“But it will also change the world. The people at the bottom don’t like being at the bottom. Why should they? And what right do the people at the top have to be at the top? Why should a tiny group be served by the rest? Why should promotion be determined by family lineage instead of merit?”
She saw Sir Roger wince as the blow struck home. He was a competent man–and loyal too–but he would never hold a senior command. Of course not. There were men of impeccable lineage and breeding who practically had to be given such commands by right. Sir Roger was far down the pecking order, too insignificant to be given command of anything larger than a regiment. Indeed, now the true power of gunpowder weapons had been amply demonstrated, she wondered how long it would be before one of the senior men demanded Sir Roger’s command for himself. Not long, if she was any judge.
“Join us,” she said, knowing it wouldn’t work. “Help us stop the king–and the nobles–before it’s too late.”
Sir Roger gave her a sharp look. “That’s treason!”
Emily giggled, despite herself. “If this be treason, let us make the most of it,” she said. “Are they going to hang me twice?”
“I am a man of honor,” Sir Roger said. His voice was very firm. “I swore an oath to my king, an oath I intend to keep. If I had married your friend, I would have been a good husband to her…”
“You might have had to offer her up to the chopping block,” Emily said. She doubted it would have been a peaceful marriage. Imaiqah was a sorceress, with all the power that implied; Sir Roger was a nobleman of Zangaria, someone who had been raised to expect his wife to be obedient at all times. It wasn’t a recipe for a comfortable marriage. “Would you have done it, if Randor had demanded her head?”
Sir Roger’s lips worked incoherently for a long moment. Emily almost pitied him. Oaths were taken seriously, particularly by men who depended on trust, honor and respect. But what should one do if one oath contradicted another? Either way, Sir Roger would have been screwed. No one would trust a man who’d broken an oath to his wife…or to the king.
“I swore an oath to the king,” Sir Roger said, curtly. He didn’t seem to want to answer the question. “I’m sorry it had to end like this, Lady Emily.”
“Yeah,” Emily said, as Sir Roger turned to leave. “Me too.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
THE DWARF DIDN’T COME BACK.
Emily was relieved, even though she was fairly sure the dwarf had orders not to hurt her too badly. Randor wouldn’t want her to look like a battered wife–or worse–in front of a crowd that might be inclined to take her side. The nobles might hate her, but even they would have qualms about mistreating her. Randor was gambling by sending her to her death, gambling that he’d be able to quash any angry response from both sides of society. She wondered, idly, if he’d win his bet. Whatever happened, she wouldn’t be around to see it.
She leaned against the wood, taking long, deep breaths. No matter how she worked the problem, escape was impossible as long as she was inside the cell. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could escape when they took her out of the castle. They’d know how to control prisoners on their way to the execution grounds, she knew, but…it wasn’t much, but it was all she had. Jade and the others would be a very long way away by now, probably assuming that Randor would keep her prisoner rather than behead her at once. She might have drawn the same conclusion if she were in their place.
I did well, she told herself, firmly. Even if she didn’t escape, she had the satisfaction of knowing that her changes would spread right across the continent. Randor couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle, not now. I started an industrial revolution. The world will be changed forever.
She felt oddly calm as she waited, even though she knew the odds of escape were almost non-existent. Death was waiting for her, under the executioner’s axe…she wondered, absently, if she was meant to pay the man. It was tradition, but…she had no money. Perhaps he’d want the snake-bracelet instead. She felt a flicker of vindictive glee at the thought. Whatever spells Matilda had put on the snake-bracelet wouldn’t last forever, certainly not after Emily’s death. The executioner might be in for a very nasty surprise.
Unless he sells it on at once, she thought. His fence might get the surprise instead.
It felt like hours–or days–before the door unlocked and rattled open, revealing Matilda and the dwarf. Matilda looked unchanged, but the dwarf had a nasty bruise on his forehead. Sir Roger had clobbered him as he walked out, Emily guessed. The dwarf glared at her evilly, but didn’t seem inclined to come any closer. Perhaps Sir Roger had threatened to report him to the king. The dwarf was expendable. No one would care if he wound up in one of his cells, being tortured by his former underlings…or if he was simply marched to the execution grounds and beheaded. Randor probably saw the dwarf as a potential scapegoat if things really got out of hand.
Matilda inspected Emily for a long moment, then nodded to herself. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” she said, curtly. “If you cooperate, you can walk under your own power; if you refuse to cooperate, I’ll layer spells on you and manipulate your body like a puppet. Are you going to cooperate?”
Emily hesitated. Stubborn pride wanted to tell Matilda to do her worst, but she knew that she wouldn’t have even a faint hope of escape if her body was under Matilda’s control. She could do it too, Emily was sure. Controlling someone else, particularly someone without magic, took a relatively simple spell. She couldn’t risk being turned into a puppet as long as there was a chance to turn the tables and escape.
“Yes,” she said, sourly.
Matilda nodded and started to work on Emily’s manacles, freeing her hands from the wooden bar. Even without the cuffs, she had to wait for the wood to be lowered before she could pull her hands free. Her arms and wrists ached, nasty red marks clearly visible on her bare skin. She gritted her teeth as she forced her muscles to move, trying desperately to get the blood flowing again. It was uncomfortable as hell, but necessary. She had to be able to move if she wanted to escape.
The dwarf left the room as Matilda freed Emily’s ankles, then returned with a steaming bucket of water and a bundle of clothes. Emily eyed them, surprised, as Matilda helped her to stand, then passed her a washcloth. She briefly contemplated trying to tip the bucket over their heads, but she knew it would be fatal for her. They’d both have protections to keep them safe…and, even if they didn’t, the entire cell would be surrounded by wards. She wouldn’t be able to get out the door without permission.
“Undress,” Matilda ordered. “Now.”
Emily hesitated, eying the dwarf. Matilda sighed and snapped her fingers in his direction. The dwarf let out a yelp, his hands scrabbling at his eyes. Emily stared, horrified. Blinding spells were also relatively simple, but forbidden. A student at Whitehall who blinded another would be unable to sit down for days. And yet, they were a simple defense in the outside world…
He’s a slave, she thought, as she started to remove her battered dress. Her skin looked odd; there were no bruises, yet her body was covered in patches of tanned skin blurring into pale whiteness where the healing spells had done their work. He’s just as much a prisoner here as I am.