Rebellion

her. By her arm, she was willing to bet. Her hand went to her shoulder.

“Next time,” he said, “if you’re planning to jump off the top off my priory, you might like to pick a better spot. Or at least give me a little warning.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice. They were behind me.”

“They?”

“I don’t know who. Someone. Mallory tried to stall them, but they followed me all the way up the stairs. There was nowhere else to go.”

“So you chose to jump, rather than to be taken.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“You’ll stay here until we can discover where they’re being held.”

“As a guest? Or a prisoner?”

“I still think ‘guest’ sounds better, don’t you?”

“Nice to know we’re on the same page,” she muttered.

Michael turned away, and stepped lightly onto the dais beside the wooden throne, skirting around it. “I wouldn’t be so glib, if I were you. Mallory. Vhnori. Jester. They all have one thing in common. What do you suppose that might be, Alice? And has it occurred to you that you might be next?”

“Guest it is. One thing, though?”

“You aren’t exactly in a position to be asking for favours.”

“I don’t think you’ll have a problem with this one.”

“Oh?”

“When we find them, Vin and Mallory – and we will – and we find who’s responsible for this? I go with you.”

“Done.” But as he said it, Michael’s back was turned to Alice, and she did not see the slow smile that spread across his face...

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN Only a Soldier

IT WAS THE dripping that woke him. Something dripping onto his face. Something regular and insistent.

It was cold.

It was annoying.

Mallory raised a hand to his cheek to wipe the drip away, and was surprised to discover, firstly, that his whole face was wet, and secondly, that there was something around his left wrist. A band of some kind. It felt like metal.

He opened his eyes and blinked at the darkness, and heard someone or something scuttle away.

That was enough to get his eyes completely open, and he sat bolt upright, pulling himself into a defensive crouch and feeling for his guns.

They had gone. Frantically, he felt along the line of his belt. Nothing. In his pockets: no guns. No bullets. Worse: no hip flask.

He groaned.

There was another scuttling sound. And, unless he was mistaken, someone breathing.

“Who’s there?” he called into the darkness.

“...THE FUCK.” VIN moaned as he rolled over. He was somewhere cold and dark and wet. And he had an appalling headache. Almost like he’d been hit over the head. He blinked. It didn’t appear to make any difference. It was still dark. He tried to remove his sunglasses, hoping that might help. They weren’t there.

“Well, that’s not a good start, is it?” he said to no-one in particular. Only the echoes of his voice answered him.

The throbbing pain in his head radiated from a point at the back of his skull; he felt for it and yelped as he found a large lump. Red and white pain spiked through his head, blooming in front of his eyes. Someone had hit him over the head. “Bastards,” he muttered through his teeth. The pain was subsiding – a little. Not that it improved the situation much: as his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he started to pick out walls, and a concrete floor. And very little else.

“Mallory?”

Silence.

“Alice?”

Silence.

“Anyone?”

Somewhere, not too far away, something barked.

“Bollocks,” said Vin.

“WHO’S THERE? I can hear you, so there’s not much bloody point in pretending, is there?”

The breathing on the other side of the room was a little calmer now; a little less afraid. Mallory closed his eyes, trying to pinpoint where it came from.

“I know you’re there,” Mallory said, softer this time. Whoever it might be, he certainly wasn’t in the mood, nor the condition, for a fight. His chest ached where the buckshot had torn holes in his flesh; the feel of his feathers rubbing against each other was like razors sliding down his back... but he was healing. He knew he was healing, because if he wasn’t, he’d be dead. What he didn’t know was how long it would take.

“Look, I’m sure you have your reasons for pretending you can’t hear me, but I’ve had a difficult day. Days. I don’t know. Either way, my patience is wearing pretty thin, and I’ve got fuck-all to drink, so you can either come out and talk to me, or you can hide in the shadows and wait for me to come find you. And if I have to come find you, I can promise you I’ll be even more pissed off than I am now. Your choice.” He hunkered back on his heels.

There was a sound which could have been someone clearing their throat, somewhere in the gloom.

“He said...” said an unfamiliar voice, rough from disuse, “he said to tell you that it was to stop you from pulling a vanishing act. To keep you here. He said the walls wouldn’t be enough.” The voice stopped, then cleared its throat again, as though speaking had been an effort.

“It?”

“He said you’d know what that meant.”

“Oh, this.” Mallory tapped the manacle – because that, he had realised soon enough, was what was wrapped around his wrist – with his fingernail. It tinged dully. “Figured.” He peered back into the gloom. “I don’t suppose you could tell me who ‘he’ is, do you?”

“The man.”

“Yes...”

“I don’t know his name. He’s the only one I’ve seen.”

“The only one of who?”

“Them.”

“Right.” Mallory sighed. “How about you stop me when I start going wrong?” He paused. The voice didn’t answer. Mallory took this as an invitation. “‘They’ brought you here, am I right? Just like ‘they’ brought me here.”

“You were bleeding.”

“No shit.” It was all he could do not to laugh, but he pulled back. “They brought me here, and one of... them... put something round my wrist and gave you that message for me. He didn’t tell you his name, but I’ll bet he seemed like he knew me.”