working together.”
After a beat, Idusza said, “Miracle enough for me. Get us out of here.”
Dockwall Prison, Lower Bank: Lepilun 26
Stuffed once more into the scow’s hidden compartment, Vargo counted the moments until the rougher water said they’d exited the river gate into the main channel.
From above him came Ladnej’s voice. “We’re going to be picking beans out of this thing for years to come.”
Smuna’s response was a snort. “Optimistic of you, love, thinking this bucket will last the winter.”
She had a point. Vargo was fairly certain water was seeping in below him—or maybe that was just sweat. But at least Ladnej’s uncle owned a smuggling scow, however leaky; that and his connections to the merchants who supplied the Dockwall had made this part of the plan something that could pass for feasible.
It was water, Vargo found when he climbed out. The wet fabric made his skin crawl. Yanking off his coat with a resigned sigh, he tossed it into the scow. “Take this thing out to Turtle Lagoon and scuttle it. Your uncle will have a replacement next week.”
Once Ladnej and Smuna pushed off, he swiftly made his way along the Dockwall’s north perimeter. From here he couldn’t see the rooftop, but Arkady had kids loafing about a nearby inn to keep watch.
A quick glance at the washing line draped across a balcony confirmed only pale linens, no banner of red to indicate a problem. Vargo ducked behind the tilted bulk of a dilapidated sedan chair that had conveniently been abandoned against the wall earlier that evening. The shadows of the frame hid a numinat missing only a focus and a final swipe of charcoal. Cupping a lightstone in his hand, Vargo made a last-minute check to ensure nothing had disturbed the lines since he’d scribed them. The basic shape of the numinat was easy enough; pulling raw power from the Lumen always was. The complexity lay in the recursive loops that would give him a few precious seconds to run after he set the focus.
A moment later, a colorful blot landed on his head. I expected you to be in the scow, Vargo said silently.
::Too many tromping boots. Safer to go over the wall. I take it things went well?::
Vargo had made it out unbetrayed. By his recent standards, that was already a success. He was hoping for more, though. Ask me when we’re back in Eastbridge.
::Do you think the Rook knows? About me?::
Keeping one eye on the washing line, Vargo sat down to wait. Twice now he’s deliberately gotten rid of you, and he locked you in my bedroom when he broke in. But he hasn’t tried to crush you. Vargo shuddered at the prospect.
::So… we assume he does, and take precautions?::
I don’t know what to assume. Two days ago he would have assumed the Rook would eat glass before he worked with Vargo, and see how accurate that had been.
They were still enemies, though. Vargo wasn’t about to forgive the Rook for accusing him of starting the Fiangiolli fire in front of every noble in the city, or for humiliating him in front of Renata. But then, he’d never had the nobility’s good opinion to lose—or Renata’s—so what did that matter?
A creak drew Vargo’s attention. One of Arkady’s kids leaned out the inn’s window to tie a red rag to the laundry line. Something was happening inside the prison—something troubling enough that it called for a distraction.
Time to move.
::We could still walk away. Have the backups you put on the south wall pluck the Anduske while the Dockwall guards and the hawks tangle with the Rook and the Rose.::
Vargo’s hand hesitated for a moment before he dug soft wax, a chop, and charcoal out of his inner pocket. The body-warmed wax took the chop imprint nicely.
“No, let’s let this run and see how it plays out. I have my compass, my edge, my chalk, myself. I need nothing more to blow the shit out of the cosmos.” Charcoal blackening his fingers, he closed the circle.
And ran like hell.
Dockwall and Kingfisher: Lepilun 26
Ren heard the rising voices as she gripped Andrejek’s good leg and pushed him upward, helping Idusza lever him through the hatch that led to the prison roof. Djek. Someone found the guard. Or the broken dumbwaiter. Or they’d caught sight of the Rook—no, that was the least likely. And she prayed it wasn’t true, because i
f the Rook was still inside the prison, then she and the others had no way out.
With a grunt from Idusza and a muffled sound of pain from Andrejek, he was through. Ren waved for Ljunan to follow, then swarmed up the ladder and shut the hatch behind her. It would at least delay any pursuers.
Much good may it do us. The hatch wasn’t guarded, because there was no way on or off the roof. Any prisoner who escaped up here would eventually be shot by the crossbowmen on the wall or simply left to starve. No one could survive the jump to the ground, and the moat was far too shallow to provide safe landing.
All of which was written in Idusza’s expression. “What now?” she hissed.
Ren reached for her lightstone—and nearly dropped it when an almighty explosion lit the night behind her.
She crawled up the low slope of the roof and found that Arkady’s kids had apparently also noticed the rising alarm. Vargo’s numinat hadn’t quite punched a hole straight through the outer perimeter of the Dockwall, but not for lack of trying. The wall there was badly cracked, chunks of masonry fallen into the moat below, and the guards atop it were swarming.
Pretty soon that swarm would extend over the full length of the wall—just as soon as someone figured out that the very obvious attack might be a distraction. But some badly pronounced Stretsko battle cries were coming from the north, and for the moment, that had the guards’ attention.
Ren slid back down to the south side and flashed her lightstone, praying the Rook was in position.
At the last instant, she remembered to duck aside.
A crossbow bolt punched through the tiles not far from her, trailing a length of rope. Ren took it and tied it around the nearest chimney before handing out the devices the Rook had given her. “Hook the metal over the line, loop the cord onto the other end, and hold on tight,” Ren said. “Then jump, and you’ll slide down to the outer wall.”
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