* * *

After transferring me to the soldiers in charge of the jail cells, Leif and Hale left without saying a word. The guards confiscated my cloak, pack and weapons before locking me in a cell with a blanket.

The evening had not gone as expected. Not at all. I prowled around the small cell. Frustration, anger, exasperation, amusement and disbelief churned in my chest. It was one thing for them to be upset with me. But protective custody? This had to be a joke. Or temporary. They’d made their point. Lesson learned. They were bound to be back soon to release me and we’d discuss plans. Right? Right.

Minutes turned into hours and my certainty slowly diminished. I inspected the locking mechanism on the cell’s door—all my clothes had lock picks sewn into the hems. But the complex bolt couldn’t be opened with standard tools. Only the front side of the cell had bars. The rest of the walls were made of stone. Actually, it appeared as if the builders had dug rough square cubes into the bedrock underneath the headquarters. Dim light shone from the two lanterns hanging on the wall opposite the cells. And from the utter quiet, I guessed I was the only occupant. Lovely.

Hours turned into a day. I pestered the guards with questions when they brought me food, but they refused to answer. Nor did they agree to deliver a message to Irys for me. I pouted. However, with no one there to see me pout, I felt silly. Perhaps I’d get more attention with a hunger strike.

I considered my options for an escape. Inventorying the contents of my hidden pockets, I had two sets of picks and three darts filled with... I wasn’t sure. I sniffed the liquid contents. Curare in two of them and goo-goo juice in the other. Too bad. I’d rather use sleeping potion on the guards. Curare seemed harsh for a couple of guys just doing their job. Of course, I needed to get close enough. My aim without a blowpipe was horrible.

During the next few meals, I watched the guards. Only one approached the bars. He slid the full tray through the slot near the floor, while his partner—the one with the keys—stood well away from the cell. Shoot. I’d have to get the second guy to either open the door or stand right by the bars.

One day turned into two as I searched my memory for a way to trick the guards. All my ideas—fake an illness, fake death, fake a swoon—were all unoriginal and I doubted anyone would fall for them.

Huddled under the blanket on the hard metal slab they called a bed for the third night of my incarceration, I stared at the ceiling, plotting revenge on my brother. Just the thought of wrapping my fingers around his thick neck helped ease my frustration and anger. Other more creative tortures came to mind and I almost smiled until the clang of a metal door signaled the first of many nightly bed checks.

Only one guard entered the jail tonight. He peeked in through the bars, confirmed I remained locked inside and retreated. Just then, an idea sparked for a way to escape. I mulled it over. With just one guard, I had a better chance of escaping. A few problems like how I would get past the soldiers in the processing area and the people working the night shift in headquarters might make it difficult. Aside from that, my plan just might work. After all, I had to do something, and getting caught would just land me right back here. Maybe my escape attempt would bring Leif so I could strangle him in person. One could hope.

I decided to wait until the third bed check to spring my surprise, but a ruckus woke me from a light doze. Standing close to the bars, I watched two unfamiliar guards struggle with a prisoner. As he resisted, he shouted slurred curses. The reek of bourbon reached me, and a couple of bleeding cuts marked his face. All the evidence pointed to a bar fight.

They tossed him into a cell and locked it. He rattled the bars, yelling about injustice and how the other guy started it.

“You’re wasting your breath,” I said. “They don’t care.”

“Huh? Who’s there?”

I hesitated. He might recognize my name, so I used my middle name. “Liana. I’m in the cell next to yours.”

“Oh. Whadda ya in for?”

“Nothing. I was framed.”

He laughed. “Me, too. Name’s Kynan. Anyone else in this rat hole?”

“I don’t think so.”

He huffed. “No wonder they busted me. It’s a slow night. Just my luck.” Then he launched into a drunken rambling explanation of his terrible luck.

Eventually, he ran out of story, and from the thump, I guessed he found the metal bed. Soon light snores filled the silence. I returned to my bed and lay down, debating if I should attempt an escape tonight or wait until tomorrow, when Kynan would most likely be gone.

The snap of a lock signaled a bed check. The guard’s footsteps paused and he snorted and muttered, “Passed out already.” Then he peered in at me before leaving.

I decided to put my plan into action during the next check. First, I flapped the blanket a couple of times, hard, sending a gush of air to blow out one of the lanterns. The shadows in the cell deepened. Then I smoothed the blanket over the bed, letting the edge hang to the floor. From the doorway, it would appear as if I hid underneath.

Second, I needed to test a theory. I kicked off my boots, stashed them under the bed and climbed the bars to the ceiling. The uneven surface had a number of finger-and toeholds. Except I didn’t have the arm strength to cling to the ceiling. How did Valek do it? Perhaps if I held on to the bars and tucked my legs up, curling into a small ball. It worked, but it’d be better with my boots on. The rubber soles would grip the metal bars. I slid back to the floor, laced up my boots and waited.