“We are going to die, right? I don’t want to get my hopes up unnecessarily.”
“If we’re lucky,” Royce replied without any hint of humor this time. “Manzant is a place where people go to disappear. A long, deep, narrow shaft. Dwarves built the mine centuries ago, a hideous achievement of incarceration. Inmates mine salt in the dark in return for food and fresh water. No tools, no protection, you either find a way to get salt or you die trying. In time, the salt leaches the very soul out of a man, or so I’ve heard.”
“Well, you’re in luck. Can’t squeeze wine from a stone, right?” Hadrian pulled on the manacles again. Now he remembered the name Manzant, the place Scarlett had told him about. She’d gotten away by escaping her chains, but that was probably a lie like everything else. “If we’re going to prison, what do you suppose the charges are? We haven’t done anything wrong.”
“You don’t have to do anything wrong to end up in Manzant. Like I said, it’s a mine as well as a prison. Ambrose Moor—he’s the administrator—doesn’t care where he gets workers. Criminals are fine, but he’ll pay decent money for slaves, too.”
“But we aren’t slaves.”
“We are now.”
Hadrian scanned the wagon and found it empty except for some rotting straw and extra chains that had turned a dark-rust color. They added to the loud jangle accompanying each hard bump. “You still have Alverstone?”
Royce shook his head. “Manzant slavers are excellent at their job. Not done yet. They’ll strip us naked when we get to the prison. Shave our heads, too.”
“Quit talking it up. You’re ruining all the surprises.”
The wagon hit another bump, a big one. They both groaned as the fixed axle hammered the road. Then the movement stopped. “What now? Are we there?”
Royce shook his head. He peered out the side window, head cocked, listening. “Water.” Royce paused. “Must be at Mercator Creek.” He nodded. “They’re watering the horses. We’re farther south than I thought.”
Hadrian heard a laugh. Two men talked, but their voices were too distant and muffled to understand.
“How far to Manzant?” Hadrian asked.
“Mercator Creek is less than ten miles from the prison, but in a wagon traveling up that twisting mountain road…” He looked out the window at the sky. “Be there tomorrow, I guess.”
“So we have a whole night to figure a way out.”
Royce gave him a pitiful smirk. “I really love the way you think things will all turn out fine. How did Feldspar put it? It’s so—cute.”
Hadrian frowned and tried to feel for the lock on his wrists, but his fingers were numb from being pinched.
Royce said, “Arcadius was right about you. It’s like you’re color-blind. Except it’s not colors you can’t see, it’s reality. Your problem is you expect too much from people.”
“I’m not the blind one here,” Hadrian replied. “I’ve seen the lows people can reach, believe me. But I’ve also witnessed heroic, even ridiculous levels of kindness. You have, too, but you ignore them. That’s blindness, my friend.”
Royce shook his head slowly and made a hissing sound—condescending laughter—a Royce Melborn trademark. “Water flows downhill,” he explained. “Cats eat mice. And sure, there’s the odd cold day in summer, or the freak warm spell in winter, but as a rule that doesn’t happen. In fact, it’s so not the rule it’s not worth mentioning. What you don’t understand, or choose to ignore, is that people care only about themselves. They wouldn’t risk money, much less their lives, for someone else. The only reason anyone would gamble their own neck for another person is if that other person’s life is important to their own welfare, and even then…” He shook his head and let out the same wispy laugh. “Fear drives most people. Acts of bravery are most often the result of ignorance or impulse. Given even a moment to think, to realize and reflect on the possible dangers, your would-be hero always gets cold feet.”
“I didn’t,” Hadrian said. “And you’re alive because of it.”
Royce smiled as if he’d expected this comment. “You’re right, and you know what? That’s bothered me for three years, but I’ve finally figured it out.”
Something banged hard against the side of the wagon. “You two still alive in there?” a harsh voice called. A face grinned in the window over Royce’s head.
“They’re fine. Both of ’em sittin’ up like this is their lucky day. You two just relax. We’ll be moving again soon enough, and by tomorrow, you’ll be home. Enjoy the sun, boys; it’s the last you’ll ever see of her.” The man laughed and then moved away, chuckling as he went.
“Nice fella,” Royce said. “Maybe he’ll help us.”
“Funny. So, what’s this thing you’ve figured out?” Hadrian asked.
“Oh, right. I determined the only reason you came back around the tower instead of climbing down and getting away was because you wanted to die.”
Hadrian’s eyes widened.
“Still do, in a way, I think. When you came back from Calis all disillusioned and lacking direction, you felt life had no point or purpose. You can’t stand to live in a world where people feed off others. You’d rather die in protest then accept the truth that life is misery and your fellow men are vicious animals who’ll jump at any opportunity to get ahead by stepping on their neighbor’s neck.”
“Okay.” Hadrian nodded. “Sounds like you’ve got me nailed down, but what about—”
“Gwen? She might just be that strange warm spell in winter. I don’t know.”
“No, not her. I was going to say, what about you?”
“Me?”
“The first time we entered Medford, you risked your life for me. More than that, you actually begged in the street for my sake. Why’d you do that?”
“Okay.” Royce nodded. “You can add one more condition to the list. Acts which run contrary to one’s own self interest are due to ignorance, impulse, and delirium.”
Hadrian laughed. “That’s a fine fortress you’ve built there, although none too comfortable, I suspect.”
“And that cloud you live on is going to disappear in Manzant. People don’t help others unless there’s something in it for them, and since we’re of no use to anyone, no one is going to help us.”
Out the rear window, between the vertical bars of iron, Hadrian spotted another traveler on the road. A wagon was coming their way.
Hadrian couldn’t believe his eyes.
He glanced at Royce for validation and found his partner staring out the back of the wagon, his mouth open, brows twisted in confused knots. “What’s she doing here?”
Scarlett Dodge was driving a buckboard pulled by a pair of mismatched horses. She’d traded her patchwork gown for a loose shirt and men’s trousers. She’d tucked her vibrant hair under a wide-brimmed straw hat. Hadrian hoped she wasn’t trying to pass for a man; she still looked every bit a woman despite the attire. As she neared, Scarlett steered her wagon to the left of the road, bringing it up alongside them. The bed of the buckboard was filled with six barrels: four marked BEER, the other two ALE.
“Hello there!” one of the black-uniformed men called to her.
“Hello,” she replied, her voice soft, meek, wary.
Hadrian and Royce both shifted to peer out the left-side window.
“What’s your name?” someone asked, too far past the corner of the window for them to see.
“I’m just stopping to water my horses. I’ll be on my way in a—”
“Didn’t ask you about your horses. I asked your name, sweetie. What is it?”
“Ruby.” Scarlett was too far to one side for Hadrian to see her face. His view consisted entirely of the wagon, barrels, and the hind ends of the horses.
“See, she knows better than to give her real name,” Royce said.
“She’s here to help us,” Hadrian told him.
“All by herself? Against six Manzant slavers?”