Showtime in Hell
Loomdrax fiddled with a smooth, sleek stone. Someone who wanted a meeting with him had come into the prison.
Who?
Without relaxing his guard for an instant, Loomdrax flicked the stone out through the gap. It was a risk he had accepted—night had fallen too late for the guards to be making their rounds.
Just as he had predicted: no sound of the stone clattering across the floor.
They're waiting for my reaction.
Whoever it was, someone out there was waiting to see how Loomdrax would respond. Not a guard—as he'd already concluded, this was no hour for patrols, and no guard would be standing watch over the floor window of Loomdrax's cell besides.
Then who... Loomdrax muttered under his breath and lowered himself flat to the floor. Just then, a letter slipped through.
"I'll come back tomorrow."
Leaving only those words behind, the unidentified visitor vanished. Loomdrax pressed his eye to the window, straining for a glimpse of whoever had delivered it, but it was a meaningless gesture. Through the floor window, Loomdrax could see only what lay directly beyond it.
He nudged the letter with his foot. It looked perfectly ordinary—and faced with that unremarkable thing, Loomdrax spent a long while deliberating over whether to read it.
He had many enemies. Among them were people who begrudged him the very air they breathed.
In a word: they want me dead.
Nor did such people stop at entertaining dangerous thoughts—some carried them out. Assassins gunning for Loomdrax had slipped into Bulta Prison more than once before. So naturally, his first suspicion was another attempt on his life.
No. If it were an assassin, they'd have killed me just now.
After all the trouble of infiltrating Bulta Prison, the two of them had been left alone together—and in conditions tailor-made for a kill, the mystery visitor had simply turned around and gone.
So not an assassin.
Which meant there was no reason to hesitate over the letter. Loomdrax unfolded it.
Argh, I can't see a thing!
A prison night admits not one ray of sunlight. It was dark in here at all hours, but the nights were darker still—because even the corridor torches, the only light left burning, were snuffed out.
Left without a choice, Loomdrax waited for morning. He drifted off in no time, perfectly at ease; staying up all night wondering about a letter's contents would accomplish nothing, so he could well afford the comfortable choice.
Instead, the next day, his eyes opened the instant the torches began to crackle. Loomdrax slid the floor window open straight away and read the letter through by the faint glow.
The letter was a courtship dance performed just for Loomdrax. It was irresistibly seductive. The Sacred Relic of Petrora—this was bait Loomdrax had no choice but to bite.
Loomdrax waited, and waited, for the visitor of the night before to return. The long vigil ended only the following night.
Tock—rrrrrll.
Another stone had come through—a kind of proof of life, and an inquiry into his willingness to talk. When he picked the stone up and tossed it back, a question came flying in.
"Your answer?"
"As you wish."
Then a letter came through—far thinner than the last. It carried a date, a time, and a brief account of what Loomdrax was to do. Nothing more.
The letter's meaning was unmistakable. They would break Loomdrax out of Bulta Prison.
Loomdrax's long face split into a grin from ear to ear.
"Mind if I ask something?" No footsteps sounded, so he took his chance.
"No."
What came back was an icy refusal. Loomdrax brushed it off without a care and stretched, long and lazy.
Whoever you are—much obliged, truly.
Help always comes with a price. Under ordinary circumstances, Loomdrax would have grilled them without mercy about what they wanted.
But a year locked away in Bulta Prison had left him aching for the open air. His position allowed no room for pride: if they would only get him out of here, he would say yes to anything.
So getting out comes first. Negotiations later.
Loomdrax read the letter, tore it into tiny pieces, and popped them into his mouth. Destroying the evidence left no alternative. With great thoroughness, he chewed and swallowed everything in his mouth. The fine paper and ink tasted better than the mold-crusted bread the prison handed out.
So who's the lunatic trying to bust me out?
Evidence cleanly disposed of, Loomdrax capped it all off with a refreshingly loud burp and flopped onto his bed. Naturally, his thoughts turned to the letter's owner.
If they were caught breaking him out—or if he himself sold them out—they would be ruined to the last coin. So why take such a risk just to set him free?
Because there's something in me worth bleeding dry, that's why.
The master of some vast thieves' guild? The head of a cabal of sinister black mages? Or perhaps a king desperate for a spy? Whoever it was, they were clearly not in their right mind. Loomdrax's heart began to pound.
And whichever kind of fool they turn out to be, I'll strip them bare.
Even the biggest fish became a sucker the moment it hooked itself on Loomdrax. He was a happy man, dreaming of the new mark who would make his legend shine.
Late in the afternoon on the day of the operation, a stir ran through Bulta Prison.
"Wine sent from the Ehrenberg family as a token of comfort! Eat and drink your fill today, you dogs!"
The guard overseeing the underground cells slammed down a massive oak barrel with a resounding crash. The guards posted at the cell block entrance raised a cheer in unison.
"WAAAAAAAH!"
Loomdrax's closed eyes flew open. Showtime, at last. Pressing his nose to the floor window, he bellowed at the top of his lungs.
"You lunatics! You eat the kingdom's bread—what's with the booze on the clock?!"
Loomdrax's role was to stoke the guards' tempers. Anger, after all, sends the wine down that much smoother. Only once the guards were drunk out of their minds could Loomdrax move freely.
"What was that, you little bastard? Shut that mouth." The guard who had slammed his spear against Loomdrax's door glared and roared.
"No wonder you've been so quiet lately. Haven't had a proper beating in a while, have you?" The growl came from a guard who, back when Loomdrax first entered Bulta Prison, had taken his romantic advice—and been dumped by his girlfriend because of it.
"Aigoo! And that's exactly why your girlfriend ran off on you!"
Keeping well back from the door, Loomdrax never stopped fanning the flames.
"Ooh, I swear I'll be there the day that bastard dies."
Sure enough, one guard stripped off his shirt, seized Loomdrax's cell door, and rattled it.
"Easy, man. 1818 carrying on like this is nothing new. Guy's a lunatic."
The guards dragged the enraged one away.
"Just drink. The aroma alone is to die for. They said the Ehrenbergs were rich—turns out they're generous to a fault, too."
The guards settled themselves across the stairs and began to drink in earnest.
"With money, what can't you do? If I had even half the Ehrenberg fortune, I'd buy every last one of us guards a house!"
Loomdrax watched the guards fling out one empty promise after another as they poured and drank.
Lying through their teeth. Share the wealth if it ever came? Please—as if you lot would spend a single coin on anyone else. Even a passing ant would double over laughing.
Having laughed his fill at them inside his own head, Loomdrax leaned back against the wall. The guards drank like the wine was their mortal enemy, and the chants of you win or I win slowly began to slur.
"Ooh, look at you—someone's drrrunk!"
The one saying it was, of course, every bit as drunk himself.
One by one, the guards toppled over in their cups. Loomdrax rose slowly to his feet.
Time to go catch me a sucker.
Loomdrax flashed a grin.
Before Loomdrax slipped out of Bulta Prison, Cho and I had boarded the teleport bound for the capital. It was to sever, before the fact, any thread connecting Loomdrax's escape to me.
And then a week went by.
A red-brick house two blocks off the bustling main street—that was where I waited for Loomdrax.
"He's awfully late. You don't think he ran, do you?"
Jenice asked, peering out the window. I rolled the puzzle I'd brought along to while away the time between my palms.
"He'll come."
I had never expected him to appear on schedule in the first place. Bulta Prison lay a fair distance from the capital, and Loomdrax would have to erase his trail every step of the way. The one-week deadline was my way of taking the measure of his abilities.
It would be lovely if he made it within the week, but a day or two late can't be helped.
I was revising my assessment of Loomdrax as I slotted the final puzzle piece into place—
Knock, knock. The sound of a fist rapping at the door.
"I'll get it!"
Jenice darted out and opened the door. A neatly dressed old gentleman stood on the doorstep, leaning on a cane.
"May I ask who's calling?" Jenice asked.
"Is this the residence of Lady Anaid?"
The aged voice belonged to a man in search of someone. The old fellow craned his neck, peering curiously into the house.
"Oh dear! I'm afraid you've found the wrong house. I've never once heard of any Lady Anaid. I do hope you find who you're looking for."
Jenice planted herself in the doorway as if to block the old man's line of sight. Then, anxious lest he catch a glimpse of me, she hurried to shove him back out and shut the door.
"Hold on."
"Miss?"
Just before the door could close, I stopped Jenice.
"One moment, sir. Please don't go."
I called out to the old man as he made to leave. He had already turned, cane stepping out ahead of him—only his head came back around.
His gaze met mine in the empty air.
Loomdrax!
I nudged Jenice aside and flung the door wide open.
"I am Anaid. Won't you come in?"
"You're Anaid, miss? Miss, you've gone and coined a new alias I've never heard of?" Jenice whispered.
"Jenice. It's Loomdrax."
I dropped my voice to match hers.
"I'm sorry—did you say Loomdrax?"
I had told Jenice that Loomdrax was a young man in his early twenties. But the man before us looked to be sixty if he was a day. Small wonder she hadn't recognized him.
"It's a disguise. An old man."
"But he looks like a real old man..."
While Jenice marveled over the disguise, I stepped back a pace from the doorway to clear a path for Loomdrax to enter. Loomdrax regarded me with evident interest.
"Do come in—to the house of Anaid."
At my second invitation, Loomdrax burst into a hearty laugh.
"Much obliged for the invitation." He answered in the quavering tones of an old man, then tossed his cane aside the moment he crossed the threshold.
"Oof. Keeping this back bent has been rough going."
As Loomdrax drew himself up straight, it truly struck me how tall the man was. Stretching, he flung off the wig as well, shook out the silver hair beneath, and glanced about in search of a chair.
"Why not take off the mustache while you're at it? It doesn't suit you."
"The little lady's got a sharp eye on her. My disguises are first-rate, you know."
Truth be told, I had very nearly been taken in myself. The disguise was flawless, just as he claimed.
"How did you recognize me?"
I showed Loomdrax to a chair and took the seat across from him.
Looking up at people is exhausting. From now on, every conversation with Loomdrax happens sitting down. Non-negotiable.
"Curious?"
"Of course I'm curious. Tell me."