Dragonclaw (45 page)

Following Tòmas' gaze, Culley's mouth twisted. ‘He's been like that for days now. It will no' be long, and we'll have a corpse stinking up the place. Shame. He was a grand auld man, King o' the Thieves, afore he was caught. No' that they ken, the fools. None o' us'd betray him. He was taken wi' his daughter, who stole the Lady's jewels right off her finger without her noticing a thing! She was no' got for that, but for spitting at the seanalair. The jewels are safely stashed away somewhere, no doubt o' that.'

Culley was a garrulous young man and obviously glad to have a new audience, tired as he was of talking with his cell-mates, who threw in sarcastic comments every now and again, but generally sat in silence in the foul straw, too broken by hunger and fear to move much at all. Scruffy listened in interest, but Tòmas was concentrating on the old man, lying like a sepulchre in his cell. One of the old man's bare feet was almost within his reach, and so while Culley was telling Scruffy he'd be lucky if he ever saw daylight again, Tòmas took off his gauntlet and reached his hand through the bars to touch the old man. He could not reach, so had to lie almost prone, stretching his arm as far as he could. Scruffy noticed what he was doing just as Tòmas managed to touch the old man's toe. His rude comment was halted as a wave of colour seemed to wash over the dying man. The pink bloom of health began at his toe, and washed right over his body, finishing at his face. The old man stirred and coughed, then sat up tremulously. His daughter, who had been cradling his head and weeping quietly, cried out in surprise. He shook his head and seemed to smile.

‘Come closer,' Tòmas said. ‘It is better if I can touch your head.'

The old man and his daughter looked at him in blank surprise, then the old man shuffled over and knelt so Tòmas could put his hands through the bars and lay them on his head. This time the change was dramatic. Colour sprang up in the old man's cheeks, his eyes brightened, his stooped shoulders straightened, and he rose and stretched. ‘I feel bloody grand!' he cried. ‘Where are we? Wha' has happened?'

The entire gallery was thrown into chaos. Sick prisoners stretched out their hands to Tòmas through the bars; whispers and exclamations ran round like wildfire; and the old man's daughter knelt at Tòmas' feet, thanking him and crying out that here was magic, magic had returned to Lucescere at last.

Locked in his cell as he was, Tòmas could not reach all the prisoners, but he laid his hands on all those he could and those he could not moaned and pressed up against the bars. Scruffy and Culley stared at him in awe. Soon those too far away from Tòmas to be touched were rattling their bars, calling to him, begging him to touch them. One prisoner, a huge bearlike man with a leg all swollen and weeping with pus, managed to pull one of the wooden stakes out of the ground. A cheer went up and, with a loud groan, he managed to knock another out of the way. At last he was kneeling in the straw on the outside of Tòmas' cell and when Tòmas laid his hands on the giant's curly black hair and all the infection melted away, the old bruises and cuts disappearing, and he could stand on his leg without pain, a cheer went up.

The black-haired giant was able to break open Tòmas' cell and the boy hurried around the room, touching everyone he could reach. One by one the cells were broken open. Strength and hope filled every prisoner in the room, and they began to test the door at the entrance to the gallery. No-one had responded to the noise and excitement in the prisoners' gallery, and Culley shouted, ‘The guards never stay down here when they could be up drinking and feasting in their guard-room. If we can get free …'

The thought of drinking and feasting was an added spur to the prisoners, and the extraordinary strength Tòmas' touch had imparted to them at last had the wooden door broken down and the prisoners streaming out into the dank corridors beyond. The old man, minutes before close to death, naturally took the lead, and the escaped thieves followed him, mindful of his years as King of the Thieves, leader of their guild.

The escape was not to be that easy, however. Three hours after breaking down the door they were still wandering in the labyrinthine dungeons, though their numbers had been swelled by other prisoners freed from their cells. The high excitement and bravado was beginning to fade into fear of the consequences, and arguments between the escapees were turning ugly. Tòmas was exhausted by his healing efforts and could barely stumble along, and all were painfully aware it was almost time they were all fed. Once the guards came with the trays of slop, they would find the door broken down and all the prisoners escaped.

They had paused to rest in one of the endless identical corridors, and the thieves were arguing amongst themselves about the best way to go.

‘We've been in this corridor before!' Culley was asserting belligerently. ‘I recognise that stone.'

‘How can ye recognise a stone in the wall? They all look the same!'

‘We should be markin' our passage,' Scruffy said. ‘Does anyone have any chalk?' Of course no-one did, nor a knife they could scrape marks with, nothing that could show them the path they'd already taken. Tòmas lay curled on the damp stone, his head on Scruffy's thigh, his eyes closed. He was breathing shallowly, his soft face white with exhaustion.

The corridors were nearly all lit with strong-smelling torches that were placed sporadically along the way and could burn for days without being replaced. As they all argued, the torch nearest to them suddenly went out and they were plunged into darkness. Immediately a scared hush fell over the band of thieves. Tòmas sat up, yawning and rubbing his eyes.

The thieves were whispering, ‘Wha' should we do? Where are we? We're lost!'

To Tòmas' surprise a finger touched his hand briefly, then withdrew. A voice said in his mind, ‘
Come, lad
.'

‘Ceit Anna?' he whispered.

‘None other. Come.'

‘What about the others?' he said. At his words, the thieves had fallen silent and although he could not see them, he could feel them staring in his direction.

‘What do I care about a gaggle of thieves? Come.'

‘Please, Ceit Anna, I canna leave them.'

The nyx sighed, and Tòmas felt her leaning over him. ‘
Very well, but only because the guards are close, and they have lights and I do no' like the light. Bring them if you wish
.'

Tòmas took the nyx's hand, and he felt a shudder go through her at his touch. His hand was still bare, the gauntlet tucked in his pocket with the kitten, who had been miaowing pitifully for some time now.

‘Take my hand, Scruffy,' Tòmas commanded. ‘She canna bear the light so we mun go in darkness.'

‘Who? Wha' are ye talking about?'

‘A … friend. She will help us get free. Trust her, she likes the guards less than any o' ye.'

And so, linked by hand, the long line of prisoners made their escape through the endless tunnels of darkness. Again and again one of the thieves' courage would fail and the line would halt while arguments went on, but each time the nyx said indifferently in her dry-leaf whispery voice, ‘Leave them. They will die in these tunnels, but no-one will care,' and each time the thief would hastily grasp someone's hand again and on they would go.

It was many hours before the nyx at last halted, and said to Tòmas, ‘
We are under the great square. If they climb up into the sewers they should be able to find their way out
.'

Tòmas told Scruffy, who told Culley behind him, and so the word passed down the line. Most of the thieves obeyed the nyx, and scrambled up one of the great pipes, thanking Tòmas over and over again, bowing to him, and kissing the edge of his cloak. ‘It was no' me, it was Ceit Anna who got us out,' he said tiredly, but the thieves were too afraid to even try and see the nyx through the gloom.

Scruffy, the old man and his daughter, Culley, the black-haired giant, and a handful of others stayed.

‘Do no' send us away, my laird,' the old man said. ‘Your magic is a wonderful thing. We would stay wi' ye and have ye tell us wha' ye wish us to do.'

Tòmas was only seven years old, and very tired and hungry. He clung to Ceit Anna's hand and could think of nothing to say. Scruffy took it upon himself to answer. ‘Ye can hang round if ye want, but do no' be expecting him to touch ye again. He's worn out!'

The nyx bent and whispered in Tòmas' ear. ‘Jorge is waiting for ye in my cavern. Once he told me what had happened, I came to find ye. It is lucky ye took off your glove, for otherwise I might no' have been able to follow ye. No-one knows these tunnels like I do.'

 

The old seer did not scold Tòmas, just gathered him in his arms, hugged him tight, fed him milk and porridge, and put him to bed. While the little boy slept, the kitten curled up at his side, Jorge spoke to the remaining thieves, and his words resounded. He spoke of how a winged rìgh was coming, how the Lodestar would be saved, and a new era of peace and enlightenment would dawn on the land.

‘But the Lodestar was destroyed on the Day o' Reckoning!' the old thief s daughter cried.

‘It was no'. It was saved by Meghan NicCuinn and hidden until such a day could come when it might be used again. The Lodestar shall again protect the people o' Eileanan. Magic shall again be revered and used for the good o' the people.'

By the time Tòmas woke at noon, hungry again and eager to see Jorge, the thieves had gone to spread the word through the city. Only Scruffy remained, Jed curled up on his lap chewing a strip of dried meat. ‘Yer auld man let me stay,' he said jubilantly. ‘I'm to travel with ye!'

They spent the afternoon resting and preparing for the next stage of their journey. Scruffy had reluctantly given back Tòmas' boots, and had bound his feet up in rags in an attempt to protect them from the stones of the road. Jorge took the kitten back to its mother and returned with a leather satchel full of supplies donated by the chandler's wife, which made Scruffy's eyes widen in excited anticipation. Jorge was looking worried, for the streets had been filled with blue-clad city soldiers, searching for the escaped thieves, and a ‘lad, fair, charged with the foul practice o' witchcraft'. The Guild of Seekers had also mobilised, causing the old man's face to furrow up like crumpled paper.

Jorge had planned on slipping out of the city the way they had come, mingling with the crowds of people crossing the Bridge of Seven Arches before Lucescere's gates shut at sunset. The legions of soldiers marching the streets and guarding the gates, and the great crowds of excited citizens made this plan impossible, however, and he racked his brains trying to think of an alternative plan. The Ban-Bharrach and the Muileach Rivers were too fierce to be crossed without the bridges, and the only other way out of the city was through the palace grounds, far too risky to be attempted.

Seeing the worried expression on the old man's face, Scruffy cheerfully asked what was eating his goat. Absent-mindedly Jorge explained his problem, only to have the freckle-faced lad grin and say, ‘Och, no need to fraitch yourself. That's no problem. We'll slip out the Thieves' Way.' In answer to Jorge's question, Scruffy explained that the thieves had to have a secret way to come and go without the soldiers knowing, and that as the son of Adair the Bold, he naturally knew the way. ‘Me and the gang'll help ye, master,' he said.

So, rather reluctantly, Jorge agreed to put himself and Tòmas into Scruffy's very grubby hands. Leaning on his gnarled staff and holding Tòmas' gauntleted hand tightly, he followed the beggar boy out into the crowded slums and was perturbed to hear the ragged cheer that rose up from the throng. Crowds gathered behind them, calling blessings on their heads and reaching out to touch Tòmas. Small gifts of flowers, cakes, bundles of scented candles and skins of wine were thrust into their hands, and mothers held out babies for Tòmas to touch. The little boy clung close to Jorge's side, but Scruffy swaggered boldly, exchanging ribald comments with the crowd and waving to those he knew.

Soon a ragged band of children was swarming round them, saluting Scruffy and asking for news. Jay, the most able of Scruffy's lieutenants, began to play on his fiddle, and the discreet withdrawal which Jorge had planned turned into a procession of laughing, dancing, shouting townsfolk. Stout matrons and thin whores waltzed together on the muddy cobblestones; bellfruit sellers dropped their great flat baskets and danced jigs, their legs bare and hairy under their bright robes; a crippled beggar hopped wildly on his one good foot, waving his twisted stick and knocking off a plump merchant's tam-o'-shanter; children sang hastily composed rhymes of winged warriors and healing hands.

The procession wound its way through the muddy alleyways, torches hissing in the constant grey drizzle. Resigned, Jorge shrugged, clutched his rag of a blanket closer around his shoulders, and limped along, his dirty beard flapping in the wind. There was nothing he could do but trust in Scruffy's gang to alert them to any soldiers and to hide them in the crowds. Besides, it did his old heart good to hear Lucescere singing the praises of witches again. Lucescere had always been proud of its magical heritage, the one-time home of the MacCuinn clan, the most powerful family of witches in the land.

Jorge heard the sound of marching feet before his ragged guide did, but even as he reached forward to grip Scruffy's shoulder in fear, the beggar boy had begun deploying his troops. Jay the fiddler boy kept marching forward, playing his violin with such skill and passion that the townsfolk kept dancing and singing in his train without realising their hero, the little boy with the sky-blue eyes, was no longer with them.

Scruffy pulled back a grubby curtain and ushered Jorge and Tòmas through, as two boys promptly began to play knucklebones in front of it, hiding their passage. As the soldiers ran into the square, a crowd of small, very dirty children ducked and weaved about their feet. A few of the soldiers staggered, and one almost fell, grabbing hold of a pile of crates to steady himself and bringing them crashing to the ground, spilling their contents across the mud. All was confusion, and by the time the leader had sorted out his troops and begun questioning the crowd, there was no sign of the blind beggar with the raven on his shoulder, nor of the little boy the soldiers were seeking so desperately.