Chapter 3: I Undid the Villainess's Shackles

I said no. A prisoner and someone from the kitchens never met face to face—at least, not in Evan's memory. The server took the food, wrote down the name, and confirmed how much had gone into which cell. Let a kitchen worker put it in themselves, and one link in the middle of the record vanished. Even if someone later came asking where a meal had come from, all that would remain was whatever a guard claimed to have been told. I thought of the bowl I had been given separately that morning. One more irregular procedure, in effect. Martha knew it too. Before she would comply with the demand to hand the bowl over, she meant to leave a record of her own inspection. I asked whether a record alone could stop whatever was coming tonight. Her expression hardened a little.

"Right now we don't even know for certain what we're supposed to stop. Separate suspicion from evidence. Only then will there still be anyone left to hear you out."

It was maddening. I knew she was right, and it irritated me all the same. While we kept records on a woman who would die tomorrow, tonight's food would still go in. I nearly snapped at her—were we simply meant to wait? Instead I shut my mouth. Martha saw my face and made no effort to soothe me. The medical officer had been refused entry, she said, but a guard had the authority to request a check for injury as well. There had to be a real injury, and it did not mean I could bring the prisoner out.

I thought of the wrist I had seen that morning. The place where the cuff had pressed until the skin tore. Martha gave me water for washing and a clean cloth, and told me to report it if the wound showed a black discoloration or ran hot. It was a pretext. It was also something that truly needed doing. If a request for the medical officer to examine her again went up on the strength of the wound I reported, it might put a brake on the plan to deliver the meal in person. No one, though, would promise how long approval might take.

Before the West Section day shift ended, I went back with the order slip for a wound inspection in hand. Dran grumbled about why the medical officer had suddenly taken an interest in Cell One. He also seemed displeased that I, having cracked my head yesterday, kept making more work. If I let it drop here, he could have a quiet afternoon. That would have been easier for me as well. For a moment I leaned that way—and then I remembered Serbia's face, asking who would bring the next meal.

"My name is on the record. If they say later that she was left neglected, the blame falls on me. I'll only wash the wound and come straight back out."

Dran pointed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to the long key on my ring, the one that opened the cell itself. Even with that key in my possession, I could not open the door alone. The lock released only when the guard at the entrance drew the Release Plate. He made sure the cell opposite had been cleared, then hauled on the inner mechanism. A small metallic sound answered from inside the iron door. Before I fitted the key, I was warned never to undo a noble prisoner's restraints. I nodded and opened the door.

Serbia did not rise from the stone ledge. I took two steps in, set the washing things down without closing the door all the way, and she looked first at the entrance, then at me. Her face was full of questions. I told her I had come to check the wound on her wrist, then added, low, that the evening server had been changed. Her eyes narrowed for a moment. She did not look as if she had expected it.

"I won't eat it. If I show you the bowl, is that enough?"

"I'm not on the evening watch. Drink only the water you already have, and please don't touch anything new that comes in."

"Then why did you come in? If it was a warning, you could have given it from outside the door."

I indicated her wrist. Serbia hesitated, then held out her arm. The chain was fastened to a ring on the rear wall, and every time she moved, the edge of the wrist cuff scraped the same wound. Up close, even a cloth against it looked as if it would hurt. I wet the cloth first and wrung it out. I did not rub where the blood had dried; I pressed the cloth there and held it. Tension went into her arm. Instead of asking whether it hurt, I stopped and waited.

"Do it. Better to finish it all at once."

"If I tear it, it'll bleed again. Please wait, just a little."

She looked away. She seemed almost offended, as if I were not a guard who simply did as he was told. She did not draw her arm back, though. I changed cloths and wiped inward from around the wound. When I brought my hands close, the smell of dried medicine rose off my own arm as well—the heel ointment Martha had given me. Serbia caught the scent and asked where I had been hurt. I said my foot. She glanced once at my boots and let it go. Not every question was deep concern. I told myself that, and still, for no reason I could name, turned the toes of my boots toward the door.

The cloth would not go beneath the lower edge of the cuff. I supported her wrist so I would not open the wound any further and tried to lift the metal a little. No gap appeared. If it would only come loose, even for a moment. Just a little. Only enough to clean the wound. In that instant the catch under my fingertips gave, lightly. I thought I had jarred it by mistake. The cuff opened halfway, and Serbia's wrist dropped onto my hand.

Neither of us moved.

A line of writing appeared at one edge of my vision. It was not inscribed on the wall, and it was not set down on paper. I closed my eyes, and it remained in the same place.

I did not so much know the name as understand at once what the words meant. Twelve times. For that long, this lock would not work. How I had done such a thing, and whether I could ever use it again, I had no way of knowing at all.

"What did you just do?"

Serbia's voice had dropped. I started to let go of her wrist and stopped when she caught my hand with her other one. The grip was weak, but the intent was plain. Don't move. She looked down at the open cuff, then at the door. I forced my shaking hands to work and slipped the cuff off her wrist. The lock, already sprung, did not resist. For the first time, her right hand came free of the chain. In the same moment my head went light.

I caught the edge of the stone ledge. The one who had been holding someone up a moment before had changed places. With the hand that was free, Serbia took my elbow. It was strange that she did not go for the door. The cuffs at her neck and on her left hand were still there, of course, so she could not run yet. Even so, she had no reason to keep me from falling. While I was thinking that, the last line vanished. The catch of the cuff lying on the ledge snapped back into place with a hard click. The cuff did not close on its own, but when I pressed it, it was locked again.

"Evan. Look at me. Can you breathe?"

"I'm all right. Just dizzy for a moment."

"Not that answer. I asked if you can't get air."

I shook my head. She let go of my hand. I was not staggering, but I had the feeling that if I stood again I would go down. Evan's memories held no method for using mana. After the writing in my vision faded, a single word lingered for an instant.

I did not say it. Having an ability and understanding it were different things. Above all, I had just undone a prisoner's restraints with no preparation whatsoever.

Dran's footsteps sounded in the corridor. I looked at Serbia's right hand. She had heard them too. The time she spent looking at the freed hand was shorter than I had expected. When she saw me about to set the cuff back against her wrist, her face hardened. I did not want to do it either. But if a bare wrist were discovered, I could not explain it away as washing a wound.

"It has to be fastened again. If we're caught now, it's over."

"I know. So stop making that guilty face and do it quickly."

I laid a thin cloth over the wound first. When I closed the cuff again, the catch locked. All we had gained was the slack of a single layer of cloth. Serbia drew her hand back and pressed her lips together. Even if she resented me, I had nothing I could say. I gathered the washing things. When Dran reached the door I was still on my knees, folding a cloth. He checked Serbia's wrist first. She opened her hand and showed it to him.

"It's bleeding. If you mean to leave me standing like this, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you should at least keep it off my clothes."

Arrogant, and threaded with irritation. Not the woman who had asked after my breathing a moment ago. Dran laughed loud enough to be heard and said that tomorrow they would change her clothes as well. I reported that the wound kept tearing open again because of the cuff. He leaned in to see whether cloth had caught at the wrist. When Serbia said it hurt and pulled her hand away, he checked no further. I left the cell first, and Dran set the Release Plate back where it belonged. The door locked again.

On the way back to the Infirmary I held the stair rail. Twice, the strength went out of my right wrist. Martha asked whether washing a wound had really taken that long. I said dried blood had been stuck beneath the wound. That was true. I left out the part where the cuff had opened. It felt uncomfortably like a lie, but I could not tell her everything. She took my pulse and said it did not seem to be only the aftermath of the blow to my forehead. I was ordered to rest, and the evening patrol was handed to someone else.

I sat on the platform in the Guards' Break Room and set one key on my palm. I thought of opening it, but nothing happened. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠A key was not a thing that bound; it was a thing that opened. That difference might matter. The small footlocker beneath the platform had an old padlock on it. I set my hand against it and, for just a moment, thought of asking it to come undone. This time a line appeared in my vision.

I needed to recover. Repeat it blindly, and I might only get worse. I knew the ability's name and how long it lasted. I had seen the condition of a single target. The rest I would have to confirm. It had not been the whole chain that came undone, only the lock of the wrist cuff, and when the time ended the function returned. The cuff I had taken off did not seize her again. Then, by loosening something briefly and removing it altogether, a person could leave the cell. I stopped the thought there. I was a man who could not even climb the stairs properly after freeing a single wrist. To believe I could open the door, the neck cuff, the left hand, and the iron door at the entrance, all the way through, was foolish.

Around sunset Thomas came into the break room. I had been turning a tin water flask in my hands, and I set it down. He said the evening distribution was finished except for Cell One. Cell One was still waiting. I asked who had the duty, and Thomas said he didn't know the name—someone in a black coat, not gray clothes. It might not be a kitchen worker. I started to get up, and Thomas pressed a hand to my shoulder. Break the medical officer's orders, he said, and he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was the one who would catch it.

"Stay down. If you go, tomorrow I'll have to do your work on top of mine again."

"Only as far as the west entrance. I left something."

Thomas didn't believe me. I couldn't explain it to him in any detail, and in the end I asked with the feeling of taking on one more debt. Just confirm whether the evening meal had actually gone into Cell One. I added that he wasn't to touch the food. He touched his right ear. He seemed to be choosing the words for how little he wanted to do it. I said I wouldn't force him, but my face must not have looked that way. Thomas opened the door in a huff.

He was back before much time had passed. The meal had not gone in, he said. A request to halt it, sent from the Infirmary, had arrived, and the officer in charge of the West Section had turned the man in the black coat away. When relief showed on me, Thomas asked what on earth was going on. I answered only that it was spoiled food. He accepted that, but his expression did not ease. He was not a man who failed to notice that a friend was hiding something that mattered.

When the night shift began, I went as far as the west entrance on the pretext of collecting the water pitcher. The new guard on duty would not allow me inside. I asked, loud enough to carry through the door, about the state of the water that had been issued, and Serbia answered that she was all right. I said I would take the empty pitcher tomorrow. I was about to turn away when she called my name. It carried clearly, even from a distance.

Before I answered, I looked at the guard's face. He shrugged. A joke followed, about a prisoner picking out her guards and putting them to work. I did not force a laugh. I only said that tomorrow morning was my turn to serve again. I came out into the corridor and climbed the stairs. I kept thinking of the hand that had caught me when the wrist cuff came off. The first thing she did, once she had her freedom back, was not to try to run. It was to hold me up.

When I reached the Guards' Break Room, Thomas was reading a revised copy of the execution schedule that had been posted during the day. He looked up and said Cell One's execution time had been struck off. I took the paper and checked the date first.