Silence Is Golden (Storm and Silence 3)

‘Excellent.’ Hilt first, Alvarez handed the knife back to his underling. Cracking his knuckles menacingly, he turned on his heels and marched towards the door. ‘Until later, my friend. Say goodbye to any dreams you’ve ever had of fathering children.’

The door closed.

‘Oddly enough,’ I remarked to the room at large, ‘fathering children has never really been part of my expectations in life.’

My gaze drifted to the torturer, who was twirling the knife between his fingers, an evil, yellowish grin on his face. I sighed.

‘I suppose we had better get on with it, right?’ I spread my legs as far as my bonds would allow. ‘Stab away!’

*~*~**~*~*

About five minutes later, I stepped out of the cell, whistling and twirling a knife in one hand. This torturer had had an even more interesting reaction than the last one. When he had thoroughly perforated my self-made manhood, getting no more reaction from me than some mild comments about the weather, he had more or less lost it and started digging around with his hands, trying to find out what the hell was the matter with me.

The sight - and smell! - of Uncle Bufford’s old socks must have been too much for him. He had very obligingly stumbled back, slipped, and hit his head on the stone floor. From there, it was a more or less simple matter to overturn the chair, grab the fallen knife and cut myself loose. True, I was a few bruises richer once more, but what was that compared to the knowledge of having done a good job? Nothing!

Plus, I had carried one additional piece of booty off with me.

‘Hello, there, Sir!’ Grinning, I bent to look through the opening in the cell door. ‘How are you?’

‘Mr Linton? Is that you?’

‘In the flesh.’

‘And in a lot more besides! Where did you lay hands on that getup?’

Glancing down at the uniform I was wearing, I flattened a few creases. ‘Oh, this old thing? That’s nothing. I got it from my jailor - along with a knife, and these keys.’ I held up a ring of keys, proudly.

‘Your jailors seem to be uncommonly accommodating, Mr Linton.’

‘What can I say? Charm. It’s all down to charm.’

‘Then why don’t you charm us out of here?’ came Karim’s growl from a few doors down.

‘I suppose if I ask what’s the magic word, I won’t get a “please” out of you, will I?’

‘Get a move on!’

‘Well, since you ask so nicely…’

Two minutes later we were sneaking down the corridor of whatever hellhole we’d been thrown into this time. Mr Ambrose’s face was unreadable as ever, but Karim’s expression was expressive enough for both of them. Having his neck saved by a woman twice in one day was clearly going down like vinegar with pus and snail slime.

‘I heard Lieutenant Alvarez talking,’ I whispered, as we sneaked up the corridor, one ear open for any sudden noises.

‘Who?’

‘The charming gentleman who knocked me over the head and locked us all in here.’

‘Ah. And what did he have to say for himself?’

‘That he wanted to search our belongings, and that they were in the refectory, whatever that means. I have no idea what kind of place this is.’

‘I do.’ Mr Ambrose pointed to a stain on the wall opposite. I squinted trying to make anything out, but…

And suddenly it was clear! That was no stain! The image of the man was faded, and hardly recognisable, but the halo over his head was still pretty clear, and was ample clue to the identity of the individual.

‘A church, maybe,’ Mr Ambrose murmured. ‘Or more likely, an abandoned monastery. You said he used the term “refectory”?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know what that mean-’