Buoyed by this, I decide to push my luck and talk to a slave. She gives me directions to the quarters where the dignitaries are housed. The arrangements are makeshift at best, and aside from a slightly increased slave presence, it's hard to tell the difference between this and the scholars' area.
I make myself look busy until I catch sight of one of the dignitaries leaving his room, his Entwined on one arm. He's middle-aged, muscular for a Gurta, hair plaited and sporting a white beard and moustache. A general, no doubt. The woman wears layered robes in an immaculate array of colours, and a fantastically impractical arrangement of jewelled flowers in her blonde hair. She goes masked, as they all do; the mask is white, brushed with yellows and pinks. Only her eyes are visible behind the veneer. Gurta women don't show their real selves in public, but they put a lot of effort into illusion.
Once they're out of sight, I slip into the room. The door isn't locked: there's no need. It wouldn't ever enter their heads that a slave would steal from them.
I walk past the open trunks of clothes and raid the vanity table. In a drawer I find an assortment of hair ornaments, including several sets of pins. I pick two simple steel ones, like slender knitting needles. If they're missed, then they're not valuable enough to suggest a theft.
I walk boldly out of the room just as another slave is coming in to tidy: the same blonde girl who I saw attending to the Overseer earlier. She automatically pardons herself and I sweep past without a word of explanation. I'm an older slave, even if I am a stranger. She defers, but I feel her puzzled look following me down the corridor.
I head back to the mystery door, taking care to avoid the Overseer's office nearby. The chances are slim, but he might recognise me from the forge. By the light of a lantern I borrow from the corridor above, I fiddle at the lock with my hairpins. It's clumsy work, and it takes me a while to get the bends in the hairpins just right, but eventually I hear the click I've been hoping for. Leaving the lantern at the foot of the stairs, I push the door open.
The room is unoccupied, and has been for a long time. Even with the warm draught slipping in through the broken window, there's a sense of desertion. Desultory cobwebs drape the faded junk pushed against the walls. Chipped clay crockery, ancient practice dummies for the soldiers, bits of disassembled furniture. A room where things end up, condemned to be forgotten by the hoarder who thought they might eventually have a use.
The window is narrow, but not so narrow that I couldn't get through it. It faces out into darkness, but when I peer closer I realise that it's the corner of a yard, hidden in the angle of the walls where no light reaches. The window has been shattered and a piece has fallen away. I open it and crane out. It's about fifteen spans from the ground. A person could drop that distance if they hung from their fingertips.
I can see out into the yard now, where torches burn and the light of the shinehouse is not impeded by other buildings. It takes me a moment to realise that it's the same yard as the one I was looking down on earlier: the yard in front of the main gate.
Now I've got a plan.
22
wait for the next time that Gendak summons me, and we play the usual game of evasions, after which I'm sent back to my cell. He tends to call for me every three or four turns, sometimes later but never sooner. I won't be missed if I duck out for a little while.
The following shift in the forge, I make my move.
The forge is full of places to hide, and I'm an expert in putting myself where no one's likely to look. I swap work detail with someone who has a harder job than me – he jumps at the chance – and then don't turn up for it. There's a lot of workers stirring the sediment pots, enough that my absence goes unnoticed.
Instead I slip into the shadow of a vast, unused vat, chains hanging from it like the dangling fronds of a lichen-tree. From here I can see the door to the Overseer's office. The steps down are zigzagged, obscured to waist-height by a thin metal barrier acting as a banister. It's a small mercy, but I'm thankful for it. There's little chance I'd make it up there otherwise without someone spotting me.
I crouch in my hiding place, watching the nearby guards. They laugh and slander their companions, casting an eye over the forge now and then. I know these men: they're lazy. They really are too secure in their certainty that this place is escape-proof. Their overconfidence is my advantage.
The route to the base of the stairs is cluttered, providing easy cover. Once I'm sure it's safe, I scuttle over. Moving in quick hops, taking my time.
Sweat trickles down the back of my neck. The heat and noise press at me in waves. The screech and clank and holler, the stifling dry air.
I've done the best I can to keep myself clean since I bathed last. Nobody would believe I was a slave, reeking of the prison as I did. It's impossible to be truly clean in this place, but I got the worst of it off.
Of late, I've been bathing with the men in my underwear, scrubbing my clothes and hair, ignoring their hungry glances. For a long time I'd told myself that it wasn't safe to undress in front of the men, but I'd been lying to myself. None of them would dare touch me now. I just wanted to be dirty. Punishing myself. But all that's over.
The door opens, and the Overseer appears. He shuts the door and locks it, puts the key in his pocket. Down the steps he comes in his stately way, a small-minded man over-proud of his authority. There's a guard waiting at the bottom of the steps; it's the young Gurta who accompanied him on the shift when we stole his key. His boasting about all the exciting accidents he witnessed probably landed him with the position for a long time to come. He's regretting it now, I'm guessing.
They greet each other rather formally and move off, leaving the way clear. I scan the smoky landscape around me. A distant guard, not paying attention. No time better than now.
I hurry across the open space, crouched low, watching the guard from the corner of my eye. He scratches the back of his neck. For a few moments, I have that horrible feeling of exposure; I'm certain somebody is going to raise the alarm, someone I haven't even seen, and the game will be over. Then I'm back under cover, safe at the bottom of the steps, shielded from the forge by the metal barrier.
I climb the steps in a low crouch, moving with confidence now. This part is easy. Even if the key doesn't work, I have time to climb back down and take my place in the forge again. The only thing I have to fear is what's beyond that door.
At the top, I can't resist a peek over the edge. It's a stupid risk, but nobody will see the top of my head at this height and in this atmosphere. And it's worth it, just to see the seething, glowing panorama of the forge spread out beneath me, the thin, ordered rivers of molten yellow-white tracing among the hulking black monuments. For a moment, I feel superior: ruler of this place. I've beaten it.
Premature. I try the key and it fits the lock. But it won't turn.
I curse under my breath. Jiggle it, give it another try. It sticks. Now I'm getting worried. I try it again, with greater force. Still nothing.
For want of any better options, I reinsert, try it again, and this time it turns. Tumbling relief in my chest. Some problem with the marriage of key and lock, a misalignment. The key might be unreliable, but it does work.
I open the door a crack and look through. Nobody there. In I go, locking the door behind me. This time it obliges first time. I slip the key back inside my belt, and survey my reward: the Overseer's office.
It's underwhelming at best. Spartan, neat, and dim. Lanterns illuminate a room of bare stone with little ornamentation to speak of. There are scroll cases stacked in a cabinet, and a desk with a half-written letter on it. A row of dirty windows looks over the forge.