Strands of Time and Magic: An Epic Fantasy Adventure, page 12
Her voice was still a weak point, and she obsessed about it. She experimented with magic on throat, then panicked when she lost her voice entirely. She was relieved when it returned several hours later. With some practice, she managed to lower it a little. It wasn’t as baritone as Jobb’s, but it did seem more authentically male.
Over what she estimated was more than three full weeks, Brylee spoke to no one. Through her slit she saw the occupants of the other cells change many times, with prisoners staying at most three days before being released or taken to a longer-term prison. She watched the guards and now had a feel for which were the brightest and the dumbest. She got to understand the flow of the guards’ work and the procedures for moving prisoners in and out of the cells. She suspected they would treat a charmer differently, of course.
The warden was always the person with the key. It was clear he thought little of the guards, and the sentiment was returned. Any issues were made the fault of the guards, and they accepted it while the warden was present but often grumbled about it while delivering food or cleaning cells when not in his presence. It was all information Brylee tucked away in case it would be useful when her time came.
After perhaps four weeks, she was awoken by banging on her cell door. The familiar clench of panic gripped her, but she swallowed it down.
Ride the horse, Brylee, she told herself.
Chapter 18
“Sit on your bench!” yelled the guard whom Brylee had come to call Abe. She had given each guard a nickname starting with a different letter of the alphabet to help her separate them. Having guards grouped in threes with names starting with adjoining letters had been a way to help her memorise them, but the guards’ shifts were unpredictable, and today was Abe, Kane, and Tall One, rather than the men whose names began with B or C.
Abe’s shortness forced him to stand on his toes to look through the slit, and Brylee saw his head bobbing in the light. Once she complied, Abe opened the panel, pushed a box into the cell, then snapped the panel back into place.
“There’s a jacket and leggings in the box. Put them on and do up the straps.”
Brylee said nothing, just did as she was told. The clothing was some sort of treated blue canvas, and like the door it fizzed as it touched her skin. Brylee took care to keep some of her own clothing between it and her body to avoid contact with it wherever possible. Straps were sewn into the material, which buckled up to keep it close to her body. She was careful to leave it looser over her chest.
“Quick about it, charmer. Put the manacles around your wrists with your hands behind you.” The manacles were of a similar but much thicker material and had locks that snapped shut.
“Stand in front of the door with your back to it, and lower yourself to the floor,” Abe commanded. When she complied, she felt the panel open and then locks being applied to the manacles.
“Stand back!” the warden told the guards. Brylee heard the key in the lock. The door opened behind her, and she was helped to her feet and led out of the cell, through a door, and up some steps. The warden walked ahead of her, and neither he nor the three guards who flanked her met her eye. They were all terrified of her despite the fact she wore clothing she assumed was designed to suppress her magic. Brylee wondered if the material would undo the changes she had made to her body, but there was little she could do about that if so.
The corridor at the top of the stairs was similar to that of the cells, except the spaces were open and had no bars. It was clearly where the guards spent their time. There were chairs around tables, which had half-played hands of cards and gaming chips upon them.
Dreading every step, Brylee let herself be led through another door to an area better appointed than the guards’ room. There were rugs on the wooden floorboards and pictures on the walls. They passed what Brylee assumed was the warden’s office, judging by its desk and filing cabinets, then turned right into what appeared to be an interview room. It had a single table in the centre, a seat on one side, presumably for the prisoner, and across from it a bench that could accommodate four people.
The procession stopped, and for the first time the warden turned and looked at Brylee. She kept her eyes on his feet.
“Who’s this then?” the warden said with surprise and impatience in his tone. The room was silent. Then Tall One spoke.
“It’s the charmer, sir.” It sounded like he was deliberately keeping the surliness from his voice. “Don’t know his name, though. Unconscious when brought in by the city guard.”
“Were you on duty that night, watchman?” the warden asked. His voice sounded pleasant on the surface, but malicious intent lurked beneath his words.
“Er, no, sir. I just recall the talk the next day. We don’t get many charmers, so there’s always gossip, sir. And as per your own instructions, no one is to talk to charmers for fear of being witched. So, no one’s ever asked ‘im his name, I guess, sir.”
“Well, you’re quite right, watchman,” the warden replied. “The log does say that the prisoner was unconscious and unnamed, but it also mentioned the charmer was a woman. Is this someone you would consider marrying, watchman?” Brylee kept her gaze down but could feel four pairs of eyes studying her.
“Young female charmer, name unknown. Unconscious. Hold for Mage Wickham. That’s the log entry, watchman. I see a scruffy, wrinkled male prisoner who appears to be well into his prime.” The warden paused, waiting for a comment.
“Can’t be, sir. He was in the charmer’s cell.”
The warden rolled his eyes and turned his attention to Brylee. “What’s your name, man?”
“Jobb, sir,” Brylee replied in her best Darrow accent, keeping her eyes low and her voice even lower. “I tried to tell the guard I wasn’t no charmer, but he threatened to starve me if I spoke at all. I told them it was a mistake. Er... sir.”
“Oh, I think you’re a charmer, Jobb. I imagine some idiot wrote it in the log incorrectly, that’s all. Wrote ‘female’ instead of ‘male.’ Wouldn’t be the first time. We don’t get many women in here, and the guards often get details wrong.”
“If I may, sir, there was a woman in the cell opposite me on the first day,” Brylee said. “The guard told her not t’ drink so much, and he didn’t want t’ see her back anytime soon. I remember her because I was in for the night to dry out too. She weren’t hard on the eyes, and I thought we could drink together, if you catch my drift, sir. Then later the guard started yelling at me about being a charmer.” Brylee let her point drift into the silence. The warden looked stricken. She glanced up and saw him consulting the log. She knew he would find a man called Jobb there overnight, supporting the tale she was attempting to spin.
“Do you recall who brought you in, Jobb?”
“It was a big, beefy sergeant from the city watch, sir. Don’t know his name, but bald head and a thick brown beard.”
“No, you idiot,” the warden growled. “Which guard put you in your cell?”
“I know he was much taller than this fella here but twice as wide. Scared me if I’m honest, sir.” Brylee described the guard who had struck her over the last four weeks as the second densest. “He was also the guard who carried the woman in right after me. Had her slung over his shoulder like she weighed nothing, but she was at least as big as me. Another guard was helping. Average looking man, sir, except his eyes looked like they argued often about which way to look, if you know what I mean.” The densest guard was cross-eyed.
“It wouldn’t be the first time prisoners were placed in the wrong cells,” Abe said, “especially by those two.”
“Hang on,” Kane argued. “Maybe this charmer can use magic to change his appearance. He’s... she’s trying to fool us, sir.” They all looked at Kane and then back at Brylee.
“Honestly, man, have you ever heard of a charmer, or a mage for that matter, who can do magic on themselves? It’s impossible. Their magic only works on others or on objects. Ag, what idiots. Are they on shift?” the warden yelled. Spittle landed on Brylee, but she kept still.
“No, sir. Not until the weekend, sir.” All three guards were at full attention. Apparently, the warden’s wrath was to be avoided.
“I imagine the charmer wasn’t secured properly and witched them into placing her into the wrong cell,” the warden said. Brylee got the sense he was planting that idea into the guards’ heads so that the prison gossip would support it if Wickham made inquiries. “Perhaps she wasn’t really unconscious.” He let that thought float too. He recalled his predecessor had been fired for mishandling a charmer. They had kept the wrong prisoner in custody, trying to make them perform magic, convinced they were being tricked. Wickham saw it as more bumbling. Best to deal with things differently, the warden thought. “Anyway, get this prisoner out of here immediately. I’ll go to see Mage Wickham and tell him we made a mistake. I’ll also make sure he’s clear on where the blame lies.”
Brylee wondered if she should make a pretence of asking for some compensation for being wrongly detained but decided to let things rest. The warden left the room, the guards released Brylee’s bindings, and she slipped out of the magic proof clothing.
Ride the horse, Brylee reminded herself, trying to ensure her elation at fooling the warden didn’t betray her. She remembered to do her best manlike walk, and even scratched herself in a few unladylike places too, but held off from spitting on the floor.
She let herself be led out of the room and through a large oak door at the end of the corridor that took them into the courtyard, which was open to the street. The warden was there, talking to a small man whose robes marked him as a mage.
Ag, it must be Wickham, she thought. Brylee kept her head down and forced her feet to keep walking, imploring her knees not to buckle. She realised she was holding her breath.
“Yes, that’s him. The one we accidently locked up instead of the charmer,” she heard the warden explain. Brylee maintained her steady pace and kept walking, feeling the mage’s gaze on her.
“Stop, sir,” Wickham called, his voice relaxed and courteous. Brylee considered pretending she hadn’t heard, then accepted that wouldn’t work. She turned and decided to risk focussing her magic on herself as a protective layer. She took a few steps towards the mage and stopped within earshot but still left as much distance as she dared in case a mage could actually smell a charmer. She was shaking with fear, but she knew everyone did around a mage, so that in itself didn’t worry her too much.
“Jobb, is it?” Wickham asked, his voice still pleasant. “I appreciate you’ve had a terrible time of it, locked away unfairly for weeks, but I’d ask you for a few more moments of your time. I believe my apprentice was killed by a woman charmer, or the charmer witnessed her murder at least. I’d like to get a description of the woman you saw on your first night in custody.”
Brylee really didn’t want to be reconnected to that incident.
“Sorry sir,” she croaked. “I’d surely help if I could, but I was drunk, and it was a month ago. She was tall and had fair hair down to here.” Brylee held her hand at shoulder level. “I recall she was a handsome gal, but more than that, I can’t remember. And I best be off. My employer has likely already replaced me.”
“That’s so unfair, Jobb. I’ll go see him myself and make sure he does the right thing. Look, come with me and I’ll give you a silver bar, a bath, and a meal fit for a king in return for an hour more of your time. I insist we make this up to you, Jobb.”
Brylee thought hard for ways to decline without raising further suspicion. The real Jobb would have jumped at the offer. No one turned down a mage, especially if they were offering half a year’s salary and would prevent the person from being fired. Remaining in Wickham’s vicinity was a huge risk, but there was no sign he perceived her as anything other than a wrongly detained drunk. Perhaps she would be able to provide a poor description that would throw the mage off track. She could certainly use a bath, not to mention some money to get Summer back from the stables and aid her escape from Rostal.
“Of course, sir. Did you say a tankard of ale came with that dinner?”
“There’s a good man,” Wickham said with a smile. He dismissed the warden with a wave and then led Brylee out of the courtyard and onto the street.
It was a short walk. They crossed a small square adjacent to the jail and continued along a broad avenue for one hundred yards. On the far side of a road that traversed the avenue was a brown stone wall that was twice Brylee’s height. Set in the wall was a double gate, boasting a guard hut where three uniformed soldiers stood. As Wickham approached, the gate opened, and Brylee reluctantly followed the mage through it as the guards saluted.
Chapter 19
Most people imagined Lord Lessinger’s leading mage would live in one of the magical raised palaces like the lord’s House. But Wickham’s manor was surprisingly modest. Although closed off from the city for security, there were no spacious grounds or gardens behind the walls. Everything outside the main building held an air of function over aesthetics.
Beside the main house was a small stable for Wickham’s private coaches—he was one of the few allowed to ride on the surface streets—with a private circular road that led down to the main subterranean carriageways for deliveries and guests. Adjacent to the stable was a workshop where Wickham conducted some of his magical tasks and where he trained his apprentices.
The workshop mirrored the style of the main house, the ubiquitous blue-white hue with long, curved, sloping roofs reminiscent of mountain cabins designed to shed heavy snow. The window and door frames were oak, stained dark, with minimal ornate carvings or styling. Had they any less charm, the building would have been mistaken for a warehouse.
The manor itself had a total of four bedrooms for the mage and any guests, a bathing area complete with sauna, a main living room, a formal dining room, and Wickham’s favourite room, his study. These spaces occupied the front of the house. At the rear were the main kitchen, the scullery, a storage area, and spacious rooms for his two live-in staff: his long-serving housekeeper, Rosemary, and her husband, Sage, who was a wonderful chef and an enthusiastic, if not talented, handyman. That someone named Rosemary had married a man named Sage provided constant amusement for the mage, and he took every opportunity to introduce painful herb puns whenever he talked to them. Other staff lived off site, arriving whenever needed.
The large oak front doors were nearer the gate that Brylee and Wickham had entered, but the mage walked Brylee down the side of the property and into the manor through the tradesman’s entrance at the rear. If the chef was surprised to see his master enter that way, Brylee saw no sign of it.
“There you are, sir,” Sage said. “Rose wondered where you’d disappeared off to. She’s taken your meal up to your study.”
“Wonderful, Sage. Can I assume there is too much food for one person, as usual? If so, we just require an extra plate, cutlery, and a tankard...” Sage had begun to move as soon as he saw Brylee follow the mage in and was already placing the required items on a tray.
“I know, sir. You were about to be droll and apologise for not warning us that your guest was comin’. Will he be requiring a bath first?” Sage was deadpan in his delivery, and only a small wrinkle of his nose betrayed his reaction to the fact that Brylee had been incarcerated for nearly a month without access to a bath.
“Actually, that’s a good idea. I’d forgotten I’d deadened my sense of smell, and I don’t want Miss Plainhand to stink up my study. Have Rosemary provide Miss Plainhand with some temporary clothing while her own is laundered or maybe replaced. And send any staff except the gate security home for the day, will you?”
Wickham had taken three steps before he realised Brylee’s jaw had dropped to the floor. She looked ready to bolt at the revelation that the mage had not only seen through her disguise but also knew her name. She started to stammer in her Darrow accent, but Wickham cut her short.
“Oh, I think we can dispense with the charade now, Miss Plainhand. They sufficed for the warden, but I’ve known who you are for three weeks. I accept your need to disguise yourself, but please don’t treat me like an idiot. I hate such things.” From the corner of her eye Brylee noted Sage subtly shake his head at her, confirming it was not a good idea to treat Wickham’s intelligence casually. “We have much to talk about, Miss Plainhand,” the mage continued, “but a quick bath and some food will help us both focus. If I intended to skrike you, I would have done so at the jail. Take my word that as long as you don’t make any stupid attempts to escape, you will be perfectly safe. At least for the time being. Come along, I’ll show you the baths. They are quite good, actually.” Wickham turned and walked to a door leading into the house.
Brylee was still thinking about running when she felt a gentle push of an invisible wall of hard air nudge her after the mage. One glance at Wickham’s arched eyebrow confirmed it was him who was chivvying her along. If he knew her name, there would be no point in running home.
Would the Council for Magical Law protect Brylee if she could reach their offices? She had heard of such things. Skriking was against the law, even if a blind eye was turned more often than not. The hard air nudged her once more, this time a little more urgently. She accepted she was trapped and that for now, playing for time was her best option.
