This is a fan translation of Cold Shores (Холодные берега) by the Russian science fiction and fantasy author Sergei Lukyanenko. The novel is the first in the Seekers of the Sky (Искатели неба) duology.
Part I
Isles of Sorrow
Chapter 1
In Which I Draw Conclusions and Try to Believe Them
The whip in the overseer's hand seemed to be alive. It slept, curling up in his muscular hands, overgrown with curly red hair, it stretched lazily, almost touching the convicts' shoulders, or it bristled and started to jerk left and right with its gleaming copper tip.
And the overseer's face, always bored and indifferent, seemed to say, "Hey, this isn't me, fellas! It does what it wants…"
"Well, robbers and murderers… going to riot today?"
An uneven choir answered that no, not at all. The overseer squeezed out a smile, "Good, this old man is pleased…"
He was indeed old for an overseer, maybe in his forties. Few lived that long in his line of work: some got choked to death by a chain, others would be trampled, and yet others would leave on their own, after saving up a little, getting out of harm's way. It was far better to march in the ranks or to walk the night streets in a guard's thin cuirass than to have to deal with a few dozen scoundrels ready for anything.
But this one, nicknamed Joker, was far too careful to get caught by a desperate man and smart enough to avoid angering the whole crew without a good reason. Was it really so difficult to figure out who was at fault before letting loose the whip or to force the cook to make something edible from what was left of the provisions that hadn't yet been stolen?
But no… not everyone understood that. And that led to such mad riots in ships' cargo holds that no trace of the fierce overseers would be left by the time the confused officers got them under control. That left only one thing: to hang a third of the convicts, and even that would only calm them down for a time.
"What about you, Ilmar? Picked the locks yet?"
A heavy hand lowered onto my shoulder. Joker was a big guy! I wouldn't want to make him angry, even without chains.
"Come on, Joker. They're too much for me."
The overseer towering over my cot, a place of honor at the bow with only one neighbor, bared his teeth.
"That's true, Ilmar… very true. But you also have a tongue behind those teeth. Huh? Maybe you have the Word and a set of keys on it?"
For a moment, his eyes grew hard and piercing. Dangerous.
"If I had the Word, Joker," I said quietly, "I wouldn't be stuck in this shithole for two weeks."
Joker thought it over. The ceiling was low in the hold—why bother making something taller for convicts—and he was bent over to avoid hitting the lantern overhead.
"Also true, Ilmar. Which means that your fate is to smell shit."
He finally moved on, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
Shit wasn't a problem. I'd smelled worse. But smelling the stink of a mine was something else, and one could easily stop breathing from it.
The overseer left, slid the deadbolt into place, and pounded the gangway with his boots. The hold immediately came alive. Joker wasn't one of those who pretended to leave and then listened through the door.
"Where'd you put the deck, Baldy?" came the shout from Loki, a pickpocket, who'd ended up in hard labor due to some cruel twist of fate.
By all laws, he ought to have been flogged, or maybe lost a finger. But no, maybe the judge just didn't like him, or maybe he remembered some girl who got her pockets picked clean at the market, and that was it. Sail to the Isles of Sorrow and hope that your youth helps you survive the three-year sentence. But Loki wasn't sad, people like him never got sad. There was a reason he was nicknamed after the ancient northern god…
"You're the master, look for them yourself," Baldy, a minor official arrested for embezzlement, replied gloomily. Obviously, he wasn't doing well at cards today…
In the far corner, "Sweet Voice" Wally resumed the song interrupted by the overseer. His big mouth was what had gotten him here, but he wasn't drawing any conclusions from that. It was his third time, Wally would honestly do his six months—the most one could get for sedition—and get back to doing the same thing.
"The collector said there's a new tax,
All right then, I'll pay, I would say…"
He really did have a pleasant voice, and he had plenty of audacity, but the singer had nothing else. He probably mainly sang in villages and artisan quarters… Then again, he wasn't looking for any other fame. I listened lazily for what exactly the song's hero put into a large basket, what he claimed the contents were, and the results of the collector emptying it into the cart with the rest of the taxes.
The fool ought to be singing different songs… About love, the moon path on water, the secret Word. He'd have money and would be cheering people up.
"Deal again!" Loki shouted. He was in luck today. Maybe it was good fortune, or maybe it was his nimble fingers. Were they playing for rations, work, or just for fun?
"Enough," I said, starting up into the rocking wooden ceiling. The ceiling was creaking, indicating that someone was walking on it. "You've played enough. Time to sleep."
"Come on, Ilmar—" Loki began uncertainly.
"I said enough!"
I didn't particularly want to be in charge of two dozen morons. But there was no other choice, if I didn't want the hold to be run by Slavko the Cudgel, an actual murderer, caught standing over a fresh corpse. A hundred kilos of muscle and bone, and a tiny brain under that thick skull. I genuinely hoped that a loaded cart would accidentally crush him to death in the mine. I'd help make it a reality, but I had no intention of going underground myself.
So I would have to make my move tomorrow. Dodge, flee, hide. Prove that I wasn't known as the best thief in the State for nothing. Escaping from the mine wasn't really an option, which left the short trip from the port to the mountains.
I needed to get some sleep…
I got up and doused the lantern. There was a smell of burnt oil. The darkness suddenly sharpened the sounds of waves splashing against the side of the ship, as if my hearing had improved. The cots were creaking, someone was hurriedly mumbling the required evening prayers to the Redeemer, Wally was quietly finishing his song—he couldn't stop halfway, so I didn't even bother rebuking him.
"I once had a girl…" Slavko began his typical evening story. It wasn't a good idea to talk about women at a labor camp: by the end of week 2, this resulted in lewdness. But I didn't bother interrupting Slavko. All of his stories were so dumb and sickening that they worked better than the medicinal bromine the overseers were supposed to put in our drink. Slavko was the only one to get aroused by his own stories, which led to me suggesting to Joker to switch people's cots. Now a silent big guy from some godforsaken Russian village lay next to Slavko the Cudgel. I had no idea how he'd ended up in the State, where he'd learned the language, and what he'd done to end up here. He was a decent guy with even bigger muscles than Slavko. Might have been a blacksmith back home. His main problem was that he was very inert, deep in his own thoughts. He'd be able to stand up for himself, but would never be able to keep everyone in line. The boy who'd originally ended up next to the murderer I had moved to the cot above mine. Even though the crew chief had a right to live in comfort, it was calmer this way. And it seemed as if, in that moment, the Patron Sister had smiled down upon me from the heavens… the decision was turning out to be the right one.
"And on the third day, when they sent her to clean the pigsty, I came up, as if casually…" Slavko was muttering. "Her skirts were hiked up to above her knees to keep them clean, so I snuck up—"
"Don't speak this way about women!" the huge blacksmith exclaimed with longing and dull fury. It was a sore spot for him, apparently women were still in charge in those wild lands, so the murderer had to constantly look for excuses.
"What way?" Slavko asked with a naïve animalistic cunning. "I speak well! The broad was beautiful!"
"Woman!"
"Fine, woman… So like I said, she'd hiked up her skirts—"
"You can't say that!"
"Why not?" Slavko was genuinely surprised. "She had nice legs. Her mug—"
"Face!"
"Face, her face… The face wasn't much to look at, but the legs were something! It's okay to say that a woman is beautiful, isn't it?"
"It is," the blacksmith said after a moment's thought. "Those are nice words."
"And about her mu… face being beautiful?"
"It is…"
"And her legs being nice?"
"Also okay…" the blacksmith admitted with confusion.
"So that's what I'm saying, her legs were really something from behind! I snuck up and smacked her… with love. She fell into the mud, pretended to be upset, while rubbing her mu… face and smiling!"
Baldy started chuckling first, apparently, the city official found Slavko's primitive idiocy to be hilarious. He hadn't lost his sense of humor, rightly expecting to spend his two-year sentence doing accounting work. He'd turned out to be far less problematic than expected, so I tended to protect Baldy a little.
One of the convicts, once again feeling tricked, spat on the floor and asked, "Why do all of your stories have broads fall face-first into mud… or something worse?"
"I just like when bro… women are closer to mother earth," the murderer admitted honestly. "It's very nice…"
"All right, time to sleep!" I felt the need to intervene. The blacksmith could still see the murderer's words as an insult to women and choke the moron to death right in his cot. It would be a good deed, to be sure, but not aboard the ship! Joker would beat the poor man to within an inch of his life…
"This isn't right, Ilmar, not right at all!" Slavko said with what he assumed was slyness. "The boys want to hear the tale, and you're giving orders here."
But he found no one to back him up. No one was entertained by his tales anymore. Hah… he was trying to dig under the crew chief. Not with his tiny brain…
"Shut your trap!" I barked, and the blacksmith added eagerly, "Or I will do it for you! I can feel in my heart that what you're saying is wrong!"
The murderer immediately shut up, and a blessed silence fell. Cots were creaking, the deck occasionally bent under someone's feet, waves slammed against the ship's sides. The vessel was small, they hadn't gotten a full crew for a fast prison clipper. This was why the trip was taking so long.
I lay there, wrapped in a coat, occasionally working my fingers as if I was planning on doing my magic on the lock. It was pitch black, the crappy wick gone out long ago, and there weren't any windows here. I was supposed to sleep… but I couldn't.
Maybe I was starting to hear things at night, or…
There it was!
No, it wasn't my imagination!
I heard a barely audible clanging of metal above me. Let others think it was the sound of copper chains, I knew sounds made by a lock when someone was poking inside it with a piece of steel.
Completely relaxed, I lay and mentally whispered prayers of thanks to the Patron Sister. She hadn't abandoned a foolish brother, hadn't cast him down into the mines for seven endless years! Sister, when I got back to the Sunny Coast, I would come to the temple, fall to my knees, kiss your marble feet, put five coins on the altar, even though I had no idea why she needed the money and knew it would end up in the priest's pocket anyway. Thank you, Sister, you'd sent this incompetent fellow some good fortune!
The boy was something!
He'd managed to sneak iron onto a prison ship!
Where had he hidden it? The examiner had been skillful and looked inside the places I didn't even want to think about. And yet he'd managed it!
I'd spend a week checking the hold for any present from the previous crew or a loose nail sticking out from the boards, looked into everyone… except the kid. I hadn't known who my good fortune was!
But who could have known?
The boy seemed ordinary, barely old enough to get hard labor under the "Eradicate Childhood Villainy" edict. Maybe he'd picked the pocket of someone important or broken into someone's home; the boy was quiet and never said anything, and the questions I'd nipped in the bud from the very beginning.
Could he have swallowed the piece of iron beforehand? No, couldn't have, I had kept an eye on the slop pail for the first three days to see if anyone was digging through his shit.
So it really was the Sister's fortune.
Someone yelped in his sleep, maybe picturing the mine or remembering his own dirty deeds, and the clanging above me stopped. Don't worry, buddy. Now I could wait.
…Still, how had he managed to smuggle iron in?
Breeding, that was what should have alerted me. I could feel breeding in the boy: thin face, proper features, stubborn and hard gaze. Kids like that didn't work the markets. Someone's bastard probably. Somebody had sent him to the camp, and somebody else helped out. Bribed Joker, who forgot about rules, brought in a lockpick, and placed it in the boy's hand.
There was no other way.
The silence had long since settled, but the kid was still keeping quiet. Finally I heard the squealing of iron. At that moment, I leapt off the cot, silently, holding the chain with my hand to keep it from making a sound.
But the boy still heard me. He jerked, but it was too late — I grabbed the hand he'd placed on the lock, pressed it, and whispered, "Quiet, you fool!"
He froze.
My fingers opened his palm, checked, and found nothing.
I carefully released the chain and started feeling around the narrow cot with both hands, still hoping to feel the cold metal.
Nothing!
I touched the lock, search the bunk, even felt under the boy, then around him, and finally started running my hands around him. Like everyone else, he was sleeping in his clothes and, one never knew, could have hidden the lockpick in a pocket or under his shirt.
Empty.
"What are you doing?!" the boy said quietly and indignantly. That was a mistake. If he felt no guilt and suspected something bad, he would have started shouting. Since he was keeping quiet…
"Keep your hands away! I'll scream!"
Too late. He'd realized he wasn't behaving right, but not soon enough… I was standing, holding the boy's arms and thinking feverishly. He wasn't twitching yet, waiting.
And then, just when I'd convinced myself that the scared kid had swallowed the lockpick and there was nothing to do about it anymore—I wasn't going to cut him open like the wolf in that fairy tale, and it was pointless to force the boy to shit it out, since we'd be arriving to the Isles by morning—the Patron Sister cast her eyes on me again. She shook her head, looking at my dumb self holding the answer in my hands without understanding, sighed, and sent me some enlightenment.
I squeezed the boy's hands in excitement. Then I started to switch hands, grabbing his left with my right and vice versa. The boy said nothing, clearly understanding everything.
"You're not going to scream, buddy," I whispered. "Not at all. You'll stay silent even if I break your fingers. But don't worry, kid, everything's good, we're best friends now…"
The boy's right hand was cold! Ice cold! That was the answer.
"Here's what we're going to do," I whispered, feverishly trying to remember the boy's name. He'd given it on the first day, but I was busy establishing order in the hold, and after that everyone just called him "kid". "Here's what we're going to do, Mark: we'll have a seat and talk. Quietly, like friends…"
"We have nothing to talk about!" Mark snapped back, when I grabbed him and pulled him down to my lower bunk. Everything around us was still quiet, and if someone had heard, he was probably thinking something bad. Let them think, I wasn't going to push a minecart with them. I was certain of that now!
"Yes, we do, Mark," I whispered in the boy's ear. "We do. You know the Word!"
He jerked slightly, but my grip was firm.
"No, don't rush," I continued to convince the kid. "Think about it. You've been picking at the lock for two nights now, haven't been able to do anything. Tomorrow we'll be in port. Then in the mine. They'll take the chains off you then, don't worry. There's only one way out of the mine, and there are no locks there, just the guards. Trust me, I've been there. So if you miss your chance, even the Word will be of no help to you!"
The boy fell silent.
"And if you did manage to remove the lock?" I chuckled. "What then? You think I can't open mine? Feel it!"
I made him grab the lock's shackle, then quickly felt for the wood splinter I'd hidden away in my pocket. The splinter was good and strong, I'd barely managed to tear it from the cot. I inserted it into the lock, which clicked quietly and unlocked.
"See?"
"Then why—"
"Why am I here? Where else will I go? Let's say I deal with the deadbolt, not a big problem. What then? Jump overboard?"
"The boat…"
"Sure, row the boat for a hundred miles. Smart. Want me to let you out right now? Go… But leave me your piece of iron… what is it, by the way?"
Mark pretended not to hear the question. Or was he really deep in thought?
"So what do we do?"
"Wait until we get to port. They'll tie us to a rope and walk us, the usual. And… let's just say, we can leave."
"How?"
From the excitement, the boy started speaking louder, so I put a hand over his mouth.
"Quiet! How isn't your concern. What's important is that this is when metal will be necessary, since a splinter can only open a trivial thing like this. I'll need to unlock a big, strong lock. And quickly!"
"Can you do it with a knife?"
"You have a knife? Yeah… probably. Show me!"
I immediately bit my tongue, since my question had been a little too sharp. And loud.
But Mark made his decision. He whispered something, only with his lips, I couldn't hear anything. And reached his hand out to me.
The hand was cold, as if the boy had been touching ice with it for several minutes. My heart fluttered as I'd realized that I was indeed sitting near someone who knew the Word! And here was steel, warmed up by the hand. No wonder people said that the Cold only froze the living.
"Careful, it's sharp!" Mark warned me belatedly.
Licking the cut finger, I felt for the knife with my other hand. A short and narrow double-edged dagger. The handle was made from carved bone. The steel was probably good, since the kid hadn't broken the tip or chipped the edge from his clumsy attempts at picking the lock.
"It'll do," I said. "Give me…"
He didn't, of course. Not that I believed he would. One second I was holding the blade, and the next it was gone. Vanished into thin air, and my fingers closed on nothing.
"You know you'll have to trust me," I warned.
"Then explain."
There was no other choice.
"Listen, I won't repeat myself. They'll tie us all to a rope…"
Ten minutes later, I'd explained everything, remembering to remind him several times that he'd have to give me the knife. The boy said nothing, but I had a feeling that he was in agreement.
"So we have a deal?" I clarified.
"We do."
Right. What else was he going to do? He wasn't stupid and knew that nothing good awaited him in the maze of the old mines with thousands of convicts.
"In the morning, stay close to me. They'll take us out and put us in a line for the rope, so stand behind me. When the time comes, I'll let you know."
"I can't go to the Isles…" the boy whispered.
"Exactly."
"You don't understand. I can't get off the ship."
"Why not?"
"I… got here by accident."
There it was! That old song. We're all innocent here, the faithful sons of the Redeemer, the poor brothers of the Sister. Surrounded by scoundrels and murderers…
"I was supposed to be executed."
That I did not expect at all. The kid was speaking with confidence, so I had no doubt of that. Except people didn't get hanged for no reason. Judges might be scum, but they'd much rather send a murderer to a labor camp to dig in the mines than waste good rope.
Ignoring extremes, they executed only those whom their fellow convicts would tear to pieces anyway. If someone killed a woman with child — that was understandable, the Sister herself willed so when she was being taken to be burned. Killing a sleeping or helpless man was also a mortal sin. If the number of normal victims was over twelve, then it was clear, as the Redeemer had said, "Whosoever puts down a dozen is still clean in mine eyes, if he repents sincerely," saying nothing about a second dozen. One could also commit offense against the House, but what sort of thing could the boy have done to anger the House like that?
Just in case, I shifted away from the boy. If the kid wasn't right in the head, I'd have to be careful. He only needed a moment to reach into the Cold with the Word and pull out the knife. What could I do against steel in the dark, when I couldn't even see my own nose?
"Don't be afraid," the boy said, and I jerked from such arrogance. But I said noting, since I really was afraid. If only there was a tiny bit of light, a crack in the deck, a lamp in the other part of the hold. I was used to everything, had crawled through Saxon dungeons, dug around in Kyrgyz kurgans, cleaned out Chinese palaces at night with only a single phosphorus smalt glowing in the ceiling… But there was nothing, just sit and wait to see if a dagger was being plunged into my side.
"So what did you do to make them want to hang you?"
"That's my business."
"True. But why are you afraid now? You got your sentence, made it aboard the ship, almost reached the Isles. Can you hear how the waves are hitting us? This is coastal roll, the pilot isn't experienced, afraid to enter the harbor at night."
"If they figure it out… there…"
"So what? They'll send a clipper after you? Not important enough! When they can, they'll send an order to hang you right there or send you back."
"Maybe a clipper, or maybe a glider."
Uh-huh. It could happen to anyone. I once knew a guy who'd seduced a girl and then kept shaking in the cell, "They'll hang me for sure…" They just flogged him and sent him on his way.
"Get some sleep," I ordered, as if Mark had gotten off his cot by himself and asked to talk. "We'll need our strength tomorrow. Remember, you can be as cunning as you want, but if you can't run, then you're dead."
I lifted the boy back to his cot, the chain made a loud noise, and now several convicts definitely woke up. They tossed, coughed, groaned, someone swore sleepily. I lay down, locked my trusty lock with the splinter, and started thinking.
Knowing the Word wasn't that big a deal. I'd seen people like that, only usually from a distance. In war, having enlisted in the army when I was young. Or from a dark corner in someone's home, praying to the Sister for the owner to pass by without forcing me to commit more sins.
But like this, nearby, holding someone's hand when they were whispering the Word and reaching into the Cold — never. There'd been Quiet Gomez, not a good man, but not a monster either. We'd have drink and party together. Then someone found him in an alley, with so many cuts and stab wounds that it was immediately clear that he'd been tortured for his Word. A scary and wicked smile was frozen on Gomez's face. Apparently, he'd endured it all but hadn't given up the Word…
But the boy, how would the boy know? A gift from his father? Then he had to be nobility. Oh Joker, you kept looking at me, glanced at Baldy, but never figured out who was hiding the Word. Such was your fortune…
They fed us hurriedly and poorly. The sailors had gotten bold and were no longer fearing a riot. Joker himself brought us a cauldron full of sticky slop, without even any fish, and bowls. He stood by the door, watching the convicts reluctantly fill their bellies and cradling his whip. The ship was slightly rocking on the waves but lazily; even those who'd been bothered by seasickness were feeling more cheerful. The capstan had finished making noises after dropping the anchor and dull voices could be heard overboard nearby. Indeed, we laborers weren't the only thing being carried by the ship, also provisions from the capital for the officers, weapons, clothes, tools. The town wasn't that small, after all, and many fed themselves by the garrison.
"All right, it's time!" Joker produced the kindest smile he could. "I'm happy for you, you poor thieves. Once you atone for your guilt with some honest labor, I'll be taking you back."
"Just don't keep us waiting," Loki grunted. Only a day ago, he might have been whipped for his big mouth, but today Joker let it slide.
Joker started moving through the hold, pausing at the occupied cots and unlocking the chain. No one could deny this man's courage – he wasn't afraid of removing the shackles from two dozen outlaws by himself. Then again, he understood that we knew perfectly well that both the deck and the pier were swarming with guards.
Joker stopped near me and asked, "Should I remove the lock, or will you do it?"
"Go ahead," I asked.
Joker shook his head, "For someone like you to not be able to open a lock with a splinter…"
I felt a prickle in my chest, but the overseer opened the lock and moved on. No, he didn't suspect a thing. He was probably just disappointed that Ilmar the Slick had turned out to be so mundane.
Not to worry, my friend, just hold on a little longer. There would be a show soon enough…
Mark jumped down from the top bunk, rubbing his wrist. As it always happened with kids, he'd been chained a little too tightly, so that he wouldn't pull his flexible wrist out of the ring. But the bleeding mark wasn't bothering him. He was staring at me with such a conspiratorial look that I immediately turned away. Joker had a nose for these things, and there was no sense angering the Sister by asking for trouble with my own stupidity.
"Move up, one at a time!" Joker shouted. "Now!"
I was fifth or sixth in line, followed by Mark. After spending ten days trapped in this cramped, stifling, and smelly box, just the opportunity to leave the hold was a miracle, an unexpected gift. Everything was bringing me happiness: the hallway, the steep ramp, and —such joy!—the square of cloudless sky in the hatch.
"Move along, don't hold up the line!" came a bark from the deck. Squinting from the blinding sunlight, I got up, received a firm but non-malicious shove in the back, and joined the group of convicts.
The ship that had brought us to the Isles of Sorrow was small, but sturdy and clean. The deck had been scrubbed, the sails were carefully lowered and folded, everything was in its place, everything had a strict nautical purpose and an unfamiliar name. If I wasn't a thief, I'd be a sailor…
The dozen guards keeping an eye on us looked far laxer than the ship's sailors. Sure, they were well-armed: crossbows, bronze broadswords, and one was even holding a slug-thrower. But their uniforms were messy, their faces were sour and swollen. The truth couldn't hide behind iron.
A coil of thick rope was lying in front of the guards. Just as expected.
That was good. I'd been hoping for it.
Looking away from the guards, I took in the sight of the islands. My eyes were tearing up, but it was fine, after the cramped hold, I was surprised to learn that things like distance and perspective existed in the world.
There were three Isles of Sorrow, but we were standing at the shore of the largest one, also the one most settled and beautiful. Rocky shores, overgrown with vegetation, brown hills in the distance, a fort on the huge steep cliff that dominated the harbor, a disordered, loud, and bright town pressing against the port. Smoke from the furnaces was rising over the mountains in the distance… half-heartedly, though, it had been much smokier in the past. It was beautiful, with that dying, final beauty I loved most of all…
In the middle of the town, as usual, rose the spire of the church of the Redeemer and the dome of the Patron Sister's temple. I noted jealously that the spire was far taller and the gilding on the wood had recently been refreshed. Oh Sister, if I lived, I'd bring an offering, it wasn't nice that you were being forgotten these days… The ship was standing right at the pier, loaders were dashing back and forth across the thrown bridges, throwing us condescending smirks. Fine, we were going to see who was going to get the last laugh…
Mark climbed out and stumbled, barely able to find his way. The guards were laughing while watching our clumsy movements and were clearly not expecting anything bad. Some of the convicts were even falling, which was causing renewed bouts of laughter.
Meanwhile, I was enjoying the light. My eyes had already adjusted, that was in my job description. My chest couldn't get enough of the sweet, clean air. Even the swearing of the guards was improving my mood; after all, they were new people, not those faces that I'd gotten sick of over the past week.
"To the rope," one of the guards finally ordered. "Come on, who's brave here…"
Mark took a step forward.
Moron!
Stupid kid!
I nearly screamed "Stop!", but it wouldn't do to attract attention to myself. Not at all.
"Good boy," an elderly and kindly-looking guard praised Mark. "Listen to orders, honor the Redeemer – you'll be back home in no time…"
He deftly threw a rope noose over the boy's neck. The noose was connected to another very narrow loop with a short rope. The guard grabbed the end of the thick tarred rope from the coil, slid it through the small loop, and inquired thoughtfully, "Not too tight?"
Mark shook his head and, of course, tightened the cleverly tied noose. The guards burst out laughing.
The elderly guard loosened the knot and admonished him, "Don't shake your head, you'll strangle yourself… Next!"
The plan was going to hell. Still, pushing away Loki, who had stepped forward, I walked up to the thick rope. I wordlessly waited for the collar to be put on my neck, then bent down and started to uncoil the rope.
"Hey, what are you doing?" the guard asked in surprise.
"The kid will get strangled if he'll stand between two adults," I explained. "He'll have to walk first."
"Makes sense…" The guard started looking at the convicts. He was probably trying to figure out who to place right behind Mark, whoever was the shortest.
But the convicts were all tall. Indeed, I looked to be the shortest… especially now that I was carefully slouching.
"Fine, get behind him," the guard said with concern in his voice. "And walk carefully, if the boy chokes to death, you'll get whipped!"
There was no longer any talk about volunteers, since Mark's short height had rid the guards from any expected fun. The convicts were being sorted by height, cursing out the judges that had placed the boy on an adult crew. Mark had probably been right when he said that he was here by accident; typically, only strong and tall men were sent to the mines. Children had appropriate punishments: gold panning in the north or seeking out the remains of ore in the iron mine dumps…
I stepped behind Mark and, taking advantage of the noise around us, hissed, "What do you think you're doing?"
"You said it: I'd choke to death between two adults," the boy replied in a whisper.
He was lying. He'd come up with that excuse after my words. The truth was that he simply didn't want to let go of the knife…
"You can't open the lock!"
"You can."
I waited, boiling from the anger. Finally, all of us were strung on the thick rope, whose ends were now pressed between wooden blocks using heavy padlocks. All right… the key was large, dual bit, three slits, turned left…
Twenty seconds of work, if using a knife. Too long. It had to be done quicker. Even if these guards didn't care about their work, anyone would notice that something was off in twenty seconds.
"Move it, quit idling!" With all of us attached to the rope, the guards' tone had changed imperceptibly. The mockery was still there, but it was now meaner, more irritated. "Let's go!"
We started walking towards the ramp.
