The Swordsman's Lament, page 8
Then the recruiter was gone, replaced by other dreams in which he saw everything he had built come crashing down. His Academy burned to ashes, his friends’ lives ruined as they were marched through the streets in chains. All turned to him with accusing eyes. “Why, Belasko? Why have you abandoned us?” they asked.
Belasko woke, coughing. He looked about him wildly. A dim light came through the grate near the ceiling of his cell. Dawn. Another day. The king still hadn’t come.
5
It was then that Belasko’s thoughts turned to escape. He had been holding on to the hope that his innocence alone would be enough, that those who suspected him would see the error of their ways. That the king — in recognition of Belasko’s service, if not out of a belief in his innocence — would come and see him. That the king seemingly believed him guilty hurt as much as any physical injury he now carried. His grief at the loss of Prince Kellan, was doubled by the loss of King Mallor’s regard.
He looked around, wincing at the pain that lanced through him at even this simple movement, taking in once again the space of his confinement, looking for anything he could use to make good an escape. Nothing. He shook his head, disgusted. He knew from previous examination that the grill was far too small for him to get through, even if he were somehow able to remove the grill itself. Likewise the bars were set too solidly in the floor and ceiling. They could not be budged. Not without many hours of work with tools and time he didn’t have. There has to be a way.
When it arrived, help came from an unlikely source. Belasko had been dozing fitfully, waking occasionally to stretch and try to sooth his injuries as best he could. A voice startled him out of his rest.
“Oh Belasko, what have they done to you?” It was Princess Lilliana.
Belasko swung his feet off his pallet and struggled to rise. “More importantly, what haven’t they done to me? Two of Ervan’s men paid me a visit, beat me, tried force a confession out of me. They haven’t done any permanent damage. Everything you see will heal, in time.”
“So either they don’t have permission to hurt you further, or are holding back.”
He nodded, wincing at the sequence of pains that set off. “Holding worse punishments in reserve. That’s a pleasant thought.”
“Then it’s a good thing I paid you a visit. Here.” Lilliana moved up to the bars of his cell, removing something from under her cloak and passing it through to him. A plain leather satchel, the sort that priests or scribes might carry. Belasko opened it, peering inside at its contents. It held cloth, and something shiny on top.
“What is this?” he asked, squinting as he retrieved the shining object. “And how did you smuggle it in?”
Lilliana laughed, raising an eyebrow. “You think the guards would dare to search me?”
“Fair point,” he grunted. “Still, you took a risk even in coming back.” His fumbling hands closed on the metal and withdrew a key. He looked down at it for a moment and then sharply up at the princess. “What is this?”
She smiled. “A key, idiot — what does it look like? More specifically, a skeleton key that will open many of the doors in the palace, including your cell door and the door into the guardroom at the end of the corridor.”
“How did you get this?”
“It is part of a set that my father’s steward keeps in his office. I overheard he and my father talking about them one day, when they thought I had my head in a book. I managed to talk my way into his office and lay my hands on it while pretending to look something up in the previous stewards’ records. A discrepancy in the palace archives caught my attention that I desperately needed to clarify, or so I told them. There is also a hooded robe, one that should make you into a passable priest. I use it when I want to travel through the city unrecognised. Only a few members of my personal guard know about it, so you shouldn’t be spotted.”
“This is… unexpected, your highness. I will admit I’m surprised at how accustomed you seem to be to this sort of intrigue. I take it you are helping me escape, not asking me to take part in some mummer’s play?”
“Intrigue? When you grow up a princess, always watched, you soon discover ways to find yourself a little freedom.” Lilliana shook her head. “I want to help you get out of here. I believe in your innocence, even if everyone else seems willing to accept the idea that you’re guilty.” Her face hardened. “Every moment you spend in here is a moment my brother’s killer is enjoying their freedom. I don’t much like that idea. So get out of here and prove your innocence. Find the real killer. Can you do that?”
Belasko dropped to one knee, bowing his head. “I swear on my life and honour, I will find your brother’s killer and bring them to justice.”
She nodded, satisfied but still grim. “Good. I wouldn’t expect anything less. Now get up, you’re in a bad enough way without adding to your bruises on that stone floor. The disguise and key will do you no good without a plan. Here is what I have worked out. Tell me what you think.”
A few hours later, having waited for the noon bell, Belasko found himself waiting outside the door to the guard room, hand resting on the door handle. The cells were in the basement of a large, round tower. The guard’s room beyond was the hub at the centre of the basements, the corridors of cells leading off from it like the spokes of a wheel. This design, along with a sliding viewing panel in the door to each corridor, meant that few guards were needed to keep watch over all the prisoners. Two guards were regularly stationed there at any one time and, fortunately for Belasko, the viewing panel for his corridor remained closed.
The princess had found out from one of her own guards, who complained of having the same duty in years past, that the cell guards took it in turns to fetch their midday meal. The first guard — the one loyal to the princess, who had turned a blind eye to her visit — had left to collect her food after the various palace bells had finished tolling the midday chimes.
Belasko had, as swiftly and quietly as possible, used the key the princess had given him to open his cell, not yet locking it behind him. By Belasko’s estimation, he had around ten minutes before the other guard returned, so had to work quickly. He had padded up to the guard room door and placed the key gently in the lock.
Belasko exploded into motion, turning the key and slamming the door open in one quick movement. As he burst into the room, he flung the satchel the princess had given him at the surprised guard at the centre of the room, who did not even have time to get out of his chair. The guard lifted an arm to bat aside the satchel, and Belasko followed, stepping up to him and slamming his hands closed in a tight grip around the man’s throat. Belasko began to squeeze.
Panic shot through the guard’s eyes and he thrashed around, trying to escape Belasko’s steel grip. He scrabbled at his hands, but the duellist would not be deterred.
“Hush,” Belasko said, “I’m not going to kill you, just send you to sleep for a bit.” His hands felt out the arteries at either side of the guard’s neck and applied pressure. The guard continued to struggle for a few moments, until his eyes rolled up and his head started to loll. Belasko bundled the guard into the corridor to his cell. He hissed at the pain from his broken rib as he moved the guard, gasping and trying to avoid breathing too deeply.
“Sorry about that,” he said to the unconscious guard, as he used some cord Lilliana had supplied to bind him. “Nothing personal.”
“God’s blood!” Belasko swore as he lifted him onto the pallet, pain flaring through his chest, before throwing the tatty blanket that had kept him warm at night over the guard. Belasko went out, locking the cell behind him, and headed back into the guardroom, also locking the door to the corridor. He retrieved the satchel, withdrew the robe from it and pulled it on over his clothes. He raised the hood and made his way up the stairs that ran up the wall of the guardroom. Opening the door at the top, he carefully checked to make sure that the coast was clear, then snuck out of the guardroom and into the palace beyond.
He had a few minutes yet before the other guard returned and raised the alarm. Hopefully she would wonder where her fellow guard was for a while before thinking to check Belasko’s cell. If she didn’t inspect the apparently slumbering form on the pallet, Belasko might have more precious minutes to make good his escape.
Fortunately for him, the tower that contained the dungeons was close to the curtain wall of the palace grounds, and a number of the lesser gates to bridges that led out into the city proper. Belasko breathed a sigh of relief when he realised that it was a petition day, when the palace was open to the public to petition the king or his functionaries about the issues that mattered to them, no matter how petty. Those who had been seen or failed to gain an audience were leaving the palace with minimal checks.
He went to join their number, hoping to take a place in the middle of the crowd as they made their way to the nearest gate. But as he took a step out of the shadow, a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
“Now what business does a priest have down in the cells?” a female voice asked. The hand on his shoulder turned him around to face a young, stocky woman in a spotless guard’s uniform. “Though I dare say there’s a few sinners down there that could do with a bit of salvation.”
Belasko kept his head down, hood pulled low. His heart sank as he realised that this was the second cell guard returning with the midday meal.
“Not in the cells, ma’am,” Belasko said, affecting the voice of much older man. “I’m looking for the chapel in St Ketura’s tower. I seem to have got turned around. Forgive me, I’ve not visited the palace before.”
The guard smiled. “It is quite a maze, isn’t it?” She released Belasko’s shoulder and stepped out of the lee of the tower. “You’re not too far off track.” The guard pointed to a tower a little further along the broad way that ran inside the curtain wall. “That’s the one you’re looking for. Good day to you, Father.”
“And you ma’am, thank you for your help.” Belasko raised his hand in benediction. “May the saints and Aronos himself bless you for this kindness.”
The guard laughed and waved him away, turning to go back into the tower. After the door closed behind her Belasko moved swiftly. Ignoring the guard’s directions, head down, he set off in the direction of the nearest gate and bridge as fast as he could without arousing suspicion. Heart pounding, he knew he had minutes at best. His escape attempt could be over before it began.
Belasko joined the flow of people leaving the palace, working his way into the middle of the crowd, as far from the guards stationed at either side of the gate as he could.
Come on, nearly there.
He was in the centre of the crowd now, the press of people carrying him forward. Drawing level with the gates, the guards to either side looked bored, waving people through with barely a second glance. Then, from behind him he heard shouting.
“…the alarm, raise the alarm! Someone’s escaped from the cells. Close the gates! Raise the alarm!” It was the voice of the guard he had just bumped into. Belasko resisted the temptation to turn around, although several in the crowd were attempting to stop and do just that. However, the mass of the crowd pushed them forward, as people started to rush for the gates. No one wanted to get caught up in whatever was happening.
Belasko heard other guards taking up the cry along the palace walls. The two on his gate looked at each other, yelling, trying to be heard above the crowd. They both stepped forward, trying to stop the flow of traffic. They might as well have tried to stop the sea. There was nothing they could do against that weight of people, and both were pushed back.
The gates behind them started to swing closed, struggling against the tide of bodies, but the heavy mechanisms in the gatehouse kept turning, and people were pushing and shoving now, desperate to get through the narrowing gap.
Belasko was helped by his position. The guards that had been trying to keep them all back were gone now, overrun and trampled, and he was pushed towards the closing gates by the throng. He got to them just as they were closing, squeezing through the narrow gap as he felt the rough wood tear and clutch at him. He pushed himself forward, launching off some unfortunate soul who fell back through the gates, and he stumbled through just as they slammed shut behind him, one of the last to make it through.
There were guards shouting down from the walls at him and the rest of the crowd to stop, to wait, but they were ignored as those that escaped passed over the bridge and dissipated into the city beyond. While Belasko had his own reasons, it seemed no one wanted to be caught up in whatever madness had infected the palace.
Belasko made his way away from the palace as quickly as he could, whilst aware that moving too swiftly might appear suspicious for a priest. He didn’t want anything about him to stick out in people’s memories. It was as he tried to balance speed with dignity that he realised he had no idea where he was heading.
I can’t just walk back into my house, it will be under watch at least. Would Orren be there, or would he be staying somewhere else? I’ll make my way to the house and walk past, see if I can figure out what’s going on.
Belasko was wary, as he moved through the crowded streets, feeling as if all eyes were on him. He tried to shake the feeling, knowing that a down-at-heel priest, as he appeared to be, would in all likelihood attract little notice. He still made sure to keep the hood of his robe pulled low. It wouldn’t do for someone to spot his face. He was too well known, too easily recognised. Which poses a question: how am I to make my way around the city, investigate the prince’s poisoning, if I have to skulk and hide in the shadows?
He turned into Founder’s Way and spotted his house. He could see people milling about outside the gates. As he got closer he could make out that the small crowd was made up of city dwellers and, yes, some of the city watch. The latter were definitely parked on his doorstep, not letting anyone in or out. Belasko was aware that he had to keep on walking — stopping and turning back the way he had come would look too odd, too suspicious. He braced himself for recognition, prepared to run if necessary. Keep your face down, just walk by. You’re a priest going about your priestly business. This house is of no interest to you, and you are of no interest to those guarding it.
As he passed by on the other side of the street, he could hear some of the crowd remonstrating with the watchmen.
“Come on, you don’t think he did it, do you?”
“…no way Belasko would ever hurt the prince…”
“Poison? I mean, look, that wouldn’t be his way.”
The officer at the gate shook his head. “Listen,” he said, then again when the crowd wouldn’t quiet, “Listen!” He glared the crowd into silence. “I don’t know the truth of it any more than any of you, and we’re all surprised, but the Inquisition have found evidence…”
“The Inquisition? Shit on their boots!” a voice cried from the back of the crowd.
The guard continued as if he hadn’t heard the interruption. “The Inquisition have found evidence and are conducting an investigation. While that investigation is carried out, we are to guard Belasko’s home. That is all. I’m not going to comment on whether he’s guilty or not, that’s not my job — although I will admit to sadness at the thought he could be.” The officer raised his voice. “Now you lot, clear off! Stop obstructing the city watch. Go on, be off with you!”
The crowd dispersed, some of them still muttering and shaking their heads. The relief that Belasko felt at the realisation that some people thought he was innocent was almost tangible. A lightening of the weight that had settled on him over the last few days.
Where to go? The house looks shut up, Orren can’t be here. Then realisation came. The Weeping Anchor. That’s where he’ll be.
The Weeping Anchor was an inn in a much less salubrious part of town, that had been a haunt of theirs when they had first arrived in the city, years ago. It was the place that in those days they would always meet up at if things went sour, or they got separated. Hopefully Orren would remember that too.
But try as he might, Belasko couldn’t make his way to the inn. He managed to get close, but his escape from the cells had obviously been discovered. The city watch had formed checkpoints at the gates between quarters and were inspecting and searching people as they made their way through.
His route would have to have been circuitous in any case. The city of Villan had grown around the palace over time in a series of concentric rings, and gates between quarters and through the fortified walls were not always in the most logical or accessible place. The city reflected the country as a whole, Belasko mused to himself: old, convoluted, confusing. The palace itself sat on an island in the river Lan and had been the original fortified home of the current king’s distant ancestors. As their power grew, so had the settlement. The rings of the city were subdivided into various quarters, although the lines between were often a little blurry. The river that ran through the heart of the city had numerous bridges over it and sea gates that formed part of the city’s network of defence. Where the river widened into an estuary that ran out to sea there were two sets of docks — one on the east side of the river, and one on the west. The western docks were for royal and naval use only, the eastern were less salubrious. It was towards the latter that Belasko was trying to get.
Damn it, so close. All Belasko had to do was get through the gate at the end of the road and he’d be in the Sea Quarter, home to the city’s commercial docks, warehouses, cheap lodging houses (or brothels masquerading as such), and a number of inns and drinking dens of various levels of ill repute. The Weeping Anchor was among them. In fact, it was only a few streets away — but it may as well have been on the other side of the country. There was no way he was getting through that gate.
Maybe I don’t have to.
