We can't get across the forge without being seen, even given its size and the smoky atmosphere. Masked prisoners watch us with lensed eyes: the men who work in the most extreme heat, clad in flameproof hide. We run past another slurry trough like the one we work at, and a press that crushes metal into thin sheets with a deafening hiss. But the prisoners don't hinder us. Nobody here would report us to the guards, even if they suspected something was wrong. Hatred of the Gurta is the strongest common bond we have.
The blood has soaked through Feyn's bandage and is running down his arm by the time we come into sight of the blacksmiths. It's hard to tell how much he's losing: it doesn't show well against his skin in this light. But I'm getting really concerned now. It was he who came up with the idea of wounding himself as a distraction, but I daren't think about how I'd feel if he died for my plan.
So don't, I tell myself. Get on with it.
The blacksmiths work on a raised platform, in the looming shadows of the gigantic forge equipment. There are four of them, Charn and three others, each with their own anvils and hammers and water troughs. It's a prison joke that the blacksmiths are elevated above the rest of us, but really it's so the guards can keep an eye on them. They know how easy it would be to 'lose' a dagger here and have it turn up in the hands of a prisoner later.
There are two sentries posted, their pallid eyes sharp. I know them by name: Bal and Daquii. Bal is a quiet sort, mildly bullied by his peers; Daquii moans constantly.
Charn is obviously nervous, not concentrating on his work. He's a liability; I wish I didn't need him.
I pat Feyn on the shoulder to send him on his way, and he heads around to the other side of the platform. He clambers up onto a walkway while I sneak closer to Charn, keeping under cover as best I can. It's not easy; I'm exposed here. Then I hear Feyn yelling, crying for help. He's setting up a distraction using his wound, pretending he's just been hurt. The guards see him. Daquii hesitates, glancing at his charges; he's reluctant to leave the blacksmiths. But even a Gurta won't just leave a man to bleed to death.
Daquii runs down from the platform to see to Feyn. Bal moves to the edge to observe what's happening, but he doesn't abandon his post.
It's good enough.
Charn, recognising the signal, is casting about for me. I wave to him. He glances uncertainly at Bal, but I don't give him time to falter. I throw the key to him.
This was always the weak part of the plan, but there just wasn't any way to get close enough. It was always going to be risky.
In the dim light, Charn's catch is bad. The key bounces out of his hands, clatters to the floor. He drops and scrabbles it up. Bal almost turns back, but Feyn trips on the walkway and collapses just as Daquii reaches him, providing a much more interesting spectacle.
Charn is still dithering. I gesture angrily, and he gets to work. I don't know what he's got up there, some tray of soft metal or clay. I'm not certain. He was bleating about needing to keep it at the right temperature to take the impression properly. But in the end, he's remarkably quick. Two firm presses, one on each side, and the key is back in his hand.
Bal glances over at the blacksmiths, not suspecting anything, then turns back to the commotion below. I breathe out. One of the other blacksmiths, a shifty sort called Relk, is watching us with interest. It can't be helped. Charn checks the guards, throws the key back to me. I suddenly realise how difficult it is to see a small, dull metal object in a room churning with bright fire and smoke. Somehow I catch it anyway.
Then I'm gone. Feyn's done his part; Charn I can leave to do whatever he has to do to make that key. I have my own job.
Alone, I move faster. Back across the forge, racing, racing. The prisoners know something's up, but that doesn't matter. They won't give me away. It's the guards I'm concerned about. If I'm caught, they'll execute me for sure.
I see the guard on the walkway a mere sliver of a moment before he looks my way. It's enough time for me to stop dead and to throw myself flat against the metal wall of a mineral tank. He stares down the dark corridor between the tanks, wondering whether he really saw what he thought he saw, wondering whether it's worth clambering in there to find out.
Long seconds pass.
He moves on. I let out my breath. Prudence dictates that I give him plenty of time to vacate the area before I set off again. It's time I don't have. He's barely out of earshot before I'm scrambling up on to the walkway, down the other side. Heading for the furnaces, the last stop on Overseer Arachi's tour. We've wasted too much time. Maybe Charn was right, maybe it can't be done.
Then suddenly I'm there, and my heart sinks into my stomach.
His tour has progressed faster than I thought. He's just leaving the furnaces. I emerge from the shadows in time to see him walking away. The guard is following him, perfectly positioned to impede my access to his belt pouch. There's nothing left but a short and uninterrupted stroll back to the stairs. I can't get to him, short of running up and grabbing him. I'm frantic for some excuse, desperate, as every step takes him further away from me. But nothing's coming to mind.
That's when I spot Nereith. The hairless Khaadu, his body wet with sweat, shovel buried in a coke pile. He's seen me. Our eyes meet. Something there, but I don't know what. Then he pulls out his shovel and digs it into the coke dust on the edge of the pile, drawing up a big spadeful. Just like he told me not to do when I was working here.
He slings the coke dust into the mouth of the furnace, and it bellows flame. The searing cloud rolls out with a roar, and the workers fall back with cries of alarm, their arms shielding their faces. One of them is scorched badly. He falls, rolling on the ground, swearing in pain. The cloud of fire burns out as fast as it appeared, more impressive than deadly, but the commotion is enough that the Overseer and his guard notice it. The guard, pleased that he has something to do, rushes down to help. Arachi seems caught between wanting to lend a hand and maintaining a dignified aloofness. I can see he's tormented by this shift's disastrous tour. Two workers injured: it's a calamity for him.
He doesn't see me slide up behind him and put the key back in his pouch. It's far easier to put something into a pocket than to take it out.
The burned prisoner is taken away to be seen to. Angry words are exchanged, and Nereith fends them off with protests of his own. The Overseer mutters about new safety procedures and the guard is thinking of the stories he'll have to tell his friends when he comes off-shift. But I'm already gone, heading back to the salvage dump. No sense getting caught now, and no point waiting around to thank Nereith. He doesn't want my thanks.
He knew. He knew what I was doing, and he helped me, and that only means one thing. He wants in. And now he's earned it, the canny bastard.
It seems there are four of us now.
25
They don't know who I am, these Gurta; they don't know the kind of precautions they should be taking. This prison can't hold me.
I'm more awake and alive than ever. I can't believe that shuffling, silent figure they brought into this place was me. I can't believe I was so weak. It makes me cringe to think of it.
I should have been trying to get out of here from the start, instead of wallowing in pain. My son is out there in the war somewhere. I know how things work: he probably hasn't even heard the news from Korok yet. He hasn't heard that his father is killed and his mother presumed so. I can't bear that he should think I'm dead. I can't bear that he should hear it from some official, in a dirty barracks in some forsaken hole in the Borderlands.