The Last Knight (23 page)

“I’m sorry about the discomfort,” the lady went on, actually sounding sorry. “But as you’ve learned, it will pass. In two hours the potion will have metabolized, and I’ll return to free you. I need to finish some work, anyway.”

She was dosing someone—a prisoner! Please, let it be one of the simple ones, not—No such luck. Michael’s voice replied, rough, weary, familiar.

“I hate you.” It should have sounded childish, but the flat sincerity of it froze my blood.

“You won’t,” said the lady. “When I’m finished, you’ll…”

I stood up, missing the rest of her speech. Whatever was going on in there, I had to stop it. The door opened in and she was facing away from it—I’d never have a better chance.

I
tried to summon the strength to reply to Lady Ceciel’s lunatic ramblings, but I’m not sure why I bothered. Over the last few days I’d tried every form of argument, bribe, and plea. Nothing had worked.

I had taken several doses of her accursed potion now, but the cold serpent that coiled through my gut had had no effect, except to add to my nausea.
No effect
, I told myself firmly. My wrists were raw from struggling against the ropes that bound them to the bedstead. My throat was raw from the funnel. I felt sick, and very tired, and my eyes were beginning to play tricks on me. I hated her. I was about to say it again when the door flew open with a force that would have knocked her down had she been standing closer. As it was the door struck her wide skirts, spinning her around, face to face with Fisk.

Fisk!

His face was a mask of determination, and the lady’s eyes opened so wide I could see white around the rims. She drew a breath to scream, but Fisk moved faster than I’d ever seen him, leaping forward, shoving her shoulders, kicking for her ankles. They fell together with Fisk on top, and Lady Ceciel’s head struck the floor hard enough to crack her skull, if the thick knot of hair at the back of her head hadn’t cushioned it.

Even so, the blow stunned her for a moment, which was all Fisk needed. When she opened her mouth to scream he stuffed in a handkerchief; her teeth snapped down so fast he almost lost his fingers. He clapped a hand over her mouth to keep her from spitting out the gag, and she began to struggle. She also started screaming behind the gag—making an astonishing amount of noise.

Fisk kicked the door closed and clamped one of her wrists behind his knee. Then he grabbed the hand that was clawing at his eyes and pinned it. Only then did he stop to look up at me. “You might lend a…oh.”

I was sitting up, in the uncomfortable crouch that was all I could manage with my wrists bound to the bed. I was also, I realized, gaping at him like an idiot. He looked thinner and tired…and blond. I’d never been so glad to see anyone in my life.

“Fisk!”

“I guess you can’t lend a hand. Any suggestions?”

“Fisk.” My eyes filled, and I blinked them clear.

Lady Ceciel squirmed beneath him, twisting the wrist tucked under his knee. In a moment she’d free it.

“Wake up, Michael! What’s the matter? You knew I was coming.”

I drew a deep, shuddering breath, struggling to clear the fog from my mind. “Of course I did.”

I have always been a terrible liar.

My heart twisted at the hurt that dawned in his eyes. But anything I said would make it worse, and we had other things to worry about. The lady’s squirming grew more urgent, and more effective, with every passing second.

Fisk grimaced and returned to practical matters. “Can you throw me one of those blankets with your feet? I want something around her head if she starts yelling.”

Why hadn’t I trusted him? And if I failed so significantly, how could I expect him to trust me?

“Michael, wake up! Come on, Mike, throw me a blanket!”

Mike. He was trustworthy, but he could also be very annoying. I fumbled in the bedclothes with my feet, and finally managed to pick up a blanket and pitch it within his reach. My ankle chain rattled, and Fisk’s lips tightened at the sound.

He had to let go of Lady Ceciel’s mouth to grab the blanket. Thankfully he got it wrapped around her head before she started screaming. She’d be free of the gag shortly, but I knew how thick these walls were. Once his hands were free, it took Fisk only a moment to roll Lady Ceciel over and tie her wrists with a cord he pulled from his pocket. ’Tis nice to have a squire who is well prepared. The knowledge that I had been rescued made my spirits soar, despite the tight knot of pain growing in my belly.

Fisk tore the hem off one of Lady Ceciel’s petticoats to bind the gag back in place. She got off an earsplitting shriek when he unwrapped the blanket, and Fisk swore when she bit his fingers.

He bound her ankles, struggled to his feet, and glared down at her. She glared back in silence.

“I wish she hadn’t yelped,” Fisk muttered.

“I don’t think it makes much difference. Nobody ever responded when
I
screamed. Cut me loose, Fisk!”

He hurried to the bed. “I’ll have to untie you. They took my knife.” My struggles had tightened the ropes, and he swore again as they resisted his tugging fingers.

“How under two moons did you get here, Fisk? Did the sheriff—” The pain in my stomach intensified, in the sudden way that was common with that damnable potion; I doubled over, breath hissing between my teeth.

“Are you all right?” Fisk pulled the rope off one of my wrists and reached for the other, concern and urgency warring in his expression. We hadn’t time for this.

My other wrist came free and I staggered over to a corner, where I rid myself of Lady Ceciel’s potion.

In the midst of my spasms I felt Fisk’s clasp on my shoulders. I would have thanked him had I been able to speak.

When the heaving stopped, Fisk helped me stumble back to the bed. I was shaking as I sank onto the rumpled blankets, but my mind began to clear. If my practical, craven squire had come here on his own, incredible as it seemed, then we needed to get out fast. Fisk must have a plan, but he simply stood there, looking down at me.

“So now what?” I asked.

Relief flashed in his eyes, and I realized how groggy I must have been before. “Now I get you out of this.” He examined the lock on my shackle, and pulled a pick from his boot.

I started to laugh and he looked up, startled.

“I knew you could pick locks. Never mind. What next?”

Fisk’s gaze dropped. “I was hoping you’d have an idea.”

’Twas like being hit in the head with a brick. “
What?
You came all the way in here with no plan for getting out?”

He abandoned the lock to scowl at me. “It was a little difficult, Mike, when I didn’t know what the defenses were, or where you were, or in what condition. My plan was to get in, find you, and then make plans once I had some information.”

“I’m sorry.” I’d have been sorrier if he wasn’t calling me Mike. “But of all the ridiculous—”

“Look, could we discuss my stupidity later?”

I drew in a breath and let it go. “What are the defenses?”

“A problem.” Fisk returned to picking the lock as he spoke. “There are four guards on the walls, and probably one on the gate—I didn’t have a chance to find out. There are horses in the stable, but a guard on the stable door. None of them will let us out without Lady Ceciel’s permission…. Maybe if we took her hostage…I can get a knife in the kitchen…”

It sounded feasible until we looked at Lady Ceciel. She sneered at us. She would not make a good hostage.

“Not a chance,” I told Fisk. “She’ll fight us off and make a break for it.”

Fisk grimaced in agreement, then his face lit. “Michael! Do you know how—”

The door swung open.

For several seconds Hackle and Fisk just stood there, staring. Then Hackle turned toward the hall, drawing breath to shout, and Fisk leapt across the room and catapulted into him.

On a peg leg Hackle couldn’t keep his balance—he and Fisk careened across the hallway, into the opposite wall. But unlike Lady Ceciel, Hackle wasn’t stunned. He drew another breath, and Fisk clamped both hands around his throat.

I jumped from the bed and stumbled halfway across the floor before the chain yanked my ankle and almost sent me sprawling. Recovering my balance, I spun in place, desperately estimating the distance. The hall was wide—even if I dragged the bed across the room, I couldn’t reach them.

Hackle clawed at Fisk’s wrists for a few, futile moments—then he did the smarter thing and reached for Fisk’s eyes. Fisk ducked, burying his face against the nearest shelter, which happened to be Hackle’s chest. I heard Hackle haul a ragged breath past Fisk’s hands. His face had a purple cast, but if he was still getting air, ’twould be a long time before he passed out. I had to get loose—now!

I flung myself onto the bed, braced my hands, and kicked the post with both feet, as hard as I could. The blow jarred my legs from toe to hip, but the give I’d worked into the post over the last few days kept me from breaking bones. I kicked again and again. The post locked into place, and pain rang in my heels, but I didn’t stop.

Hackle gave up trying to reach Fisk’s eyes and grabbed his hair, trying to drag his head back. I swear I saw Fisk’s scalp leave his skull. He made a muffled sound of pain, but he held his place, nearly invulnerable, except…

The same thought occurred to Hackle. He let go of Fisk’s hair and reached for his hands, feeling carefully, gripping the little finger and bending it back. One hand came away from Hackle’s throat and air rasped into Hackle’s lungs. He still couldn’t shout, but it wouldn’t be long.

Fisk would be captured.

Lady Ceciel would win.

Bracing my back and arms, I put everything I had into the next kick. My bones vibrated, but there was no pain—because the wood began to crack. I kicked again, even harder, and was rewarded with a sweet snapping sound as the bedpost broke. My hands shook as I twisted it apart and slid the chain free.

Hackle saw what I was doing. He clawed at Fisk’s hand in such a frenzy that his nails drew blood, but Fisk held on.

The shattered bedpost made a wonderful club.

I sprinted out of the cell and struck Hackle’s temple, trying to hit him hard, but not enough to crack his skull, for I wasn’t prepared to do murder…not quite. I must have judged it fairly well; his eyes rolled up, and he slid down the wall, taking Fisk with him. Hackle was still breathing, but he’d have a monster of a headache when he woke—a thought that gave me considerable satisfaction.

Fisk stared up at me. “You
broke
that?” ’Twas a sensible question—the thing was four inches thick.

“I’ve been working it loose for days.” I tossed it back into the cell and reached for Hackle’s feet. “Give me a hand.”

“I’m not cut out for burglary,” Fisk moaned.

The loudest sound, as we dragged Hackle back into the cell, was the rattle of my chain on the floor.

Lady Ceciel’s eyes widened above the gag when she saw her steward’s limp form.

“He’s alive,” I told her, checking as I spoke to be sure ’twas true. “Just stunned.” Her eyes closed in relief.

I didn’t care.

Fisk stripped blankets off the damaged bed and we hauled Hackle onto it, tying his wrists and his good foot to the remaining posts. His eyelids were fluttering, so we gagged him as well. Then it took several minutes of scrounging over the floor to find the lock pick Fisk had dropped.

I sat on the floor and Fisk lifted my shackled ankle. He still looked stunned, but his hands were steady.

“Right back where we started.” My lips twitched. “You were saying?”

“Huh?” Fisk looked up, puzzled.

“When Hackle interrupted. You were about to ask me something.”

“What? Oh. Yes! Michael, do you know how to brew aquilas?”

I stiffened. “No one in my family has
ever
used that vile stuff. We wed our women honestly—we don’t seduce them with drugs!”

“I didn’t ask if you’d used it,” Fisk said, fishing inside the lock. “I asked if you knew how to make it. Come on, Mike, nobles are supposed to pass that recipe from father to son.”

“My father didn’t! I told you, no one—”

“But you know the formula, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “I learned it at university.”

Fisk’s jaw dropped. “They teach you to make aquilas at
university
? I thought it was illegal!”

“Of course it is,” I snapped. “They don’t teach you—the students write it with chalk on the inside of privy doors. You couldn’t help but read it. Though the formulas differ a bit.”

We turned again to Lady Ceciel. Her eyes glittered with fury, but I thought I saw the beginning of fear.

Fisk’s eyes were bright with hope. “The real question is, does it work?”

“How should I know? I’ve never used it.” But I’d heard tales. My hopes began to rise as well…but to make aquilas? To use it against a woman? My father would never forgive me.

“But you could make it?”

Could I forgive myself? I thought of Janny, of my misery over the last few weeks, of the oddly luminous potions, twisting in my intestines, and became so lost in thought that Fisk had to repeat his question.

“Could you make it?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes, I think I could. Some ingredients were the same in all the formulas. But I—”

“This is no time for scruples, Mike.” The shackle clicked open and Fisk pulled it wide. I reclaimed my ankle and rubbed it, erasing the feel of captivity more than any pain. “It’s our only chance to get out of here.”

I owed it to Fisk to get him out. I owed a debt to Janny, and the others as well. I met Lady Ceciel’s defiant gaze and the past few days filled the space between us, destroying my remorse.

“You’re right. I’ll do it.”

Fisk took a few seconds to put his boots back on—if all the noise we’d made hadn’t alerted anyone yet, we had nothing to fear from boot steps. I wasn’t afraid of making noise. I wasn’t afraid of anything. We left Hackle in the cell—door neatly bolted. He was coming around, but he looked like his head ached too badly for him to do much. I was glad for that—a bitter gladness that felt heavier than grief.

Lady Ceciel we brought with us. Or rather Fisk brought her, having first retied her ankles with a short hobble so she could walk but not kick or run.

I let him handle her—not because I didn’t want to touch her, but because I had never in my life wanted to hurt someone the way I wanted to hurt Lady Ceciel. The cold fear of what I might do, given the chance, occupied my mind as we hurried down the corridor to her herbarium.

Then we opened the door, and I beheld a sight so horrifying it made all my previous fears hollow. It wasn’t half a dozen guardsmen, or a monster, or a mutilated corpse. Just a room full of bottles and herbs—but some of them glowed with their own light, the light of magica, made visible, in a way no normal person could see.