The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Men of learning, and with an appreciation for politics, would have you believe that the corridors of power are those that lead directly from the monarch's chamber, down to the council chamber, and onwards, to the private rooms of the Chancellor himself. These routes, linking the King to his most trusted advisers, have formed the backdrop of countless deals, secret plans, and the birthplace of the most bloody of wars. However, Lord Vanatis knew that there were other passageways, where the real fate of the nation was decided, and that they were to be found in a much less exultant locations.

Taking a lantern from an obliging hook, he gave a sharp knock upon the locked door, and lowered the hood of his cloak down over his face. It had been surprisingly easy to acquire the outfit he now wore. A red cloak, covering a matching robe. The uniform of the inquisitors.

There weren't many who actually wanted to gain admittance to this sanctuary of magic, so no one thought to question his motives. A few choice words to his network soon gave him a contact, and then it was merely a matter of suggestion.

He suggested that the poor soul he'd been put in contact with might be in need of a friend on the council. He suggest that there was rumour that he was going to be declared a traitor to the crown. Further more, he suggested that it was bound to reach the ears of the Chancellor in a matter of days. The fact that it was Lord Vanatis himself that would start the rumour was neither here nor there. The man did as he was told, and the young Earl had no need to start any rumours. A knife did the job just as well.

Not that it mattered. The inquisitors were spared the responsibility of families. There had been no one to mourn him.

Inside the door, the latch was lifted, and the door opened. Lord Vanatis closed the shutters on his lamp, dampening the light. The inquisitors preferred to work in darkness, to spare themselves the sight of their handy-work.

Lord Vanatis, unlike many of his contemporaries, had decided not to retreat to his country estate after the assassination. His castle was quite fine, indeed one of the finest in Serrador. He'd even been there once, and found it quite charming. But he'd never found the countryside to his taste. It was the city where his heart resided, and the citadel which quickened his blood. He never felt more alive than when he went down to the tunnels.

It was said, by those that dared whisper such thoughts, that there were a thousand prisoners hidden deep within these tunnels. That the walls themselves were stained red by the blood of their visitors. They were wrong. The stone walls were lime washed, stinking in their cleanliness. As for the thousand inhabitants, Lord Vanatis had walked through them many times. They stretched on for miles, right out underneath the city. He'd once travelled ten miles through them, before his stock of candles became depleted and he was forced to turn around. He'd seen enough to know there was nothing like a thousand people down there. If anything, the figure was closer to a hundred thousand.

At first the numbers had puzzled him. He'd seen the council records, and the numbers of men and women taken down there. They rarely numbered more than fifty on a good week. The inquisitors may have been highly skilled at prolonging life, better than any of the charlatans selling themselves as doctors on the surface, but even they could not sustain it for the decades required for such an army. Even the most rudimentary calculations would show it to be an impossibility.

The Earl had appreciated the logic problem, and often journeyed down there when he needed to think something over. There weren't any screams down here, just the gentle murmuring of disjointed voices and the clank of metal as the inquisitors went about their work. It was most conducive to thought.

He lifted the lantern, letting the dim light filter through the darkness. The yellow halo caught the edge of a red robe and he followed it. The tunnels twisted like a snake's trail through long grass.

The construction had followed no design, but instead wormed its way through the pockets of softer stone and clay, the core formed more by the will of the pick-axes than any architect. Lord Vanatis rather liked the idea of the weak earth giving way to the strength of men, of Serrador being carved out by its masters. It was the perfect illustration of the way things should be.

The inquisitor turned a sharp right, squeezing into a small cut out in the rock that Vanatis would have missed if he'd only had his lantern to guide him. The rough walls scrapped against the Earl's shoulders as he pressed himself through, but soon enough it widened out into a small chamber.

His guide set down the small bucket he was holding, which clattered on the hard floor and sloshed out some of its contents. He brought out a long handled ladle, and with the greatest care, lifted it up to the waiting lips of a prisoner.

The creature, for he could no longer be called a man, was draped in the clothes of a fat merchant. They hung off limbs so emaciated, the bones pressed against the thin skin, as if struggling to escape their confines.

There he sat, held to the wall with leather straps, his head lolling about as if he did not have the strength to hold it up. But his lips moved with feverish intensity. The words tumbling out in a mixture of agony and desperation. They did not even still when the ladle touched them, and the liquid rolled down his bristled chin unchecked. The inquisitor did not give up though, and grabbed what was left of the creature's hair to pull back his head, and then poured the water down his throat, making the thing cough and splutter as he tried to continue speaking through the onslaught.

When the inquisitor had deemed his ward had taken in enough, he let the ladle drop back into the bucket and replaced it with a rag, which he applied to the creature's papery skin with gentle force.

"Who's is he?" said Lord Vanatis at last.

The inquisitor did not turn around. "Back again, my Lord?"

Lord Vanatis stilled, taking in the face of his companion. It did look a touch familiar. His journeys down to the less populated parts of the tunnels must have been noted. But they had been most informative, he had hardly cared for the risk of repeat visits. "You would do well to forget it."

The inquisitor seemed unperturbed by the threat. "As you say."

"Now who does this thing belong to?"

"You may see for yourself," said the inquisitor, taking the damp rag and wiping down the creature's chest to reveal a black mark, stark against the ashen skin.

Lord Vanatis stepped forward, and lifted the shutters on his lantern so that he might get a better look.

The whispering creature groaned through his words, twisting away from the light as if the flame itself had been pressed against his cheek.

There, scrawled across his chest with the ill-formed lettering of a child was a name. It was very short, forming barely four inches of text.

"Such an insignificant name to justify the honour of his own master," said Lord Vanatis in wonder, his lip curling in amusement as he made out the surname.

"Treason knows no barriers."

"Quite," he Lord Vanatis. "Well, let us give this traitor a chance to redeem himself. I am in need of a pair of eyes out in the world, and this pair seem to be as good as any." With a gloved hand he reached out and tilted the creature's chin, who pulled away, trying to get away from the light, but the Earl would not let go.

"Look at me," he ordered the squirming creature. The Earl held firm until finally their eyes met. The creature's, blood shot and half blind from his time in the tunnels, struggled to find their mark, but eventually they settled

"Good. Now listen to me, Master of Vereleigh Arna Calebi Serrfod Olivat Livewell. We have work to do. There's a lost queen I would have you find."

[AUTHOR NOTE:

So, we made it down to the Red Tunnels, the prison of Serrador. I hope you enjoyed your trip... because leaving is not a luxury available to all. Mwah ha ha ha ha *cough* Sorry. I do apologise. I don't know what came over me.

Please vote if you liked that chapter, and I'd love to hear your thoughts (and theories!) as to the Red Tunnels and their inhabitants.]