Even a brief survey of her neighbor’s empty cell showed that seniority did have its privileges. The bald man had clearly been here for a long time; he had not only a pallet and several buckets, but a desk and chair. The desk held a stack of paper and a jar of pens, as well as about ten candles. The walls were not bare, as in Kelsea’s cell, but hung with drawings. Kelsea lifted the candle higher, then stilled.
Not drawings, but schematics. Every inch of each sheet seemed to be covered with measurements and directions. Most of the work was too far from the light to be clearly seen, but even near the bars, Kelsea could make out several designs. A siege tower, measuring well over sixty feet. A double-layered device with some sort of locking mechanism in the middle. Two different types of bows. The desk itself, which sat near the bars, was covered with a half-finished plan that Kelsea could not make out. She held the candle as high as she could, hissing as a bit of hot wax dripped on her hand, and was rewarded with a clear view of the schematic pinned over the desk: a diagram of a cannon, identical to those she had seen in the Mort war train. Kelsea’s breath halted as the implication of all of these drawings sank in: she had found the Red Queen’s weapons designer.
But what in God’s name was he doing down here? The bald man spoke perfect Tear. It was a good bet that he was a slave, and if so, he must be one of the most valuable slaves that the Red Queen could claim. So why on earth would she keep him in the Palais dungeons? Why open him up to brutality, to rats, to the pneumonia that must surely beset this damp, drafty place in winter? An engineer this gifted should be living the most pampered life a Mort slave could imagine.
The empty cell provided Kelsea with no answers. She stood before the bars for a moment longer, making sure there was nothing she’d missed, and then crept down the hallway.
The next cell boasted not even a pallet. A young woman, Kelsea’s age, was curled up on the bare floor, fast asleep. She was naked, and even in the thin candlelight, Kelsea could see her shivering. Her arms were covered with red welts that looked like puncture wounds. Kelsea’s anger, which seemed to have died with the jailor, bloomed again, deep in her stomach.
How can you do this? she asked the Red Queen inside her head. You’re not stupid, you know right from wrong. How can you live with yourself?
But it was Carlin who replied.
Don’t waste your time, Kelsea. Some people are simply broken.
Surprisingly, Kelsea found that she did not want to think this of the Red Queen. She did not like the woman, but she had come to respect her. The child Evelyn had not had an easy life.
If you make apologies for the Red Queen, you should have made them for Thorne . . . perhaps even for your jailor, as well. None of them could have had happy childhoods.
Kelsea shrugged this off. The death of the jailor would not weigh on her. The world was better off without him. As for Thorne—
A door banged open at the top of the staircase. For a moment, Kelsea stood paralyzed. Escape was now impossible, if it had ever been an option at all, but she mustn’t let them know how close she had come. She might face some sort of punishment for killing the jailor, but there was nothing to be done about that now. Her legs unlocked and she scampered down the corridor to her cell. The candle guttered as she ran, and she took the last few steps by feel, grabbing hold of the open door and slipping inside. The jailor’s key was still hanging in the lock, and for a moment she debated taking it out, then decided against it. The fact that the jailor had let himself in would only bolster her story, and Kelsea had a suspicion that the jailor’s death would not trouble the Red Queen overmuch anyway.
As torchlight spilled down the hallway, she moved to the back of her cell and stood very still, waiting. As she looked down at the jailor’s body, relief filled her, the emotion so much an echo of Lily’s memories that Kelsea almost felt that the world had doubled back on itself. No matter what happened, at least she wouldn’t face the jailor, ever again.
The torch appeared, and beneath it was the tall form of Emily, the Red Queen’s page. She took in the scene in one quick scan, then set the torch in its bracket and hurried into the cell.
“Poor timing,” she murmured in Tear. “Simply poor timing.”
She looked up at Kelsea, a hint of impatience in her gaze. “You are unharmed?”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, help me then. We must get him out of here.”
“What?”
“If the Red Queen finds that you’ve killed your jailor, she will increase your security. We cannot have that now. Not so close to the date.”
“The date of what?”
“Help me!” Emily hissed. “Take off your dress.”
“There’s too much blood.”
“We can clean up afterward. But we mustn’t leave a trail. Let me have your dress.”
After another moment’s indecision, Kelsea pulled her dress over her head and tossed it to the other woman, who began to swaddle the jailor’s neck. Reflexively, Kelsea covered herself, before she realized how little modesty mattered in this moment. She dropped her hands and simply stood there, shivering, in her boots and underclothes. Emily pulled the jailor’s key ring from the lock, removed the key to Kelsea’s cell, and then tucked the ring into her pocket.