Sea Of Ghosts Part 13

Granger didn't want to allow him any s.p.a.ce to let the others in, so he drew in his elbows and suffered the punches. They felt like hammer blows. He brought his elbow up into the other man's armpit to halt one angle of attack, while trying to force him back towards the door.

But the Hookman was too strong for him. He shoved back, one fist continuing to pound Granger's ribs, the other arm trying to reach over Granger's elbow, scrabbling to grab his hair. With his free left hand Granger fish-hooked the man's cheek, jerking that fat snarling face to one side. He grunted and heaved, but couldn't find the strength to break the other man's neck. The pair wrestled in the shallow brine, the Hookman's teeth gnas.h.i.+ng Granger's fingers, dribbling spit down his wrist. Behind him, the others were pus.h.i.+ng forward, trying to get past their leader.

Granger's right hand was pinned against his opponent's chest. He reached around until he felt the handle of one of the Hook-man's knives. He grabbed the weapon and yanked at it, but it wouldn't budge. Instead he forced the handle down, trying to turn the blade upwards into the other man's guts.

Out of nowhere, something cracked against his skull.

The room reeled. He tasted blood.

He wrenched the knife handle down, heard a grunt.

Another blow struck his ear.

Specks of white light flashed at the edges of his vision.

A third blow sent him staggering back against the wall.

'f.u.c.ker cut me.'

The lead Hookman stood ankle deep in brine, clutching a wound in his side. From the small amount of blood evident, Granger could tell that the knife hadn't gone in very deep. Beside the wounded man, another, taller, fellow gripped a long pole with a curved iron tip. This, then, had to be the weapon that had struck Granger. The pole-wielder stepped aside to let a third, bearded, man into the cell.

'He's going to take a swim, Bartle,' said the beard.

'Not now,' said the leader. 'I want him to see what's coming.'

Granger's head still smarted from the blow, and his chest had now begun to ache. He doubted he could get past all three of them without a weapon. He managed a grim smile. It occurred to him that he'd now blown his chance for diplomacy.

The Hookmen's leader Bartle, he'd been called used his boot to slide the pallet away from the hole the in floor. He peered down into the brine, and grinned. 'Sleeping like a lamb,' he said to the beard. 'Go get the nets.' Then he looked up at Granger. 'Harbouring the Drowned's worth twenty years, if you've got the cash to pay Maskelyne's fees. How you stacked for cash, Tom?'

CHAPTER 7.

ANOTHER MAN'S PRISON.

Two Hookmen remained in Granger's place while the others took him back to the same jail he'd just come from on Averley Plaza. They frisked him thoroughly for weapons, then marched him up the stairs to the room where he'd met Creedy's supposed buyer.

Ethan Maskelyne was standing beside one of the windows, his face inclined toward the late-afternoon sun. He didn't turn around when Granger arrived, but he said, 'You weren't supposed to leave here quite so soon.'

Movement caught Granger's eye. He glanced over at the olea tanks. The body of the man who had chased him outside was floating in the third chamber. Hundreds of tiny blue jellyfish clung to his skin, pulsing softly.

Maskelyne turned round. 'You should have brought her straight to me, Mr Granger,' he said. 'I would have given you a fair price, and we could have avoided all this hostility.'

'She wasn't for sale.' Granger judged the distance between himself and the other man. If he bolted, he could probably reach Maskelyne before his Hookmen took him down, but that wouldn't be doing Ianthe any favours.

'Actually, that wasn't for you to decide.' Maskelyne studied Granger for a moment. 'You're a military man, you understand hierarchy. Whether you like it or not, Mr Granger, our society is structured in a way that the rights of its wealthiest and most powerful citizens take precedence over the rights of others. Considering everything I have given back to the empire over many years, I think this is only fair. I had infinitely more right to decide the girl's fate than you ever did.'

'What about Ianthe? Does she have a say?'

Maskelyne smiled. 'I understand your disappointment. But you needn't worry about her. If her talents are half of what Mr Creedy tells me they are, she'll be well rewarded she'll certainly have a better life in my care than you could ever have given her.'

How much had Creedy told him? The sergeant was a fool if he thought Maskelyne was going to cut him in on his operation. His body would end up in a tank of seawater before the week was through. 'Where is Creedy now?'

'Mr Creedy is working for me,' Maskelyne said.

'And Hana? What do you intend to do with her?'

Maskelyne frowned.

'The girl's mother, the woman you left to die in my jail.'

Realization dawned on Maskelyne's face. 'You can't blame my men for defending themselves,' he said. 'They have families too, after all.'

'Just let her go.'

Maskelyne shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Mr Granger, but I can't allow the Drowned to simply wander around the city. I have a duty to uphold the emperor's laws.' He sighed. 'I don't suppose a traitor like yourself can understand that. She'll be taken to Averley Plaza and put with the others.'

Granger couldn't help himself. He ran at Maskelyne with the intention of breaking his b.l.o.o.d.y neck.

But the Hookmen must have been waiting for this, for they stopped him before he covered three yards. A hooked pole snagged Granger's foot and he toppled forward and slammed into the floor. Suddenly there were two men kneeling on his spine, twisting his arms back, shoving his face down into one of the plush rugs.

'Emperor Hu has been looking for you for a long time,' Maskelyne said. 'We'll give you a trial, of course, and a cell with a view of the square in which to await your execution. I think you should use this time to reflect on everything you've done.'

True to his word, Maskelyne had Granger placed in a cell overlooking Averley Plaza. It was a small vaulted chamber with a concrete floor, located on the fourth storey of the jail. The bed frame was all welded metal and had been bolted to the floor, but the dusty old mattress looked soft enough. There was even a blanket. To remove the need for a cistern in the cell, the commode could only be flushed from a central pipe room. They'd use brine for that. But the steel sink had real taps providing as much purified water as Granger required a luxury in Ethugra. All in all, the place was cleaner than most provincial hotel rooms. Only the window bars and the heavy metal door betrayed the room's true purpose. This was a place of confinement, even if it was of a standard normally reserved for the wealthiest of prisoners. Chalk dashes covered one entire wall. Evidently the previous occupant had been here for a long time.

The window offered him a view of Ethugra's central harbour, where administration buildings crowded around the docks and the market stalls. The stony figures of the Drowned stood in silent rows along the waterfront, their contorted bodies granting shade to small groups of fishermen, old women, costermongers and trove sellers. An eclectic mix of boats, mostly fis.h.i.+ng vessels, ferry boats and ca.n.a.l traders, churned trails of spume across the tea-coloured seawater. The wharf itself lay directly below his window, some sixty feet down.

Granger spied a vessel approaching.

Two of Maskelyne's Hookmen had Hana in their flat-sided ca.n.a.l barge. She was trapped in a net, over which they'd thrown a brine-soaked blanket. They berthed among fis.h.i.+ng boats, hurling orders at Ethugra's civilian captains and throwing out their bow and stern lines like insults. Hana couldn't walk unaided, and so they carried her up the steps to the esplanade.

The Drowned died more quickly in direct suns.h.i.+ne, but the Hookmen chose a place for her under the shade of Maskelyne's own prison facade. Whether this was to allow him a better view, or simply to prolong her suffering, Granger didn't know. Her death, it seemed, was going to be a lengthy affair.

Wearing whaleskin gloves, the two men peeled the blanket away from Hana and unravelled the net. They used knives to cut her frock away, leaving her naked. And then they fitted manacles to her ankles and wrists, running the chains through eyelets set into the flagstones. She managed to stand, and even stagger a few feet towards the harbour's edge, before she began to scream.

The sound was odd, coa.r.s.er and deeper than Granger would have expected. Exposure to brine had already changed her larynx, thickening the tissues and cartilage in her throat. Here on dry land she sounded like a man. Her cries drove him to urgency.

He glanced at the chalk marks again. Waste of time. Waste of time. He paced the cell. He paced the cell. Walls, floor, bars, commode, washbasin, bed. Walls, floor, bars, commode, washbasin, bed. The water pipes had been fused securely to the taps The water pipes had been fused securely to the taps. Hana's screaming harried him like a fire siren. Hana's screaming harried him like a fire siren. Walls, floor, bars, pipes . . . Walls, floor, bars, pipes . . . He covered his ears, but it didn't help. He covered his ears, but it didn't help. Stop. Stop.

Think.

The floor. The bed.

Granger examined the bolts fixing the bed to the floor. They had been ground smooth and then welded to their surrounds. He couldn't free them without tools. He ripped open the mattress with his bare hands, and rifled through its innards. Nothing inside but hair and dust. Useless Useless. He felt his way around the walls, testing the mortar between the stones with his fingers, but he found no weakness. Too much care had gone into building this place. Too much money. He tried to kick the water pipes away from the sink, but they wouldn't budge. He examined the metal door, hunting for a flaw in the design. The hinges were outside. A floor-level hatch allowed food to be pa.s.sed through, but even if it had been open he doubted he could have squeezed his arm through.

Hana's screams continued.

Slowly, slowly.

He was breathing too rapidly. He had to think. He checked the bars in the window. Solid iron. This was one part of the building they hadn't salvaged from cells below the waterline. He couldn't bend them without leverage. The ends were buried into holes bored deep in the surrounding stones. No way to prise them loose. He paced the cell, looking closely at everything again. Floor, walls, bars, ceiling. Floor, walls, bars, ceiling. A length of chain hung from a hook at the apex of the room. It must have once have been used to support a lantern, but there was no lantern there now. Granger might be able to reach it by standing on the commode, but he couldn't see how he could get it loose. Everything looked as tough as anything that could be made by man. No way out without explosives. If old Swinekicker had had the resources, he might have built a prison like this. A length of chain hung from a hook at the apex of the room. It must have once have been used to support a lantern, but there was no lantern there now. Granger might be able to reach it by standing on the commode, but he couldn't see how he could get it loose. Everything looked as tough as anything that could be made by man. No way out without explosives. If old Swinekicker had had the resources, he might have built a prison like this.

But not quite quite like this. The old man had talked at length about the art of confinement: the escapes, the little oversights that could let your income slip away from you, the changes he'd make to his own place if he only had the money. And now Granger examined his own cell with the same cold cynicism. To look into the room from the corridor outside required the guard to kneel on the floor and peer through that narrow food hatch in the bottom of the door. Wealthy prisoners, it seemed, were granted a peculiar degree of privacy. It was the only flaw Granger could discern. How could he use it to his advantage? like this. The old man had talked at length about the art of confinement: the escapes, the little oversights that could let your income slip away from you, the changes he'd make to his own place if he only had the money. And now Granger examined his own cell with the same cold cynicism. To look into the room from the corridor outside required the guard to kneel on the floor and peer through that narrow food hatch in the bottom of the door. Wealthy prisoners, it seemed, were granted a peculiar degree of privacy. It was the only flaw Granger could discern. How could he use it to his advantage?

Hana's cries filled the air.

Granger returned to the torn mattress. He scooped out the rest of the hair stuffing and then set to work tearing the blanket into thin strips. He plaited the strips together until he had fas.h.i.+oned two short lengths of rope, one longer than the other. He tied a knot in the end of the shorter.

Then he stripped to his underwear.

He pushed the legs of his breeches down into his galoshes, then stuffed the breeches full of mattress hair. He chewed holes in the hem of his s.h.i.+rt and used his bootlaces to tie the s.h.i.+rt to the belt loops in his breeches. Then he began packing the s.h.i.+rt too. When he'd emptied the mattress of stuffing, he used the remains the mattress itself and then pieces of blanket, keeping only a fistful of sc.r.a.ps aside. Finally, he slid his whaleskin gloves on to the padded-out arms of his s.h.i.+rt and stood back to inspect his creation. He had made a mannequin, a stuffed figure dressed in his own clothes. It wouldn't suffer a close inspection, but it didn't have to. He didn't even bother to furnish it with a head.

Granger climbed up onto the cistern, from where he could just reach the lantern chain hanging from the ceiling. He fed the longer of his two makes.h.i.+ft ropes through the bottom link, until it snagged on the knot at its end. He gave it a gentle tug. It held well enough. He hopped down again, then hoisted up the mannequin and tied it to the rope.

From the food hatch at the bottom of the door, one could see a pair of boots dangling before the window. By pressing his face against the floor, Granger could make out the hanging dummy's legs and the lower part of its torso and arms. Good enough. Good enough.

Now he had to get the jailer's attention. He couldn't afford to wait until meal-time, whenever that was. He grabbed the last few sc.r.a.ps of blanket and stuffed them down into the washbasin plughole. Then he turned on the taps.

The basin filled and soon began to overflow. Water spilled over the floor, gradually reaching the corners of the cell. As it began to leak out of the gap under the door, Granger wrapped the shorter length or rope around each of his hands and waited.

Less than a quarter of an hour later he heard noises in the corridor outside. A key clunked in a lock. A door slammed. He heard the jailer cursing, his boots slos.h.i.+ng along the flooded corridor.

Two bolts snapped back, and the hatch at the bottom of the cell door clanged open.

Outside, the jailer gave an angry hiss. 'If you've broken that b.l.o.o.d.y sink, we'll beat . . .' he began. And then he must have seen the hanging mannequin, for he said, 's.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t.'

Keys rattled.

The door opened.

Granger stepped from his hiding place into the open doorway and kicked the jailer in the stomach. Before the other man had time to register surprise or pain, Granger looped the short rope around his neck and dragged him down. He twisted the rope.

The jailer made a choking sound.

'We're walking out of here,' Granger said.

The jailer opened his mouth to object, but Granger twisted the rope tighter around his neck. 'Don't speak,' he said. 'Or I'll crush your larynx.'

A corridor stretched in both directions, with numbered cell doors lining both walls and an iron-banded wooden door at the end of the pa.s.sage. Granger marched his captive towards this last door. From his initial trip here he knew that the guards' office lay beyond. 'How many guards?' he whispered into the man's ear. 'Hold out your fingers.'

The jailer made no move.

Granger tightened the rope.

'One.'

'I said don't speak.' They had reached the door by now. 'Unlock it.'

The other man obeyed, fumbling with his keys.

'Quickly.'

The door swung open to reveal a small windowless chamber, a watch station for the cell corridor little more than an airlock to separate free men from their captives. Racks of keys hung from pegs along the back wall, each labelled with a cell number. A single guard reclined in a chair, his feet propped on the desk before him. He had been half asleep, but now snapped alert as the two men bustled in: one dressed in underwear, the other turning blue. He looked at Granger and then he reached for his blackjack lying on the desk between them.

'Leave it,' Granger said.

The guard hesitated.

'Throw me your keys or I'll break his neck.'

'Break it,' the guard said. 'They'll give me his job.'

Granger pitched his captive across the table and into the seated man. The guard's chair toppled backwards and he went down, pinned under the thrown man's weight. Granger stepped around the desk and kicked the guard hard in the groin. Then he dropped to a crouch, slamming his elbow down into the back of the jailer's head, knocking him out cold.

The guard groaned through his teeth, still trapped under the unconscious man.

Granger spied a bunch of keys hooked to the man's belt and tore them loose. He picked up the jailer's keys from the floor. His chest had begun to cramp again. He staggered upright, wincing at the pain, and locked the door to the cell corridor. Then he tried the opposite door, the exterior one. It was unlocked. He opened it a fraction and peered out.

A broad staircase descended several flights to the main foyer. On the opposite side of the landing stood another door, but this was not reinforced. A tall window looked out on the gloomy facade of another building. There was n.o.body about. Granger glanced back at the fallen guard. Then he stepped out, shut the watch station door and locked it behind him.

He hurried down the staircase, clutching his chest.

When he reached the foyer he stopped. An open doorway to his right led to the prison offices, from where he could hear the susurration of scribes at work. To get to the front door he'd have to walk straight past them, in his underwear. The front door would undoubtedly be locked, and he didn't know which one of the keys he had stolen would open it. He rifled through the bunch, selecting a couple that looked to be around the right size.

Then he took a deep breath and crossed the foyer to the door.

A shout came from the office. Granger pushed the door, but found it to be locked. He tried the first key, but it wouldn't turn. Over his shoulder he heard a scribe shouting for the guards. He tried the second key.

The lock turned.

Granger burst out into bright sunlight.

The marketplace was mostly empty. Rows of stalls stood like canvas colonnades. A few costermongers milled around behind them, chatting or stacking crates to be moved to the wharf side, sitting on the steps of the Imperial Administration Buildings. Fishermen and ferrymen lounged in the shadows of the Drowned. A old man sat mending his net. The Hookmen had gone, leaving Hana alone. She was crouching on the ground with her arms wrapped around her knees, wailing in a thick broken voice. Not a d.a.m.n soul paid any attention to her.

Granger locked the door behind him, then ran over to her.

The Hookmen had soaked her in brine to prolong her life, but her stony flesh had already begun to crack across her arms and shoulders. It looked like paving slabs. Most of her hair had turned from black to grey. Her face appeared scorched. Brine crystals frosted the corners of her mouth. Her ankles and s.h.i.+ns glistened redly where the manacles had bitten in.

'Hana?'

She looked up, but her eyes were clouded by cataracts and he doubted she could see him. Others were looking over at them now. A few men stood up. The net-mender stopped his work. Someone whistled. From the direction of the prison, Granger heard a door rattling.

He placed a hand on her shoulder, ignoring the sting of the brine. 'It's Tom.'

She just wailed. If she recognized him, or even understood his words, Granger didn't know. He examined her manacles and chains, then glanced around for something with which to break them. The fishermen would have tools in their boats. He stood up.