“Son of a bitch!” I’d been about to apologize for kicking the man while he was down but it hurt me more than him. I hobbled around his senseless form muttering more explicit curses under my breath, pausing only to slide his short sword from its scabbard.
The clockwork soldier had vanished inside by the time I reached the entrance. I managed to grab Hennan’s shoulder and haul him back. “Fools rush in. And granted this whole exercise is deeply stupid, but let’s not make it worse.” I pushed him behind me and peered into the foyer. The soldier stood there with a guardsman in one metal hand and a clerk, plucked from behind the counter, in the other. Maybe they were gripped too tightly to holler for help or they were too scared of being ground to pulp, but either way they both held quiet.
“Well, done . . . erm . . . do you have a name?” I looked up at the soldier.
“Guardian.”
“Well done, Guardian. Best not to kill anyone you don’t have to. We can put these two in a cell if they behave themselves.” I should be terrified. I should be four blocks away and still sprinting, but when I tried to reach for my fear all I found was Edris’s face as it had been fifteen years ago, and Mother sliding off his sword for the thousandth time, with that same look of surprise. “You, clerk.” I pointed unnecessarily at the balding man, his pot belly bulging through the gaps between Guardian’s many-knuckled fingers, his face purpling. “What cell are the northmen in and how do we get there?”
The man gasped something, his eyes bulging, shot through with burst veins.
“Put him down so he can answer my question, Guardian.”
The soldier opened his hand and the man fell with all the grace of a grain sack.
I came a few steps closer. Close enough to smell that the man had soiled himself. “Tell me again. And make sure you get it right or Guardian here will come back and pull your arms off.”
“Cells ten and thirteen, level four.” The clerk heaved in a wheezing breath. “Please don’t hurt—” The soldier swept him in its grip again.
“Keep going then!” I shooed the soldier on. “Wait, stop!” It jerked to a halt, teetering mid-step. “Go back and get the guard from the street.” Even if he didn’t wake up in a hurry he would attract attention left lying in the road.
Guardian dutifully clunked outside and returned with the unconscious guard over one shoulder. I closed and bolted the door once the soldier was through.
“Stairs!” I waved the mechanism on and it moved past me, through the foyer, great feet clanking on stone until it reached the central spiral of steps. A large gate of crossed iron bars, a boss set with a rose symbol at each junction, sealed the stairs. Various doors led off into rooms or corridors around the stairwell and a thorough man, or at least a cautious man like me, should really have secured the ground floor first to ensure a clear escape and no attackers sneaking up from behind. On the other hand, Edris Dean had almost certainly gone straight up to Snorri’s cell with his torture warrant. I set Loki’s key into the gate’s lock and turned it. “Level four! That’s what the man said!”
On level one a jailer startled from his doze, nearly falling off his chair. He managed a brief and startled shout before Guardian clubbed him with the clerk. The familiar human stink told me they kept prisoners here and unlocking doors off the stairwell revealed the jailer’s sleeping quarters, a storeroom, broom closet, and a corridor leading to a passage that paralleled the Tower’s perimeter, running in a circle between two concentric rings of cells. Heavy doors, each set with a small barred window, lined the passage walls. Guardian deposited the door guard, ground floor guard, jailer, and clerk into the first of these, surprising the ragged and elderly man inside with this unexpected company.
Returning to the stairs behind Guardian, I could hear cries of alarm from the levels above us. Evidently the jailer’s strangled squeak and subsequent flattening with a blunt instrument hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“Up! Up!” I clapped my hands. “And you, stay close.” I motioned Hennan to my side and held my short sword ready. The fear had started nipping at my heels now. Guardian led on. The jailer on the second level had kept his station, standing with brass-banded club in hand and flanked by two guardsmen, steel drawn. Guardian advanced on them, arms wide, as they stared in disbelief. The jailer dropped his club, one guardsman managed a half-hearted thrust that glanced off the soldier’s armour, and all three were swept up into a metal embrace.