Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy (53 page)

“No, I don’t,” said Rienne. “I save lives, I don’t take them.”

The Count flapped his hand. “A fine sentiment in peacetime, my dear, but hardly appropriate now. If we’re to help Sullyan, you should at least be prepared to defend yourself.”

“Here, Rienne, take my knife,” said Robin, slipping the foot-long blade out of its sheath. “The Count’s right, it’s a last resort.”

She took the weapon, holding it awkwardly away from her. The Count sighed and began descending the steps.

When they reached the bottom, he looked cautiously down the hallway that stretched for perhaps a hundred yards before it turned. It was lit only at the far end and it was deserted. Glancing at Robin, Marik soundlessly drew his sword and held it before him. After a moment’s hesitation, Robin did the same. Motioning for silence, the Count led them toward the torchlight. Rienne was last, casting nervous glances over her shoulder.

They reached a right-angled bend in the hall and the Count risked a look around it. With a sour expression, he turned to Robin. “No luck. It’s not Calder on duty.”

“How far away is he?” whispered Robin.

“About twenty yards. He’s sitting at a table in front of the gate leading to the cells. We need to get the keys, both to enter the gate itself and also to unlock the cell. The door through the palace wall is at the far end of the cells, through another locked gate.”

“What does Rykan do with soldiers who disobey orders?” asked Robin.

The Count looked startled at this change of tack. “Has them flogged and thrown in the cells. Why?”

“Right,” said the Captain, ignoring him. “Rienne, you wait here.” He handed his sword to the Count and took back his dagger from Rienne. Holding it behind his back, wrists crossed as if they were bound, the dagger was hidden from view. Then he nudged the Count sharply with his foot. “Come on man, you’re about to deliver a flogging.”

Rienne saw comprehension in the thin man’s eyes. Abruptly, he shoved Robin in the back, sending him stumbling into the corridor. Rienne stifled a gasp as she heard the jailer rush to his feet. She peeked around the wall, her heart jumping into her throat.

“Get along, you,” snarled the Count, pricking Robin in the back with his sword. “Jailer, one more for the cells. This man’s due a flogging for disobedience and I intend to administer the punishment myself. Perhaps a flayed back and a night down here will make him realize where his duty lies.” He pushed Robin on with the flat of his blade.

The jailer barely looked at Robin. “Can’t keep your men under control, can you, Count? That’s the third one this week.”

“And there will be more if they don’t shape up,” snapped Marik. “I’ve had to leave a perfectly good banquet to deal with this so I’d like to get on with it.”

From around the wall, Rienne saw the jailer turn and approach the gate. It was a wrought iron affair of tall bars, criss-crossed with strengtheners and secured with a very substantial lock. She heard the jangle of keys and, while he was searching for the right one, Robin sprang on him. Wrenching back the jailer’s chin, he rammed the dagger up through the back of his head and into the brain. With his other hand clamped firmly over the jailer’s mouth, there was no sound.

The demon slumped in Robin’s arms and he pulled out the dagger. There was surprisingly little blood, thought Rienne. She shivered. Until now, she hadn’t thought of any of her new friends as killers but it suddenly dawned on her that Robin was exactly that; a trained and deadly killer. And by association, it followed that Sullyan, small and delicate though she seemed, was a killer too. Rienne felt sick.

Marik darted forward, grabbed the keys and after some hurried fumbling, unlocked the great gate. Robin dragged the jailer inside and flung the body into the nearest unoccupied cell. He slammed the door shut and stood, breathing heavily.

Rienne ran through at Marik’s beckon and he closed the iron gate behind her. It wouldn’t conceal what they had done, thought Rienne, but it would slow any pursuit.

“Which cell?” urged Robin, taking back his sword and sheathing the bloody dagger.

“The one with the silver lock,” replied Marik, pointing to a door a few feet away.

“Spellsilver?” asked Robin. The Count nodded. “Not taking any chances, was he?”

Robin sprinted down the line of cells until he reached the one Marik had indicated. His hiss of pain and anger brought Rienne running. “Quickly man, the key,” he snapped. “I can’t touch this thing.”

“Well, it won’t be easy for me, you know,” said the Count, fumbling with the keys. “I don’t have much power, it’s true, but what I have will react.” His shaking fingers couldn’t cope with the effects of the spellsilver key and he dropped it.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” said Rienne. “Let me.”

“Hurry!” urged Robin.

Rienne scrabbled for the tiny key on the floor but when she grasped it, she nearly dropped it again. Unaccountably, all her strength had suddenly ebbed away. Robin hissed in frustration. “Bull was right,” he said, “you must be empathic or it wouldn’t affect you. Can you open the lock?”

“I’ll have to,” she said, gritting her teeth. She kept her eyes on the lock, trying desperately not to look inside the cell. Her fingers were shaking but eventually, she got the key in the lock. To her horror she was unable to turn it. “I can’t do it,” she wailed.

Robin made a strangled noise. He was staring in at the cell and what he saw there had clearly distressed him. Tears filled his eyes.

“Use the end of your knife.” Marik’s voice cut through Rienne’s stasis. She jumped and Robin handed her the dagger. As she slid its slim point through the small hole in the key’s head, she tried to ignore the blood covering the blade. With the knife as a lever, she managed to turn the key and spring the lock.

Robin wrenched open the door and they rushed into the cell. What Rienne saw there brought her up short, her heart pounding at her ribs. Robin went down on one knee beside the figure on the floor, a sob on his lips. If not for the glorious tawny hair, matted and dirty, Rienne wouldn’t have recognized the broken body.

Sullyan lay on her left side, her face half-buried in filthy straw. Her hands were cruelly drawn behind her back and fastened with silver manacles from which ran a chain attached to a ring in the wall. She was naked, her wretchedly thin body covered in contusions, scratches, wounds, old blood and gore. Rienne could also see horrible welts on her back where someone had wielded a whip with great force.

Her face, what could be seen of it, was bruised and scratched, and puffy under the eyes. There was a nasty-looking area just below her right breast where someone had delivered a good kick, driving in a few ribs. As Robin gently moved back her hair to see her face better, Rienne caught the gleam of a silver collar around her neck, and the raw skin beneath.

Robin’s voice contained a note of panic. “Rienne, is she alive?”

Jolted out of her dismay, Rienne kneeled down. The flesh, where it was not black with bruise or brown with dried blood, looked gray. She pressed her trembling fingers to the jugular beneath the jaw and was relieved to feel, after a few agonized moments, a faint, thready pulse.

“Just,” she said. “But only just.”

“Marik, how are we going to get these off her?” Robin indicated the manacles.

“We’re not.” Marik’s voice sounded odd and Robin stared at him. Rienne clearly felt his sudden suspicion but Marik waved it off. “Just break the chain,” he snapped. “Even if you could get the spellsilver off her, it wouldn’t be a good idea. Think what would happen if she woke up and started expending power. With the treatment she’s had over the past couple of weeks, do you think she’d hold back from destroying whatever she could reach? And I wouldn’t bet much on her sanity after being locked away like this, either. Spellsilver’s funny stuff, it plays with your mind.”

Rienne felt Robin’s surge of anger. “Are you saying that if we get her out of here, if she survives what he’s done to her, she might be insane?”

The Count hung his head. “She certainly wasn’t sane the last time I spoke to her. She only had stubbornness, hope and faith. And two days ago, the hope and faith had gone. Stubbornness was all she had left.”

“Faith?” whispered Robin.

“Yes,” cried Marik suddenly. “Faith in you, you lackwit! She kept telling me over and over that you’d come for her. Especially once she got me to release that nasty black stallion.”

“That was you?”

“Of course it bloody was! Gods but you’re stupid, what does she see in you? Who else did she have to help her? You weren’t here, were you?”

Rienne lost her temper. “Shut up, you two.” The two men ceased their bickering and stared at her. “Let’s worry about the details once we’re out of here, alright? Count, how do we break this chain?”

Marik took a deep breath. “It’s not very strong, it’s only silver. Wedge a sword-point through the links, that should do it.”

His face drawn and pale, Robin set his sword through one of the links as near to the manacles as he dared. With his foot on the longer section of chain, he levered away at the link until it finally broke.

“Marik, give me your cloak,” he said. The Count rather reluctantly surrendered his thick velvet mantle and Robin wrapped it gently around the thin, limp body in the straw. “Will we do any damage if we move her?” he asked Rienne. “I can’t use metaforce to support her while she’s wearing spellsilver.”

“Just be careful of those ribs, some are definitely broken.”

“You have no choice, anyway,” muttered Marik.

Robin glared at him and gathered Sullyan into his arms, wary of the spellsilver collar. “Let’s go.”

They left the awful cell and Marik kicked the door shut. It wouldn’t fool anyone for long, thought Rienne, not without the guard there.

She followed the men down the line of cells, trying to ignore the few feeble cries she heard. Her instinct was to help, but there was nothing she could do. The dreadful smells of the place—human waste, old blood and the rank stench of fear—assailed her senses as she ran.

They reached the next gate and Marik seemed to take an age finding the right key. Rienne had to stop herself from screaming and Robin was breathing heavily behind her. Eventually the gate opened and they passed through. Marik locked it behind them; it might buy them some time.

A dark and slimy passageway, rank with damp and mold, led toward the final door in the palace’s outer wall. It was bolted and locked from the inside. Halting just before it, the Count turned to Robin. “If your friends haven’t dealt with the guards, we’re all dead.”

Robin glowered at him. “They did.” Nevertheless, he stood listening at the door for a few moments. “No sound.”

He closed his eyes and Rienne felt him questing outward for contact. Quickly, she glanced at the burden he carried. Sullyan hadn’t shown a single sign of life since Robin had lifted her. Rienne thought she might very well have died in the Captain’s arms and she could see no vital signs. The fur trim of Marik’s cloak was unruffled by any breath. Rienne sighed; there was nothing she could do until they reached someplace safe.

Robin’s eyes opened. “All clear, both guards were disposed of. But Bull thinks Rykan’s already returned, there was a commotion near the main gate about ten minutes ago.”

“Bloody hell,” rasped the Count. “Quickly.” He drew back the topmost bolt and Rienne grabbed the lower one, leaving the Count free to work the large key in the rather rusty lock. He had trouble with it so she lent her strength to his and together they got it to turn. The door squealed on its hinges alarmingly. A dark and bulky shadow suddenly loomed beside them, making Rienne jump, but it was only Bull bringing the horses over.

“Don’t ask,” snapped Robin as Bull glanced at Sullyan. “Let’s get out of here as fast as we can.”