Rebellion (Chronicles of Charanthe #1) Read online

  Chapter 9

  Eleanor was woken by the first shaft of early-morning light which fell through the high window, and found Raf already wide awake. "Morning," she said, sitting up and then wincing as one of her blisters caught on her shirt.

  He turned to look at her. "You sound a bit happier this morning."

  "I'm thinking how to get out of here. We'll need to work on getting our strength up." She knew that she was beginning to weaken through poor nutrition and lack of exercise, and Raf was in a much worse state. "We need to start using our time in here properly. No more sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves."

  He grinned. "That's the spirit! What are you thinking?"

  "We've still got about two weeks to the equinox, so we've got time to start with the basics – push-ups, stretches, a bit of jogging." She'd been thinking it through before she'd fallen asleep, and it still seemed reasonable in the morning light. "We can't do this without some serious training."

  They started slowly, finding that even simple stretches were hard on their tired and underfed bodies, and there was constant pain from their wounds. After only a few short exercises they were interrupted by the sound of bolts sliding open on the other side of the door, and both sat down quickly to hide the fact that they'd been doing anything.

  The guards gave them water and a bowl of cold grain for breakfast, then left them to their own devices again.

  For the next few days they devoted themselves to their new training schedule, taking breaks only to sleep, eat, and recover from the now-daily sessions in the torture chamber. They became experts at listening for the slightest sound at the door, and at slowing their breathing so as not to arouse the suspicions of the guards. If anyone noticed they were sweating more than usual or breathing a little heavily, they hoped it would only be attributed to fever – an illusion they tried to reinforce by coughing and snuffling whenever they were under observation, and which seemed to be convincing because they started to be supplied with bowls of hot stew instead of the usual cold fare. Even the intensity of the torture sessions decreased for a couple of days; apparently someone really did want to keep them alive.

  Eleanor quickly felt her muscles relearning old patterns of movement; Raf was having more difficulty, but then he'd been longer without regular exercise and a proper diet. He forced himself to keep going almost to the point of collapse most days, trying to make up for his weakness by pushing his body beyond its natural limits and insisting – whenever Eleanor suggested he should take it easy for a day or even a morning – that it was his own fault for letting himself get out of shape while he'd been alone in the cell.

  Over the same period they discussed and rehearsed their plan, going over it again and again, constantly suggesting refinements. There could only be one attempt; they had to get it right first time.

  Eventually, once their calculations suggested that the equinox had been and gone, both agreed that they were about as well prepared as they'd ever be able to get in the circumstances.

  "Today, then?" Eleanor checked after the guards had left them alone with their breakfast.

  "Yes. Are you ready?"

  She nodded. The time had come. "Yes, but..." She took a deep breath, trying to gather the courage to say what needed to be said, painfully aware of the way he was watching her. "Have you ever killed anyone?" she asked.

  "No." There was a faint question in his voice.

  "It stunned me," she said. "The first time. I only ended up in here because... because I hesitated. I think I'm ready now – I'm expecting it this time – but I wanted to warn you because we can't afford to get this wrong. We won't get a second chance."

  "Thank you." He reached out to touch her hand, and she breathed a silent sigh of relief; she hadn't known how he would take it, afraid it would sound like a criticism although she meant it only as a practical warning. The last thing she wanted was to alienate him when, now more than ever, they were going to have to work together to survive.

  It was getting late before the guards finally came for them that day, and they were relieved that it was just four men to the two of them – that was what they'd planned on. The guards half-dragged them to the torture chamber as usual, and they both tried to act naturally, feigning their typical combination of resistance and resignation.

  As the guard on Eleanor's right reached up to fasten her wrist into the manacle, she lurched sharply down and to the left, freeing her wrist and aiming a kick sharply up towards the groin of the guard on her right. She could hear that Raf had also made his move, as they'd agreed, but she didn't have time to turn and see how things were going for him.

  She rolled as she hit the floor and tore herself free of the second guard's grip, just in time to see the first one take a glowing poker from the furnace and turn back towards her. She looked around desperately for a weapon, but from her position on the floor the only thing she could reach was a length of iron chain. It would have to do.

  She wrapped the ends of the chain around her hands as she scrambled to her feet, and as the poker came down towards her head she held up her hands to defend herself. Sparks flew as metal hit red-hot metal and she pulled the chain taut to create a block, forcing the guard to step backwards to avoid being burnt by his own weapon.

  She heard the other guard moving up behind her; unable to turn without losing control of the poker situation, she waited until she was sure he'd come within striking distance and kicked backwards towards where his stomach should have been.

  Her foot hit only air and she was left struggling for balance; the guard with the poker took advantage of her instability and pushed forward as hard as he could, knocking her to the ground.

  Flat on her back on the floor, she knew she didn't have time to move out of the way; both men were almost upon her. She released one end of the chain and began to spin it, faster and faster until it was whipping through the air fast enough to do serious damage. Wishing she'd thought to try this earlier, she tilted her wrist to change the angle and the chain cracked into the temple of the poker-wielding guard, causing him to drop his weapon as he fell to the floor.

  She got to her feet, still spinning the chain to keep the other man at a safe distance. She flicked her wrist and the chain cracked downwards, knocking the dagger from his hand. He cried out as the metal smashed his fingers, and finding himself suddenly disarmed with the chain still whirling towards him, he backed quickly from the room.

  Eleanor glanced back at her first assailant to reassure herself that he definitely wasn't getting up, then turned to where Raf was still fighting. He'd managed to take a short sword from one of the guards, but it was two against one and he was barely holding his own. Eleanor reached for the nearest sharp object, a crooked metal spike from the bench to her left, and sent it flying across the room; it sank deep into the neck of one of the guards, piercing his windpipe and leaving Raf free to devote his attention to the other – and after that the fight was over in two sharp blows.

  "Time to get out of here," Raf said, taking the dagger from the hand of the guard he'd just killed.

  Eleanor put down the chain and joined him in collecting weapons, wanting to be as well prepared as possible for what was still to come. "I don't think it's over yet," she said. "One of them got out alive – he'll bring reinforcements to look for us."

  "All the more reason to get moving – come on."

  She followed him into the corridor, and instinctively they both turned away from the cell that had been their prison. Their plan hadn't covered anything beyond fighting their way out of the torture chamber; Eleanor realised she hadn't truly believed they'd even get this far, and besides, she'd assumed the way out would be obvious. It wasn't.

  After only a few paces the corridor forked; looking both ways gave them no indication of the right direction but a slight noise echoing from the right-hand branch was enough to persuade them to go left.

  They made their way carefully along the corridor, passing several doors and tensing with fear every time they
heard movement from any of the rooms, trying not to make any sound that might disturb the castle's occupants. Most of the doors were closed, but one rested ajar and made them doubly nervous as they edged past.

  They rounded the corner at the end of the corridor and came upon a flight of spiral stairs. Eleanor remembered being hauled up stairs when she'd been captured, and there had been light at the bottom of the latrine shaft so their cell couldn't have been underground – they must need to go down to ground level. She hesitated with her foot on the first step and glanced at Raf for confirmation; he nodded and moved past her.

  They started their descent at speed, but they'd gone down only about twenty steps when they heard someone – no, several people – coming up the stairs below them.

  They both instinctively froze, then: "Run!" Raf yelled, grabbing her elbow as he turned and sprinted past her, pulling her back up the way they'd come. She tried to keep pace with him, her injured shoulder threatening to tear again as he raced ahead of her taking two steps at a time. She struggled to keep up but he had a firm grip on her arm and didn't stop hurrying her until they reached the top of the flight where the stairs opened out onto a circular stone platform under a domed ceiling.

  "Stand there," he said, pointing her towards one side of the stairwell; he took the other side and fell into a fighting stance with a scavenged knife in each hand. "If they're following us they'll have to come up this way – we've got the advantage."

  They waited, ready to launch themselves at anyone emerging from the stairwell, but the expected pursuit didn't materialise. No footsteps followed them up the stairs.

  "How long do we wait?" Eleanor asked, only daring to speak once she was quite sure no-one was coming.

  "Stay there," he said, and moved away to examine the room. "There's a door over here – not locked. Come on."

  He held the door open and she followed him out onto a small ledge which formed a path around the tower.

  "We did it!" She cried, finally willing to let herself believe it. They'd actually escaped; the fresh air blowing her hair across her face confirmed it. She threw her arms around him in a celebratory hug, but let go quickly when she felt him flinch; in her excitement she'd forgotten his wounds. "Now what?"

  "Over to you – you know this town better than I do."

  They were at the top of a high, round tower, on a stone ledge about two foot wide. The side of the golden cupola bulged out just above their heads, and beneath them the walls were met by the next-lowest section of the roof about two storeys below. Eleanor looked over the edge. "Well, I suppose first we'd better think about getting down."

  The tower wasn't that different to the bell-tower she'd fallen from on her first exploration of the city – but on a larger scale. A fall from this height would do serious damage even if they weren't already injured. She flattened herself on the ledge and extended her arm as far down as she could reach, sweeping her fingers across the wall. The stones were worryingly smooth, blocks of hard rock like those which had enclosed their cell rather than the crumbly stone most of the city was built from; it was going to be hard to find a good grip.

  She prodded at the wall with one of the knives she'd picked up, trying to insert the blade between two stones. When her first attempts failed she tried to chip at the crack, but to no avail – the knife would break before these stones splintered. She shuffled along on her belly and tried other cracks; she'd travelled half the circumference of the tower by the time she found a gap which she thought might be wide enough to accommodate her fingers.

  She lowered herself over the edge, toes questing lower down the wall for a foot-hold. This was going to be the hardest climb of her life; the smooth quarried blocks offered few options. She'd worked her way a few feet further down the wall before it occurred to her to wonder where Raf had got to – she didn't know if he could climb the way she could, and if she was going to have to help him then she needed to get his attention sooner rather than later. She wedged her fingers and toes more tightly into place and craned her neck upwards to look for him.

  As her lips were forming his name to call for him, he stepped into view; she stopped herself shouting out just in time as she realised he wasn't alone on the ledge. He was backing away from a uniformed guard, and a moment later another guard came round from the other side of the tower.

  Eleanor could only watch in horror as they fought, Raf with his back flattened against the wall of the tower, one attacker on either side. There was no way she could get up there in time to help so she pressed her body against the stones and held herself motionless, watching.

  Raf had a blade in each hand, fighting in both directions at once, arms and legs whipping out in attack any time an opportunity presented itself. She could only imagine how much it must be hurting him but he showed no sign of it, suddenly fighting with twice the vigour he'd shown inside. Another kick, a quick slice down with his right arm, and one of the guards fell from the ledge; Eleanor felt a gust of air as the body dropped past her, and clung even more tightly to the wall. The guard clattered heavily on to the tiles of the roof below, and bounced down into the street. If he hadn't been dead when he fell, he certainly would be by now.

  Eleanor didn't have time to look up again before the second man also dropped, flailing and screaming as he passed her although his screams were silenced before his head smashed into the ground below.

  "Raf!" she called out once she was sure the fight had subsided.

  "Ellie!" He looked down, a broad grin spreading across his face. "I thought you were dead!" He vaulted over the edge towards her, and she had to drop downwards in a hurry to free up a foot-hold for him. Her shoulder wrenched with the sudden weight, and she cursed as she nearly lost her grip.

  "How well can you climb?" she asked once she'd stabilized herself. "It's a tough one if you don't want to go down the way they did."

  "Don't worry. I'll follow you."

  They made slow progress, having to take a complex route around the tower to find enough useful gaps between the stones, but they reached the lower roof without mishap and rested for a moment on the ridge tiles to catch their breath. The lower section was an easier climb with plentiful foot-holds, and they were on the ground in no time.

  In the half-darkness they almost stepped on the body of one of the guards Raf had knocked from the tower. Though dusty and bloodied from the fall, his clothes were still in better shape than the rags Eleanor and Raf were wearing, so they quickly stripped him to his underwear. Raf took the guard's trousers to replace his own and Eleanor pulled on the tunic, which reached to her knees, and belted it at her waist. In the nearly-new clothes she felt almost human again, and even ran a hand through her knotted hair before fastening a taut ponytail at the nape of her neck.

  After glancing around to check her bearings, she led Raf down towards the sea. She picked out a complicated route, choosing narrow and deserted alleys whenever possible, but in time they came to the gate where the main thoroughfare passed through the city wall. She didn't want to go through – it was too soon to risk drawing the attention of the guards – but she was pleased to see a few traders' stalls were pitched on this side of the wall.

  Motioning for Raf to wait for her, she sidled up alongside a grocer's cart and slipped two large, pear-shaped fruits into her pockets while his attention was occupied by another customer. Then she returned to Raf, took his arm and pulled him back into the maze of narrow lanes from which they'd just emerged.

  "Where are we going?" he asked as they hurried along.

  She ducked into the darkened arch of a nearby doorway, tugging him behind her. "Here, eat." She handed him one of the fruits she'd stolen, then took a hungry bite out of her own. The flesh was grainy, and too sweet to be properly refreshing, but at least it was food. Once they'd both finished, Raf repeated his question.

  "We need money," she said. "Food. Clothes. Weapons. Luckily, I know how we can get some."

  Even through the gloom she could see him raise a questioning eyebrow a
s he waited for an explanation.

  "Vashta," she said, enjoying the blank expression on his face. She'd been willing to let him take the lead inside the castle, and he'd got them through it, but she was happy to be back in control again. "It's a dance contest – they call it a fight between the women. I saw it the evening before I was captured and the winnings were huge – and I'm sure I can win."

  "Won't that draw a lot of attention to us?"

  She laughed. "Look at me! I'm already about the most distinctive fugitive there could be. But money can buy anything in this city – that must include some black-market freedom. Besides, no-one has to see you, you'll blend into the crowd."

  She led the way through the streets until they came to the tavern where she'd seen the contest previously. The critical gap in her knowledge was how often the Vashta happened, but it had looked spontaneous and she hoped she could start it herself if necessary.

  Raf hesitated on the threshold, looking concerned. "What if you lose?"

  "I won't lose." He didn't look satisfied, so she made up the simplest Plan B she could think of. "Okay, if I lose, you'll just have to steal the prize money from whoever wins – and get out of here before anyone gets a good look at you. In which case I'll meet you down by the harbour just before daybreak tomorrow. Now, time for you to blend in." She winked at him and then slipped ahead of him between two groups of drinkers, leaving him alone by the door.

  There was no music being played yet, but up in the gallery the string player was adjusting the tuning of his instrument. It was still early, and although the bar was already getting crowded the crowd was mostly quiet; just a gentle hum of conversation filled the air.

  Eleanor made her way to the edge of the room, as far as she could get from the bar – she didn't want to be challenged when she had no money to buy anything. She lurked in the shadows, waiting for the musicians to strike up, painfully aware of how strange she must look with her ill-fitting clothes and very foreign colouring. The last thing she wanted was to attract attention to herself before she even started dancing. She wondered how long it would take for word to spread that two fugitives were on the loose – and how tempting a price would have been placed on their heads. By all accounts Taraska was a more liberal, and more lawless, state than anywhere in the Empire – unlike back home, people here didn't depend on the authorities for their livelihoods, so why would the average person care if she was on the run? Money was the only reason these drinkers might take an interest in her.

  She was still pondering this when the whine of instruments being tuned transitioned into the distinctive sounds of Tarasanka music over a strong drum beat. She started tapping her foot even without thinking, adapting her body to the rhythms of the music even as those rhythms changed every few bars. The tempo was slow to start with, almost too slow to dance to, but it wasn't long before the musicians picked up speed.

  Eleanor waited to see if someone else would start the dance, but although the music grew louder and more lively there was no sign that the crowd was paying any attention to it. Then, just as she was about to see if she could start the contest herself, a woman climbed up onto one of the tables and began to dance.

  The musicians responded to every tap of the dancer's foot on the table, as if she were pushing them to play faster and faster. She was a well-built girl with black skin and wide hips, her hair tied in half a dozen plaits which flicked across her face as she stamped and swayed on the table-top, and a long blue skirt which swirled around her ankles.

  The crowd pulled back a little to leave space around the table, and a few of the spectators began to clap in time to the music, but no-one stepped forward to make the challenge. Eleanor took a deep breath, wondered for the last time whether she was making a mistake, then launched herself forwards through the crowd. There was no chance to turn back; hands grasped her and lifted her, carrying her forwards until she found herself deposited on another table facing the first dancer.

  Spying her competition the dancer slowed until she was moving at a quarter-time, watching Eleanor with wide, suspicious eyes. Eleanor's muscles froze against her will; she hadn't planned beyond this moment and her heart pounded in her chest. She'd been a good dancer at school but Charanthe dances had regular rhythms, repeating patterns, and a sequence of steps to execute in turn. Here she had nothing but her instincts to guide her, and the threat of the price on her head lurked in the back of her mind.

  Sensing the growing anticipation and impatience in the crowd she started to move her hips in time to the music, swaying and twisting her arms above her head as she brought herself back into tune with the constantly-changing beat of the drum. It didn't matter that she wouldn't be following a standard Charanthe dance, she could still use the same steps to get herself started. Knowing her nerves wouldn't fully dissipate until she was simply too exhausted to care, she tapped out a series of steps on the table top, spinning and hopping as she got into her stride. It was a very limited platform, too small for what she really wanted to do, so she somersaulted down to the floor when the first opportunity presented itself – and the crowd erupted in cheers and shouts.

  The woman on the table made a half-hearted attempt to continue her dance, but hands pulled her back into the crowd and another girl was pushed forwards in her place. This time the competitor was a narrow-waisted blonde, wearing short trousers and with her generous bosom barely restrained by a strip of red cloth tied around her chest. Eleanor couldn't help staring, and clearly the audience was similarly captivated.

  The girl began a stamping, swirling dance, playing to the crowd who cheered and chanted as she shimmied close to them, breasts constantly threatening to escape from under the band of cloth. Eleanor was conscious of the relative inadequacy of her own figure, with what little curves she had well-hidden beneath the folds of the stolen tunic, and her determination steeled. This was a dance contest, and she could dance better than this immodest hussy. She didn't wait for the blonde girl to finish, but cut in with a few steps of her own, challenging for the crowd's attention and suddenly understanding why they called this a fight. All the same feelings gripped her, and her heart pounded with the same urgency as when she'd been fighting for her life.

  The two girls fell into a natural rhythm, alternating short sequences, each responding in turn with quicker steps, higher kicks, faster twirls. Eleanor's muscles ached with every movement but she pushed herself harder and harder, determined to match the pace of her opponent. The knotted mass of her hair whipped against her back as she threw herself more vigorously into the dance. Coins and gems were starting to accumulate on the floor, hard against her bare feet, providing a sharp reminder of why she needed to emerge victorious.

  Remembering the crowd's reaction to her somersault, she decided to risk a move from pure dance into acrobatics. She hadn't seen any of the other dancers do anything like it – tonight or previously – but maybe in this environment being different would work in her favour. She danced her way to the edge of the crowd, freeing up space behind her, then performed a series of back-flips to take herself across the room.

  Even as she landed and spun back to the dance, an incongruous movement in the crowd caught Eleanor's eye; someone striding across the room, pushing his way through the audience and destroying the atmosphere. The crowd pressed around him and slowed his progress, trying to prevent the interruption, but it was too late. The blonde dropped to her knees and started scooping up money and jewels from the floor; Eleanor followed suit, pocketed as much as she could, and made her way quickly to the side of the room.

  "I think now would be a good time to disappear," she murmured beneath her breath as she reached Raf at the door.

  They ran through the streets back towards the now-deserted market, where they ducked between stalls until they were thoroughly lost.

  "That should do it," Eleanor said, smiling broadly. She might not have managed an outright victory but her pockets were heavy with what she'd collected and it felt like enough; surely they could buy themse
lves some secrecy with this much wealth.

  "And now what?" he asked.

  "We wait. In the morning, we'll see what the winnings will buy us." She dropped to her knees and crawled under the nearest stall. "We can sleep here."