by C. M. Lind
She listened to the deep thunder; she could tell the heart of the storm was passing over city. If she could believe in any of the stories, it was that Roed was there, watching her, and he was pleased with her. “Volunder himself plays for you, Master. To welcome you.” She squeezed his hand as another crack of thunder boomed.
It wasn’t until she had put her kohl back into her bag that she realized how much work was left to be done. Roed had many entertainment contracts with the nobility of Aveline, who saw Osterlock musicians and bards as an exciting novelty. As his apprentice, she was honor-bound to finish those contracts while still fulfilling her own.
She would need the money anyway, she reasoned. Roed’s death would leave her pouches significantly lighter, and, now that he was gone, she had no desire to stay in the weak, depressing country of Aveline. Leaving Aveline safely meant spending a lot of coin.
The largest contract was with the Reinout estate, and her master would have gone there tomorrow evening if he hadn’t died. Now, she would be going to the Reinout estate in his place, and then she would meet the noble she would be working for.
Chapter 5
Vitoria waited through the storm, watching the flashes of light come from down the hallway through the single slit of a window to her left. The thunder echoed terribly, filling the entire prison with shuddering trembles and jolting cracks. She was on the floor, legs outstretched before her. Her fingers curled over her toes as she felt the satisfactory stretch along the back of her legs. She held herself there for a few long breaths.
As soon as she was done, she hopped onto her feet, flexed her ankles, and then took one long step forward to her cell’s door.
The lock was ancient: outdated and simple. The White Cliffs were known for their thorough searches though, never allowing anything in that could be used by a burglar to pick their locks. The prison only had two exits: one to the keep atop of it and one to a bailey outside the entire complex, which had its own small army and bright lanterns. With nowhere to go, many convicts chose to rot, or even if they did choose escape, it was to throw themselves onto the rocks, trying to shorten their own sentences.
She looked at the pin and tumbler lock. It was simple enough that even dried chicken bones might have proven successful in the right hands. Vitoria thought of the time she had been in the common level, a large pit full of thugs, rapists, and thieves. There she heard about a man who split open his own arm, trying to pull his ulna out in an attempt to escape. He died from the bleeding. Apparently he did not understand that perhaps a finger bone would have proved smarter—and less lethal.
But the man showed dedication.
That was a long time ago, before she was moved to a solitary cell higher up the cliff—after she strangled a man with his own hair.
Vitoria took one pin out of her shaggy, auburn hair and pried it open to a 90° angle. With her teeth she sheared off one of the waxed tips, leaving a small sharp end. The other end was bent over to create a simple handle. She lightly bent the wax-less end against the stone floor giving it a slight angle. Vitoria was pleased with her pick, and she moved onto the other pin, which she bent over then folded to create her lever.
She slid the lever into the lower part of the keyhole, and there was easily enough room for the pick above, which she glided in with her left hand. With her right hand she pushed the lever, putting tension on the barrel of the lock.
Her pick slipped past the loose pins of the lock, finding the seized pin in the back: the fifth and last pin. She kept constant pressure on the barrel with her lever, and she used the pick to wedge the stuck pin up. A few pushes and the split in the pin aligned with the barrel in an audible click. She used the lever to push the barrel forward a fraction further, and then she used the pick to find the next seized pin.
She repeated the process four more times, and it only took her about minute. Her quick hands lustfully and happily returned to her old trade.
The storm was directly overhead—she guessed by the sound—as she heard the last pin click into place. She swung the door out; it never made a single noise. They always oiled the hinges in the solitary levels, to keep those within from hearing the presence of others.
Vitoria bent the pins roughly back into their previous shape and stuffed them deep into her filthy, tangled hair, making sure they would remain with her for the rest of her flight.
The only light was from the thin window, but that was all she needed. She was used to darkness in that place. Down the hall, to the left, past the slit on the wall, was where she headed, taking delicate, quiet steps like she did back when she was a child sneaking around the brothel. Back then, if she made a noise and disturbed a patron, she was whipped with a switch until her backside bled. Vitoria learned quickly how to step like the tomcats who owned the back alleys of her questionable district.
But that was just under the threat of a switch; at The White Cliffs she would be thrown off the top of the bluff—if she was lucky. The High Justicar loved to make examples of those who tried to escape, and she didn’t even want to think about what that sick, old man would concoct for her.
Down the hall she crept past vacant cells. She was not surprised to see them empty. She hadn’t heard another prisoner in her wing since three moons ago, and he had his tongue burned out after he wouldn’t stop cursing, screaming, and antagonizing Sapphira (the goddess that the High Justicar and most of Aveline adored). He screamed even louder when the guards came, carrying a brazier of hot coals, a carving knife, and a metal tong. The prisoner resisted, and he must have fought hard because she heard one of the guards moaning by the end of it. But the fight ended as all do in the prison. Vitoria smelled the burnt tongue for days, but she never heard the man cry.
She had fought when they took her, at first, but three months on the bottom levels quelled her fight. After that, she kept herself locked within. Her anger smoldered underneath her skin like a coal mine long abandoned from the wild, raging flames within.
That anger consumed more of her every day.
At the end of the hall was the main stairwell, a narrow spiraled metal monstrosity running vertically down an open shaft, as ancient as the locks on the cells, skinny enough to only let one person climb it at a time. Its perilously low rails made her wonder how many bones laid beneath the behemoth, whether accidentally or purposefully thrown there. A rough iron column ran down the middle, as wide as her shoulders, and it held the ancient shamble of skeletal metal together. She had been on the stairs a few times, to get to the lower level, to the common level, and to the solitary cells. Three times she was on these stairs, and every time they made horrible groans, trembling at the slightest weight.
Her bare feet slipped onto the first step, gently and slowly. The stair was made of iron, and its sharp treads bit into her flesh effortlessly. It shook with her small weight, and Vitoria knew that if she continued she would be heard regardless of the thunder.
She cursed the place again, perhaps for the thousandth time that month. The prison used everything to its advantage, including the horrid state of its own architecture and equipment.
The stairwell was the only way down. It had no lanterns or candles. The only light for Vitoria was from the frequent lightning flashing from the halls the stairwell connected to.
Vitoria removed her foot from the steps, lightly bleeding from the small pressure placed on it. She was thankful she tried timidly before putting all her weight on her foot. She could tear off her tunic and wrap her feet. She figured that would prevent further injury, but it wouldn’t fix the real problem: the noise. She could have wrapped her feet and then taken the steps slowly, only moving when she heard thunder, but the storm was passing by. If she only moved in sync with the thunder, it could have stopped before she made it down the stairs.
There was only one option left besides failure. The steps and the rails were weak and loud, but the column was as strong as ever. She removed her thick wool pants, leaving nothing underneath covering her flesh.
W
hen Vitoria was six she was dreadfully afraid of heights. There was a boy in the brothel, several years older than her, who never understood her fear. He would walk along the roof and the ledges of the wall that surrounded the sprawling establishment. Sometimes he would even hide in the trees when his mother thought to take a switch to him. Vitoria admired his courage then; he seemed fearless. One day he fell, and she was the only one around to help him. His flesh was broken open; a small barb of bloody bone rose a few inches from his skin. Vitoria was paralyzed and could only scream. Later, when the women had bound his wound, and his mother had paid a week’s worth of work for a healer, Vitoria spoke to him. He wasn’t scared or even upset. Furious, Vitoria demanded the boy never climb again. But he said he couldn’t make such a promise—climbing was never the problem, only falling.
Vitoria leaned out over the stairs and flung one pant leg around the column, catching it with the other hand. Three times over she twisted the pants around her hands and wrists, not quite sure how many would be enough.
“Climbing was never the problem, only falling,” the voice of the boy echoed in her head.
She waited, leaning over the steps, bound to an iron column by wool pants. Then the lightning flashed. As soon as the thunder bellowed, echoing through the halls again, she jumped to the column. Her feet caught the metal and stopped what would have been a rapid slide.
The metal was rough, and it tore gladly at her wounded right foot, shredding bits of flesh. Vitoria didn’t notice; it took all her will and strength to hold onto the column, her shoulders and arms already rebelling from the tension. Pull ups on the iron bars of her cell only helped so much.
It was working: the pants held. Her arms didn’t give out. Her feet kept their grip. She thought of the boy’s broken leg again. “Climbing was never the problem, only falling.” Would she die from hitting the stairs on the way down or be able to catch herself? She imagined the limp heap the guards would find in the morning, another botched jail break, except she wouldn’t even had made it 400 feet from her cell—a complete and utter failure of an escape.
Slowly, with more care than she had ever given anything before in her life, Vitoria eased down the column, until she hit a support beam going to the stairs. Her feet braced on the beam; she unwrapped her left hand, and she reattached the pants below it before sliding down again. At least the beams weren’t rough or sharp.
She continued until she found the level she needed. The humid, cold air there was saturated with salt. Releasing the pants, she pulled herself over the rail and softly placed her feet onto the metal steps of the staircase. That time she was expecting the pain and the noise, and she was able to minimize both, even timing the shudder of the step with the crash of thunder. One long, overextended step and she was free of the stairwell and into the hallway.
Vitoria stayed close to the wall, only moving in between the flashes of lightning. That level was opened to the outside, the better to frighten the prisoners into talking when they saw their only escape was sharp rocks and fierce waves bellow. The crashing of the storm hid her footsteps there, but the light would easily give her away to even the most incompetent of guards.
A few steps in and she saw another light, swaying down the hall, close to the opening that let sheets of rain enter, creating cold pools scattered across the floor. The fresh, cool puddles enticed her parched tongue and sore muscles, but she ducked into a side room. Tied around her wild hair was the cheese wire, and her hand went to pull it free—until she gazed upon the wall in front of her.
Large pigs hung along one of the walls. A strong metal hook was slipped under their bones, ensuring they would stay put. Baskets of thick crusted bread filled the table in the middle. The walls vacant of pigs had closed pantry doors, but Vitoria could smell spices within them. She stayed in the doorway. Her eyes peeked from the threshold towards the moving light in the hall. She held her breath as she thought of the hooks.
The light moved down the hall, swinging all the while. It was a lantern. The man carrying it stopped at the edge of one of the openings to the weather outside, and he set his lamp at his feet.
Lightning struck again, and Vitoria saw the young face of the guard that had spoken to her earlier in the day, the one who had so politely left a light for her meal with Ulrich. His hands fumbled at his rain soaked breaches, trying to untie the slippery laces while wearing his ridiculously baggy gloves. He was still wearing what he had worn earlier that evening: chain metal links over a blue, heavy wool tabard at least one size too big for his frame.
Vitoria smiled a large, toothy smile. She turned to a pig, strung up for roasting later in their common room down the hall; she could smell the cooked pork even from there. The pig wasn’t particularly large, perhaps only 55 pounds. It was nothing more than a trifle to lift. She happily raised one pig and gently set it on the floor, then another. She did so quietly, but not slowly; she doubted the lad could hear them being set on the stone floor with the rain splattering his face, the waves below him, and the thunder roaring.
She took two hooks with her hands, holding their metal bases firmly in her palm. They were wicked yet simple creations: two large thick hooks of iron, sharp enough to slice into hide and muscle.
Her garrote would have done adequately for her plan, but she decided she wanted something more than adequate. She wanted something downright delightful.
Back at the threshold of the door, she watched the lad as he removed his floppy gloves and tucked them into his broad belt. She took her first step out, placing her left heel onto the stone floor, then rolling her toes down. She avoided the puddles, moving carefully around them, heel to toe. The young guard finally triumphed over his ties on his breaches and was removing his unit to finally relieve himself.
The meat hooks were forward, raised at chest height; to Vitoria they seemed excited. She continued to smile, and the strange sensation hurt her face. A few more steps and she was behind him, close enough to smell his wet wool clothing, close enough that a single breath would have given her away.
But he was just a boy—inexperienced, careless, unaware prey.
She lashed out, hooking him from behind, bringing the hooks over his shoulder and latching onto his collar bones. Her feet were out the same moment, launching into him, bringing her feet onto the back of his knees. He crumpled, collapsing over the ledge, Vitoria going along with him.
It was quick. Vitoria felt her flesh sliced by the rocks where the boy hadn’t protected her: her left calf and her abdomen. She exhaled with a small, exasperated howl of pain and victory. The boy was impaled on several thin rocks, but he was still alive. He had protected her from the worst of it. The rock that struck her abdomen first passed through him, and she would survive the minor wound.
Blood poured out of the youth, flowing over the rocks that had entered him, and disappearing into the waves beneath. He made short gasping sounds—futile attempts to pull air into his destroyed lungs.
Vitoria took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of the sea, and then she slowly exhaled while the boy continued his gasps. She wretched one hook from him then another. If he felt it, he didn’t show.
If he recognized her, she did not know. Nothing more than disbelief was on his face—nothing but the shock of a boy who had thought he’d live to be a man.
Around her were rocks followed by more rocks. If she wanted to meet this stranger, Sylvaine, who was supposedly waiting for her, she’d have to climb from rock to rock to make it to him. She grabbed a nearby stone with her hooks and pulled her body over, catching herself with her feet. The rain-slickened yet jagged rocks sliced into her flesh, but she did not care. Her feet would heal once she was free.
* * *
Vitoria made it to the small rowboat that was waiting for her. It alone braved the storm with two flickering lanterns at its rear. She pulled herself over the rough, wooden side of the boat with the help of her hooks. Her hands throbbed. The wooden handles had created large blisters into her palms. The tall, cloaked man in
the raft, whom she presumed was Sylvaine, did not move to help her, and she was glad to be left on her own. She wanted no help for what she saw as the last step to her freedom.
She sat down, uncurled her hands, and the hooks dropped to the bottom of the boat. Her palms ached and painfully pulsed as she splayed them. The blisters had ripped; the oozing sores stung from the salt water that splashed overboard.
The man, wrapped up fully in a thick cloak, began to row back towards the docks, taking care not to hit any rocks; the waves were all too excited to assist their return to shore.
Vitoria smiled at her hands as she clenched and released them, stretching out the sore tendons. She took a deep breath, smelling the salted sea water mingling with the fresh rain. She reveled in feeling the icy sea spray against her skin, cooling her sore muscles. Even the burning of the salt on her broken blisters made her feel alive. The wounds on her abdomen and calf were already hard and clotted.
She could hear the thunder retreating from the city, moving past them towards the fields of barley and wheat that blanketed the east side of Aveline.
Sylvaine kept his face turned towards her and his back to the bow. His deep hood was pulled up so she could not see him. For a brief second she thought it could all be a trap; this man could be her enemy. She chastised herself for relaxing, but the thought was fleeting and she calmed herself within a moment.
The silence was wedged between them like a thick, palpable cloud, broken only by the thunder in the distance. Vitoria decided that if the man didn’t want to speak, she was fine with it. She had spoken to too many men while in the prison, and she didn’t care to hear another male voice for the moment. Instead, she laid down on the floor of the boat, feeling the hard, wet, wooden bottom against her back. She closed her eyes, delighting in the chill, damp air. Never in her life had she felt so strangely at peace, yet still so sore. The waves were strong, but she felt as if they were rocking her to sleep. Her head turned to the side as she felt her muscles relax, but that only lasted for what seemed to her to be a few minutes.