Meg began to cackle with laughter as she sorted through her herbs and simples and tools. After a moment of blank incredulity, so did her husband, howling until he had to bend nearly double and hug his ribs, staggering across the cottage and bumping into the walls.
‘Ah, many’s the time I’ve wanted to do that to one of the toplofty cut-throat bastards myself,’ the old man wheezed. ‘Hee, hee, hee! They’ll be sittin’ down careful for months, they will—and squatting cautious-like at the jakes. Hee, hee!’
Davy gave an uneasy grin, but by the way he was standing he was also tightening his buttocks.
Jimmy chuckled, too. Probably funnier to hear about than to see, he thought. Still, I wouldn’t mind hearing the same news about Jocko Radburn, or del Garza, or their master either.
‘And them girls is gone,’ Davy went on.
‘Girls?’ Jimmy said sharply.
‘Them girls that came in the dog-cart from Land’s End yesterday ‘bout suppertime,’ he said. ‘Pretty as pictures, they was.’ He gave an enthusiastic description.
‘Flora!’ Jimmy and Jarvis said at the same time.
‘—for all one had a limp,’ the boy finished.
‘Lorrie!’ Jimmy said.
The bottom dropped out of Jimmy’s stomach, and Jarvis Coe cursed quietly in a language Jimmy didn’t recognize. They looked at each other.
‘That’s torn it,’ Jarvis said grimly.
Jimmy nodded, pulling on his oil-treated wool cloak. He yanked the hood forward, reflecting bitterly that this was what came of Flora’s newfound sense of responsibility. She’d got him poking his head into a sewer rats’ den again.
‘No time for subtlety,’ he said.
‘No time at all,’ Coe replied.
The rain blew cold into their faces as they left the cosy, smoky warmth of the cottage.
The skin wrinkled on the back of Jimmy’s neck, and he didn’t think it was down to the trickle of cold water; rather it was due to the thought of Flora and Lorrie in that place.
Bram looked up sharply, startled out of an uneasy doze. Thunder crashed, and lightning glared through the high small window—far too small for a man to squeeze through, and barred with iron, even if he hadn’t been chained.
It wasn’t time for the meagre ration of bread he got; he’d be weak with hunger by now, if it weren’t for the food the children brought him. It wasn’t time to empty the slop bucket either. But he could hear the rasp of a key in the lock. A moment later, he was squinting against the yellow light of a lantern held high in the turnkey’s fist, a tin cylinder pierced to let the candle-shine out.
Then it went out, a freak gust turning it into a wisp of bitter-smelling smoke gusting out through the metal. The turnkey cursed, and so did the mercenaries crowding behind him.
‘Well, get another’n lit: we need light for this,’ one of them said to a man behind him.
Bram grinned. He didn’t feel the cold fear that sometimes blew through this chamber. Instead he felt something that radiated anger—but it wasn’t aimed at him, and somehow it made him feel warm and safer, however mad that was. It reminded him of his mother.
Another lamp came, and went out; the third guttered wildly but didn’t extinguish, since the holder shielded the flame with his hand. With the light, the armed men advanced on Bram. One carried a singlejack, a light blacksmith’s hammer, and a chisel.
‘No games,’ a big mercenary said; Bram recognized him from the fight at the ford, and scowled. The big man grinned at him, and went on: ‘Lord Bernarr says we can’t kill you. But we can mess you up, eh? Nothin’ says you have to have sound legs or unbroken arms, right?’
He shoved another burlap bag over Bram’s head, and drew the drawstring painfully tight. The young man gasped, drawing in the sweetish scent of the oats that had filled the bag not long ago, and sneezed helplessly.
‘Foolishness,’ someone said—Bram couldn’t see a thing now, just feel the rough hands pushing and shoving him. ‘Why not leave the chains on?’
‘Sump’n about cold iron, the magicker said,’ another voice replied—the weasel-like skinny man’s.
The hammer peened musically on the back of a cold chisel, and the manacles fell away so that Bram gave a grunt of relief. Then he bit his lips against a yell, as rough rope bit into his wrists where the iron had rubbed them raw. His feet were still free, though, and he was direly tempted to kick out.
Better not. Just get a beating, he thought. Wait for the moment. Wherever they’re taking me, it can’t be worse than being chained in this room with invisible spirits running loose through it.
As the men hustled him out, he heard an incongruous sound: the whistle of a poorwit, one of the little birds that haunted hedgerows back at home in the valley.
Beneath the rough cloth, Bram grinned. He’d taught young Rip how to whistle that way just last summer. He had more friends here than his captors suspected.
>Lorrie looked around, restraining the impulse to rub at her leg. It was itching and hurting; the itching indicated that it was healing, but it was a long way from healed, and if she pushed it too far she could rip it open again.