slightly and heading for the next gate; the one in the stockade.
Behind the cart, Ursa and his companion ran to keep up.
All hell was now breaking loose in the compound. Most of the soldiers were holed up either asleep in the bunkhouse or drinking and sheltering in the guard room. Men emerged from the doors, expressions of shock and surprise plastered across their faces; many of them unarmed and unarmoured, caught in an off-duty state.
Confusion reigned and the newly-arrived guards panicked, most of them rushing off toward the burning ammunition store. They would have to get the flames under control before the larger pots caught or they could lose a lot of the warehouse district to fire in the night. A few men who could see beyond this immediate danger turned and ran for the cart. The first, stupidly, tried to grab the reins of the oxen as they thundered past. There was no hope of stopping the huge bovines with this amount of momentum, and the unfortunate man was dragged beneath and trampled to a bloody pulp.
As others tried to keep pace with the heavy, unstoppable cart, Ursa caught up with it, panting and running along behind with his companion, moments before the vehicle hit and burst through the stockade gate.
Screams and shouts of alarm issued from within as the captive pirates and other criminals threw themselves out of the way of the rolling nightmare. As they passed the threshold, the two pirate drivers threw themselves from the cart and rolled to their feet.
Ever-prepared, the men of the Dark Empress began to emerge from the stockade at a run. Ursa heaved a deep breath and bellowed “To the Empress!”
The pursuing guards pulled up sharply as previously-caged criminals of numerous varieties poured out of the stockade with a taste for freedom and many a grudge against their wardens.
As the two dozen men of the Empress ran toward the gate, Ursa shook his head sympathetically at the plight of the guardsmen around him as they struggled amid the wreckage of shattered stockades and gates to control the ever increasing fire at the ammunition store that threatened the whole district, while several dozen vicious criminals took the opportunity to either flee or exact their vengeance on any figure of authority they spotted.
Ghassan had been explicit that he wanted the body-count kept as low as prudence allowed; preferably nil. To Ursa’s knowledge, the only direct casualty had been the man beneath the oxen but, he thought sadly as he ran toward the jetties with his shipmates, the number of deaths caused by fire and escaping prisoners could yet be appalling.
Nothing he could do about that, now, though. His duty was to the Dark Empress, her crew and her captain, wherever he might be.
In which there is a night time visit
The rope had been removed, of course. Samir wondered how long it had taken before the more observant of the palace guards had spotted it arcing out across the street. Likely the entire compound had been searched down to the last cupboard for some kind of interloper. They’d been sadly disappointed. Briefly, the fugitive pirate captain considered walking up to the main gate, bold as brass, and demanding entrance. The shock value of such a move appealed tremendously. However, in all likelihood he would end up chained in the remaining half of the prison tower without ever setting foot in the compound that way.
He glanced up and down the street. The sun had gone down hours ago and, while he had no idea how Ghassan was going to break out the rest of the men and free the ship, he knew two things for certain: that his brother would succeed, and that something spectacular would be involved.
And so he’d stood on one of the highest roofs in this the upper part of the town where he had a magnificent panoramic view of the docks way below at the other end of M’Dahz. He’d not known exactly what he was waiting for, but he felt sure he would recognise a sign of action and he didn’t really want to make his next move until he was sure Ghassan was getting underway.
The wait had been long and dull and Samir had sat on the roof, cutting slices of peach with his pocket knife and snacking as he watched the dark district far below. And then, just after the midnight bells rang out in the town’s temples, he’d spotted what he’d been waiting for. There had been a flash and a column of flame had burst through a roof. He’d have put that down to Ghassan regardless of where it happened, but there was no doubt that the flames were rising from the ammunition store in the guard compound. The colour of the flames and the roiling smoke rising to the stars above was testament to that.
“Good.”
And so he’d turned and made his way down to the street where he now stood, frowning at the palace compound wall. This time he was here on his own schedule and, while he couldn’t afford to waste hours, it was dark and the streets were empty, giving him plenty of space to work.
Looking up, the fifteen feet of sheer-faced boundary wall revealed no possible hand or foot holds but the construction, while cored with solid stone, offered a mud-brick and plaster outer as was common in architecture from the poorer days of M’Dahz.
Gritting his teeth and frowning in concentration, Samir drew two weapons from his belt; utilitarian knives, rather than fighting blades, these were thick and strong. His tongue protruding slightly as he worked, it took only half a minute to dig out a chunk of the wall’s surface at waist height. Smiling, he made another hole at head height with equal ease.
Slowly, he began to climb, using his freshly-excavated hand holds and carving out new ones as he rose. In less than ten minutes, he reached up and for the first time his fingers touched the tile bonding-layers in the wall of the main building itself. With a smile, Samir hauled himself up to the layer and put his knives away carefully, clinging on to the narrow holds and trying not to look down.
Slowly, he pulled himself up to the next available grip and made his way diagonally toward the window of the governor’s office. There had been no light or sign of life in the room when he’d checked from the building opposite, so it was a good place to start. With a grunt and a last heave, he grasped the lintel and pulled himself up and inside, dropping lightly to the floor in a crouch and glancing around sharply.
There was no sound or movement; the office was dark and quiet. Standing, Samir examined the exits. The main door at the far end would lead to the main hallway, probably with a stairwell. That would be the way people entered the governor’s reception room, which this clearly was. Likely, though, the governor would have a second entrance so that he could move between his private apartments and this room without passing a more open, public space.
There were two doors leading off in addition to the main exit, one on each side. Closing his eyes, Samir summoned up a mental picture of the outer facade of the palace from the roof across the street. The two rooms to the left as one faced the wall had been busy during the daytime when he’d sneaked here to eavesdrop on Asima. That meant they were almost certainly administrative or business areas. He couldn’t remember seeing any movement in the rooms to the right, however. They had been empty and silent during the middle of the day.
Nodding with satisfaction, he stepped lightly across the office toward the door, stopping suddenly as he passed the heavy wooden table of dark, northern oak.
Papers scattered around amid ledgers and maps appeared to be random and messy, and Samir leaned heavily on the edge of the table and squinted, trying to make out as much as possible in the scant moonlight afforded by the window.
He smiled and rounded the table to the governor’s chair, where he grasped a particular unfinished letter and sat back, smiling, in the seat, holding up the missive to take maximum advantage of the low, silvery light.
To his majestic highness, Ashar Parishid, high King of Pelasia…
Samir’s smile intensified as he read on, through the governor’s carefully worded explanation of his actions regarding Asima; not quite an apology for turning her back to him, but close enough. It would appear from the letter that Asima was less popular even with the King of Pelasia than with the folk of the Empire. He grinned and cast his eyes across the table.
Reaching out, he grasped a stylus and concentrated as he hunched over the letter. He’d learned to read and write, but it required concentration if he wanted it to look good.
At the bottom of the half-finished letter, he finished a note with a flourish.
Do not send this.
