The Shining City (12 page)

“A few months back there was a prisoner who tried to escape,” the horse thief said. “She grabbed Octavia and tried to choke her with her chains. . . . Octavia tied her up to that pole and smeared goose fat all over her belly. The rats chewed their way straight through her entrails. It took a long while for her to die.”

Rhiannon pressed the back of her hands to her face. She had thought the satyricorns nasty and brutish, but none she knew of had ever done anything so cruel. Inside her she felt something shriveling and knew some last remnant of naïveté or hope was withering away.

One prisoner was rocking and weeping. “I want to go home. I want to go home.”

“Who doesna?” the horse thief said.

Just then the door slammed open. Light streamed in, dazzling their eyes, then abruptly the massive shape of Octavia blotted out the light. She was carrying a bucket and a ladle. At once the tide of rats turned and converged on her. She tossed them a ladle full of slops and they scrabbled over one another to reach it, biting and snarling.

Everyone pressed themselves against the wall, wary and silent. She went over to Bess, hanging limply in her chains, moaning, her face and arms and breast ravaged with rodent bites. A few rats still huddled about her feet, feeding greedily on the hunks of her flesh they had torn away.

Octavia regarded her thoughtfully, then stuck the ladle in the bucket so she could unhook Bess‟s chains with her other hand. The rats lifted their pointy snouts to sniff at the aroma of soup so close above their heads, then went back to their feast. Octavia dragged Bess over to the wall and dropped her on a pile of damp, filthy straw.

“Tsk-tsk,” she said. “How very dreadful. I must write to the prison governor and let him ken our rat problem is as bad as ever.”

No one said a word.

“I do hope she doesna die o‟ her bites,” Octavia said in a voice of mock concern. “The hangman‟s a good friend o‟ mine and he‟s no‟ paid unless they hang. If he‟s no‟ paid, he has no money to gamble with and that means I lose out too. Oh well. They probably wouldna have hung her anyway, stupid soft-bellied judges. All this talk about prison reform and the problem o‟

crime, and they never think to ask
me
. I could tell them, the only way to stop thieving, murdering scum like ye is to hang ye. No repeat offenders then, is there?‟

She gave her hoarse, wheezing laugh and went around the room, kicking aside any rat brave enough to sniff at her, ladling soup into each woman‟s wooden bowl. Everyone slurped it down

greedily.

Rhiannon‟s thumbs were now so swollen she could barely grip her bowl. She was so hungry, though, that she endured the thudding pain, holding up the bowl to Octavia pleadingly. The jailer grunted and splashed some soup into it, and Rhiannon lowered her face to it. The soup was thin and cold and greasy, and tasted like old dishwater, but Rhiannon managed to swallow some down.

Octavia dumped the dregs of the bucket in the straw for the rats to squabble over, turned the lantern down low, and waddled out, locking the door behind her. Rhiannon‟s heart sank. The mouthful of soup had done nothing to quench her hunger, and she had hoped the jailer would remove her thumbscrews for the night. Her thumbs felt like fried sausages, about to burst in a splatter of sizzling fat.

She rested her throbbing hands upon her knees and laid her head back against the wall, shutting her eyes. She could hear Bess moaning in the straw. Rhiannon crawled towards her, one corner of the blanket clenched between her fingers, and tried as best she could to cover the wounded girl. Her hands were now so painful she could do no more. Bess was shivering violently, and Rhiannon managed to lie down beside her, her hands held awkwardly in front of her.

In her cage the madwoman rocked back and forth, laughing and muttering and occasionally rattling her bars. The rats scuffled the straw about, squealing in greedy outrage. The merchant‟s daughter rocked her cloth baby, humming a low tuneless lullaby, while someone else muttered,

“Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up.”

Rhiannon closed her eyes, every now and again pressing her face into her sleeve to blot away her tears.

T
he ironbound door crashed open. Rhiannon startled awake. Octavia stood in the doorway, a lantern in her hand. She shone it this way and that, irradiating one ghastly, filthy face after another, their startled eyes wide and staring through the tangle of their hair. Then the light found Rhiannon‟s face and settled there.

Rhiannon shrank back, lifting her hands in their cruel metal contraption to shield her face. Her eyes felt gritty, her swollen thumbs pulsated horribly, and her skin was cold and clammy and crawled with lice. Worse than the hollowness of her empty stomach was the dreadful fear that the sight of Octavia provoked.

“Got friends in high places, do we?” the jailer cooed. “Should o‟ told me, dear. If I‟d had any idea . . . Hope there‟s no hard feelings . . . Come, let‟s get ye out o‟ those.” She bent and unlocked the clamp, releasing Rhiannon‟s thumbs. The sudden roar of pain was so intense Rhiannon almost fainted. Sick and giddy, she was lifted from the ground and a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Let‟s get ye cleaned up and some hot food in your belly,” Octavia said, in the same treacle-sweet voice. “There are guards waiting for ye, to take ye to the Tower. I‟ll get ye your things. Come now, can ye walk?”

“Why? What‟s happened?” Rhiannon stammered.

“Ye‟ve been given liberty o‟ the tower,” Octavia said. “Seeing as how ye‟ve got powerful friends. And rich too. Rooms in the tower dinna come cheap.”

As she spoke, she half carried Rhiannon from the Murderers‟ Gallery. Rhiannon cast one dazed look back at Bess‟s motionless body before the door slammed shut behind her. Octavia took her down the hall and into a small stone cell where, amazingly, a fire cast out warmth and comfort.

A big tin hip bath stood before the fire, with a ewer of water and a hunk of coarse yellow soap.

Octavia dumped Rhiannon in the bath, dragged off the lice-ridden smock, and poured the water over her head.

“Sit,” Octavia said and pushed on Rhiannon‟s shoulder till her legs buckled and she sat down with a plop. The water was lukewarm and came only halfway up the bath, so Rhiannon wrapped her arms about her shivering body and hunched there as Octavia scrubbed her head and back with the soap and a harsh-bristled brush. Suds poured down Rhiannon‟s face and she shut her eyes, totally dumbfounded by this sudden change in her situation.

Octavia dropped the brush in the bath. “Scrub yourself well if ye want to get rid o‟ the lice. I‟ll get ye some soup.” She went out of the room and there was a sharp click as the key was turned in the lock. Although her thumbs were still swollen and ringed with dark bruises where the clamps had bitten into her skin, Rhiannon was able to use her fingers quite well and so, gripping the brush with both hands, she did as she was told, scrubbing herself till her skin was red and sore.

A thin, rough towel, a chemise, and a loose grey dress were draped over the chair, and so, when she was finally clean, Rhiannon rubbed herself dry and dressed herself as well as she was able, unwilling to have Octavia come back and find her still naked. There was something unnerving in the fat woman‟s lascivious little eyes. Rhiannon could not manage the buttons with her sore thumbs, so she held her bodice together with both hands and sat quietly waiting on the chair, her spirits soaring as she wondered who had paid for her release. Lewen? Nina and Iven? Much of her despair and misery had been caused by the fear that her friends had abandoned her. It was heartening to know they had not.

Octavia came in with a tureen of soup in her ham-sized hands. Amazingly, the soup steamed.

She put it down on the table and looked Rhiannon up and down.

“I canna let ye go to the tower looking like that,” she cooed, trying her best to smile. “Let me button ye up and comb your hair for ye, my dear, and then I‟ll get ye your boots and shawl.”

Rhiannon submitted unwillingly, feeling revolted at the touch of those pudgy fingers at her bodice and then in her hair. She could not help remembering how Lewen liked to brush out her hair for her too.

“Eat up your soup then, dear,” the jailer said tenderly. Rhiannon felt her hand lingering on the nape of her neck and could not help shuddering.

“Ye‟re cold. I‟ll stoke up the fire,” Octavia said and thankfully removed her massive presence from behind Rhiannon‟s chair.

Rhiannon sipped at the soup. It was still thin and greasy, but hot and with soft lumps of potato and meat in it—far more palatable than what she had drunk before.

When she had finished and her long hair had been plaited away from her face, Octavia brought her pack, still bulging with all her belongings. She would not let Rhiannon check all was there but unpacked her boots, helping her draw them on, and wrapped her beautiful embroidered shawl about her, with all sorts of obsequious comments and attentions that made Rhiannon feel most uncomfortable. Then she was led out through the dark, dank corridors and given into the care of four heavily armed soldiers. They spoke not one word to her but did not hurry her along or push her, like the other guards had done.

She was taken out through a gate into a courtyard. It was dark, but she could see no stars in the sky, for the lights from the city reflected a red haze from the vault of the heavens that obliterated all starlight. The touch of the cold night wind on her face was wonderful, however, and she lingered for a moment, lifting her face. The soldiers gave her that moment, then silently urged her on. Cold stone closed over her again.

Led by a guard carrying a lantern, they passed through countless cold, cavernous halls and chambers, Rhiannon huddling her shawl about her. She wondered what time it was. It felt very late.

They passed through a large hall and into a room where other guards sat alertly, holding long, cumbersome weapons that Rhiannon had never seen before. Papers were checked and stamped with a red wax seal, and a big door was unlocked to allow Rhiannon and her escort through.

They climbed a narrow twisting staircase up three floors, and then Rhiannon was ushered into a small dark cell. She looked around quickly. The bare walls were made from large blocks of stone, mercifully free from green slime. One wall was taken up by a heavy iron bed softened by a thin mattress and a clean sheet and pillow. A grey eiderdown was folded over the end. Under the bed was a chamber pot with a lid. A small table was set in the corner, with a heavy bench pushed beneath it. All the furniture was so solidly made Rhiannon would have difficulty shifting it, let alone throwing it or breaking it to make a weapon.

The guards were withdrawing, taking the lantern with them. Greedily the shadows swooped down upon Rhiannon‟s head.

“Wait!” She flung out one hand to halt them. At once the guards stiffened, hands flying to their weapons.

“Wait! Please,” Rhiannon said with some difficulty. “Where am I?”

“Sorrowgate Tower,” one replied tersely, not looking at her.

“What does that mean? Am I . . . ?” She stopped, unable to frame the question that meant so much to her. The four guards waited stolidly, and at last she managed to utter some more words.

“Am I still . . . ?”

They did not answer for a moment. Then the youngest, a broad-shouldered, fresh-faced man of about twenty, said gruffly, “Ye‟ve been granted liberty o‟ the tower, which means ye‟re out o‟

the public prison and into a room o‟ your own, with visitors allowed, and pen and paper if ye want it, and ye‟re allowed to walk in the warden‟s garden. Ye‟ll stay here until your trial or until the money dries up, whatever happens first.”

“But I‟m no‟ allowed out? Outside the tower, I mean.”

He shook his head.

“Who‟s paying for it?” she demanded.

They all looked at each other and shrugged. Rhiannon bit her thumbnail.

As they once again began to withdraw, Rhiannon called out, “Wait! I‟m sorry, I‟m just

wondering . . .”

They waited politely.

“What time is it?”

“After midnight, lass,” another soldier said kindly. “I‟d get some shut-eye if I were ye.”

Rhiannon clenched her sore, throbbing hands together. “It‟s too dark,” she said, hearing the ragged edge of hysteria in her voice. “Please, canna ye leave the lantern?”

“Sorry, lass,” the guard said. “Against the rules.”

“Please. I dinna like the dark. Please.”

The guard shared a glance with his companions, then said gruffly, “Each prisoner is allowed one candle after supper. I guess it willna matter if we let ye have one now. It only lasts a couple o‟

hours, though, I warn ye.”

“Thank ye. Oh, thank ye,” Rhiannon gabbled.

“Do no‟ think o‟ trying any tricks with it now,” the guard warned. “It‟s hung high so ye canna reach it, see?”

He demonstrated to Rhiannon, showing her how he swung down the iron lantern hanging in the center of the ceiling with a long-handled hook, lit it with a taper from the lantern he carried, and then deftly hung it up again. It swung slightly, sending shadows swooping around the room.