Thirty-seven

Bane had decided to make the climb as soon as morning light fully illuminated the shaft. He did not want to wait until later in the day when the temperature would rise, for he did not want sweat to make his hands slippery or trickle into his eyes. When he awoke, he ate a hearty breakfast, frying up the last of his meat along with three eggs. Then, while he waited for his food to digest and fuel him, he sat near his door and crocheted to calm his racing heart and mind.

Melisande was awake, but they did not speak, and he figured that she hoped her silence would further discourage his plans. As his gaze trailed up the shaft, he tried to tune out her movements. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and visualized the climb, inch by inch, the stone outcroppings beneath his hands and feet, imagined the light growing ever brighter the higher he progressed, felt the rope around his torso, the clothes upon his body, their weight, felt the sun as it chased away the cold bite of the shaft.

A short time later he packed rations in a small sack then rolled this up in a blanket. Removing his tunic, he slung the blanket across his shoulder, snugged it against his shirt. He felt Abrams's eyes upon him from his charpoy, but he did not return his gaze, and the man remained silent. Bane took a final look around his cell then turned for the door.

"Bane."

Melisande's distraught hail caught him as she hurried to the side bars. He told himself not to listen to her, to open his door and leave, but the emotion in her voice caused him to falter.

"Bane, look at me. Please."

He swallowed hard in a dry throat, steeled himself, and met her desperate gaze.

"Please don't do this. I'm begging you." Her hand stretched toward him.

Hans emerged from the morning shadows, his curiosity drawn to Melisande though he addressed Bane, "You ready?"

Bane pulled away from Melisande's tearful stare, fought away the desire to take her hand for perhaps the last time. No, he must not think that way; he would succeed. He would not have to look upon this place again. He would see the sun. He would find his father. And Melisande would find Henri Ducard; their child would not be born in darkness.

Rallying his resolve, he left his cell and locked it behind him. Then he paused long enough near Melisande to hand his key to her. When he spoke, his voice lacked the usual strength: "In case I don't make it. Tell Doctor Assad that I said he's to give you whatever you want from my cell."

Her tears now spilled over, but she made no sound. Her hands closed around his, would not let him go until he forcefully pried himself away. The sight of her tears made him think of his mother, so he quickly left her, following Hans into the shaft.

Of course word had circulated among the inmates about his attempt, and already two dozen men were spread throughout the stepwell, some attending to their morning routine at the pool, but all halting whatever they were doing when Bane entered their midst. He found himself wishing he were alone, that no one would watch him or even know of his climb. Those numerous eyes only added to the strain that had been building in him all night and morning. This was not a climb just for himself or Melisande, no matter what he proclaimed; it was for all of them. He carried with him every prisoner's hopes.

The Vulture's words came back to haunt him: "You think hope makes you strong. But it's hope that will destroy you."

Bane pushed aside the taunt, paused to look toward the brightening sky so far above. The shaft appeared as a massive gun barrel, the rock outcroppings spiraling like the rifling inside the barrel, up and up, beyond the block and tackle from which the safety rope hung, up to the ledges just below the rim. Would he make it as far as the ledges? Exactly how many feet away were they? Five hundred, some said. Could he sustain the strength needed to traverse that daunting distance?

He glanced around at the men silently watching. Some regarded him with skepticism, others with amusement, yet others with unbridled, desperate hope. The latter spoke encouragement and wished him luck, reminding him—as if he needed to be reminded—to toss down the ropes for them once he reached the top. Ramzi crouched not far from him, already wagering against him as were others, their hawkish bets called out for him to hear. Omar Alam was there as well but made no move toward him nor said a word. Of course today was not the day to seek vengeance, not when his victim could very well be his savior in a short while.

Doctor Assad was nowhere in sight. Bane wondered if his threats had been genuine.

When Bane reached for the rope, he turned briefly to look back toward Melisande's cell. He could make out her face there in the shadow of the overhang, like a lily floating on a dark pond.

Hans drew his attention back to the task when he quietly asked, "Are you sure about this? No shame in trying another day."

Not trusting his voice, Bane shook his head, hands firm on the rope. Hans tied it around his torso, the coarseness of the hemp scratching through the threadbare shirt.

The first obstacle was a formidable one. Around the whole circumference of the shaft, about seven feet above the top of the stepwell, a thick stone ledge jutted out some three or four feet from the wall. With the help of a stool kept beneath the overhang, Bane leapt up and grabbed a hold of the craggy rock face. The pressure Hans applied on the rope through the distant block steadied him as he swung his feet against the wall beneath the ledge for leverage. He paused there like an awkward spider, steadying his breathing before he struggled up and over the ledge.

He glanced down at Hans who provided a tight smile of encouragement and a nod. Yesterday when they had discussed the climb, Bane had cautioned him not to interfere. No one who manned the tackle fall was allowed to do anything except break the climber's fall should he fail in his attempt. Those in the past who had defied their jailers' rules had suffered dire consequences—anything from torture to death. There was any number of prisoners who would dutifully report such disobedience in exchange for a reward from their jailers ranging from creature comforts to communications with family or friends outside the pit or even relocation to one of the cells near the shaft. Bane had secured Hans's promise that he would do nothing beyond his usual duty, for he did not want to be responsible for Hans's suffering.

Now, with the shaft yawning before him, ready to chew him up and spit him back down, the chant began.

"Deshi basara…" Low at first, almost soft, ragged, uncoordinated, just a few voices.

Bane hesitated, closed his eyes, breathed deep, tried to calm his heartbeat and the tremble that had started in his limbs.

"Remember," Hans called. "Don't look down."

The German had warned him of the lure for a climber to look back to where he had stood solid and safe on the stone pavement, of how such a flaw would work against him as strongly as gravity itself. Hans knew, of course, because he had made that same mistake years ago during his first attempt to climb.

At last Bane opened his eyes and started upward.