The Shadowmage Trilogy (Twilight of Kerberos: The Shadowmage Books) (26 page)

Nor could he await the justice, such as it was, of Vos. Arrested thieves could expect the briefest of trials, followed by a stripping of their possessions (his sword and mail were not much, but they were his and he valued them) and, likely as not, the loss of a hand or foot in order to remind the citizens of the city that while Vos brought many economic benefits, disobedience would not be tolerated.

There was also something larger taking place, Lucius now realised. He thought back to the skirmishes in the merchant quarter, and the arrival of the guard – and the passwords that the Guild men had uttered. If the Guild of Coin and Enterprise had bought the guard... as unthinkable
–
not to mention unlikely
–
as it was, it spelt nothing but trouble for the Hands. They may as well try to fight the entire city.

Thoughts buzzing around his head like angry hornets, Lucius jerked himself back into alertness when he heard the now familiar heavy footsteps and chink of mail that signalled the arrival of another pair of guards. He frowned, and gave an angry sigh. The guard, it seemed, were intentionally varying the regularity of their patrols past the cells in order to throw the senses and timing of the inmates. However, there had to be an underlying order to their patrols (they were Vos, after all), and Lucius had begun to think he had discovered it. This patrol threw his calculations right out the non-existent window, however.

A jangle of keys on a chain and the sliding of several locks in the door heralded the arrival of three armed men. The first two stood either side of the cell’s entrance, hands on sword hilts but in a casual stance that suggested they expected no real trouble. The third man to enter caught Lucius’ attention immediately, for his tight, moustachioed face and narrow, suspicious eyes exuded both menace and authority. His presence seemed to fill the cell, making it seem that much smaller. Wearing a black leather waistcoat studded with metal plates, he might have looked like many of the thieves Lucius knew, were it not for the obvious expense and elegance of his armour. A long red cloak swept behind him, pinned to his waistcoat with elaborate gold brooches, and the hilt of his longsword was similarly well decorated.

“Good evening,” he said, and Lucius saw he almost clicked his heels as he bent his head in mock salute. “I am Baron Ernst von Minterheim, Commander of the Citadel, Colonel of the Vos Empire and Master of the Guard.”

He smiled briefly at his two prisoners. “I want to know the location of your guildhouse, its defences and a roll of all its members. As Commander of the Citadel, it is within my discretion as to the best methods to obtain this information so, in a way, it is up to you how this will go. We’ll start with you.”

The commander gestured at Luber, and the two guards sprang into action. One pulled the man to his feet, while the other busied himself with the locks round Luber’s ankles and wrists. As he was carried out, Luber flashed a worried look at Lucius, who was paying more attention to the movements of the guards, watching for any opportunity to spring a bid for freedom. For he knew he would be next.

It came quicker than he thought. As the guards dragged Luber out of the cell, another pair stepped around the Commander to haul Lucius to his feet. He felt the manacles release his limbs from their pinching grasp, only to be replaced by an iron-like grip that drew his arms behind his back in a well-practised move. Propelled out of the cell, he was dragged bodily along a corridor and down a set of steps that descended further into the fortress. His mind churned as his feet slid along the flagstones, determined not to aid the guards in their labours in any way.

Any thieves captured by the guard would be in for a hellish evening, Lucius knew, but it would be the morning before anything more permanent would take place. Lucius was betting on this, if the Guild had any say on events in the Citadel, and the Vos guard liked a public display to stamp their authority on the citizens of Turnitia. A good hanging or maiming always drew a decent crowd, regardless of who was suffering.

That gave him some time, at least. He guessed the Vos guard and their commander would be inventive during their questioning, but Lucius had taken a beating before and believed he could face up to another one. His worry was how many other thieves had been caught, and how many of them would be quickly broken.

As they stepped out of the staircase and entered another level, Lucius noted that the environment seemed darker, and it took him a few seconds to realise that the torches down here were spaced further apart, creating more shadows; and a far more foreboding atmosphere. All part of the Vos game he decided, an attempt to convince those brought down here that hope was as far away as the daylit world. The cries and moans from the cells they passed served to add to the atmosphere of impending defeat, a promise of what any prisoner would inevitably face. Lucius guessed that perhaps a dozen men and women were being questioned, though he had no way of knowing whether they were all thieves caught that night.

A painful crack, followed by sustained sobbing caught Lucius’ attention as he was dragged past one such cell, and it was followed by a rumble of laughter from within.

Lucius was thrown onto the floor of a nearby cell, this one even smaller than his previous residence. He struck the ground and rolled, but was instantly grabbed again and shoved into the single wooden chair that was bolted to the flagstones. A heavy hand forced him back into the uncomfortable seat while others grabbed at his hands and feet, securing them with iron clasps, holding him immobile. One guard left the cell, while the other stationed himself behind Lucius, out of view but his presence menacingly obvious.

Taking a breath to compose himself, Lucius began to take in his surroundings, inspecting the clasps holding him to his chair, the thickness of the cell door, the space he might have to manoeuvre, should he break free and be forced to fight. His calculations were interrupted by the cell door opening again and another guard entering, followed by Commander Ernst von Minterheim.

“I have little time and less patience,” he announced casually, almost seeming bored by this duty. “We already have much of the information we require, and your fellow thieves caught this evening have been most co-operative. I merely require you to confirm some of what they have told us. If your tales support one another, you can all go free come morning. Lie to me, and you will all hang.”

Lucius looked up at him with a rueful expression. “I will not co-operate.”

The commander gave a nod, and Lucius felt strong hands press down on his shoulders from behind. The guard who had entered the cell with the Commander stepped up and backhanded him with a mailed fist.

His head whipping round with the blow, Lucius gasped with the sudden pain, and he worked his jaw to ensure it was not broken. He glanced back at the Commander, this time with a baleful expression.

“That was just the start of what could be a very long evening for you,” von Minterheim said. “Now, what is your name?”

Lucius stared back, saying nothing. Another mailed swipe set his teeth ringing.

“How long have you been with the Hands?”

This time Lucius’ silence was met with a blow straight to his face. He felt something in his nose crack under the fist, and his eyes watered.

“Who are the current members of your Council?”

Lucius did not see the next strike coming, and he jerked against the clasps of the chair as the side of his head exploded in pain, causing the whole world to reel, then spin. A hand grasped him under the chin to hold his head upright before another backhanded blow blasted across his face. Hanging his head low, Lucius spat blood down his chest.

“I don’t have time for another tight-lipped thief,” he heard von Minterheim say, as if from a great distance. “Carry on with him. Let me know if he decides to loosen his tongue.”

A
S LIGHT SLOWLY
flooded back into Lucius’ world, he felt pain. His face felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size and, as he roused himself awake, the movement sent sharp bolts that lanced through his stomach and chest. Duller was the ache from his wrists and ankles, where they had been bruised from the clasps of the chair. Opening his eyes a fraction, he saw that his limbs were bound once again by chained manacles, and he guessed he was back in his cell.

Low voices made him aware he was not alone and, glancing at his cell mates, he saw he was somewhere else entirely. This cell was much larger, and held more than a dozen other thieves, all bound by hand and foot to the walls and floor as was he. Luber was to his right, and the man looked a wreck, with blackened, puffed up eyes and a dried slick of blood running down his chin. Guessing he looked no better himself, Lucius glanced round the other captives, tuning in to their low, hushed conversations.

“It’ll be suicide,” said one in a hiss.

“Better that than hang,” answered another, a thin, reedy man about the same age as Lucius. “I heard von Minterheim say it himself; anyone not making a deal with them is strung up in the courtyard this morning.”

“So, which of us made a deal?” a woman’s voice asked, her tone one of guarded suspicion.

“Not me,” said the thin man, who Lucius now recognised as a counterfeiter called Aeron. “Can’t imagine anyone would.”

“Oh, come on. There’s, what, fourteen, fifteen...” she said, counting the bodies surrounding her. “Sixteen thieves here. You certain
no one
spoke?”

“Not really a problem for us right now,” Lucius heard himself mumble.

“Hey, Lucius is awake,” the original voice said. “What was that you said?”

Lucius worked his mouth for a few seconds, trying to find some moisture while ignoring the pain of moving his lips.

“Whether one or more of us answered any of the guard’s questions is rather academic,” he said. “It does us no good or harm while we are locked up here – and if we hang this morning, it won’t matter to us either way.”

A mumble of agreement spread round the cell. Aeron spoke up again.

“There are some who think an escape attempt is pointless, that we’ll just be caught and killed that much quicker.”

Seeing one man lower his head to avoid Aeron’s pointed stare, Lucius tried to give a confident smile, but his lips only partially co-operated. “Would anyone here rather they met their end at the end of a noose than while fighting for their lives?”

He was met with silence.

“Thought not.”

“So, it just remains for us to get ourselves free,” said the woman. Lucius gave her a quick look but while he thought he had seen her in the guildhouse from time to time, he could not remember her name. As battered and bruised as the rest of them, he was impressed that her eyes still shone with the light of defiance.

Rattling her chains, the woman nodded to her manacles. “Anyone manage to get themselves free of these?”

Inwardly, Lucius sighed. He was not ready to unleash his magic with all the thieves as witnesses, however simple it might be for him. Even with the Hands under assault from both the Vos guard and the Guild, it was too dangerous. Looking around the cell for an answer, he was conscious of Luber moaning next to him, and was surprised to realise that the man was chuckling. Others watched the man as he gave a bloodied grin then produced a small hooked bar of metal from his swollen lips. A lockpick.

“Nice going, Luber,” the woman said. “But how are you going to reach your chains?”

“Well, Natalia,” he said. “There’s a little trick I learned growing up in Vosburg. You might want to look away...”

Lucius saw her sneer at that, then followed her gaze as her eyes widened in shock. Next to him, Luber’s face had turned into a grimace as he strained his right hand against the manacles that clasped his wrist. He watched as the man flattened his fingers, then brought his thumb down into his palm, before he pulled, shuddering with the effort.

The thieves winced collectively as a dull, wet snap reached their ears, and Luber grunted from the pain. Incredulously, Lucius stared as Luber simply drew his hand back through the manacles. Gingerly, he took the lockpick from his mouth and began prodding at the restraint around his left hand.

Waiting with bated breath, the thieves watched as Luber, with obvious pain and difficulty, probed the locking mechanism of the manacles, the action made harder tenfold with the broken joint of his thumb. He twisted the pick, and they all strained to hear the click of the mechanism unlocking, but instead heard Luber grunt again in pain as his hand spasmed slightly, and the pick fell from the lock, dangling only by a fraction of an inch of its hooked end. Lucius saw the woman jerk against her chains involuntarily, perhaps thinking she could catch the pick from across the cell, but Luber’s reactions were up to the task. Giving a pained but wry smile at his audience, he scooped the pick up, and re-seated it back in the lock.

“God’s teeth, Luber,” someone muttered. “Could do this quicker myself.”

“And could you break your own wrist first?” the woman asked caustically, only to be met with silence.

Moving slower and more deliberately this time, Luber continued his probing, then gave another grunt.

“Got it,” he whispered, and hushed words of encouragement swept around the cell as they all heard a tiny click. With a shrugging motion, Luber discarded the open manacles and set to work on those chaining his feet.

Eyes began to flicker towards the cell door, as the thieves collectively prayed that the guard would not return before Luber’s work was done, but luck remained on their side. He quickly disposed of the restraints tying his feet and then, shakily, stood, grinning in his new-found freedom. A quiet cough brought him back to the job in hand, and he set to work on another man Lucius recognised as his partner. Once another set of manacles lay useless on the floor, the newly freed thief produced his own lockpick from inside a boot, and together he and Luber shuffled around the cell, releasing their comrades.