Shaa considered reminding him that his basic plan was founded on improvisation, but chose against it. “We will reconnoiter first. Then we will attempt to gain unalerted entry using our -” he rattled his cuirass “- disguises. When we are in position, we will attempt an ambush.”
“Do you have any idea how many places that plan could go wrong?”
“Yes,” Shaa said, “I do. Now, where is that dungeon?”
“I, ah, hmm …”
“What are you listening for?”
Mont was rotating his head slowly. He raised his hand. After a moment, he opened his eyes and pointed down the hall in the direction taken by the troops. “The music sounds best in that direction, sort of low and creepy. Dungeon sounds.”
“Very well.” They moved quietly off in Mont’s direction.
“I’ve been thinking …” Mont whispered.
“Yes?”
“When we get to the dungeon, why couldn’t you say you’re an interrogator come to torture the prisoners? Like, uh, with that cloak and all the stuff you’re carrying around you’d be a natural.”
Shaa stopped short, then resumed his pace. “That, my friend, is a first-rate idea. It is exactly what we will try.”
“Uh, ah,” Mont said. The concept that Shaa might have actually said something nice to him had taken him by surprise. The corridor forked, Mont sniffed the air and led them down the left-hand passage, that passage soon forked as well, and they descended a tight coil of steps. Lights were visible at the base, and the sound of voices. “Ulp,” Mont said, hesitating.
Shaa drew him back. “Are you afraid?” he whispered.
“Ah, uh, I ...”
“It is a simple and human thing to feel fear,” Shaa said. “Strength of character comes when you feel fear and nevertheless go on.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Of course. I always am, in a situation like this.”
“But you don’t seem -”
“That is a different matter, called style. Each person must evolve that for himself. Or herself. Now, listen closely.” Shaa whispered a few additional instructions to Mont, Mont nodded, and again they descended the stairs. At the bottom of the staircase was a pointed archway, and beyond it an open rectangular room.
Across from their entrance was a heavy wood-beam door embedded in an iron frame and manacled securely to the wall. Two other doors on the facing walls stood open, but these were regular doors leading merely to further corridors.
Aside from the usual array of guttering torches, a plank table and two matching benches, a firepit, several swords and cudgels hanging from hooks on the wall, and an antique torture cage rusting pleasantly to one side, the only furnishings were four guards. They put their hands on their swords and turned toward the entrance. Mont put up his chin and strode into the room. “This is the interrogator,” he announced, indicating Shaa with an outstretched arm.
Shaa, standing in a dramatic position framed in the center of the archway, his legs planted and one hand on his hip, removed the iron bar from under his cloak. He lowered his eyebrows suggestively, twirling the bar like a marching band baton. “It’s about time,” one of the guards said. “You want us to bring ‘em out, or you want to go in?”
“The interrogator will go in,” Mont said.
The guard corporal looked around, said “Crumb! Come with me!” to one of the other troopers, and moved to the bolted door, producing a brass ring with large keys from his belt. “Better let the two of us go in first,” he said over his shoulder to Mont, as he unlocked the door. Shaa looked guilelessly at the ceiling. The door creaked open, the weight of the two guards behind it, and Shaa and Mont followed the two into a dim corridor lit by widely spaced torches. The walls of the hall were thick brooding stone hewn from the rock of the island, broken occasionally by gates of iron grill and tasteful patches of moss. “You want the roundup from the first day, I’ll imagine,” the corporal said, stopping at the first cell.
Shaa leaned against the wooden door to the cell block, swinging it partially closed, then nodded to Mont. Mont, standing just behind the corporal, shielded himself from view with his body and brought the knobbed hilt of his knife down hard against the man’s head. Shaa took two quick steps and swung his bar. Both guards sunk to the floor together. Shaa nodded appreciatively. In a passable imitation of the corporal’s voice, he called back, “Can you guys give us a hand in here?”
The heavy door creaked open. Shaa, now standing behind it, swung his bar again, hearing the swish of Mont’s thrown knife. Mont’s second throw was better than his first, on the wharves earlier in the evening. The guards grunted and collapsed.
Shaa left the guards where they’d fallen and trotted toward Mont, who had already fumbled the correct key into the lock. The door rasped and opened. Mont stepped into the cell and looked anxiously around. Shaa drew his sword and moved to the entrance behind Mont.
The cell extended some distance back into the rock. The only light was a meager trace of orange that leaked in from the torches in the passage, leaving the depths of the cell still totally black. Shadows moved in the dark. The half-dozen forms closest to the door were illuminated enough to see that they were dressed in civilian clothes, now besmirched. One of the prisoners gaped sullenly at Mont, while the others ostentatiously ignored him behind turned backs. Mont examined them, stopped, took a nervous half-step forward, and said, “Father?”
The man at the center of the small group wheeled and stared. The light caught lean hollows in his face and made slashes across sharp eyes, his silvering hair glowing orange in the torch-fire. “Jurtan! - what do you think you’re doing here?”
“Uh, rescuing you. All of you.”
Jurtan’s father stalked forward, drew back his arm, and swept his hand into Mont’s face. Mont reeled backward into the door. “You puking worm! You couldn’t rescue a flea! You’ve sold out to them, haven’t you, and you come in and try to -”
“Father, just give me a second to -”
“Rescued? By you?” The man loomed menacingly over Jurtan, raising his hand again. Jurtan was still clutching the barred door, trying to regain his feet. “Of all the ridiculous -”
“Sir,” said Shaa, “we would be pleased to let you remain here, when we leave with the others.”
“And who do you think you are?”
“Opinion has little to do with it. I am Zalzyn Shaa.” Shaa extended the arm with the bar to one side, crossed the other forearm over his waist, and executed a neat bow. “Whether I am at your service remains obviously to be seen.”
“What are you doing here?”
“As my esteemed companion aptly explained, we are rescuing you. Or not, as you prefer.”
The former Lion of the Oolvaan Plain stared at Shaa, speechless.
“We are unwelcome here,” Shaa said sadly. “Jurtan, if you please - the key. We will leave these gentles to their own contemplations.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Mont’s father roared.
“Yes,” Shaa said, “I would.”
“You rodent! You flea! You unspeakable heap of -”
“Dad,” said a female voice, “shut up.” Another shape appeared out of the gloom.
“Oof!” This was yet another voice, a reedy high-pitched one belonging to an elder of some sort. “Yeaouch!”
“Oh!” said the woman. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.”
She pushed forward, the same sharp eyes and confident manner as her father snapping toward Shaa across the cell. “Jurtan, good. What’s your plan?”
“Into the hall, quickly,” Shaa said. “Everybody!” He was already moving, Mont after him, the girl next. Shaa strode over one of the prostrate guardsmen, put his foot under the hilt of the man’s sword and kicked up, causing the sword to spring into the air, and ran ahead, not breaking his motion. The sword wheeled twice in the air and the hilt thudded solidly into Mont’s hand. Mont closed his hand out of reflex, gaping at the sword. His sister ran around him through the thicker door into the outer room.