“Hurry up,” the man snarled at the jailer. “The market opens at midday and I’ve got to get this lot cleaned up and decent-looking by then.”
“Must be broken,” muttered the jailer.
“Oh, no, it’s not broken,” Tas said helpfully. “Actually, in fact, I think your key would fit just fine if my lockpick wasn’t in the way.”
The jailer slowly lowered the keys and raised his eyes to look balefully at the kender.
“It was the oddest accident,” Tas continued. “You see, I was rather bored last night—Caramon fell asleep early—and you had taken away all my things, so, when I just happened to discover that you’d missed a lockpick I keep in my sock, I decided to try it on this door, just to keep my hand in, so to speak, and to see what kind of jails you built back here. You do build a very nice jail, by the way,” Tas said solemnly. “One of the nicest I’ve ever been in—er, one of the nicest I’ve ever seen. By the way, my name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot.” The kender squeezed his hand through the bar in case either of them wanted to shake it. They didn’t. “And I’m from Solace. So’s my friend. We’re here on a sort of mission you might say and—Oh, yes, the lock. Well, you needn’t glare at me so, it wasn’t my fault. In fact, it was your stupid lock that broke my lockpick! One of my best, too. My father’s,” the kender said sadly. “He gave it to me on the day I came of age. I really think,” Tas added in a stern voice, “that you could at least apologize.”
At this, the jailer made a strange sound, sort of a snort and an explosion. Shaking his ring of keys at the kender, he snapped something incoherent about “rotting in that cell forever” and started walking off, but the man in the bear-skin cape grabbed hold of him.
“Not so fast. I need the one in here.”
“I know, I know,” the jailer whined in a thin voice, “but you’ll have to wait for the locksmith—”
“Impossible. My orders are to put ’im on the block today.”
“Well, then you come up with some way to get them outta there.” The jailer sneered. “Get the kender a new lockpick. Now, do you want the rest of the lot or not?”
He started to totter off, leaving the bear-skin man staring grimly at the door. “You know where my orders come from,” he said in ominous tones.
“My orders come from the same place,” the jailer said over his bony shoulder, “and if they don’t like it they can come pray the door open. If that don’t work, they can wait for the locksmith, same as everyone else.”
“Are you going to let us out?” Tas asked eagerly. “If you are, we might be able to help—” Then a sudden thought crossed his mind. “You’re not going to execute us, are you? Because, in that case, I think we’d just as soon wait for the locksmith...”
“Execute!” the bear-skin man growled. “Hasn’t been an execution in Istar in ten years. Church forbade it.”
“Aye, a quick, clean death was too good for a man,” cackled the jailer, who had turned around again. “Now, what do you mean about helping, you little beast?”
“Well,” Tas faltered, “if you’re not going to execute us, what are you going to do with us, then? I don’t suppose you’re letting us go? We are innocent, after all. I mean, we didn’t—”
“I’m not going to do anything with you,” the bear-skin man said sarcastically. “It’s your friend I want. And, no, they’re not letting him go.”
“Quick, clean death,” the old jailer muttered, grinning toothlessly. “Always a nice crowd gathered to watch, too. Made a man feel his going out meant something, which is just what Harry Snaggle said to me as they was marching him off to be hung. He hoped there would be a good crowd and there was. Brought a tear to his eye. ‘All these people,’ he says to me, ‘giving up their holiday just to come give me a sendoff.’ A gentleman to the end.”
“He’s going on the block!” the bear-skin man said loudly, ignoring the jailer.
“Quick, clean.” The jailer shook his head.
“Well,” Tas said dubiously, “I’m not sure what that means, but if you’re truly letting us out, perhaps Caramon can help.” The kender disappeared from the window, and they heard him yelling, “Caramon, wake up! They’re wanting to let us out and they can’t get the door open and I’m afraid it’s my fault, well, partly—”
“You realize you’ve got to take them both,” the jailer said cunningly.
“What?” The bear-skin man turned to glare at the jailer. “That was never mentioned—”
“They’re to be sold together. Those are my orders and since your orders and my orders come from the same place—”
“Is this in writing?” The man scowled.
“Of course.” The jailer was smug.
“I’ll lose money! Who’ll buy a kender?”
The jailer shrugged. It was none of his concern.
The bear-skin man opened his mouth again, then shut it as another face appeared framed in the cell door. It wasn’t the kender’s this time. It was the face of a human, a young man, around twenty-eight. The face might once have been handsome, but now the strong jawline was blurred with fat, the brown eyes were lackluster, the curly hair tangled and matted.
“How is Lady Crysania?” Caramon asked.
The bear-skin man blinked in confusion.
“Lady Crysania. They took her to the Temple,” Caramon repeated.
The jailer prodded the bear-skin man in the ribs. “You know—the woman he beat up.”
“I didn’t touch her,” Caramon said evenly. “Now, how is she?”
“That’s none of your concern,” the bear-skin man snapped, suddenly remembering what time it was. “Are you a lock-smith? The kender said something about you being able to open the door.”
“I’m not a locksmith,” Caramon said, “but maybe I can open it.” His eyes went to the jailer. “If you don’t mind it breaking?”
“Lock’s broken now!” the jailer said shrilly. “Can’t see as you could hurt it much worse unless you broke the door down.”
“That’s what I intend to do,” Caramon said coolly.
“Break the door down?” the jailer’s shrieked. “You’re daft! Why—”
“Wait.” The bear-skin man had caught a glimpse of Caramon’s shoulders and bull-like neck through the bars in the door. “Let’s see this. If he does, I’ll pay damages.”
“You bet you will!” the jailer jabbered. The bear-skin man glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and the jailer fell silent.
Caramon closed his eyes and drew several deep breaths, letting each out slowly. The bear-skin man and the jailer backed away from the door. Caramon disappeared from sight. They heard a grunt and then the sound of a tremendous blow hitting the solid wooden door. The door shuddered on its hinges, indeed, even the stone walls seemed to shake with the force of the blow. But the door held. The jailer, however, backed up another step, his mouth wide open.
There was another grunt from inside the cell, then another blow. The door exploded with such force that the only remaining, recognizable pieces were the twisted hinges and the lock—still fastened securely to the doorframe. The force of Caramon’s momentum sent him flying into the corridor. Muffled sounds of cheering could be heard from surrounding cells where other prisoners had their faces pressed to the bars.
“You’ll pay for this!” the jailer squeaked at the bear-skin man.
“It’s worth every penny,” the man said, helping Caramon to his feet and dusting him off, eyeing him critically at the same time. “Been eating a bit too well, huh? Enjoy your liquor, too, I’ll bet? Probably what got you in here. Well, never mind. That’s soon mended. Name’s—Caramon?”