Tal asked, “So, how does someone become like you, someone the guards trust?”
“Well, you got to not make trouble, and do what you’re told. Sometimes we get turned out to work, but not often. If a storm hits really hard, we might have to go clean up debris, repair the dock, or fix leaks in the cook-house when it rains. If you do the work good and the guards like you, then you get out of your cell.
“If there’s something special you can do, that helps.”
“What do you mean?”
“Zirga says he wishes they’d convict a smith so he could get some things around here repaired. We had a fellow claimed he was a smith, but he wasn’t, so Zirga put him in the dungeon. Problem was, Zirga forgot he was down there, and the bloke starved before anyone remembered.”
“What other things?”
“I don’t know. I’ll ask. But even if you can do something they need, specials never get out of their cells.”
Tal shrugged, trying to get comfortable and finding it almost impossible. “Why didn’t you say that to begin with?”
“Well, you didn’t ask me if you could get out of the cell; you asked how someone could get like me.”
Tal laughed. “You’re right. I was just thinking you were wasting my time, but then that’s the only thing I have anymore, time.”
Will turned to walk away. “You’ve got that right, Tal. Still, you never know. Zirga doesn’t always do things by the rules; he likes being in charge too much, and no one ever comes out here to check on him. So, I’ll mention you to him. What can you do?”
Tal thought. “I used to play instruments.” He held out his stump. “I guess that’s pointless.” He said, “I can cook.”
“Cookin’s pretty simple around here.”
“So I’ve noticed,” said Tal. “But I was thinking maybe Zirga and the guards might like something a bit more tasty.”
“Could be. I’ll mention it to him. What else?”
“I paint.”
“Not much call for that, leastwise not so I’d notice. Haven’t painted anything around here since I’ve been here, ’cept this one time we had to whitewash a fence out where they keep the pigs.”
“I mean I paint portraits and landscapes.” He looked at his severed arm. “At least I used to before—”
“Oh, like them fancy pictures the swells have on their walls. I’ve seen ’em a time or two when I was boostin’.”
“Yes, like that.”
“Seems we got less call for that than whitewashin’.”
Tal said, “I used to play music, too, but…” He waved the stump for emphasis.
“That’s a shame, in’it?” Will smiled. “But I’ll mention the cookin’ to Zirga.”
“Thanks.”
Tal lay down when Will left, trying to keep his feelings under control. He felt like a caged animal, and he had seen trapped beasts throw themselves against the bars of their cages until they bloodied themselves. He knew that he could not escape as things stood, and that his only hope for getting off this island was to first get out of this cell. He would bide his time, for that he had in abundance.
Tal pulled hard, lifting his body up to the window. He had seen the view a dozen times in the last half hour, but he wasn’t interested in another look at the frigid winterscape he could see once he pulled himself up. He was trying to regain some strength, and after a month of sitting in his cell, occasionally talking with Will, the boredom was threatening to take his sanity. The first time he tried to pull himself up by his left arm, he managed one quick peep out of the window before having to let himself down again.
From his window he could see the north yard of the fortress. He couldn’t see the livestock pen, but he could hear the pigs, sheep, and chickens. Occasionally a dog would bark. He could see what looked to be the old marshaling yard, now under a sheet of white snow, broken up with patches of grey and brown.
Over the last month he had come to prize that little view of his world, a patch of snow-covered earth, a section of wall, and a cliff beyond. In the distance, he could see the sea when the weather lifted enough. Otherwise, it was a grey blanket beyond the cliffs.
He found the food monotonous and barely sufficient. He knew he had lost weight, because of the injury and simple fare, but he wasn’t starving. The bread for all its coarseness was filling and had bits of nut and whole grain in it. The stew was little more than thin soup with a vegetable or two in it, but as Will said, occasionally there was a piece of meat as well. The porridge was merely filling.