Gemworld (5 page)

“Well, then, how do
you
explain what you’re doing?” he asked, suddenly unsure of himself.

Still offended, Jaren spoke through clenched teeth. “By virtue of the power vested in my soulgem, Emerald, I am wielding the natural forces of this world. I am manipulating the vitality in this metal bar, accelerating the natural aging process to the point where the metal weakens and fails. There is absolutely nothing spiritual about it. And I’ll thank you to remember that! Mysticism—what
you
seem to mistake for magic—is expressly forbidden by the Prophets, named as unnatural and an abomination in the sight of the Crafter.” With a quick turn of the wrist, he snapped his bar, and turned back to face Sal. The menacing look was gone from his face, replaced by a stony resolve. “Don’t ever let me hear you utter such blasphemy in my presence again. Ever.”

Magic
, natural?
That
’
s a new one. Wonder what Chaplain Mathis back home would have to say about that.

The inmates behind them continued to snore, apparently thanks to the other three mages spaced out along the bars. “Manipulating the natural sleep process?” Sal speculated. Jaren glanced askance at Sal, then gave a curt nod of confirmation. He may have got that one right, but the idea of magic still didn’t seem real to him.

“The guards?” Sal prompted, by way of changing the subject.

“We’ve got another emerald covering the guard shack,” the mage outside the cell said softly as he snapped his bar. His voice was barely warmer than Jaren’s.

“Just one, Tavin?” Reit questioned as he stepped through to freedom.

“Resources were committed elsewhere,
el
’
Yatza
,” the mage said apologetically, bowing slightly as Reit straightened before him. “I had only four others at my disposal that could be here in time.”

Retzu stepped out next, followed by Sal. As Jaren stepped through, Tavin dropped to one knee, bowing his head in respect. Sal noted the greater deference to Jaren instead of Reit. Sal wondered if Tavin wasn’t Jaren’s apprentice.

Jaren brought him to his feet. “No time for that now. Tell me how you got in.”

“The safe house,” he replied, turning his blazing emerald eyes to the sleeping inmates within the bars.

“Then we leave by the same way,” Jaren said, looking to Reit, who nodded his approval. With a whistle, Jaren called the other emeralds from their respective posts, and they all set out from the cell.

Retzu led the way toward the guard shack at the far end of the courtyard. Sal saw that his own cave-like cell had been flanked by others—these being man-made—-complete with their own allotment of snoozing inmates.

Another emerald mage came out of the guard shack, with a gold-hilted sword in one hand, and a brown glass bottle in the other. Retzu took the sword from the mage and strapped it across his back, sighing with relief as it settled into the hollow between his shoulders. The mage handed the bottle to Reit. “Compliments of the management,” he said with a grin which Reit returned. They stood to one side as Retzu passed, easing his sword from its sheath as he entered the shack, the mage’s face visibly growing pale, even in the darkness of the compound. Moments later Retzu reemerged, wiping blood from his blade.

“Thank you, milord,” the mage by the doorway said, swallowing slightly.

Retzu winked reassuringly. “No worries. Yours is to give life, whereas mine is to take it. We all have our place, mate.” Still, the mage bowed his gratitude.

Jaren stepped to the forefront and addressed the other emerald. “As soon as we’re out of sight, awaken the rest of the prisoners. They’ll be glad for the chance at freedom, and the confusion may serve to cover our trail.” The mage nodded his assent, and turned toward the courtyard as Retzu led the troop away from it.

“What about that last guy?” Sal whispered as they hurried on.

“Laryn? He lives here,” Jaren answered. “After he wakes the prisoners in the cell, he’ll duck out of there and give them a chance to escape ‘unseen’. They’ll bless their good fortune and scatter, and no one will be the wiser that we were the architects of their escape, or that Laryn had given assistance.”

“And even if they do figure it out,” Reit interjected, after a meaningful look at Jaren, “we’ll be long gone by the time the Highest gets wind of it.”

It seemed that there was an answer to every question Sal had, though the answer may be more incredible than the question. Curiosity sated—as much as it
could
be satisfied given the situation—Sal trotted on in silence. Extreme as the night’s activity had been, it had all run very smoothly, testimony to the hours that had no doubt gone into the planning. It was just as well, anyway. Sal was so thoroughly bewildered that he could barely form a coherent thought, let alone offer any help to his rescuers.

As they fled the prison courtyard and made their way out into the city, Sal’s bewilderment gave way to pure awe. The city was
gorgeous
! Logistically, Sal couldn’t imagine the prison being anywhere but the worst part of the city, but the streets or buildings surrounding the prison gave only the barest indication that the prison even existed. The buildings, though wooden, were nothing short of elegant. Filigreed doorways, lacquered and polished roof slats, decorative columns; even the bars on the windows were intricate ivies of hammered bronze. Some of the buildings were smaller, plainer, having roofs of thatch instead of plank, but even these thatched roofs were tightly bound and freshly maintained. He may have been in the bad side of town, but Sal had to admit, the local slum lord definitely had a knack for architectural genius and took great pride in his work.

The rescuers and their wards made their way eastward along a cobbled avenue, staying in the shadows as much as possible. Retzu led the group, with sword drawn and making not a sound as he went. Reit followed close behind, having picked up a mean looking cudgel along the way. Sal and Jaren came next, the mage’s eyes blazing brilliantly as they scanned the night darkened streets before them. The other emeralds, led by Tavin, brought up the rear.

The cobbled lane eventually gave way to a much wider avenue, sporting a central colonnade, and with a number of smaller streets dumping into the avenue like tributaries. Thatch and slat roofed structures continued to line both sides of the road, but Sal was able to pick out a few buildings with clay shingles. The party headed toward a large shop with a wraparound porch, a second story, and expensive looking glazed tiles on the roof. Sal took it to be an inn.

All the windows were dark, but as they neared, a rotund old man appeared in the front door. Making shushing gestures, he hurried them inside. He eased the door shut behind him, and waved the group forward, herding them silently through a tavern area toward a doorway in the back. They pushed through the double swinging doors, and firelight spilled out from the kitchen beyond, where cooks and wenches were already slaving away over the cooking fires. As the doors swung shut behind the fugitives, a muted celebration took place.

“Excellent work, Duffer,” Reit praised the chubby, cheery faced innkeeper, who caught him up in a bear hug.

“Blessed Crafter, it’s good to see you, milord,” the innkeeper gushed, hugging Reit ever tighter. The bearded twin slapped Duffer’s back, though Sal couldn’t tell if it was out of joy or a need to keep from passing out.

Taking a cue from their employer, the cooks and wenches followed suit, congratulating fugitive and rescuer alike on the success of the night’s operation. Even Sal was made welcome, embraced by one pretty wench with big blue eyes and... other lively features. But before he could get the young woman’s name, Duffer sent her off to round up some supplies. With a sigh and an apologetic smile, she slipped from Sal’s arms and vanished through one of the many doors that led from the kitchen.

Celebration was soon set aside, and Reit was all business again. Did you get all my messages? Were there any problems? Did anyone notice the emeralds? Were any of the inn’s patrons suspicious of Duffer or his employees? Reit peppered the innkeeper with questions, and Duffer fired answers back just as quickly.

The language was vague, though Sal doubted it was for his benefit. As a stranger, Reit may have considered him a liability, but he and Duffer were talking too fast to be circumspect about anything. It wasn’t long, though, before he got the basics of what was going on, and the answers to some of his own questions as well.

First and most obvious was that the inn was the safe house that the mage Tavin had mentioned, and that Duffer was a point of contact for the resistance movement against the Highest.

Second, and more enlightening, was that Reit was the head of the resistance—not just any old leader, but the Top Dog himself!

Sal was still pondering the implications when his serving girl returned, arms laden with packs for the fugitives. As Sal received his, he undid the leather strips that held it closed and looked inside… and his heart leap for joy.

Food!
Real
food!

“Now, now, that’s for your journey,” Duffer admonished, rewinding the pack straps around their moorings as if he’d known Sal his whole life. Sal’s belly nearly screamed in protest, but the innkeeper was right. They were far from safe here, still well within the confines of the city. A full stomach would be a poor consolation for him being recaptured by the local constabulary.

But the innkeeper was not without a heart. He snagged each man a small loaf of warm sourdough bread as he herded them out of the kitchen, down some stairs into a cellar. One of his cooks went before them, carrying a torch to light the way. Sal’s bread had vanished before he was even halfway down the stairwell.

At the bottom, Sal took in the cellar—dimly lit, and ringed with enormous wine barrels neatly arranged along the walls, each already lying on its side and tapped—and he gained a new respect for Duffer. There was not a cobweb to be found. The flagstone floor was well swept. The brass barrel taps were all polished, gleaming in the unaccustomed light of the torch. Even down here where no customer ever ventured, Duffer took pride in his work.

The cook hung his torch in a nearby socket, and then joined the innkeeper where he’d set upon working the lid off one of the barrels. Dark liquid dripped from the widening lip of the cask, but it didn’t gush forth as Sal would have expected. As the innkeeper hefted the lid to one side, Sal saw why. A false back had been built into the cask lid, one that held just enough wine to feed the tap, were it ever to be opened.
Pretty slick
, Sal thought with genuine appreciation, an emotion that grew as Sal stooped to peer into the cask.

The interior of the vat was pitch black, much darker than one would expect a simple cask would be, even in the confines of the wine cellar. The darkness seemed to extend beyond the wall that the cask was propped up against. And all at once, it was clear to Sal how the other emeralds had gotten into the city, and how they expected to get out. In the far distance deep within the “cask”, he could see a handful of flickering sconces, receding into a seemingly endless tunnel.

No sooner had the lid been laid aside that Reit started ushering the fugitives through the portal. The innkeeper shuffled up to Reit with almost childlike awkwardness, his skin flushing visibly even in the almost cryptic darkness. How strange that the old man would place such esteem upon a man who had to be more than thirty years his junior!

“Duffer, I can’t begin to thank you,” Reit said softly. “What you do for us, the risks you take… we can’t begin to repay you.”

“Your gratitude is payment enough,
el
’
Yatza
,” the innkeeper replied sincerely, bowing slightly with the odd title he’d given Reit. He seemed to want to say more, but instead made his farewells, as his customers would soon be making their morning demands. One hearty “Crafter shelter you,” and he was gone, leaving the cook to replace the lid.

Once inside the tunnel, Sal was relieved to find that it was taller, if not wider, than its camouflaged entrance.
No crawling for miles like some dang Viet Cong throwback, at least,
he thought gratefully. The floor of the tunnel was gravel, the walls and ceiling rough-hewn from the rock upon with the city was founded. The passageway was tight, but functional. Sal once might have thought the tunnel to be absolutely claustrophobic, but ironically, Sal had never felt freer, trudging down the cramped passage with only a handful of torches to light their way in the subterranean darkness.

There were very few attempts at conversation, as nobody seemed to be interested. It wasn’t that there was nothing to talk about. Far from it; Sal could start right away and ask questions until he was an old man! But that abysmal channel was oppressive to the point that conversation seemed more an irritant than a pastime. Just as well; Sal put his feet on autopilot and let his mind endlessly drift over his circumstances.

There was no way to tell how long they stayed in the tunnel. Sal tried to count his paces, then, when the number got too high to keep track of easily, he took to counting the sparse torches, set some fifty feet apart. That was even easier, as he could hear the sputtering hiss behind him as one of the emeralds extinguished each torch they passed. Finally, when Sal was well over a hundred torches along, the tunnel took a sharp left turn and began climbing. Floor became steps. Darkness gave way to dim light. When Sal reached the top of the steps, he found himself in a water cut cavern, with the late morning sun beating a path through the foliage at the cave mouth. Their orderly marching rapidly became chaos, as eight souls leapt for the shadows to embrace the light of day.