Alex Lidell - The Cadet of Tildor

Savoy grabbed a small towel and twisted it into a cord. Another step brought him flat against the wall on the hinge side of the door. He quieted his breathing.

“Marcy?” the same voice called. “I said, are you done with laundry?” The door opened and a plump woman stuck her head inside.

Savoy’s hands tightened on the cord. In or out, mistress, make a decision.

The woman sighed and retreated, closing the door. Savoy released a slow breath. Dying was in the guards’ job description, not the servants’. He pushed away from the wall and reached for the door handle.

It swung open before he touched it.

The plump woman returned. Muttering on about dirty towels, she stepped into the room and headed for a basket of linens in the opposite corner.

Seven Hells. Savoy slid in behind her and looped the twisted towel over her head. Reconsidering at the last moment, he pulled the cloth taut over her mouth instead of her neck. She squealed through her nose, like a piglet at the market, forcing him to tighten the gag. “Keep quiet,” he whispered into her ear.

The squealing ceased, replaced by flailing. She twisted about, scratching the air and huffing. Behind her, Savoy sighed, and pulled back on her shoulders until the woman’s balance wavered, and he could settle her onto the floor. When he came around to face her, her eyes grew as wide as her cheeks pale.

“No, gods, no, no,” she pleaded softly, hugging her arms across her chest.

Savoy crouched. “Do nothing to harm me, and I will reciprocate. Understand?”

She nodded.

“Good. Who else works here tonight?”

She tried, and had Savoy’s mission been to procure contraband soap or breach the security of the laundry room, he would have extracted some value from her words. “All right, that’s enough.” He reached for a spare towel and started binding the woman’s hands behind her back.

“Please, sir, don’t do that,” she begged, her voice shaking and eyes full to the brim. “Leave me, sir. I won’t say nothing to nobody.”

Of course, and I’m a princess disguised. He held the thought to himself. If he was letting her live, better depart on a sympathetic note. Securing the wrist binding, he wrapped the gag back into place. “If I leave you untied,” he whispered into her ear, “you’ll be punished for not raising alarm.”

The bathing room fiasco concluded, Savoy continued into the corridor. The openness of the passage made him uneasy. Time ticked on. Den had granted him ten minutes. By now he had used them all. Praying that the guards took time to muster, Savoy hurried forward. He stayed close to the wall, ears alert for footsteps and creaking hinges.

A faint blue glow shimmered about the edges of the arena door. He jogged to it, the amulet at the ready. Once more the door’s glow died under the amulet’s command, and Savoy pulled at the handle.

It refused to budge.

He pulled again. No result. Sweat beaded on his forehead. The open corridor was ill suited for delay. Resisting the urge to continue yanking the handle, he made himself retreat from the door and look at it anew. Haste wouldn’t quicken progress. He took a breath.

The tap of footsteps approaching from a side passage spun Savoy around. The closest concealment, another small passage that fed into the main corridor, lay twenty spans back. Could he make it? He sprinted, bare feet pushing off the hard stone, and spun himself inside. A moment later, a man with an oil jug stepped into the main hall, refilled one hanging lantern, and moved to the next.

Flat against the wall, Savoy tightened his jaw. The workman would be at his task for a quarter hour at best. By then, the search for Savoy would on in full strength. Savoy had to engage, right in the middle of the open corridor, right now.

Lifting a small pebble off the ground, Savoy skipped it against the floor.

Five paces away, the workman startled and turned toward the noise, his back exposed. Savoy pushed away from the wall and lunged at the man’s legs. He grabbed him at the knees, collapsed them together, and shoved. The man fell. Savoy followed him down.

The oil jug shattered. The man twisted; blood running from his nose soaked his shirt. His eyes widened, meeting Savoy’s. And he screamed.

Elp! Elp! Elp! the stones echoed.

Seven Hells. Savoy’s stomach clenched.

The man struggled, splattering blood. His mouth opened.

Savoy couldn’t permit another scream. His fist struck the man’s temple. There was no more noise.

Lowering the unconscious body to the ground, Savoy found himself with his original problem. The amulet had disarmed the mage glow of the arena door. It hadn’t opened it. He jogged forward and stopped a pace away, examining the wood.

The Vipers kept the facilities in excellent shape. If a door would not budge, it was locked, not stuck. Find the second lock. His eyes tracked the crack where the door met the wall, and worked methodically around the frame. There. A simple sliding latch glittered at the top right corner. He slipped it free and the door opened.

The arena was empty. Rows of wooden benches rose like stairs from where he stood. At the top, two blue, glowing doors led to the street. He was so close now, he could taste the free air. A fence of barbed-wire-topped rods, rising up only four times his height, was all that separated him and it.

Experience checked his excitement in favor of caution. Savoy surveyed his route. The fence blocked the pens and fight area from the spectator section. He was in a cage—a cage without a ceiling, but still a cage. Den had been right, the only way out was to climb.

Savoy approached the metal bars, spaced hand-widths apart. No footholds. He’d have to rely on his hands alone. The barbed wire at the top would cut him, but if he ripped some cloth from his pants to lay over the burrs, he might avoid fatal gashes. The amulet would unlock the door.

He repeated the plan and tucked the amulet into his waistband. Satisfied, he grasped the bars and hauled himself up.

Unlike the climbing-ropes hanging in the salle, the smooth metal slipped in his grasp. For each span of gained ground, he slid down by half. The problem increased as his hands grew damp with sweat. He wiped his palms off on his pants each time he switched holds, all the while wishing for chalk. Why not wish for rope while he was at it? Gritting his teeth, Savoy climbed on. The door to freedom lay in sight.

He paused for breath upon reaching the barbed wire and snaked his hands between the razor coils to hang with both hands from the bar topping the cage. Gashes appeared on his forearms, leaking blood. Savoy’s arms shook now, slipping in sweat and screaming with strain. He tried ripping his trousers for a bit of cloth to throw over the bars, but couldn’t manage it one-handed. No, he’d have to swing his body over the top and pray the burrs didn’t shred him to pieces in the process. He hung loose, took a breath, and started swinging his body side to side like a pendulum. One. Two . . .

“Eh!” a voice bellowed below. “Loose pup! Loose pup!”

More voices joined the shouting, but Savoy continued swinging his legs from side to side to gain momentum. The door beckoned. Three. On the upswing, Savoy flung himself over the top.

His legs cleared. His torso didn’t. Barbed wire and the bars’ sharp tops cut into his abdomen. He twisted and the metal dug farther into flesh, biting and ripping. On the ground below, cursing guards gathered on both sides of the bars. Savoy ignored them. Once he was over, he could fight his way to the door.

Setting his jaw, Savoy let his stomach endure the abuse, while he worked to reclaim handholds on the blood-slicked bars. He was halfway over. Just a little more and he could slide down. Hells, he could jump down and sort out the broken bones later. He tensed and passed an arm over the top, getting a shallow cut as reward. Then the other arm. When he breathed out again, it was done. He was dangling safely on the spectator side.