Mayer Alan Brenner - Spell of Intrigue

Even before Groot had finished covering the surface, the pasty solvent had begun to foam. He dipped the spatula into the wooden pot once more, used it to neatly square off the one remaining corner of block, hopped carefully off the bench, and moved the bench back against the opposite wall. The solvent, based on a tincture of pressed liverwort in an alkaline broth, was both well tested and fairly nontoxic, at least if you weren’t made of concrete, or such had been the claim of the chemist Julio had located. Still, Groot didn’t particularly want the stuff dripping on his head or down his back, so he was content to watch it work from across the cell. The solvent had filled a shallow reservoir at the bottom of the large dinner pot; Groot estimated he’d used about half of his supply thus far.

Another implement had been concealed within the pot as well: a skeleton key. Groot inserted it into the lock on his leg chain, and after creaking to itself and shape-shifting its outline in a quick blur and with a tingling vibration against his fingers, the key found its match. The lock clacked open.

Groot replaced the key in its slot and lowered the large crock of stew into the pot after it, concealing key and solvent alike beneath its false bottom; the crock locked itself into place with a small click. The solvent had all been present when the dinner had been delivered although the level of stew had been a bit low, no doubt due to some judicious taste-testing on the part of the jailer as he made his inspection, but that was, after all, his prerogative, even with the bribes that Groot made sure kept coming his way.

Julio had used a runner hired off the street to deliver the meal. Hopefully, that would insulate him from immediate implication if the scheme failed, and both Julio and Eelmon were nowhere in the vicinity at the moment. Still , Groot thought, there are times when risks must be run , and since those who were holding him were obviously expecting him to try something of the sort, it would be best not to disappoint them.

The foam was letting off a small sizzle as it worked its way through the cement matrix. It was not dripping down the wall, as Groot had anticipated; instead, the solvent was sticking firmly to its area of application and was, in fact, sinking with alacrity deeper into the block. He heard a small clatter of pebble against rock as a chunk of embedded gravel fell free onto the solid block below, the cement around it turning to goo and then to slush, followed by an irregular patter as the rest of the material began to slide free as well. At one upper corner daylight suddenly peeped through. Groot squinted his eyes just in case, but when no stab of pain resulted from seeing the sun after a day in stygian dungeon gloom, he shrugged to himself and opened them again, albeit with a careful squint. Of course, he had had a candle, and the new light from outside wasn’t exactly direct sunlight spilling down into the dry moat, but rather a fuzzy daytime glow; there was surely no need to get histrionic about this thing, Groot thought, frowning. “Stygian gloom,” indeed.

Trying to keep a tighter grip on his sense of proportion, Groot crossed back to the rapidly vanishing block. It looked much less like rock now and much more like a chunk of almost-melted ice. On the other side of the opening, by the side of the outer wall, a length of rope dropped into view. “Hello?” Groot hissed carefully.

“Who calls?” answered a deep rumbly whisper, followed by a short round of muffled coughing.

“Groot,” he confirmed.

There was no need to ask who was on the other end. Once indoors and away from the clinging river air, Max’s caravan-mate Svin had quickly thrown off his shakes and chills and had proceeded to eat steadily for the better part of a week, rapidly filling out much of the mass he’d shed and beginning to look less like a sheared seven-foot sheep and more like the barbarian fighting machine of prototypical legend. The cough remained, however, although it seemed to be triggered now mostly by speech and exercise. Svin hadn’t been talking much, but he had been spending most of his time working out, so the top floor and screened roof-deck of Groot’s house - where Svin had been staying in seclusion and out of sight - had been rattled alternately by the thud and thump of his exertions and the rack of his booming catarrh.

Using the thick cloth that had swaddled the stewpot, Groot pushed the slurry of foaming gravel that was now all that remained of the concrete block away from him over the edge of the wall, wiped the facing surfaces clean, and rolled the cloth over the side after the goo. As his earlier estimation had implied, the revealed open space was big enough for a tight squeeze through to the outside. Groot stretched one arm ahead through the opening, grasped the outer edge, boosted himself headfirst into the breach, and wiggled carefully forward. A quick glance down over the rim showed that the cloth and the remains of the block had already merged into the expanse of leaves, branches, mounded dirt, and assorted litter that lined the bottom of the moat. He twisted enough to crane his head upward.

The rope rose another ten feet to terminate in a hook which was looped over a stout iron crossbar supporting the local section of grating. Perched on the low retaining wall on the plaza side was the figure of Svin, his back toward the moat, sitting with the contained menace of a lolling jungle cat, his hands clasped around his knees and his back leaning backward over the screened moat. “What about this grating?” Groot asked softly.

“Rust,” said Svin. “It is rotten and will snap under your weight. Grasp the thin part next to the rope.”

“Very well.” It was credible, which was what was required. “Proceed to your diversion now, if you would. Remember, no killings - are you clear on that?”

“It is no task for a warrior born,” Svin commented, “but I am getting used to that sort of thing.”

“Good, as long as we are clear. Contact Julio when you’ve finished.”

Svin grunted. “I am a barbarian, not an infant; I can remember instructions.” He unfolded himself to his feet and strode off.

Groot grunted for good measure. The man had done his task. Using the arm he had left outstretched behind him, Groot took hold of the inner lip of the wall and drew himself backward. As his chest emerged from the passageway back into the cell and his weight dropped him back toward the bench, his grip on the outside slipped at just the wrong instant and his head lashed up and bashed itself against the rock above him. He gritted his teeth and paused for a moment until the wave of pain eased.

Guilt by association, that’s all this is anyway, he thought to himself. Maximillian and the rest of them like this kind of nonsense, fighting with guards, sneaking in and out of buildings, amusing themselves with feats of daring, but not me; give me a back room, an account book, and a well-filled pipe any day. If it hadn’t been for the money and his investment, he never would have gotten involved with them in the first place. And look what it had brought him to now. Fah! How he had gotten a reputation as a person of physical action himself, why the forces of Oolsmouth officialdom had felt it necessary to lock him up, and why they nonetheless expected him to try some miraculous escape, was beyond him. Irrational, not to mention ...

His mind caught up in thought, Groot eased himself the last inches backward, felt for the bench with his toes and then let his weight fully down onto it, stretched out his back with a satisfying lumbar pop, stepped off the bench onto the floor, and started to turn, with the intention of seating himself where he could catch the sluggish air now circulating through his new window and trying to freshen his environment. Instead, his turn brought with it its own surprises. The cell door was standing open and a familiar face was framed in it. “What do we have here, now, then, your lordship?” said the jailer.