down at him and a mocking arched brow took the sting from her words. ‘Is that an accurate appraisal, Ivanr of Antr?’
Ivanr lowered his gaze, grimacing. Aye, he deserved that. Can’t have it both ways. Either you’re in or you’re out. He looked up, acknowledging her point. ‘I suppose that’s about right.’ Somehow, he did not mind being teased by this woman.
She was smiling quite openly now, looking ahead, and he studied the blunt profile of her flattened nose. ‘They’re all around us now,’ she said. ‘Massing for an attack. The traditional cavalry lancer charge that has scattered every tradesman rebellion, peasant army, and religious uprising before.’
‘What are they waiting for?’
‘Better terrain. North of us the land opens up. Broad pasturage, smooth hillsides. They’ll form up there and wait for us to arrive.’
He swallowed, thinking: Now comes my question. ‘And you? What are you waiting for?’
The dark eyes captured his gaze for an instant, unreadable, searching, then she looked skyward. ‘Rain, Ivanr. I’m waiting for more rain.’
At first Bakune refused to number the days of his imprisonment. He judged it irrelevant and frankly rather cliched. But being imprisoned in a cell so narrow he could touch a hand to either side, and so short it was less than two of his paces, he almost immediately came to the realization that, in point of fact, there was little else for him to do.
Those first few days he sat on his straw-padded cot attempting to calm himself to the point where he would not embarrass himself when they came to execute him. Each day that then passed, in his opinion, made that outcome less and less likely. After the first week he decided that he would be down here for some time; they must be planning to let him work upon himself in the solitude and the dark and the damp. So he attempted to cultivate a more distanced, even ironic, attitude. It simplified matters that he saw his predicament as so very rich in irony.
Just how many men and women had he condemned to these very Carceral Quarters? More than he could easily quantify. What did he think of his country’s law enforcement regime now that he was the object — nay, perhaps victim — of it? Far less sanguine, he had to admit. These stone walls were scouring from his skin a certain insulating layer of smugness, a certain armouring of self-righteousness.
By the second week he began to worry. Perhaps they really did have no intention of returning to him. Every passing day made that possibility ever more likely as well. What need had they of his endorsement now that their control grew ever more firm? Perhaps through his own stiff-necked pride he had succeeded only in making himself superfluous. Yet a part of him could not help but note: So this is the process… how many convicted had he himself condemned to rot for months before being dragged out to reconsider their stories? The mind… gnaws at itself. Certainties become probabilities, become doubts. Whilst doubts become certainties. And nothing is as it was.
What will become of me? Will I even I recognize me?
On the seventeenth night strange noises awoke him. It was utterly dark, of course; even darker than during the working day as all torches and lamps had been taken away or extinguished. But he believed that what jerked him awake was a definite crash as of wood smashing. He went to his door and listened at the small metal grate.
Whispers. Heated whispers. Angry muffled argument. Whatever was going on? He was tempted to shout a question — then, steps outside his door. Two sets: one light, the other heavy and flat-footed. The dim glow of a flame shone through the door’s timbers. He backed away to the not-so-far wall.
A faint tap on the door. A low growled voice: ‘Hello? Anyone there? Are you the Assessor, Bakune?’
This did not sound like a midnight execution squad. He made an effort to steady his voice, said: ‘Who are you?’
‘A friend. You are the Assessor?’
‘Yes,’ he answered faintly, then, stronger, ‘Yes — I am.’
‘Very good. I’m going to get you out.’
What? Lady’s dread, no! An escape? Escape to where? ‘Wait a moment-’
‘I’ll be right back.’
‘I will get him out!’ boomed a new voice.
‘Will you shut up!’ hissed the first. ‘You will do no such thing. You’ve already done enough.’
‘But this is my specialty,’ the second voice bellowed out again cheerily. ‘I will pick the lock!’
‘No! Don’t… stand back, Assessor!’
Bakune already had his back to the opposite wall. He had to straddle the vile hole that served as the privy to do so. He jumped as the door crashed with a great blow that made his ears ring. Dust and broken slivers dropped from the aged hand-adzed planks. It seemed as if a giant’s fist had struck it.
‘Would you stop doing that!’ the gravelly voice shouted.
‘One last delicate touch!’
The door jumped inward to reverberate against the wall. A bald head gleaming with sweat peered in — the defendant, the priest. Bakune couldn’t recall his name. Next to him stood a giant. So tall was he that the opening only came up to his shoulders, and so wide Bakune did not think he was capable of entering the cell.
‘There!’ the giant announced. ‘The lock is picked!’
The priest rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘We’re leaving,’ he growled, then glared at the giant. ‘It seems we have no choice!’
The giant bent his head down to peer in. ‘Using my unparalleled skills in stealth and deception I have effected your escape, good Assessor.’
Bakune shared an incredulous look with the priest. ‘How very… discreet… it has been, too.’
Beneath an enormous bushy heap of curly hair bound up on top of his head, the man beamed. The two would-be rescuers appeared to share a Theftian background by their accent and their blunt features. ‘But I am not going.’
The giant’s gaze narrowed and he peered left and right as if confused. The priest sighed. ‘Yes, I understand. But there’s no choice now… they’ll just kill you out of hand. Or torture you to death. Come, time is short.’
‘I can’t-’ Bakune stopped himself. Can’t break the law? Whose law? These Guardians have no legitimacy. He felt his shoulders fall. ‘Yes. Very well.’
‘Good. This way.’
The priest led. The giant, who gave his name as Manask, followed him. Bakune was last. Up the hall they came to a guard station — or the remains of one. The door had been smashed open and guards lay bashed into unconsciousness. Bakune eyed Manask, who gestured proudly to encompass the scene. ‘I snuck up upon them.’
‘Yes… I see.’
‘They did not suspect a thing!’
The priest lit an oil lamp then urged them forward. Speaking as quietly as possible, Bakune demanded, ‘And just where are we going?’
‘We will flee into the wilds,’ announced Manask. ‘Live off berries and mushrooms. Slay animals with our bare hands and wear their hides.’ Bakune and the priest both wordlessly studied the man, who looked back at them, eager. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve a boat waiting,’ the priest growled.
Bakune felt infinite relief. ‘Where are we going?’
The priest rubbed the grey bristles at his jaw and cheeks as if surprised by the question. ‘Going? Don’t know. Maybe we’ll just hide,’ and he shrugged. ‘Now, c’mon. We’ve wasted enough time.’
Bakune was surprised when the priest led them a different route from the way most prisoners were brought in. As Assessor he’d visited the Carceral Quarters a number of times, but always by the main way. The route the priest took brought them to narrower, winding halls. After a time he realized that they walked the passages of the old fort that the carcery had been built upon. A lifetime of enquiry and assessing prompted him to wonder about this.
At one point, while they waited for Manask to edge his huge bulk round a particularly tight corner, he murmured to the priest, ‘You know these ways well.’
