Closer to the Heart (36 page)

All right then. Mags had plans of his own.
:I don' want Heralds within bow-shot of 'ere. I'm pretty certain-sure this bastard's tol' 'is men t'shoot th' Companions first. I don' think that was an idle threat, I think 'e don' give a crap about Heralds or Companions. It ain't worth the risk.:

Dallen went silent. Mags sensed he was arguing—with Rolan, perhaps or maybe many Companions at once.

:I ain't backin' down on this,:
Mags warned.
:I ain't gonna be the one respons'ble fer a buncha dead Companions an' a buncha Heralds broken. It ain't gonna happen. I got better idears. Hear me?:

Dallen did not reply.

Mags waited,
feeling
something in the air, something like a storm, only this was a very personal storm. There was the sense of tension, building, building, building . . .

Then the tension broke. Dallen responded in almost the same moment.
:All right, we will follow your lead.:

Mags did not smile; the situation was too grave for that. But there it was; the acknowledgement from Dallen . . . and likely, Rolan . . . that he knew what he was doing.
Really
knew what he was doing. This was the moment when he had been accepted as Dallen's full partner, Dallen's equal.

I jest hope I act'lly do know what I'm doin' . . .

:Right then. 'Ere's the basic plan . . . :

• • •

Amily clung to the bars of the door of her cell, her knuckles going white with tension, and her ears straining for the faintest of footfalls. Not Mags . . . she was fairly sure she was not going to hear Mags coming. But just in case something happened, and one of the guards decided to take an unexpected stroll. She hated this place. The cell was cold, the air was slightly damp, and everything smelled of stone. And there were almost no sounds. A hint of a cough far in the distance, a single drip of water somewhere, nowhere nearby, but nothing else, not even the squeak of a mouse. It made her feel a little frantic, this silence. It was horrid.

She peered down one way, and then the other, her cheeks pressed tightly against the cold iron bars. The corridor outside the cell went on for about five lengths in either direction before ending in a T-junction. The walls, the floor, and the ceiling were all made of the same smooth, brown stone. Light from the lantern on the wall opposite her door reached all the way to the T-junctions, and there was light from another source gleaming off the walls down there. She wasn't sure how far away Mags was, or which direction he would be coming from. She still hadn't been able to coax the garrison's only cat down here to find out what the place looked like. The cat already knew there was nothing she wanted, no prey to be found in the area of the cells, and she was disinclined to leave the kitchen.

It was almost dawn. That, she knew from the cat, the horses drowsing in their stalls, and the birds on the roof. Some crows had already discovered the poor pigeons, and were having a feast in the guard-tower, but as yet no one had noticed the slaughter, for no one had gone up to feed and water them. They couldn't be released, of course; if they were, they'd just return to their home-cote, so probably tending them was the last of the morning chores.

The current guards were tired and sleepy, and the new ones, she knew from Mags, were not due to take their watch until after breakfast. They had at least a full candlemark before the next watch woke, got their meal, and came down to relieve the night-watch.

Their hope was to get out via the postern door before the morning watch woke. That was the hope . . . because there was a heavy force of Guard troops on the way under the command of Sedric; they had been riding, not marching, most of the night, carried double behind Heralds on Companions, who would leave them just out of weapon-range of the garrison-fort. Rolan had told her all of this while Mags had been setting his own plans, disassembling
his
outfit, and getting out of his fetters. Once there, now that Thallan had no way of sending messages, they'd lay siege to it. The patient sort of siege, where the goal was to starve the opponents out. All the Valdemarans had to do was stay out of weapons' range, and this would be as bloodless a conflict as possible.

Meanwhile, back in Haven, at least according to Rolan, the King was explaining to the Menmellith delegation just what exactly was going on, and what he was doing about it. Of course, the Menmellith delegation might not accept that they had their miscreant and the King intended to bring him to justice. That was the chance they were going to have to take.

Amily happened to be looking in the right direction as Mags ran silently into her hallway. Her heart leapt to see him; he looked dreadful, his eyes had a sort of bruised look to them, his hair was a fright, and his face was greenish. He dropped and slid to her door on his knees, lock-picks in his hands, and as she waited, wishing there was something she could be doing to help him, he deftly picked the lock and the door swung open. It was like magic, and she longed with all her heart to hug him and hold him—but instead, after he picked the lock on her ankle manacle as well, she ran to the
end of the corridor and made sure there was no one coming while he put his tools away and got out his knife.

Another few moments, and they were easing their way along the wall together, backs to the wall, hands lightly gliding along it on either side; she could not help here, either, as he was using his Mindspeech to determine where the next guard was. She tried not to shiver. It seemed unnaturally cold. She just watched the hand he held behind his back, and when he shook it once and clenched it, she stopped, her little chain-weapon in her hand. They had decided that would be the better of her weapons to use, if she had to attack anyone. She also had a sling, but no bullets or stones for it. Those they hoped to get once they got out of the gaol. The sling, which would keep her out of reach of someone who would certainly be bigger, taller, and heavier than she was, was the weapon she should use even in preference to her tiny, but powerful, bow. The Guards would certainly be armored, but probably not helmeted. A stone would knock them out. An eye-shot with an arrow would probably be fatal.

Mags inched forward along the wall until he came to another T-junction. She remained where she was, weapon ready to use. He paused. She felt all her muscles clench up, and her heart start to pound as she held her breath.

Then he whipped around the corner, and she quickly advanced to where he had been, staying out of sight. He would only call out if he needed her. There was a brief scuffling of feet, and a grunt, and then. . . .

A faint whistle.

She whisked around the corner to find him bending over an unconscious man in a blue Guard uniform, using his own equipment and clothing to tie him up and gag him. Working together, he at the head, and she at the feet, they took him back to the nearest cell, laid him down out of sight, and shut and locked the door. The Guard had had a sword and a knife;
she took the knife, Mags took the sword. He was horribly heavy, but she wasn't going to complain.

They repeated this three times in complete silence; she took the second one's sword this time, while he took the knife. The third, they merely took the weapons away and left them in another cell. She was beginning to feel hopeful. There was only one more guard to go. . . .

And then an alarm bell sounded frantically through the empty halls, echoing and reverberating everywhere.

Mags swore. “All right. That's done it. Dunno what they found, but now we run for it.”

She nodded, and followed on his heels as he dashed down the last corridor and around the corner and right into the startled guard. Mags hit the man in a running tackle and brought him down. The Guard wasn't ready for it, and hadn't prepared to fall. His head it the stone floor with a sickening
crack
.

“Bloody hell,” Mags cursed, got up, and left the man lying. From the blood starting to pool sluggishly under his head, his skull had been pulped. He wouldn't be getting up again.

From the strange way he was breathing, Amily realized with a sinking heart that he might not survive.

She felt her gorge rise at the thought, but swallowed it down.
I don't want to murder one of our own!
her thoughts wailed in the back of her mind. But it was too late to do anything about it now. Mags headed down the corridor, leaving him lying, and she followed.

Her stomach was in knots and her hands were shaking. It was one thing to have killed those Sleepgivers . . . the Sleepgivers had been trying to kill
them,
after all, and anyway, they weren't even Valdemaran. But these were members of the Guard. Their own people. She'd been cuddled and scolded, picked up and carried about, guided and protected by the Guard all her life. That familiar blue uniform had always meant safety. Someone you could always count on, or run to.

And now . . . now they might have murdered one of them. Someone who could have been a friend.

Please don't let him die,
she prayed helplessly to whoever would listen.
Please don't let him die.
Thallan was one thing, but these poor men . . . all they had done wrong was to allow themselves to be persuaded by a madman.

Mags was running as fast as he could, and all she could do was follow him. Only he knew the way out—

And then he suddenly stopped dead and caught her with an outstretched arm, just outside a wooden door. “Armory,” he said, wrenching the door open.

There was a stone room beyond the door, about the size of one of the cells with a single lit lantern at the right side of the door. There were weapon-racks on the walls, some of them empty, some of them full. There was a small table and four little stools around it, with a game-board of some game Amily didn't recognize carved into the top of it.

But there was nothing much there they could use. Lots of pikes, swords and daggers similar to the ones they already had. No bows, which would have been the most useful. Amily did find a double handful of stone counters, half dark and half light, for the game that had been carved into the table-top. She pocketed them; they'd be useful for her sling at least.

Back to the hall they went, but this time Mags held out his arm and she waited with him, holding her breath, while they both listened intently, and he presumably used his Gift. “They found th' dead birds, but they got no notion 'twas owls,” he said, with a snort. “They think some'un got in an' killed 'em t'keep from sendin' messages. They got that half right anyways. We
might
git away wi' this . . .”

Amily had switched from the chain to her sling, and she, rather than Mags, was the first to see a Guardsman coming around the corner ahead of them. Before Mags could react, her stone was in the air; it hit the side of the man's head and he
dropped. They both ran up to him, and found to their shared relief that he, at least, had merely been knocked unconscious. Mags trussed him up and left him while she retrieved her precious stone; they had no time to spare now to tuck him out of the way.

Just beyond him was a staircase; Mags headed for it as Amily followed on his heels. There were two flights of stairs, with light at the top—a different sort of light from the yellow gleam the lanterns had put out. This was cold and gray and dim. Morning?

The stairs were no place to be caught; they rushed up the treads as fast as they could, then stopped on the landing at the top. Amily's heart beat so hard it was making her shake a little, and for a moment she felt faint. She felt a cough coming, too, and swallowed it down.

The landing led to another corridor. Stone again, everything was stone . . .
of course it's stone. They have to be terribly careful of fire here. Or had to, back when this place held off besiegers and sheltered all the farmfolk nearby. One pot of flaming oil exploding in the courtyard of a wooden fort, and the entire place would turn into a death-trap.
This corridor, however, had slit windows all along one side, slits that presumably archers could fire through, if an enemy got as far as the courtyard. The cold, gray light of morning shone in through them. Slit windows without glass, of course. You wouldn't want glass in something you were supposed to shoot through.

Mags dropped to his hands and knees, below the height of the windows, and she copied him. Those windows overlooked the central court, as she had thought. More than one alarm bell was ringing now, and without a doubt the courtyard was full of men searching for a presumed intruder. The only reason they hadn't looked
here
yet was probably because no one had thought to check the gaol.

They crawled as fast as they could to the end of the corridor, then got up and pressed themselves into the shelter of the shadows. Mags closed his eyes, the better to use his Gift. Amily waited tensely, stone in her sling, trying to see without being seen. Outside past the windows, there was the sound of running feet, but no shouting. That was not a good sign, actually. It meant these men were highly disciplined, and were running a search they must have practiced enough that they needed no directions.

Mags opened his eyes and gestured; it was now too dangerous to speak. Even a whisper might be heard. She followed him with her heart in her throat and every muscle knotted with tension. There
still
was not much of a scent in the air; nothing to tell her that anything but ghosts populated this place.

And now she alternated her prayers between,
please let that man live,
and
please, let us get out of here.
If they could get out, then the small army of the Guard that was coming could settle down to a nice, bloodless siege. Eventually the Guard in
here
would come to their senses, and turn over Thallan, surely. But even if they didn't, they could be starved into submission. No one would have to die.

She added a third prayer. Because Guard fighting against Guard was the worst nightmare she could think of, short of the impossible one of Herald fighting Herald.
Please. Please, make it so that no one has to die . . .