Turning, I looked in the direction the voice had come from - the relatively dark section of the room. Some of the shadows appeared to be moving slightly, and in a way that seemed a little reminiscent of-
"Connor?" I asked, dumbfounded.
"Shhh!" the voice hushed. Bricks twisted and shimmered unnaturally, and half of Connor's face appeared suddenly, as though he'd somehow been wearing a portion of the wall. His single visible eye glanced at the doorway, then back to me. "Yell some more."
"What?"
"He's still there!" he whispered, voice sounding anxious. "Outside the doorway, listening!"
"He . . . you-" My own eyes briefly darted to the doorway, then back to Connor, who nodded with unfeigned urgency. Though I couldn't see any sign of Borshank anywhere, I turned to the entrance and raised my voice. "Borshank! Get back here, you treacle-brained, whore-hopping bastard! I'll destroy you, do you hear me? Baal-be-damned, goat-kissing coward! You-"
I went on for a good, long time, using up every combination of weird, insulting language I could think of, hurling curses out the doorway and down the hall at him. About five minutes later, just as I started getting to the proverbial bottom of my barrel, I saw Connor waving to me from his crouched position in the corner.
"Okay, he's walked off," he said quietly, slowly getting to his feet, unable to hide a pained expression as he stretched himself out a bit. "We should keep our voices down in case he wanders back into earshot. He may still be listening from a ways away."
"You've been over there the whole time?" I asked in a disbelieving whisper.
"Three hours or so, yeah," he said, stretching out his back with a wince. "You've been out for a while."
"But . . . what are you doing here? Are you crazy? This is one of the most secure areas in the palace, Connor! How did you even get in here?"
Connor gave me a skeptical look. "You're kidding, right?"
Oh. Of course. Some days I forget how naturally burgling comes to him.
"You know," I said, a bit of an edge in my voice, "you could have made a bunch of things a whole lot simpler if you'd let me know that you could break in and out of the palace prisons at will."
"Well then, next time I guess you should keep me informed of your plans!" he shot back.
I scowled a bit at that, but half-heartedly.
"Alright, you've got a point. Regardless, I'm actually very glad to see you, Connor, because I could probably use your help leaving the palace. Just give me a couple seconds to grab a little something so I can get out of this cell," I said, already hunting for my loose brick in the wall, finding it a few short moments later. I raised my hand toward it.
"Stop!" Connor whispered urgently. "It's been trapped!"
My hand froze a few inches from the brick's surface. I looked a question at Connor.
"While you were unconscious. That older guy, Borshank? He was talking to another guy, who was doing something to that patch of wall." Connor pointed to the brick my hand was hovering over. "The guy told Borshank he shouldn't be in the room when it went off. For health reasons."
I slowly put it all together.
Damn. He'd almost got me.
I swore softly, partially because of my predicament, but mostly because I had allowed myself to get played like that. I honestly hadn't believed Borshank to be that clever.
It was a solid plan, really; stick me in jail, create a situation where I'd want to get out, remove most of my little tricks, and booby-trap one of them. With that setup, all he'd have to do is be elsewhere when the trap was triggered, and poof . . . he was in the clear. When my death was investigated, the most believable explanation would be that I'd accidentally blown myself up with my own bag of tricks while attempting to escape my cell.
"Great," I said, slowly lowering my hand. "So, now I'm trapped in here with some unknown thing that might poison, explode, or otherwise kill me."
"Kill us, you mean," said Connor.
"I suppose. Hey, how is it you even knew to find me here, or figure out that I'd been taken in the first place? I've barely even seen you around lately!"
"That was kind of the whole point. There's something I want to know, so I've been practicing some of the stuff you've been teaching me. You know, subtlety? Spying on people, listening in on conversations, all that. I've actually been in Tucat Keep practically the entire time, watching you and some of the staff. Found out some interesting stuff, too." Connor frowned. "Today, when I noticed two knights I didn't recognize, I kept an eye on them. Then I saw them knock you out and carry you out the back way to a waiting carriage. I figured I couldn't stop them by myself, so I decided I should follow them, find out where they were taking you."
"You . . . followed them into the palace jail? Unnoticed?!" I asked, unable to hide my surprise.
"Wasn't that hard," Connor said with a shrug. "The trickiest part was near the end - dousing the torch on this side of the room from the outside hall without being seen." He gestured at the nearby wall-mounted torch that I'd noticed was unlit. "I needed less light on this side, or I would have stood out pretty badly sitting in the corner here. Some old guy spent nearly ten minutes not two feet away from me, trying to get it lit again. That was a bit exciting."
"Well, that sounds like quite a story, and you'll have to tell me all about it. In the meantime Connor, please tell me you have something that can get me out of here."
"Yeah, I can get you out."
"Thank the gods!" I breathed. "Okay, we've got to hurry! He may have been trying to kill me, but there's also a very good chance he wasn't lying about Talia, so I've got to get to her quick!."
Connor folded his arms and regarded me. "I have a question I'd like answered first."
I blinked at him.
"What?" I asked.
"I have a question. Answer it, and I'll let you out."
I stood there for several long moments, mouth half-open, staring at him.
"Connor, this is so not the time!"
"Oh, I'm no expert when it comes to spotting opportunities like these, as you've pointed out several times. However, this strikes me as the perfect time." He unfolded his arms and gestured meaningfully at the bars between us.
"Connor, Talia's in-"
"Danger. I know, I heard. I think I already told you I was here the whole time. And right now you want out of this place pretty badly." He raised an eyebrow at me. "This is what you've been trying to teach me, isn't it? You know something I want to know . . . you need something from me. You called it 'leverage', right?"
"Not . . . the . . . time!"
Connor crossed his arms and set his jaw. "I have a question."
"Listen, Connor-"
"No, you listen to me for a second! You're trying to teach me things, and expressing frustration that I'm not learning, or applying them. You yourself said once - there are two principle ways of gaining useful, specific information. There's stealth, and then there's leverage. Overhearing people sharing information, or forcing the information from people who need something you have. Well, I tried the one already. I even exercised patience! You want to know how patient I was? A bloody month and a half of listening, hiding, and waiting!" he half-yelled, his frustration becoming evident in his tone. "Well, patience didn't work! And now, here we are . . . and you suddenly need me for something."
"Just get me out of here, will you? We can discuss this later, but right now you're wasting valuable time!"
He gave me an exasperated look that contained a hint of anger.
"What's the point of trying to teach me anything if you're not willing to let me prove to you that I've learned it? Huh? What's the bloody point?! How else do I convince you that I don't need to be treated like some stupid child? You'd probably be dead right now if it weren't for me, and you're worried about a few minutes?! No . . . we can talk now - this is the perfect time." He thrust his jaw at me defiantly. "You're the one wasting it!"
I grit my teeth and took a slow, careful breath.
"Okay. Connor, you have a point," I said quietly. "Thank you for saving my life. I'm grateful you're here, and I'm glad you're learning. And yes, you've caught me with my own lesson - you're officially clever, okay? Now, quickly, ask your Baal-be-damned question!"
He blinked at me, looked pleased for a fraction of a second, and relaxed marginally. Then he narrowed his eyes. "What's Haundsing's problem?"
I shook my head. "That's not my secret to tell, Connor."
"I don't care if it's your secret or not. It's a secret. You know it. I want it. You're in a cage." He inclined his head meaningfully at the bars. "Tell me."
I felt the muscles in my jaw tighten, and I took another deep breath.
Then I chuckled softly.
"You know, I think you may have learned this lesson a little too well. Alright, Connor. It's Theo's sword - the one you stole."
Connor stared at me blankly for a few seconds.
"His sword. But . . . he's got it back!" His expression became both angry and confused. "He's still mad because of that? Because I stole a sword once?"
"There's a scratch on the blade now, by the handle. A deep one. It can't be buffed out."
His eyes went even wider, and his expression became one of incredulity.
"That's what this is all about? A scratch on his sword?! A stupid, accidental scratch on some stupid old sword that doesn't even look like it's been used in-"
"Listen to me, Connor. He made an oath when he found it had been stolen, one involving lots and lots of blood. In all the time I've known him, he's never once broken an oath. He knows you're responsible, and yet he hasn't so much as touched you. Maybe it's for my sake, I don't know. Maybe he's waiting for an apology from you. Who can say? All I know for sure is that he was mad enough to kill whoever took it before. And," I said, gesturing at him, "he hasn't."
"But it's just a sword!" he insisted indignantly, looking the slightest bit troubled now. "He's got tons of them! I know - I've been over there and seen most of them! Why's he making such a big deal out of one stupid sword?"
"I'll give you the short version. His family comes from a long line of duelists. His father died holding that sword. His grandfather died holding that sword. Despite being one of the best swords ever made, I've never seen him use it, because he's afraid it might get nicked. There's a knight who's been in his service for years whose only job is to make sure that sword gets to the arena and into his hands if he's ever mortally wounded. It has a name, for Baal's sake! If he has no children to leave it to, he plans on being buried with it. Do you sort of begin to grasp the picture here?"
Connor looked at the floor, suddenly appearing very uncomfortable.
"And I scratched it," he said, meekly. "But . . . I didn't know! How could I? All that time? Why didn't he tell me? I mean, how stupid is that? How in Hades name could I have-"
"Connor! We can discuss the finer details of apologies and property damage later, but there's something very important going on right now! You've asked your question -get me out of this cell! Please!"
"Right!" he said, his thoughts seeming to snap back to the present. His eyes quickly took in the bars of the cage, scanning them as though looking for something. Then, when he'd found whatever it was he was looking for, he stepped close and tapped one bar with his knuckle.
I stood there, watching, as he spent a few moments inspecting the bars for . . . well, for something. He tapped the metal of my prison several times, in several different places, cocking his ear towards it from time to time. At one point he actually sniffed the air inches from one of the bars.
"Okay. Cast steel, and there's a fair bit of coal mixed in, but not too much I think." Connor looked at the window and considered, hand reaching into his tunic and pulling out a vial of liquid. He appeared to decide something, and turned to address me. "This is probably going to seem very weird. The air is going to do some funny things, and become unbreathable. You'll need to hold your breath . . . say, about a thirty-count."
I glanced at the window he'd inspected, and I clued in. "Toxic gasses?"
"Not exactly. It's more like-" he frowned, held the vial aloft and considered it a moment. "It's kind of like . . . the good air we breathe will be busy doing something else for a while." He gestured with his head. "You'll probably want to stay in the far corner of the cell while it's happening. Oh, and cover your nose and mouth with some cloth - it'll be pretty messy."
I very quickly moved to the far corner he'd indicated.
"Ready?" he asked, readying the vial.
Nodding, I exhaled fully, took a deep breath, and pulled the neck of my shirt over my mouth and nose.
Connor smashed the vial against the bar he'd been inspecting, taking a huge gulp of air and leaping backward against the wall as he did so.
There was a musical tinkle of broken glass as the vial burst against the metal bar, causing its contents to spill everywhere.
He was right - what happened next was very, very weird.
The opaque, yellow fluid sprayed out and splattered everywhere just as you would expect water might, but all of the droplets changed course in mid-air and leaped toward the nearest steel bars, coating the bars of the cage wall about four feet in any direction. Upon touching steel, the liquid instantly turned red.
And just like that, there was wind . . . as if the bars themselves were pulling air from the room. My shirt began tugging at me, and I could feel a breeze coming from the nearby window. Connor's tattered burgling outfit began to flutter as though he were outside on a windy day. The reddish liquid appeared to be frothing and foaming violently, but the bubbles of 'foam' it was producing would disintegrate after mere moments of existence, turning to red dust and getting swept up and away by the swift-moving currents of air.
After a few seconds of this, the front of my cage began to resemble a scarlet sandstorm, and I came to the conclusion that it might be safest if I closed my eyes tightly for the duration. I quickly did so, focusing on the air in my chest, firmly suppressing my desire to draw breath.
After maybe twenty-five seconds or so the 'wind' slowly died down, and then stopped entirely. I heard Connor take a gulping breath of air. Figuring it was safe to do likewise, I exhaled explosively into my shirt and inhaled deeply through my nose.
The air seemed thin, and smelled almost exactly like blood.
I looked to the front of the cell and saw that several of the bars there had literally disintegrated away to nothing, leaving a gaping hole big enough that I'd hardly need to crouch to walk through. Huge quantities of a fine red powder littered the floor by the bars, as well as just about everywhere else in the cell.
"Rust," Connor said, simply, brushing some of the red powder from his sleeve. He held up his arm toward the hallway door and squinted as though looking through it. "Okay, it looks like he's not outside the door, or in the hallway. He's probably gone to the barracks. Come on!"
"How can you tell that?" I asked him, stepping through the hole in the bars he'd made for me.
"I'll show you later." Connor peered out into the hallway, looking side-to-side, and then turned to face me. He was chewing his lower lip thoughtfully, something he did often when troubled or worried. "Okay, so how exactly do we get you out of here?"
"How did you get in here? Describe the route you took."
Connor was already shaking his head. "No good - you won't be able to go that way. There was lots of cloak work, and a few other tricks I'd have to show you first . . . and it'll probably end up taking longer than an hour. Besides, I only have the one cloak, and it works differently than that thoughtcloth stuff you're usually working with." As if to prove his point, he concentrated slightly, and his entire cloak shimmered and shifted color, suddenly resembling a nearby patch of stone wall, complete with lines of mortar.
Thoughtcloth allowed the user to change the color of the fabric with their thoughts. Advanced users, like myself, could even emulate things like texture. However, making entire patterns with thoughtcloth like the ones I was seeing him reproduce here was, well . . . impossible.
Obviously, he was working with something a little bit better.
"Okay then, that's out." I reached down and grabbed a handful of the rust-colored sand and rubbed it against the forearm of my shirt, causing my white-threaded map embroidered there to stand out more prominently. I showed it to Connor, pointing to a specific section. "Right now we're here. There are usually guards here, here, and here, but they're likely gone right now. The heavier outer perimeter security starts in this area." I used my finger to draw a slow circle around the section of the map I was talking about. "When I've needed to move around in this place, I've gone out the window and used the outer walls of the palace to get to where I need, so I avoid the guards entirely. When it comes to actually getting out of the palace though, I honestly don't know how-"
"But it's right there!" Connor said, pointing to the top portion of the map on my sleeve. "This side is West, right? And that's the window nearest us . . . the one you use. You go out the window, drop down there and onto the shore, circle around down South a bit! You get lots of cover, and there's hardly anyone patrolling down that way."
"Nobody patrols that area, Connor, because it's almost impossible to navigate on foot! It's not exactly a sandy beach down there - it's all jagged rocks and wet boulders! And that's if I can even get down there from the window in the first place. It's a six story drop, and I'm assuming you didn't bring forty pounds of repelling gear in here with you."
Connor's eyes went up and to the left briefly before quickly looking me up and down. He chewed his lower lip, considering.
"How much do you weigh?" he asked.
"A little over one-fifty. Why?"
Rather than answer, Connor started removing the elaborate metal bracelets he wore around each wrist. My eyes widened as I realized what he was proposing.
"Hey . . . maybe not, okay? I haven't even tried using those things before!"
"Yeah, well you're always going on about what a quick learner you are," he said, handing the bracelets to me. "You won't need to do much, just point them down and push against them while keeping your balance. I'm about one-thirty, and I can usually carry about ten pounds worth of stuff before I don't float quite as well." He stopped talking and looked seriously at me for a moment. "You're not going to fly, or even float with these. You're going to fall. But you'll fall slower."
"So I'll need to roll out of it?" I asked. "I'm just going to fall from six floors up, and then roll out of it onto some large, jagged rocks and huge boulders that are slick with algae and ocean water?"
"Well, yeah. But after that, making your way along the shore to the South side of the palace should be a piece of cake!" Connor's eyes focused on my feet. "Uh, where are your boots?"
"Taken. I woke up without them."
"Know where they are?"
"Nope."
"Well, crap," Connor said, briefly looking at his own feet. "Mine'll be way too small. Well, it's still your best chance of getting out of here and to Talia in time. It's just not going to be quite as much fun. Just avoid sharp rocks and watch how you land, I guess. And try not to slip once you're down there." He gestured at the bracelets I held, which were surprisingly heavy. "Come on, you need to hurry up and put those on."
"Connor, if I take these, will you still be able to get out of the palace?"
Connor gave me a sad chuckle. "You're kidding, right?"
"Sorry," I said apologetically, attempting to strap one of the bracelets around my wrist. After a few moments Connor began to help me, unbuckling a couple of the parts I'd already done up, adjusting them, and then re-buckling them. Soon both were wrapped tight around my wrists and forearm, two circular metal pads pressing against my palms.
After checking once more to ensure nobody was waiting for us in the hallway, we both sneaked out of the cell area and headed for the nearest unoccupied room with a window. Thankfully, with Borshank having already made certain that nobody would be around to hear my cries for help, it wasn't too difficult.
The door to the guardsman's room was locked this time, so I went up on my toes and reached slightly above the door frame for the lockpick that I'd stowed there many weeks ago. After a few seconds spent fiddling with the lock, I turned the handle and we both walked inside.
In short order, I was hanging my head out of a familiar window, looking past a familiar four-inch ledge to the familiar sight of crashing surf and jagged rocks about eighty feet below me. Today, however, I'd be taking a very unfamiliar route.
"This . . . is going to suck," I said, eyes lingering over the sharp-looking rocks below.
"You'll need to figure it out real quick. Keep your hands under you, like this," he said, arms locking to his sides with the palms pointed down. "It depends on balance, but you're good at that."
I nodded. "How do I, uh . . . start them up?"
"You clap your palms together. Make sure the pads strike each other when you do. To turn them off, just make a fist," he said, demonstrating with his own hands as he spoke. "It'll feel strange, but it won't hurt your fingers."
Slowly, carefully, I edged through the window far enough to sit on the frame, my legs dangling below. A gentle breeze stopped by to tousle my hair a little. I had a thought.
"Is wind a factor?" I asked.
"Not unless it's really, really windy. If you don't want to go straight down though, try pushing off in the direction you want to go in. That means you probably don't want to push off away from the wall too hard, or you'll end up in the water. Better if you just drop straight down, now that I think about it."
I nodded again, taking a deep breath and exhaling as much of it as I could. My arms were trembling, and there was an anxious tightness in my chest that I only seemed to get when doing something particularly foolhardy and dangerous.
Do this wrong, screw up how I was holding my hands, and I could dash my brains out on the rocks below. I was putting my faith in these strange bracelets I'd never used, and I didn't even fully understand how they worked in the first place. I was nervous, and from how anxious Connor seemed, even he wasn't completely certain about this whole plan.
But Talia needed me. Enough stalling.
I gave Connor a quick nod, which he returned, and then I adjusted how I was perched on my sill. After a couple of deep breaths, I clapped my hands together sharply, pointed my palms at the rocky ground below, steeled myself, and slid off the window frame.
It was surprisingly hard to keep my arms under me the whole time. The only thing I can think to compare it with is . . . have you ever been sitting in a chair, grabbed the arms, and tried lifting yourself up out of it? Well, imagine that the arms you're grabbing on to are constantly trying to wriggle away from you at the same time you're trying to push against them.
My shoulders began to ache from the effort almost instantly, as did several other muscle groups I couldn't readily identify. As I fell, I noticed I was rolling forward a bit, and tried to adjust the angle of my arms to compensate . . . which resulted in me rolling backwards instead. I tried to correct for this new problem, and noticed that I'd started spinning to my left while tilting sideways.
The ground was coming at me much quicker than looked healthy.
I could feel my muscles locking up, tensing for the impact I knew was coming. Desperately, I swung my hands around so they were pointing directly at where I figured the ground was going to be in about half a second, bending my knees slightly. I couldn't even see what it was I was about to land on, but sharp, jagged bits of rock were everywhere I happened to look.
Something struck the soles of my feet, and my knees were slammed up into my chest, though my right one came up much more forcefully. As I rolled backwards, I felt a sharp flash of pain from my side, and heard a sharp, unhealthy-sounding 'crack' that I silently prayed was a bit of rock.
I came out of my backward roll far too quickly, briefly touching rock with my feet and windmilling with my arms, realizing as I did that the bracelets were still doing their level best to propel me in whatever direction I was whirling them in. I fell again, slamming into a large plateau-like shelf of wet, slippery rock. The world flashed white a moment.
The rock I was on must have been angled slightly, because I could feel myself start to slide down it towards the water's edge.
Recovering enough of my wits to do something useful, I spun around as I slid and dropped my arms to my sides, pointing my palms towards the water's edge while digging my heels into the surface of the rock. A nearby crashing wave sent a lazy splash of icy mist up at me as I scrabbled backwards and up the slick stony surface.
Once I'd made my way back to the top of the rock, I dizzily looked around and tried to get my bearings.
The stone wall I'd dropped from was at least forty feet away - much further away than I'd thought I'd gone. From what I could gather, I'd somehow managed to drift right toward a particularly large, particularly nasty bit of rock sticking out in the middle of the water, landed at an angle on its flat side, rolled out of my fall, and then somehow ended up on an entirely different dangerous-looking slab of rock that, mercifully, was angled in such a way that all its sharp bits were pointing away.
I wanted nothing more than to just sit there and shake for a while. Another blast of icy ocean water crashed against something I couldn't see and sent a spray of foam upwards, showering me lightly a second later. The sound of surf, so tranquil and peaceful from up in my cell, was now roaring everywhere around me with a frightening intensity.
My right ankle started sending me painful messages that something wasn't good, and I sat up a little to inspect it. Nothing looked too terribly wrong with it, but it had already begun to throb in a way that I reminded me of the last time I'd sprained something.
Well, running was definitely out. On the plus side, however . . . I was alive.
Looking up, I saw Connor leaning out of the window so far that fully half of his body was visible. He was yelling something I couldn't make out over the roar of the ocean, and I was too far away to see the expression on his face. I recall being surprised at how far away he looked to my eyes, and it occurred to me to marvel at just how truly far I'd fallen.
I made a fist with both hands to power off the bracelets, and was rewarded with a sensation in my fingertips that was much like the pins and needles you get when your foot's fallen asleep. Then I sat up a little and held my right hand up above my head and gave a 'thumbs up' gesture to Connor, who mimicked it with a gesture of his own before disappearing from the window.
A truly spectacular headache was in the process of forming at the base of my skull, which reminded me that I should probably be mindful not to get knocked about the head anytime soon. Groaning, I pushed myself up into a better sitting position, identified the best way to get back to the shore without getting too wet, slowly lurched to my feet and made my way over to it.
The water was only up to my knees, but was both icy and dark. I couldn't make out exactly what I was stepping on at any given time, and the constant waves crashing against the backs of my thighs made even my most tentative steps treacherous. About five or so steps in, I could feel a sharp jag of rock cut through skin of my right foot - the same one I'd twisted - and I gave a short, sharp exclamation of pain.
Eventually I made my way out of the watery area and onto the jagged, uneven rocky portion of the beach. Surprisingly, I did notice a hint of sand and other small beach debris packed against the palace wall, nestled among the huge, dark boulders. It was about a foot wide in places, which made it an obvious choice to head towards.
As I limped my way toward the dark, sandy path, it occurred to me that I now had, not one, but two perfectly legitimate reasons to carry a cane all of a sudden.
My laughter was quiet and hysteria-laced, but I did laugh.
I followed the palace wall along the shore until it opened to a stretch of beach that actually had a little more sand, an area that hadn't been visible from the window I'd jumped out of. The larger expanse of flat, traversable ground allowed me to pick up my pace a little. As I shambled forward, I took stock of my situation, and made a quick list of assets and impediments.
Well, my clothing was marked up and wet, but mostly intact, so that was good. However, I was injured, and I didn't really know how seriously yet. I'd been clubbed unconscious, twisted an ankle, and suffered a substantial cut on my foot. My ribs were killing me, too. Collectively, that was probably a bad thing. Current physical condition - impediment.
I knew exactly where I needed to go, though, and probably had enough time to get there, which was a definite asset. However, I also had bare feet and no money on my person, which would most certainly be an impediment. I did still have Connor's bracelets, which-
Connor didn't just use them to float down from places, I remembered suddenly. He also used them to run.
Clapping my hands together with a snap, I felt the pads of the bracelets pushing against my hands once more. Still lumbering forward, I quickly adjusted how I was holding my arms so that my palms were angled down and behind me . . .
And it was like I could fly.
I remember that all of the aches and pains just didn't seem to matter any more, as all of my attention was suddenly focused on the joyous, miraculous feeling of bounding through the air. It felt as though I weighed maybe half as much as I should have, and each bounding step I took propelled me forward anywhere from eight to ten feet before my other foot had a chance to touch down and do the same. My injured ankle barely hurt at all, even when I used it to spring forward. At one point I realized I was hooting with laughter.
The trip along the wall lasted perhaps two minutes, at which point I arrived at a lawned area connecting to the front of the palace, a few dozen feet from some of the nearby streets. I closed my fists and disabled the devices, albeit reluctantly.
"Assets," I murmured, inspecting Connor's bracelets with a new appreciation. "Definitely assets."
I began making my way across the lawn towards a few of the carriages-for-hire that were sitting in their usual spot along the roadside, just to the right of the palace entrance. My limp wasn't too bad, though I made a note to get the stinging cut on my foot looked at later. Algae-slick rocks and moist sand didn't strike me as the most hygienic sort of stuff to expose an open wound to.
Though I probably looked a fright, it might still be possible to convince a coachman who I was. My reputation about town would likely be an asset, since news of how lavishly I was rewarding my tenants might translate into a carriage driver overlooking the fact that I had no money on me, but might possibly reward him later. If that didn't work, my next asset would be my fingers, since I could always simply lift a purse from someone and pay for a carriage that way.
"Hey, you there! Halt!" a voice cried authoritatively. "Stop where you are!"
I turned and glanced to my left. Two unfriendly-looking Crown Knights were lumbering in my direction, swords drawn.
Impediment. Definitely an impediment . . .