As always, the darkness cleared her mind, and the task before Kyra forced her to focus. In that way, she was grateful for the danger. The need to maintain her balance on the ledges and make plans for her next step was the only thing that could keep Tristam from her thoughts.
The first things she needed were supplies. Here, her knowledge of the Palace, her thief’s knowledge, proved useful. She broke into a minor storehouse and pilfered some twine, some leftover biscuits, Minadan hot pepper powder, and a few strips of cloth. She wrapped the pepper powder into four loosely tied cloth packets and stowed them in her belt pouch. Then she made her way toward one shack she’d never entered before, one that reeked with the smell of old blood. The guard here was uncharacteristically light for the inner compound. There was no one at the door, and only the occasional patrol. Kyra supposed it made sense. What sane intruder would voluntarily make for the torture master’s storage house? The lock gave way without much problem, and Kyra felt her resolve weaken as the door swung open. There were things here that she didn’t want to look at or think about, wicked-looking knives and racks, other implements she didn’t even recognize that were still crusted with blood. It would not be good to be caught here.
Kyra waited for her eyes to acclimate to what sparse moonlight filtered in through cracks around the door. There was only one wagon, and she recognized it immediately from previous execution marches. It was a platform on wheels with a single pole and crossbeam on top for the prisoner to be lashed to. She had never followed the execution parade, but she knew its path. The wagon would come out of the Palace and wind through the streets, making its way to the merchant’s ring before circling back to the city center. People would be gathered on either side, jeering and throwing refuse. It was always very crowded.
Kyra crawled between the wheels and felt around with her hands, hoping for some shelf underneath she could cling to, but she found nothing. She supposed it was too much to wish that the wagon would come ready with a hiding place. She crawled back out and wondered if she was taking too much of a risk. But then she imagined James stretched on a rack in the city square, skin flayed open, and bile rose in her throat. She would try this.
It was too dark to see. Kyra brought out her flint, some dried moss, and a stick, listening carefully for footsteps outside. There was always a chance someone would see light leaking from between the slats of the shed, but she couldn’t do this blind. She struck her flint until a spark caught in the moss she’d laid out on the floor, then coaxed the flame to life. In its light, she could barely make out the contours of the wagon. She scanned its surface, looking for slots between planks where she could thread some twine. When she found what she was looking for, she blew out the flame. The rest she would do by touch.