The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two (20 page)

Chapter Fifty-Three

The
Drayman walked in the dark for perhaps a mile, running his hand along the wall
to guide him. He had counted his turns, testing his concentration and his
memory. He could afford no mistakes. The maze turned this way and that,
confusing him with its endless deceit.

            He
heard the song of breathing and followed toward the sound. He could not make
out Roskel, but if he was close enough to where they kept a prisoner…surely no
prisoners were kept in the most distant regions of the dungeon. The guards
would never find the prisoners to feed them.

            He
came before a door with the song of breathing from within. He took a dagger
from his belt and pried open the door, working on the rusty hinges rather than
the lock.

            The
door almost fell to the ground but he caught it with his free hand and lowered
it.

            Entering
the cell there was a terrible stench. He hummed so that the cell was lit.

            In
the corner a man huddled against the wall, trying to shield his eyes from the
sudden brightness.

            The
Drayman reached out to touch the man, to sing a soothing song to him, to let
him know he was free. In that touch, when fleas leapt toward the fresh flesh of
his arm, he knew he was wasting his time. This man was irreconcilably mad. He
didn’t even need to see his eyes or his face. There was nothing he could do for
the man. He could free him but his cage was stronger than bars. He did not have
the talent for curing insanity.

            He
thought about ending the man’s torment, but he could not be sure if his madness
was terrible or beautiful. Some madmen saw visions of loveliness in every
breath. He was not an executioner to kill without thought.

            His
heart heavy and his mind unsure as to the wisdom of his actions, he left the
madman to his dreams, whether they be heavenly or terrible nightmares. He could
not kill a man on a chance.

            He
began to run. This was a terrible place. He needed to free his friend. His
heart ached from the thought of Roskel being forced to spent long months trapped
in this place. Every man, woman and child in here needed to be released, but he
was not the man to do it. It would need a larger force to do what needed to be
done.

            The
Drayman was under no illusions. He knew he would be hard pressed to win free
with the thief as it was, without taking on more responsibilities. But with
every prisoner he passed, his heart sank.

            So
much suffering. It was a song more terrible and poignant than any he had ever
heard.

            But
he had to listen to it. He had to try to find Roskel within this place of
terror and madness.

            So
he ran. He saw a light ahead, its glow stark after so much darkness. He sped
toward it on silent feet.

            He
had no more thoughts of compassion for the guards of this place. They deserved
no quarter if they could serve in this hell and hold people until they lost
their minds in darkness and fear.

            He
rounded a corner and surprised a guard. The Skald ran him through with no
hesitation. He was young, the warrior saw, and died with shock on his face.

            The
Drayman had no time to take satisfaction. He ran on, listening to the song, the
terrible dirge of death and despair that reverberated off every wall.

            He
found two more guards, and killed them both. One had a ring of keys at his
belt, which the Drayman took. They had been eating a meal. He threw their table
against a wall in rage, plunging the hall into darkness once more. Then he
heard it.

            The
subtle shift in the song. Someone was moving. His breath was laboured, there
was a sense of pain in the song, but no madness…not yet…a hint of hope.

            Roskel.

            He
ran toward the sound, still counting his turns. He came before a door and the
man within sensed his presence.

            Roskel
called out in hope.

            'Is
someone there?'

            The
Drayman sang his song and Roskel saw fields of green and the golden suns
luscious in the bright blue sky. The song of hope and life.

            'Skald!
I knew you’d come! Quickly, before they come to see what is happening! Free
me!' he said, and the Drayman could feel the hunger in his words.

            He
tried the keys and eventually found one which opened the door. He entered, the
stench of the room overpowering. He took two steps toward the thief and wrapped
his arms around him, singing all the time. Tears streamed down their faces.

            'It
doesn’t matter, you fool. You are here now. Let’s go.'

            The
Drayman unlocked Roskel’s shackles and put his arm around him, leading him back
the way he had come. From a distant corridor he heard the sound of pounding
feet, brought by the commotion.

            He
turned to face the sound but Roskel tugged on his arm.

            'Revenge
can wait. Let’s flee now and worry about retribution another day.'

            The
Drayman breathed slowly through his nostrils, calming himself, then nodded. It
made sense.

            They
turned and headed off into the darkness.

            Sounds
of pursuit came, and once or twice they saw distant light from a corridor. Only
once did the Drayman have to use his sword, when a pair of guards happened upon
them. But he had heard their boots pounding down the twisting corridors and was
waiting for them. He slew them easily and took immense satisfaction in their
pain.

            Then
they reached the cellar. Roskel was panting and limping heavily.

            'I’m
fine,' he said in response to the Drayman’s concerned song. 'Well, I'm not, but
I’ll be fine when we get out of here.'

            They
headed to the cellar door, but the Drayman laid a restraining hand on Roskel’s
arm. Then they heard footsteps outside.

            The
Drayman counted, then he counted enough for the two patrolmen to be well away
down the far side of the mansion. With a gentle tug on Roskel’s sleeve he led
him into the night.

            For
a moment Roskel just stood and marvelled at the glorious sight of the figure of
eight moon in the sky, Gern half hiding his brother from sight. It was a rare
and special moon.

           
You
have the rest of your life to take in the beauty of the sky. For now we must
flee.

           
'You’re right,' said the thief,
and they broke into a run, Roskel’s feet unsteady and his breath rasping in his
chest. They reached a wall and the rope waiting there.

            'I
can’t climb that,' said the thief. 'My arms are too weak.'

            The
Drayman nodded and climbed to the top of the wall. Then he indicated that
Roskel should tied the rope around his chest.

            When
the knot was tight, the Drayman heaved his friend to the top of the wall.

            As
the first cries of alarm went up in the grounds, and guards began scurrying to
and fro, the thief and the bladesinger were on the other side of the wall and
off into the darkness, following the darkest route that the Drayman could have
picked, back to the temporary safety of the Blushing Drunk.

*

Chapter Fifty-Four

Morning
broke with Carious’ rising. The rider rode hard. His horse was lathered and he
himself was sweating despite the chill air. The melt beneath the horse’s hooves
cracked and the horse pounded across the fields toward the rear of the column
of soldiers. He was not challenged as he rode past the soldiers and supply
wagons toward the head of the column. The ride took thirty minutes at a gallop.
Eventually he pulled alongside the Thane of Ulbridge and the Thane of Kar, who
had finally decided that riding in a wagon gave the wrong message to his
soldiers, at the behest of Savan, who often whispered words of wisdom into his
increasingly receptive ear.

            The
hierarch rode behind the two commanders, a smile upon his face.

            'What
is it, man?' snapped the Thane of Ulbridge.

            'Urgent
message from the captain of the guard, my lord,' said the man breathlessly.

            'Well,
out with it.'

            The
messenger cleared his throat. 'The prisoner has escaped, my lord.'

            'What?'

            'I’m
sorry my lord, that was all I was given to know. I assumed you would know what
he was talking about.'

            'I
do!' The Thane’s face dropped. 'Command the guard, all available men are to
scour the city. He is not to escape. I want him dead.'

            'Yes,
my lord,' said the messenger, swallowing. He wheeled his horse around and rode
off back the way he had come.

            'He
must not escape the city,' said Wense.

            'He
will not.'

            'You
said he would not escape your dungeons, and he did.'

            'I
said he will not!'

            The
Thane of Kar glared at him.

            'My
king,' added the Thane of Ulbridge truculently.

            Savan
heeled his horse next to the two men. 'My king. I have resources available. I
could aid the search?'

            'Do
it. He must not reach Naeth alive. I have no doubt he will try for the city.
Some misguided sense of duty. Though it is too late to stop my coronation,' he
said, absentmindedly settling the crown upon his head.

            'He
will not live out the week.'

            'Then
send what word you will.'

            Savan
nodded and rode away from the advancing column. Wense noted how the horse
seemed skittish, unhappy with the rider.

            'How
exactly does he send messages?'

            'A
secret way,' said the man who would be king. But in truth, he was troubled. He
didn’t know, but he never worried about it anymore. There had been a time when
the advisor had made him uneasy. But he didn’t mind so much anymore. He set his
worry aside. What did it matter? The man was extremely helpful, even if he did
have his funny ways.

*

Chapter Fifty-Five

The
Drayman knocked on the barred rear door of the Blushing Drunk in the
prearranged manner. After a minute he was rewarded by the sound of the bar and
bolt being drawn back. Morning had broken fully, and the city streets were
crawling with guards, but he had managed to guide the thief, half-carrying him,
back to the inn without incident. Well, he’d been forced to kill a man along
the way, but he no longer counted the Thane of Ulbridge’s men as deserving of
quarter. They were beasts who served a beast.

            Roskel
collapsed inside the door.

            'Roskel!'
exclaimed the burly innkeeper, Darwell. 'You made it! I didn’t think it could
be done!' he beamed with pleasure as he picked the thief up and led him into
the commons.

            For
his part Roskel managed a weak smile.

            'I
bet you could use an ale.'

            'I
could,' he said, and winced as he sat on a bench. His face registered
considerable pain.

            'Were
you beaten?'

            'No,
I wish I was. I am covered in sores. They are agony.'

            Darwell
put two mugs down in front of the men and kept the third for himself.

            'I
don’t usually drink at dawn, but it’s a new day.'

            He
raised his mug. 'To you both. It is good to see you.'

            Roskel
grasped the mug in both hands and drank deeply. 'Gods, that is the best I’ve
ever drunk.'

            'Food!'
said the innkeeper, clapping his hands as if the idea had only just occurred to
him.

            'Not
just yet,' said the thief.

            A
preordained knock came at the door.

            The
men stared at each other. The Drayman drew his sword. Darwell cracked open the
spy cover and peered out into the street.

            'Darwell,
you old fool. You know I know the knock. Tell the thief the lady sent me.'

            'You!'

            'Just
tell him, then let me in.'

            Roskel
could only hear half the conversation. Darwell turned to him.

            'The
woman outside is with the Thieves’ Covenant. She said the lady sent her.'

            'Let
her in,' said Roskel.

            A
woman came in bearing a large basket. Darwell bolted the front door after her.

            'I
thought the lady had forgotten me. Is her favour so fickle?' said the thief.

            The
woman laughed. 'The lady surprises me constantly. She said you’d say exactly
that, as if I could ever doubt her. She also told me you’d be in need of some
healing. So show me your wounds and I’ll see what I can do about it.'

            The
woman was above middle years, and had a kind and good-looking face. She wore a
red cloak and a knowing smirk.

            'It’s
a bit delicate,' said Roskel, after taking her measure.

            'I’ve
seen it all.' She said and crossed her arms, as if to say she could wait all
day but he’d be the one paying for wasting her time.

            'Alright,'
he said, and pushed himself off the bench gingerly. He dropped his trousers and
showed her the weeping sores on his behind. Then he turned and showed her his
wrists, where the shackles had rubbed the skin raw. 'It hurts something
fierce,' he said. 'Also, if you can help me, I need to be able to ride in the
morning.'

            'Tomorrow
night, you’ll ride. By the lady’s orders. You have business in this town to
finish first. You can pull your trousers up now,' she said, glancing down with
a smile on her face.

            Roskel
blushed and quickly pulled his trousers up.

            'What
business?'

            'The
Thane of Ulbridge has been careless. He kept all of the Thane of Kar’s
correspondence, and that of other Thanes who have allied with him. It is the
proof you need to rally the other Thanes to the Stewards’ cause. Without proof
the country will descend into civil war, and the Thanes of the south will not
be able to stand. Three Thanes waver. With proof, the Stewards can gain their
support in the coming war. With luck, the lady says there is a way to end the war
before it is begun. But she does not believe in taking unnecessary risks.'

            'Like
leaving me in a dungeon for months?'

            'That,
Lord Protector, was a risk she was willing to take. She said you would
understand. She still favours you. It was your trial to undertake.'

            'Well,
perhaps when I see her next she’ll give me a more sensible explanation for
abandoning me in that dungeon for the last few months. It was hell.'

            'She
said you’d say that too.'

            'I’m
getting tired of this.'

            'No
doubt,' said the woman with her unfailing smile. 'But she said to tell you she
needed you to see the darkness to appreciate the light. She said she will make
it up to you.'

            'It
better be bloody good.'

            'Oh,
I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised, my Lord.'

            'What
do you know?'

            'Quite
a lot, my lord, but that’s not why I’m here. Darwell, draw a bath. Lord
Protector, I think those clothes should be burned.'

            She
took the lid from her basket and drew a wicked looking straight razor.

            'Easy,
Drayman,' she said. 'I’m just going to give him a shave. He’s infested. We
can’t very well have the Lord Protector giving the dignitaries of Sturma lice
and fleas and the like, now can we?'

            The
Drayman sheathed his sword and glared at the woman, but she seemed unperturbed.
She just smiled at him sweetly.

*