Water oozed down the slime-covered walls and dripped from the tiny iron grate in the ceiling of the subterranean keep. The stagnant air was a rank and fetid stew laced with the odours of human excrement, rotting straw, and rodent droppings. The light from the slit in the wall that served as both window and air shaft did nothing to ease the gloom; if anything, it only made the murk worse by offering the illusion of illumination. The cell was a large square room steeped in perpetual chill from the seeping water, its stone walls tinted a sickly green.
Archelaeus Burleigh had been incarcerated before, briefly, following an incident where a maimed pickpocket in Florence had met the sharp end of his lordship’s pig-sticker cane. In that instance, the Florentine polizia had taken the view that excessive violence had been used in what, to them, was a minor infraction of propriety. The harried Italian magistrate concurred, and the earl was summarily sentenced to sixty days in the chokey. That he actually spent fewer than three days in gaol before Con and Dex showed up to spring him was entirely beside the point.
Yet the gaol in Florence had been a luxury suite compared to this one: a disused storage cellar beneath the Rathaus that the Prague city officials used to warehouse miscreants. And this time Burleigh could not anticipate a swift rescue, because all four of his Burley Men were locked up with him. To make matters worse, after five days in detention, hunger was dangerously sliding into starvation, owing to the fact that prisoners awaiting trial were required to purchase their own food, clothing, and necessaries or have them provided by relatives. Most prisoners were locals with plenty of friends and family on the outside who could be counted on to supply what was needed; Burleigh, however, had no one. No one, that is, aside from the alchemist Bazalgette and, perhaps, Emperor Rudolf himself—both of whom might as well have lived on the moon for the apparent impossibility of getting a message to them. Thus his sole recourse was to the grudging cooperation of the turnkey, who provided Burleigh and his men with the barest minimum of grossly inferior foodstuffs for which he reimbursed himself liberally from Burleigh’s purse.
Accordingly, they had been given a pan of stale bread, three wizened apples to share among them, several handfuls of rancid walnuts, and two hunks of mouldy cheese—at the cost of a feast at one of Prague’s best eating houses. That was two days ago, and the victuals—if that was a word that could be applied to the poor fare they received—had only served to stoke their hunger, not to sate it. In the meantime, Burleigh had tirelessly campaigned to have his case brought to trial at once. This request fell on deaf ears. In Prague, there seemed to be no way to compel a magistrate, judge, or anyone else to bring a case to court that he was not inclined to process. Five days had passed, and with no word of any impending proceedings, hope for a speedy trial had dissipated.
“We’re going to rot in this stinking hole,” grumbled Dex, “if we don’t die of plague first.”
“Instead of moaning all the time,” suggested Con, “I say we try and tunnel our way out. That’s the only way we’re going to get free.”
“Ent you the bright one!” hooted Mal. “Dig ourselves through solid stone! You got a magic shovel, then?”
“It’s better than sitting here in the muck and stink,” challenged Con.
“’Twouldn’t stink so much if ya wasn’t ’ere,” replied Mal.
“Shut your gob!” growled Tav. “Both of you put a cork in it. Boss is working on getting us out. He’s got a plan—just see if he don’t.”
Truth be told, however, Lord Burleigh did not have a plan. Their arrest had been so precipitous and unexpected, the possibility so unimaginably remote, that for once he was literally taken unawares. There was no alternate plan, no way out. And lacking the ability to get a message to anyone on the outside who could apply the influence needed to move matters along, digging their way out, however unrealistic, did seem to offer their best and likely only hope of escape.
“Is that so, Boss?” asked Con. “Tell us, then. Tell us the plan.”
“We’ve sat ’ere long enough,” grumbled Mal.
“We wouldn’t be here at all if you—” started Tav.
“Enough, all of you!” snarled Burleigh, rousing himself from his corner. “Listen!”
Into the sudden silence they heard the distinctive clack of the gaoler’s hobnail boots on the stone flagging. Presently the footsteps stopped and there was the rattle of a key in the lock, a loud clack, and then a low groan as the iron-clad door swung slowly open. Light spilled into the cell, dazzling the prisoners, who could not abide the radiance that suddenly pierced the gloom. They blinked and shielded their eyes as out of the light emerged a towering giant with broad shoulders, a shapeless head, and a weirdly hunched back.
Thinking the torturer had come, the Burley Men shrank back into the shadows. The oversize figure entered the cell and looked around, the gaoler moving in to stand behind him. As the prisoners’ eyes adjusted to the light, they saw that their visitor was not a hulking rack-master come to torment them—it was the big baker from the coffee shop. A green hat lopped over his round head, and on his back he carried a bulging cloth sack; his ample middle was swathed in a green apron dusted in floury smudges. He said nothing—merely stood taking in the dank atmosphere of the prison, his expression, if he had one, difficult to read because his face looked as if it had been trampled by horses. Puffy and inflamed, covered in liver-coloured welts; one eye a painful purple slit and the other rimmed in black; his lips split, distended; and his nose cut and swollen . . . he stood in towering silence, exuding the warm, homey scent of the bakery from which he had just come. The prisoners caught the scent and it made their empty stomachs squirm.
Lord Burleigh roused himself from his corner. “You,” he said coldly, his voice a hateful slur. “Come to gloat, have you?” He drew himself up. “Come to see me grovel?” He spat in the baker’s direction. “I won’t give you the satisfaction.”
How much of this Etzel understood was unclear. He merely nodded and moved farther into the room, swinging the bag off his shoulder and placing it between his feet on the floor, where he opened it to reveal a number of loaves of fresh bread, a half round of soft cheese, ten green pears, a bunch of carrots, and two large sausages. Turning, he gestured to the gaoler hovering in the doorway, who entered bearing a pitcher of dark ale and a bucket of fresh water.
Burleigh stared at the food and drink, then raised his eyes to Engelbert. He pointed at the little heap of food. “Was ist das?” he asked in German.
“I am sorry it is not more,” replied Etzel, speaking slowly and with some obvious discomfort through his ruined lips.
How was it that the man’s jaw was not broken? wondered Burleigh. “What is this?” he asked again.
“Herr Arnostovi told me only this morning that you were here.”
“Look at all that grub!” said Con, edging towards the heap of food. “I could eat the lot, I could.”
“Get back!” warned Tav. “Not ’til Boss says it’s okay. There’s some trick here—I smell it. Right, Boss? It’s a trick, ain’t it?”
To Etzel, Burleigh said, “What’s your game, then, baker?” He thrust an accusing finger at the food sack. “What does this mean?”
“It is for you,” replied the baker simply. “Zum Essen . . . for eating.”
Burleigh gazed at the pudgy dumpling of a face—battered and bloated and damaged from the beating he had received at their hands. “I can see that,” said Burleigh. “What do you—ah . . .” He searched for the German words. “Was woollen Sie?”
“You ask what do I want?” wondered Etzel. “I want nothing.”
The Burley Men had edged close around the bag of food, and though they could not follow the conversation, they were mightily interested in the outcome. Con, unable to wait, reached for one of the little loaves of fresh bread. Tav swatted his hand away and gave him a warning glance.
“Ha! Then you will get nothing from me,” crowed Burleigh, his voice strident and hollow. “You hear, baker? Nichts!”
Engelbert shook his head and backed away. “Tomorrow is Sunday, but I will be able to bring more in two days.”
With that, he was gone. The gaoler retreated, pulled shut the door, locked it, and departed. In a moment, their footsteps could no longer be heard. Only then did Burleigh stir. He moved to stand over the pile of food, then prodded it with an exploratory toe. It was what it appeared to be: fresh bread, fruit, cheese, sausage, and a few vegetables.
Burleigh stood for a moment, gazing at what in this place amounted to a banquet, and then raised his eyes to the door once more. He turned away and moved back to his place in the driest corner of the cell.
Tav called after him, “Boss?”
There was no reply, so he tried again. “Boss, what should we do with the food?”
Still Burleigh made no reply—so Con tried, saying, “The food, Boss—what do you want us to do with it?”
“Divide it up,” muttered Burleigh finally. “Divide it fair and square—each man responsible for his own stash.”
Tav fell to with a will and the others crowded close around, keen to make certain the division was done fairly. Burleigh watched from a little distance, a deep frown creasing his countenance as he tried to discern what cruel-but-subtle game the baker was playing, or what advantage he hoped to gain from this remarkable deception.
For deception it was—of that Burleigh was certain. A master of deceit himself, he could smell it from a distance. However, this particular ruse took a form he had never before encountered, and it would take some thought to crack it. But he would—oh yes, he would discover the treachery, and when he did, he would wield his knowledge like a weapon.
As the food was being shared out, Dex voiced aloud what the rest of them were thinking. “Why is he doing this?” He looked around. “Boss? I don’t get it. What does the big oaf want?”
Burleigh lifted his head and gave a ragged laugh. “I don’t know yet, but I will find out,” he replied. “Mark me, all of you—I will find out.” His voice rang hollow in the cell. “And when I do, that fool of a baker will curse high heaven that he was ever born.”