Unwritten Books 3 - The Young City (22 page)

“Don’t humiliate yourself further,” said Aldous with a sigh. He motioned everyone to the door. “Leave them. We shall interrogate them in a few hours.”

Rob stepped into Rosemary’s vision, blood staining his mouth and chin. “Break my nose again, will you? I’ll show you ....” He balled up his fist. Rosemary flinched.

“Rob,” said Aldous sharply. “Come. Someone will see to your nose.”

Rob glared, then relented. He shuffled out with the others, leaving Aldous behind.

Aldous cast one more glance at his prisoners, then he stepped over to Peter and undid the knot of his gag. “It is useless to cry for help, Mr. McAllister, but perhaps you could talk some sense into your wife. It may save you both some amount of suffering. We will see you in a few hours.”

Then he left, closing the door behind him. Rosemary heard the lock click.

That, surely, was overkill.

A FIERY DEATH

Peter worked his jaw, spitting out his gag like a man eating spaghetti in reverse. It fell onto his lap and he gasped with relief. “Oh God! You won’t believe how bad that tasted!”

Rosemary glared at him and grunted indignantly.

Peter grimaced. “Oh right. Sorry.” He sighed bitterly. “I’m sorry I got you into this. This never would have happened if I hadn’t been so stupid.”

Rosemary shook her head and grunted to say it wasn’t his fault, but he didn’t listen.

“I just ... you were so happy, we finally had a way back home, and I wanted to help you so much, I must have gotten careless ...”

They had to get out, that much was certain. But how? Peter had been tied up for hours, and he wasn’t even close to free. She was no different. The only thing that separated her and Peter was that her chair had wheels ... and knobs.

“... and I thought I’d just confront him. I should have realized he’d have his friends around ...”

She flexed her fingers. She could feel the knobs at the base of her seat. These adjusted things like chair height and angle, and released the brakes. If she could just reach them ...

The ropes and cuffs gave her almost no room to move. But she tried. She stretched for the knobs. She grunted and winced. Tears streamed as she fought her way downward, flexing her fingers, reaching ... touching ...

Peter stared at her in horror. “Rosemary? Rosemary! You’re in pain! That’s it, I’ll give them whatever they want! Hey! Come back!”

Rosemary had two fingers on a knob. She let go and grunted at Peter for quiet, shaking her head.

“Hey! Get in here!”

Rosemary screamed through her gag. He stared at her. She strained to reach the knobs again.

“What are you doing?”

She growled at him.

“Okay, I’ll wait.”

She resumed her struggle. Her fingers touched one of the knobs again. Now she had all five fingers on it. Taking a firm hold, she pushed it, and the chair sank with a hiss. She gasped in relief. The ropes slackened, leaving grooves in her clothes that filled out slowly. Her toes touched the floor.

Peter grinned. “Good going, Rosemary!”

Rosemary felt herself grinning through her gag. She tested her slackened bonds. She had more movement, but not nearly enough. The cuffs around her wrists and ankles left her no hope of freedom without a key. And what was it about those cuffs? They made it hurt just to move her arms. Looking over her shoulder didn’t help.

But Peter was tied up in a similar way. Perhaps they’d used the same cuffs on him. If she could have a look, she might find some weakness, some way to get out. She pressed her toes to the floor, pushed, and remembered the caster brakes.

Her fingers felt the row of knobs again. The loosened bonds gave her more room to stretch. The first lowered her seat, so the second ...

The chair rolled forward, running into Peter’s knees with a bump.

“Ow,” said Peter.

“H’orry,” grunted Rosemary. She eased her chair around Peter, stopping with her boot when she was behind him. She reset the brakes and twisted herself to look at Peter’s arms. She gasped through her gag.

“What are you looking for?” he asked.

Peter’s wrists were ready to bleed, and no wonder: instead of two rings linked by a chain, his handcuffs were bands of iron that wound around both wrists like facing threes, hinged together and locked at one end. He’d scar
if he stayed tied up any longer. Her own wrists ached in sympathy, or just ached.

Then she peered closer. The middle arms of the facing threes, which slipped between the wrists, didn’t meet. Something could be shoved in that gap and the cuffs pried apart. But what could she use?

She eased around Peter and presented her back to him. She splayed her fingers to show her bound wrists. She grunted.

“What?”

She shook herself and grunted again.

He eyes widened. “Oh God, Rosemary, your hands —”

She gave him an exasperated muffled howl and tapped at the gap with her fingers. “Hi
he
ha?”

“Huh?”

Rosemary glared. “Hi
d’he
ha! Hi
d’he
ha!”

“Oh, ideas.” Peter looked around their prison, then nodded at a corner. “There. Hanging on a hook off the metal shelf. A crowbar.”

Rosemary swivelled around, spotted the shelf, swivelled back, and gave Peter a nod. She kicked herself across the floor in four tries, sized up her last length, aimed, and shoved herself into the shelf. There was a clatter. Tools dangled from their hooks.

She looked up in time to see the crowbar come off its nail. She grunted as it struck her shoulder and landed on her lap.

“Rosemary!” Peter cried.

She nodded that she was all right. She kicked and coasted back to Peter and sidled around him. Then she paused. The crowbar was on her lap and her hands were behind her. How was she going to pass the tool to Peter? She rocked her chair into his hands.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” His fingers grabbed, but they couldn’t grasp the crowbar. “This isn’t working!”

Rosemary sighed. Maybe if she raised her chair an inch. Which was the knob for that? She fingered the row, pressed, then shrieked as the chair keeled over backwards. She and the crowbar clattered to the floor.

Peter strained to look behind him. “Rosemary! Speak to me!”

Rosemary groaned. The full weight of her chair and body pinched her arms to the floor and the crowbar rested on her chest. She looked down at it, then got an idea.

She tilted her body, slid the crowbar to the floor, then rolled the other way. On her side, she could move more easily — though more painfully — than she could when she was upright. She leaned back, grabbed the crowbar, and swung it into Peter’s hands. He yelped, but caught it and held on.

Then Rosemary shoved her wrists around the dangling end of the crowbar, pressing it into the gap in the handcuffs. She could feel the metal scrape across her skin, slip between the two prongs of the cuffs, and
catch. This will work, she told herself. “Hnow ... Heder ... Hol’ highdt!”

“What?”

She rolled her eyes. “Hol’ highdt! Hol’ highdt! Hod id?”

The light dawned. “Hold tight! Got it.” He clasped the crowbar tightly.

Rosemary braced her chair against a nearby table leg. “Hnow! Hull!”

Peter pulled. Rosemary squealed as the crowbar bit into her wrists and twisted her arms. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Peter stopped. “Are you okay?”

Rosemary growled.

Peter took a firmer hold and pulled again.

Rosemary clamped her eyes shut against the pain, and pressed harder against the crowbar. The pressure increased until she thought her arms would break. She was about to beg for Peter to stop when she heard a crack and the sound of metal clattering in a far corner. The crowbar fell and the pressure eased from her wrists.

She shook her hands free and pulled them in front of her. She lay curled up, gasping with pain and relief.

“Did it work?” Peter struggled to see her. “Rosemary?”

She grunted for silence. Reaching up, she pulled at the gag. It took several minutes, but eventually she had it around her neck. She pulled the vile rag from her teeth
and flexed her aching jaw. “I’m ... I’m okay. I’m still tied to this chair, but I have more options.”

“Rosemary, I’m sorry, I —”

“First of all ...,” Rosemary picked up the crowbar and grabbed the back of Peter’s seat with it, dragging herself and her chair upright. “Stop apologizing. You weren’t the only one who got us into this mess. Secondly, we’re not even close to out of the woods, so shut up and help me untie you.”

Peter struggled to hold his wrists out to her. “Oh God, yes. I’ve almost lost the feeling to my arms and legs. What’s with this guy? Why leave us tied up for so long?”

“He’s torturing us,” said Rosemary. She slipped the crowbar between Peter’s chafed and bleeding wrists. “Pretty effectively, I might add.”

“Uh oh,” said Peter.

She stopped. “What uh oh?”

“I can feel what you’re doing. I think we’re going to wish I was still gagged.”

She patted his shoulder. “Bear up. I’ll have these off you soon, then you’ll feel much better. Ready?”

He took a deep breath. “Ready.” Then he looked sharply at the door. “Someone’s coming!”

Rosemary paled. “If they look in on us, they’ll tie us back up again!”

The doorknob twisted. Rosemary tightened her grip on the crowbar and wheeled herself toward the door. “One chance. I hope this guy’s alone!”

The door clicked, then slowly swung open. A figure sidled in, looked around, then cried out as Rosemary barrelled into him. He crashed into the wall and raised his hands. “Please! Do not hurt me!”

Rosemary lowered the crowbar.

“Edmund?” Edmund sat up, rubbing the back of his head. He stared at her in awe. “You’re already out?”

“Hardly!” She rattled her cuffed ankles against the centre leg of the chair. “Are you going to help us?”

He pulled a key from his pocket. “I took this from Aldous’s desk.”

“He let you?” asked Peter in disbelief.

“They didn’t see me. They think I’m still —”

She turned her seat around, holding out her ankles as far as possible. “Never mind how you got the key, hurry up and untie us!”

He fitted the key into the cuffs around Rosemary’s ankles. Rosemary grunted as he pulled at them for leverage. Then the cuffs clicked and slipped off. She gasped in relief.

Edmund used a pocket knife to cut through the remaining bonds, then helped Rosemary out of her seat. She held on to him while her cramped legs protested. She looked into his eyes. “Thank you,” she said. Then she slapped him.

He stared at her, holding his cheek. “What did you do that for?”

“For getting us into this mess in the first place.” She
rolled her eyes at his hurt expression. “Come on! I’m glad you came to your senses, but what would you have done in my place?”

He drooped. “I’m sorry, Rosemary, I —”

“Shut up!” she snapped. “It’s Peter’s turn!”

“He isn’t going to hit me as well, is he?”

“Just go!” She pushed Edmund toward Peter, then grabbed a shelf for support. Edmund knelt by his chair and got to work.

Peter gasped in pain and relief as the cuffs came off. The ropes took longer to saw through. Finally he was free and helped to his feet. The next moment he was on the floor, curled up in a ball. “Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!”

“What is it?” Rosemary grabbed at him.

Tears streamed down Peter’s cheeks. “I’ve got cramps everywhere! I can’t move!”

“He has been tied up too long,” muttered Edmund.

“Come on, Peter, straighten up.” She pulled him back to his feet. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

Peter tried to stand, but doubled over again. He fell back into the chair. “You’ll have to leave me here.”

She grabbed his arm. “No way.”

“I can’t walk,” he gasped. “I can’t —”

Then Rosemary took his face in her hands and planted a firm, long kiss on his lips that left him gasping. He gaped at her. “Why —?”

She stepped back. “To remind you of what you’ll lose if you don’t.” She held out her hands.

“Oh,” he said. “Right.” He took her hand and grabbed Edmund’s shoulder, using both to heave himself out of his seat. He winced, then took a deep breath. “Let’s go. Slowly.”

Supporting him as if he had two sprained ankles, Edmund and Rosemary led Peter out the door and into the dimly lit hallway. They shuffled to the entrance of the great hall and gazed out at the bustling warehouse.

“Are all those crates from the future?” asked Peter.

“You tell us, Edmund,” said Rosemary.

He stared at her. “The future? You mean that insane conversation with Birge was not humouring a madman?”

Rosemary gave him a look. “What’s in those crates, Edmund?”

He looked away, ashamed. “Tobacco. Spirits. Whatever it was Aldous stumbled upon, he wasn’t looking for it. He is, first of all, a smuggler. He wanted to use the sewers as a means of shipping goods to the interior, beneath the feet of the tax inspectors.”

“We thought so,” said Peter. “That’s why he’s so interested in the burial of Taddle Creek.”

Edmund nodded. “It provides him with the link he needs to the north. And my store was en route, the perfect halfway house.”

“He’s either the luckiest person in the world or we’re the unluckiest,” muttered Rosemary. “If Faith arrived now with a lot of policemen, would they find enough to nail Aldous for his crimes?”

“You mean, to indict him? Perhaps,” said Edmund. “But look at the size of his operation. He must have ways of deflecting suspicion.”

“And there’s no guarantee that Faith is out of the sewer yet,” said Rosemary. “So we have to find a way out.” She nodded to a set of crates stacked by the wall. “We’ll hide there. Go.”

Keeping to the shadows, they tiptoed to the cover of the crates. Peter shook off their hands and used the boxes for support, limping along on both legs. “I’m getting better.” Then he stifled a yell and tottered from foot to foot. “I’m getting worse! Pins and needles!”

Rosemary knelt and massaged Peter’s legs. “Getting out is not going to be easy.”