Sea of Ghosts - Alan Campbell [60]
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 damn 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 shins 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.
The door to Maskelyne’s prison opened, and a group of men filed out – five, six, eight of them. Granger recognized Bartle and two of his crew from Swinekicker’s place. A scribe stood beside them holding a bunch of keys. The other four were jailers and carried blackjacks looped around their wrists. Bartle saw Granger and grinned. ‘What do you think you’re doing, Tom?’
Granger crouched down beside Hana again. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tightly to his chest. He kissed her ear and stroked her hair. The metal salt taste of brine lingered on his lips, and then began to burn. Granger crooked his arm around her neck and squeezed.
She gasped, but she didn’t struggle.
Her tough, leathery flesh barely yielded under his grip. He gripped her neck harder, squeezing the muscles of his forearm into her windpipe, trying to drive the last pitiful breaths from her. But then Maskelyne’s men reached him and it was too late.
One of the jailers swung his blackjack, striking Granger across the temple. Granger’s vision swam, but he held on to Hana with all of his strength. He heard her choke.
They struck him again, and the world went dark.
‘Forty-six minutes,’ Maskelyne said. ‘That’s how long it took him to break out of the best and most expensive prison in Ethugra.’
The jailer hung his head.
‘Where do you think the fault lies?’ Maskelyne said.
‘The fault?’ The man glanced at the body in the olea tank. ‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘You don’t know?’ Maskelyne sat up. He studied the man for a moment, trying to judge the fellow’s level of retardation. ‘Well let me ask you this: Did he spend those forty-six minutes tunnelling through the walls?’
The jailer was growing paler with every passing moment. ‘We thought he’d killed himself.’
‘We?’
‘I thought he’d killed himself.’
Maskelyne stood