The voice gave the order and the guards pulled them to their feet. Navigating stairs with hobbled legs was difficult. Hadrian nearly fell more than once, but soon they reached the main gate at the bottom of the fortress.
The gigantic doors of stone soundlessly swept open. Outside, the late-afternoon sun revealed a contingent of port soldiers waiting. The commander of the fortress guard stepped forward and spoke quietly with the Port Authority captain for some time.
“You don’t think these guys are always waiting out here, do you?” Hadrian whispered to Royce. “We’ve been set up, haven’t we?”
“It didn’t tip you off when they called you by name?”
“Merrick?”
“Who else?”
“That’s a bit far-fetched. How could he possibly expect us to be here? We didn’t even know we would be here. He can’t be that smart.”
“He is.”
A runner appeared, trotting up from the bottom of the tower, and reported to the commander with a sharp salute.
“Well?” the fortress commander asked.
The runner shook his head. “There is no problem with the pressure-release control—everything checked out fine.”
“Take them away,” the commander ordered.
The Tur Del Fur City Prison and Workhouse sat back, hidden on a hillside away from the dock, the shops, and the trades. It appeared as little more than a large stone box at the end of Avan Boulevard, with few windows and a spiked iron fence. Hadrian and Royce both knew it by reputation. Most offenders typically died within the first week due to execution, suicide, or brutality. The magistrate’s role was merely to determine the manner of execution. Parole was not an option. Only those known to be serious threats went there. Petty thieves, drunks, and malcontents went to the more popular and lenient Portside Jail. For those in Tur Del Fur Prison, this was the end of the road, literally as well as figuratively.
Royce and Hadrian hung by their wrists with their ankles chained to the wall of cell number three, where they had spent the past few hours. The room was smaller than those in Calis. There was no window, stool, nor pot—not even straw. The room was little more than a small stone closet with a single metal door. The only light came from the gap between the door and its frame.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Hadrian said to the darkness.
“I’m trying to figure this out,” Royce replied.
“Figure it out?” Hadrian laughed even though his arms and wrists burned like fire from the metal cutting into his skin. “We’re hanging chained to a wall, awaiting execution, Royce. There’s not that much to it.”
“Not that. I want to know why we didn’t find anything wrong with the spouts.”
“Because there’s a million levers and switches in there and we were looking for just one?”
“I don’t think so. When we got to the bridge, what was it you said? You said you didn’t think anyone could scale that fortress except me. I think you’re right. I know Merrick couldn’t. He’s a genius, not an elf. I always outdid him when it came to anything physical.”
“So?”
“So a thought has been nagging me since they brought us here. How could Merrick get into Drumindor to sabotage it?”
“He figured another way in.”
“We spent weeks trying to do that, remember?”
“Maybe he bribed someone on the inside, or maybe he paid someone to break in.”
“Who?” Royce thought a minute. “This is too important to trust to someone who might be able to do it—he would need someone he knew could do it.”
“But how do you know someone can do something until they’ve actually—” Hadrian stopped himself as the realization hit. “Oh, that’s not good.”
“Throughout this whole thing we’ve been following two letters, both written by Merrick. The first we thought was intercepted and delivered to Alric, but what if it was intentionally sent to him? Everyone knows we work for Melengar.”
“Which led us to the Emerald Storm,” Hadrian said.
“Right. Where we got the next letter—the one to be delivered to that crazy Tenkin in the jungle, and it just happened to mention that Drumindor was set to blow.”
“I’m not liking where this is heading,” Hadrian muttered.
“And what if Merrick knew about the master gear?”
“That’s impossible. Gravis is dead. Crushed, as I recall, under one of those big gears.”
“Yes. He is dead, but Lord Byron isn’t. He probably boasted about how he saved Drumindor by hiring two no-account thieves.”
“It still seems too perfect.” Hadrian tried to convince himself. “In retrospect, sure, it sounds like the pieces fall into place, but there are too many things that could have gone wrong along the way.”
“Right. That’s why he had someone on board the Storm making sure it all worked—Derning. Did you see the way he took off the moment we hit port? He knew what was coming and wanted to get away.”
“I should have let you kill him.”
Silence.
“You’re nodding, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Bastard,” Hadrian grumbled.
“You know the worst thing?”