The Tower Broken(34)

—and stumbled into the night-time of the next room, coughing up the dust in his throat. This space was empty save for a table with a knife upon it. He knew as well as he knew the look of his own hands that Adam had put the weapon there for him. He lifted it and listened for the guards. He knew they had clubs and swords, but would they use them? After a moment he decided, yes, they would. Adam wanted him to escape; they could not merely let him go – even if they only played at fighting, he was weak with hunger and untrained with the knife.

And so he set to the next wall. The baby cried on the other side of it. No matter – he would run past the mother and the screaming child and then he would be in the Maze. That held its own dangers, but at least he was armed and that would be enough to keep most people at bay. He thrilled with each stroke of the weapon. Joy filled him, knowing where each shape belonged, sensing exactly where a line should stop, like a musician with his instrument. As a boy he had been given a broken harp and he had taken great joy in the meagre sound of it. This was far better.

He did not hear the guards or Adam as he worked. He thought of the pretty, cruel guard who first had held him. He would not mind fighting that one. Farid scored the last line, and pulled.

Darkness.

He stumbled and fell, sneezing; the baby screamed and someone coughed. He sat up, wiping snot from his nose. He could not see anything. His candle had been burnt down to a nub and must have flickered out at last. After a minute the baby quieted and he heard a girl whisper, ‘Where does that lead?’

‘What?’ He sat up, looking into the blackness.

‘The hole you made. I can smell fresh air. Does it lead to the street?’

‘No. It’s another house. Don’t go in there.’ He regretted opening the hole if it meant those men would now come through and cause trouble for her.

The girl was quiet a time, then said, ‘I need to find a way out of here.’

You too? Farid wiped sawdust from his face. ‘I can’t see you. Where are you?’

‘In the corner.’

He strained, but saw nothing. ‘Why don’t you have a light?’

‘I don’t need light.’ So she was blind. ‘You must be careful. He’s downstairs.’ The way she said it gave him pause. The house where he had been held was small. It made sense the Mogyrks might occupy all of the houses in this row. And if Adam were on the first floor … He gripped the knife in his hand.

‘He pretends to be nice,’ she said. ‘When I first saw him I thought he was so kind – the sort of man you could really believe might bring you into a better place.’

‘Where’s your family?’ he asked. ‘Is there somebody who is looking for you? I can send them word.’

He did not expect her to laugh, but she did. ‘You would not believe me.’

‘I’ll tell the Blue Shields about you,’ he said. The confidence was more for himself than for her; he still had to get past whoever waited downstairs. ‘No: I’ll bring you with me.’ He opened the door a crack and peeked out. A narrow landing led to a flight of stairs. No guard stood at this level. He crept out and paused on the first step, listening. He heard nothing, but Adam could be crouching there, waiting to pounce once he came into view.

He took another step, and another. No alarm was raised, from this house or the other, but now he heard murmurs and froze. There were two men, maybe three. He could not fight his way out. He would need to be clever. He returned to the girl’s room and lifted her baby’s cradle. ‘Are you ready to leave? Tonight?’

‘Please,’ she said, ‘yes.’

He paused. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Rushes.’

Farid returned to the stairs and placed the cradle at the edge of the first step. Then he set to making his pattern for the third time. He wished he had learned more than two, but then he remembered they were the tool of the enemy and shuddered. He barely needed to think about the shapes now; his hands moved automatically, his sore, damaged fingers pressing against the knife. When he was ready he tipped the cradle down the stairs, making a great noise, and waited at the edge of his design.

Two men ran to the bottom of the steps and examined the contents of the spilled blankets. Whatever their purpose, they did seem to care about the child they had imprisoned. Not finding the babe they turned towards the stairs and as they rushed upwards, they caught sight of Farid and started shouting at one another to seize him.

He pulled, a smile coming to his face. He would get out, and once free, he would find his father. He thought of the old man’s face, scored with wrinkles, his big hands as they lifted barrels full of pomegranates.