The Hostage Prince (10 page)

T
hey exited the dark corridors and found themselves by the Great Midden Heap. It steamed into the morning, curlicues of stench and smoke intertwined. Nearby were long, thin patches of furrowed gardens with giant vegetables overflowing the rows.

The smell
, Aspen thought,
is indescribable. And unbearable
.

He glanced around. Except for the gardens, nothing grew on this land and it sloped away to the great, rushing river about a mile down hill from there.
Nowhere to hide on this open border
, he thought.
A very vulnerable spot
. He wondered if any of the Seelie weapons were trained on this place—the catapults and other siege engines that his father had been so proud of—the catapults especially, which could sling huge boulders across great expanses.

Squinting, he tried to look at the other side of the river, but it was too far away. Besides, the midden smoke was much too thick for him to see anything but the dark water with its occasional whitecaps of waves showing where rills and rocks lay.

Jack Daw made a hand signal at Snail, squeezing his thumb and pointer fingers together, and she nodded, showing that she understood he wanted her to extinguish the candle before they crossed the gardens. Aspen nodded, too, at how quickly she had caught Jack's meaning, immediately pinching the light out, so that its single smoke curl faded into the larger midden cloud.

Then, in single file, they followed after the drow, stepping over huge ungainly turnips and carrots and marrows that all looked more like enormous orange-colored sausages than the elegant vegetables served up at the king's table cut and molded into fanciful shapes like dragons and chimerae and other creatures of the Unseelie bestiary
.

Though the vegetables were huge, they were only huge for vegetables, and provided no actual cover for Aspen or his two companions on their short journey from the midden heap to Wester Tower. He knew the tower by the description Jack Daw had given him, but he was glad to have the old drow lead them to it. Mistakes at this stage could cost him his life.

The tower was not all that tall aboveground, but it went a long way down
into
the ground. It was never a good idea for the Unseelie folk to march across great stretches of land in the daylight; their eyes were meant for darkness. So when they were forced to cross this expanse, they'd had captive Seelie slaves build the tower and its tunnel system. It had been a boon for their sorties into Seelie land. Jack had once told him that when the Border Lords had become a part of their armies, the Unseelie Court had finally an overground as well as an underground troop.

“Made us stronger,” Jack had said, in that flat way he had of speaking. “Though getting them to follow orders is like herding sheep. It takes dogs and a good whip hand.” Aspen remembered how the drow had laughed at his own witticism, a kind of harsh cawing.

Seeing the gardens—which must have been tended by day by Seelie slaves or changelings stolen from the human folk—as well as getting his first look at the mile-long run down to the water along open ground, Aspen only now really understood why the tower was so important.

All the more reason to marvel at Jack's thoroughness
, he thought.
No guards anywhere.
He sent a good-health spell toward his old tutor's back and was pleased to see Jack's shoulders straighten a bit.

But a random thought ruined his good mood as they reached the tower and stared down into darkness.

From one dungeon to another
.

Still, it didn't matter what lay below them. He knew the Water Gate was at the very bottom, and so down into the earth he would go.

*  *  *

W
ITHOUT COMMENT
, they started down the spiral stairs that wound widdershins into the earth.

The stairs were stone—dark, uneven—but Jack strode down them surefooted and swift. Aspen followed behind, trusting to his tutor's night vision. However, Snail trailed well behind, and for the third time in as many minutes, they heard her stumble and curse.

Aspen turned his head and whispered, “Snail, keep up!”

“Snail, is it?” Jack Daw said. “Aptly named.”

“It seems so,” Aspen agreed. He did not mention how swift she had been to kill the ogre and to take the knife from its back.

They walked down the stairs for what seemed like hours.
Or at least
, Aspen thought,
my knees seem to think it's been hours
.

Snail began to drop farther and farther behind.

Finally, they stopped to let her catch up a little.

“Are you sure we cannot leave her?” Jack Daw asked. It wasn't the first time.

That is awfully tempting
, Aspen had to admit. The girl was annoying and only barely knew her place. But every time he thought about agreeing with Jack Daw and abandoning her on the dark staircase, he remembered how she had faced down the drow with her knife in one hand and the candle in the other, looking half-ridiculous and completely fierce when she said, “Let . . . him . . . go.”

Of course
, he thought,
that was before she found out that Jack was our friend.

Our
only
friend,
Aspen reminded himself.

He frowned at Jack and tried to copy one of the apprentice's glares. “No, we cannot. And do not ask again.”

Aspen did not think his glare impressed the old drow, but Jack managed a bow and said, “As you wish, Your Serenity.”

*  *  *

S
NAIL FINALLY CAUGHT UP
. She was having a bit of trouble drawing breath, and her hair no longer stood straight up but was lying on her head in tendrils.
It makes her look more feminine
, Aspen thought.
Not beautiful like the twins, of course, or even pretty like the other apprentice in the dungeon. But more
 . . . He tried to figure out what he meant and could only come up with
more
presentable
.

However, Aspen noted, she was also neither limping nor shuffling, so at least
her
knees did not hurt.

“Shouldn't we be quieter?” she whispered.

Aspen was again annoyed that she didn't address him properly, but she had a fresh bruise on her cheek from her latest stumble, and perhaps she did not need to perform a curtsey when she was using the word
we.
He'd never been a
we
with a servant before, so he was unsure of that protocol.

It was Jack who answered, and sharply, putting the girl in her place. “There is no one near.”

“I was thinking of assassins,” she said.

Jack laughed and Snail looked startled, though whether it was because of his laugh or something else, Aspen could not guess.

“I think,” Jack said slowly, curiously aware, like a wolf readying to pounce, “I think those were taken care of.”

“I mean more assassins. Or guards. Or . . .” She ran out of options, or perhaps words.

Jack tapped his long nose with a black fingernail. “I'd smell them if they were about.”

“How can you smell anything but the Great Midden Heap?” Aspen asked, voice rising in exasperation. The midden may have been well behind them now, but the stench still lingered in his nostrils.

Jack chuckled. “For all the hours of the night and day, I deal with kings and queens, and the courtiers who sniff at their heels, young Serenity.”

“I fail to see your point.” Aspen hated it when Jack did this—said something that seemed to make no sense, before offering an explanation, at which point it suddenly became painfully obvious that Aspen should have known the point all along. Aspen knew he was supposed to learn something whenever the old drow spoke that way, but it just made him feel stupid. And somehow everything seemed much worse now that Jack was showing him up in front of an apprentice midwife.

“I do not see how you can miss the meaning,” Jack said, quickly adding, “Serenity,” as if that alone could take the sting out of what he was saying. “My point is that I am completely immune to the smell of rotting dung.”

Aspen heard Snail stifle a laugh behind him. It made his face burn in the darkness. “Very droll,” he managed.

“My apologies if I offended you, Your Serenity.” Jack sniffed the air. “But do you know what I smell now?”

“What?”

“Water,” Snail said.

“Water,” the drow said as if Snail had never spoken.

As soon as the word was in the air, almost by magic, Aspen could smell the water. And hear it, too, a strong subterranean rumble of water pounding on stone.

“Water,” he whispered. It was a promise, a prayer, and a deep sigh.

*  *  *

T
HEY MANAGED TO
get down the next ten steps at a run, Aspen in the lead, though he slowed to finish the final ten steps with a bit more care. He was glad to have done so, for the stairs ended abruptly in a huge cavern lit by long torches like spears magically thrust into the stone floor.

Looking up, Aspen could see neither ceiling nor stars, and was amazed by how far into the earth they'd come.

The ground was clear of upthrust rocks, having been carved away to make transfer of troops or treasure from the dock to the stairs easier. He had no idea how long it had taken, how many slaves had spent how many months down here at work. Probably under the whips of dwarves, who were the Unseelie Court's stone carvers. Huge chainlike rocks hung from the unseen ceiling, hinting at how big the upthrust rocks must once have been.

Hard-packed dirt marked a trail that pointed them to a small shack and a wooden dock at the far end of the cavern. They walked the trail carefully. Now was not the time to trip and break a limb, nor the time to make any unwanted noise.

Next to the shack stood a tall, incredibly thin creature in a long, black, hooded robe. Clearly the creature—
an it or a he?
Aspen could not tell—was the ferryman, for he was holding a poling staff nearly the height of the ramshackle building. He—it—could have been standing there for hours. Or even days. He—it—made no movement even now, or at least none that Aspen could see.

A he,
Aspen finally decided, never having seen anything like the ferryman before. The creature reminded him of the kind of bugs that could camouflage themselves like sticks so completely, birds could not distinguish them from the twigs on which they sat.

Looking around carefully, Aspen saw there was no one else around. No soldiers, no guards, no assassins. Jack had indeed done his work well. Aspen was careful not to ask how he had disposed of the guards. He was afraid Jack would tell him.

Or—worse—show him.

The ferryman turned his buglike head toward them, and even from this far away, Aspen felt pinned by the stare of the pale, pupil-less eyes that filled most of the thing's face.

“What
is
that?” breathed Snail.

“The Sticksman,” Jack Daw answered her, but looked down at Aspen. “He will ferry you over the river. I hope you brought coins.”

A
spen started forward without waiting for the others, but Jack Daw put a hand on Snail's shoulder. She could feel his nails dig into the flesh, hard enough to hurt but not so hard as to bring blood. She marveled at his control even as she feared it.

“Not so fast, apprentice,” he said, and laughed at the fearful look on her face.

I've heard that sound before,
she thought,
and it wasn't that long ago!

Only then did she finally realize who the old drow was—the other laugher in the ogre's room, watching and listening in the shadows as she had been questioned. Probably drinking in her fear and her anger as well. It was said drows loved to feast on famine and gnaw on the bones of the near dead. Said part in admiration and part in awe.

She wanted to ask him
why
, but didn't trust herself to say the right thing, so was silent, waiting to hear what he had to say. But she turned her head and glared at him. He made no return of her glare. Indeed, it was as if he hadn't even noticed.

When he spoke again, it was not what she expected to hear.

“You must tie me up,” he said. “Tightly. As if making sure I could not stop you from getting into the boat. Then when I am found—and I
will
be found—I can tell them truthfully that the girl tied me up and the prince escaped. No Truth-seeker will be able to get any more out of me than that.”

She knew there had to be more than this simple explanation. Yes, Truth-seekers could sniff out untruths. So what he said made sense—as far as it went. Still, he was leaving so much out. For starters, why he wasn't coming with them, how he knew he'd be found, what he'd been doing in the ogre's room. And now she realized he was the one who killed the ogre. He
had
said it was a drow's knife!

“But . . . but . . .” It was all she could manage.

“No buts. It must be done. Otherwise, the blame will fall entirely on my shoulders, and I could then no longer help the prince.”

She nodded, as if she understood, but she didn't. She thought,
Once we are in the boat and across the water, why should it matter if Jack Daw can or can't help the prince? The prince—and I—will be beyond the drow's reach, and beyond the Unseelie king's as well.

At least she hoped that much was true.

“What can I tie you with?” She realized she'd made up her mind to do the binding the moment she spoke. Jack Daw's motives no longer mattered. She would be safer if he was unable to change his mind about helping the prince, because where the prince went, she went.

At least until I'm in Seelie lands.

The drow was already reaching into a deep pocket of his robe. As he pulled out a long braided rope—the kind the hangman used—she understood how planned out the whole escape had been.

Though not
, she thought,
my part of it.
She had been an unwanted knot in the drow's escape rope from the beginning. Of that she was sure.

“How should I tie you?”

He laughed, that now-familiar sound. “You choose.”

She figured he didn't expect her—a mere girl, an apprentice, an
underling
—to make a good job of it. But midwives had to learn to knot well. Yes, they worked with tiny sutures, but they tied them surely and with swift fingers.

A knot
, she thought,
is a knot. I will tie you up tight, old drow. You will not get out of this bond as easily as you think.

She took the rope.

Their eyes met. This time when she glared at him, he looked away. But a smile played around his severe mouth as if he knew something more and was not telling.

Well, I know something more, too
, she thought.
I know you were in the room when the ogre was questioning me. And I know how to tie knots.
If she was lucky, at least some of that would give her an edge.

“Turn,” Snail instructed him, her voice soft sounding but with a hard edge beneath. Quickly, she looked over at the prince. He was paying the two of them no mind, assuming—in his toffee-nosed way—that they were surely following. He'd almost reached the Sticksman and the flat-bottomed ferryboat. The boatman was facing them and saw what was happening between the apprentice and the drow, but he showed little interest, at least as far as Snail could tell.

“Hands behind you,” she told the drow, in the same soft voice.

“Sir,” Jack corrected.

“Hands behind you,
sir,
” she said, then began to bind him tightly. He tried to move his wrists, seeking a more comfortable position, and she gave the rope another swift, hard twist, which stopped the movement, causing him to grunt out loud.

His shoulders hunched. She could feel the tension all the way down to his hands.

Then she took out the knife, cut a piece off the hem of her skirt, and, coming around to the drow's front, held up the cloth.

“I think silencing you is an even better idea,” she said.

His yellow eyes got huge. There was a powerful fury in them. But he was not looking at the hand that held the cloth. He was looking at the other hand, the one that held the knife. He opened his mouth to yell something at her and she stuffed the rag in.

“There,” she said, “you can tell
that
to the Truth-seeker as well. It may buy you a pardon and us more time, should we need it.” Putting the knife back in her pocket, she bent down and searched his robe. She found two huge butcher knives with obsidian blades and put them into her own pocket.

“I don't think you will be needing these now.” She smiled.

He growled something indistinguishable through the rag, but curses—as she well knew—didn't work through cloth. To be extra certain, she cut off another piece of her hem and wound it twice around his face to bind the mouth rag, then tied the ends securely at the back of his head.

“There,” she said, “that should hold you until we are on the water. And Unseelie curses do not go any easier over the water than do Unseelie folk.” She shuddered a moment, thinking about the water, hoping that unease on water was only true of the Unseelie lords and the creatures, and not the underlings like herself.

Then she turned and raced after the prince, who had just reached the ferryboat and was even now speaking to the Sticksman, who'd bent over nearly double to listen to what was being asked.