The Cadet of Tildor

CHAPTER 36





Savoy pushed open the salle door to attend what the others thought to be another penalty workout and found Den leaning against the wall, a book in his hands.

“Forgive my unpreparedness,” said Den, looking up. “The reading absorbed me.” He twisted the book to reveal its cover. Battlefields of the Seventh.

Savoy moved his feet to gain better purchase on the sand. His heart quickened

“Please,” Den said quietly. “I suggest nothing.” He locked the door and remained with his back turned to Savoy. “Nine years ago, the Madam ordered me to antagonize a guardsman at the Academy of Tildor against a cadet who attended school there. The boy was a runt with blond hair and green eyes, but he wielded a sword like he was born to it. Even my untrained eye saw that much.”

Savoy’s brow rose with an ease he didn’t feel. “The Madam?”

“Yes.” Den paused, his next words coming with care. “She . . . The Madam takes interest in certain youngsters. She has her reasons.”

Savoy stood motionless. The Madam and Lord Palan both. “Was your mission successful?”

“No.” Den turned, shaking his head. “I found the guard, a nine-fingered man who disliked the boy to begin with, and I fueled his dislike until it turned to hate. Nonetheless, the lad still graduated to become a Servant of the Crown and thwart many Viper projects.” He held up the book. “It is unfortunate the book has no pictures. I wonder what the man looks like grown. Is it not curious that many people may know of a man’s deeds without ever learning his appearance?”

A breath escaped Savoy’s lips. If Den had meant to capitalize on his discovery, he would have done so before now. Even so, Savoy’s life lay in the other’s hands.

“No one leaves the Vipers.” Den tossed the book to the sand.

“So you said.”

Pursing his lips, Den drew the amulet from his pocket.

Savoy spread his wrists to show that no resistance would be offered.

Den hesitated. “You know why the men pretend the Freedom Fight is real?”

“Hope.”

Den nodded. “I read the book. If anyone can get out . . .” Licking his lips, he threw the amulet into Savoy’s hands and spoke quickly, motioning to the wristbands. “It can’t disable your binds, nor unlock most of the doors. But it will open those on the path to the arena. And from the arena to the street. I’ll discover it stolen in ten minutes’ time. Go through the bathing room, down the corridor to the Pit.” He paused. “If you can climb the bars . . . ”

Savoy looked Den in the eye, and knew the courage the man’s decision had taken. “Should you leave Catar, you’ll find welcome at the Academy of Tildor in Atham. If I’m not there, a man named Connor Seaborn will care for you.”

“Thank you.” Den held out his hand. “Don’t get caught.”

Savoy paused before undoing the lock on the door. “What did you tell Guardsman Fisker about me?”

“It would be better you not know. Gods’ speed, Commander.”

“Gods’ luck, Den.”

Savoy slid into the corridor, his bare feet silent on the cold stone floor. He hesitated at the barracks, listening to Pretty’s boasting voice escape through the closed door, and continued to the bathing room. Ten minutes. His heartbeat kept the time.

True to promise, the door obeyed the amulet, unlocking at the touch of the blue stream of light. Savoy paused to listen, heard nothing, and entered. Rows of bathtubs and towels greeted him. The air hung heavy with moisture and soap, and the never-quite-dry floor was slippery, even to bare feet. He looked at the two doors on the opposite wall and, recalling his previous trip to the arena, approached the rightmost.

“Is the laundry finished?” asked a voice outside.

Savoy grabbed a small towel and twisted it into a cord. Another step brought him flat against the wall on the hinge side of the door. He quieted his breathing.

“Marcy?” the same voice called. “I said, are you done with laundry?” The door opened and a plump woman stuck her head inside.

Savoy’s hands tightened on the cord. In or out, mistress, make a decision.

The woman sighed and retreated, closing the door. Savoy released a slow breath. Dying was in the guards’ job description, not the servants’. He pushed away from the wall and reached for the door handle.

It swung open before he touched it.

The plump woman returned. Muttering on about dirty towels, she stepped into the room and headed for a basket of linens in the opposite corner.

Seven Hells. Savoy slid in behind her and looped the twisted towel over her head. Reconsidering at the last moment, he pulled the cloth taut over her mouth instead of her neck. She squealed through her nose, like a piglet at the market, forcing him to tighten the gag. “Keep quiet,” he whispered into her ear.

The squealing ceased, replaced by flailing. She twisted about, scratching the air and huffing. Behind her, Savoy sighed, and pulled back on her shoulders until the woman’s balance wavered, and he could settle her onto the floor. When he came around to face her, her eyes grew as wide as her cheeks pale.

“No, gods, no, no,” she pleaded softly, hugging her arms across her chest.

Savoy crouched. “Do nothing to harm me, and I will reciprocate. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Good. Who else works here tonight?”

She tried, and had Savoy’s mission been to procure contraband soap or breach the security of the laundry room, he would have extracted some value from her words. “All right, that’s enough.” He reached for a spare towel and started binding the woman’s hands behind her back.

“Please, sir, don’t do that,” she begged, her voice shaking and eyes full to the brim. “Leave me, sir. I won’t say nothing to nobody.”

Of course, and I’m a princess disguised. He held the thought to himself. If he was letting her live, better depart on a sympathetic note. Securing the wrist binding, he wrapped the gag back into place. “If I leave you untied,” he whispered into her ear, “you’ll be punished for not raising alarm.”

The bathing room fiasco concluded, Savoy continued into the corridor. The openness of the passage made him uneasy. Time ticked on. Den had granted him ten minutes. By now he had used them all. Praying that the guards took time to muster, Savoy hurried forward. He stayed close to the wall, ears alert for footsteps and creaking hinges.

A faint blue glow shimmered about the edges of the arena door. He jogged to it, the amulet at the ready. Once more the door’s glow died under the amulet’s command, and Savoy pulled at the handle.

It refused to budge.

He pulled again. No result. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The open corridor was ill suited for delay. Resisting the urge to continue yanking the handle, he made himself retreat from the door and look at it anew. Haste wouldn’t quicken progress. He took a breath.

The tap of footsteps approaching from a side passage spun Savoy around. The closest concealment, another small passage that fed into the main corridor, lay twenty spans back. Could he make it? He sprinted, bare feet pushing off the hard stone, and spun himself inside. A moment later, a man with an oil jug stepped into the main hall, refilled one hanging lantern, and moved to the next.

Flat against the wall, Savoy tightened his jaw. The workman would be at his task for a quarter hour at best. By then, the search for Savoy would on in full strength. Savoy had to engage, right in the middle of the open corridor, right now.

Lifting a small pebble off the ground, Savoy skipped it against the floor.

Five paces away, the workman startled and turned toward the noise, his back exposed. Savoy pushed away from the wall and lunged at the man’s legs. He grabbed him at the knees, collapsed them together, and shoved. The man fell. Savoy followed him down.

The oil jug shattered. The man twisted; blood running from his nose soaked his shirt. His eyes widened, meeting Savoy’s. And he screamed.

Elp! Elp! Elp! the stones echoed.

Seven Hells. Savoy’s stomach clenched.

The man struggled, splattering blood. His mouth opened.

Savoy couldn’t permit another scream. His fist struck the man’s temple. There was no more noise.

Lowering the unconscious body to the ground, Savoy found himself with his original problem. The amulet had disarmed the mage glow of the arena door. It hadn’t opened it. He jogged forward and stopped a pace away, examining the wood.

The Vipers kept the facilities in excellent shape. If a door would not budge, it was locked, not stuck. Find the second lock. His eyes tracked the crack where the door met the wall, and worked methodically around the frame. There. A simple sliding latch glittered at the top right corner. He slipped it free and the door opened.

The arena was empty. Rows of wooden benches rose like stairs from where he stood. At the top, two blue, glowing doors led to the street. He was so close now, he could taste the free air. A fence of barbed-wire-topped rods, rising up only four times his height, was all that separated him and it.

Experience checked his excitement in favor of caution. Savoy surveyed his route. The fence blocked the pens and fight area from the spectator section. He was in a cage—a cage without a ceiling, but still a cage. Den had been right, the only way out was to climb.

Savoy approached the metal bars, spaced hand-widths apart. No footholds. He’d have to rely on his hands alone. The barbed wire at the top would cut him, but if he ripped some cloth from his pants to lay over the burrs, he might avoid fatal gashes. The amulet would unlock the door.

He repeated the plan and tucked the amulet into his waistband. Satisfied, he grasped the bars and hauled himself up.

Unlike the climbing-ropes hanging in the salle, the smooth metal slipped in his grasp. For each span of gained ground, he slid down by half. The problem increased as his hands grew damp with sweat. He wiped his palms off on his pants each time he switched holds, all the while wishing for chalk. Why not wish for rope while he was at it? Gritting his teeth, Savoy climbed on. The door to freedom lay in sight.

He paused for breath upon reaching the barbed wire and snaked his hands between the razor coils to hang with both hands from the bar topping the cage. Gashes appeared on his forearms, leaking blood. Savoy’s arms shook now, slipping in sweat and screaming with strain. He tried ripping his trousers for a bit of cloth to throw over the bars, but couldn’t manage it one-handed. No, he’d have to swing his body over the top and pray the burrs didn’t shred him to pieces in the process. He hung loose, took a breath, and started swinging his body side to side like a pendulum. One. Two . . .

“Eh!” a voice bellowed below. “Loose pup! Loose pup!”

More voices joined the shouting, but Savoy continued swinging his legs from side to side to gain momentum. The door beckoned. Three. On the upswing, Savoy flung himself over the top.

His legs cleared. His torso didn’t. Barbed wire and the bars’ sharp tops cut into his abdomen. He twisted and the metal dug farther into flesh, biting and ripping. On the ground below, cursing guards gathered on both sides of the bars. Savoy ignored them. Once he was over, he could fight his way to the door.

Setting his jaw, Savoy let his stomach endure the abuse, while he worked to reclaim handholds on the blood-slicked bars. He was halfway over. Just a little more and he could slide down. Hells, he could jump down and sort out the broken bones later. He tensed and passed an arm over the top, getting a shallow cut as reward. Then the other arm. When he breathed out again, it was done. He was dangling safely on the spectator side.

He surveyed the ground before descending. The Vipers gathered there had stopped shouting and now stood calmly on the sand below. One of them, a tall, icy blonde he had never met, bounced an amulet in her hand. A sudden cold seized him as he glanced down at his waistband.

His amulet had fallen. It was all for naught.

“All right, Cat,” the woman called. “Even if you sprint for the exit, you can’t unlock the door. Take a breath and slide down now.”

On the ground, he awaited his captors. They arrived at his side within moments and clutched his arms. A weedy mage energized Savoy’s binds, which obediently pulled together. He clipped a leash to the restraints and patted Savoy’s shoulder. “Easy, boy.” He yelled for a towel and another lead rope.

The blonde with the amulet stood rod-straight, puffing a thin roll of tobacco into the crowd encircling her. She watched the white, perfect rings of smoke as if they carried infinitely more importance than the people whose gazes beheld her. Beside her, a mousy man with paper and pen hung on her words. “. . . not a day without disaster,” the woman said, her white teeth vivid in the lantern light. “Let us see what he has to say for himself.”

Savoy drew himself to attention and stepped toward the woman.

The mage holding the leash pulled gently. “Shhhh, easy now,” he repeated over and over until Savoy realized that it wasn’t him being hauled front and center.

It was Jasper.

“What, might I ask, is the meaning of this?” the woman demanded, glaring at the pale-faced boy. His disheveled hair and clothes suggested he’d been roused from sleep. A trickle of sweat slithered down his temple. The woman inhaled her tobacco stick and continued. “Are you incapable of keeping a rein on a handful of collared pups?”

“H-h-he found an amulet,” Jasper stammered. His hands gripped his pants, and his eyes sought refuge in the ground. Savoy had dressed down enough recruits to know the look.

“He is a pup!” The edge in the woman’s voice could cut steel. “It’s your job to make sure he doesn’t find an amulet, or break his neck, or choke on mashed turnips. Look at this bloody mess.” She jerked her head toward Savoy, who continued bleeding despite the weedy man’s attentions with towel and bandages.

“I’ll clean him up.” Jasper’s voice trembled.

“You bet your useless pig brain you’ll clean him up. And that’s the last new pup you’ll see either, since you can’t be bothered to care for them.” The woman shook her head and turned her disgusted look on Savoy.

He stared back, shoulders square.

“You wish to reassign the pup, ma’am?” asked the small man with the notebook. “Blue team, perhaps? A seasoned keeper there.”

“No, no.” She sighed, then continued with quiet resignation, “Once they get this far, there’s no taming them. Escape attempt, with an amulet no less? Imagine the liability! No, I’m afraid my son ruined this one beyond repair.” She took the stick from her mouth and pressed the lit end under Jasper’s chin. He yelped, jerking his head up. “Didn’t you?” she asked.

He whimpered. “Yes, Mother.”

The woman puffed a ring of smoke into his face, then addressed her secretary. “Mark the pup as fodder for that huge imbecile, whatever his name is.”

“Boulder, ma’am.”

“Yes, that’s the one. He can rip him apart next match. And make sure someone keeps this one alive till then.”

“Certainly, ma’am.” The man made a mark in his notes and looked patiently at his mistress, who blew smoke into Savoy’s face and turned toward the door.

“See to him in the south kennel, Jasper,” she called over her shoulder to her son. “You’ve fouled up enough for one night.”

Once everyone left, Jasper pulled Savoy into a room the size of a large closet and tied the leash to the wall. The door slammed shut. The only light came from a lantern, which the boy set on the floor.

“Best hurry, Jasper, before Mother catches you out of bed,” Savoy said.

“Brainless pig ass!” Jasper’s arm swung out, backhanding Savoy’s face.

Nothing more stimulating to courage than Mother’s absence, Savoy thought.

Jasper sneered. “You’re nothing but fodder now. No one needs you in fighting shape anymore.”

The image of the sickly, malnourished fighter who last faced Boulder materialized in Savoy’s memory.

“That’s right,” Jasper said, as if reading his thoughts. “We only need you alive for the next fight, so that imbecile can tear your limbs off.” His glowing hand reached for Savoy’s shoulder.

Before agony overtook him, Savoy saw tears streaming down the boy’s cheeks.