"She was. Now she's freezing cold."
Lieutenant Blouse strode over to the door, grabbed its handle and, to the surprise of all, pulled it open. Four swords were levelled at him.
"We have a sick man here!" he snapped to the astonished guards. "We need blankets and firewood! Get them now!" He slammed the door. "It might work," he said.
"That door doesn't have a lock," said Tonker. "Useful fact, Polly."
Polly sighed. "Right now, I just want something to eat. This is a kitchen, after all. There could be food here."
"This is a kitchen," said Tonker. "There could be cleavers!"
But it is always upsetting to find that the enemy is as bright as you. There was a well, but a web of bars across the top allowed for the passage of nothing bigger than a bucket. And someone with no sense of the narrative of adventure had removed from the room anything with an edge and, for some reason, anything that could be eaten.
"Unless we want to dine on candles," said Shufti, pulling a bundle of them out of a creaking cupboard. "'s tallow, after all. I bet old Scallot'd make candle scubbo."
Polly checked the chimney, which smelled as though there had not been a fire in it for a long time. It was big and wide, but six feet up a heavy grille was hung with sooty cobwebs. It looked rusted and ancient, and could probably be shifted by twenty minutes' work with a crowbar, but there's never a crowbar when you want one.
There were some couple of sacks of ancient, dry and dusty flour in the storeroom. It smelled bad. There was a thing with a funnel and a handle and some mysterious screws.10 There were a couple of rolling pins, a lettuce strainer, some ladles... and there were forks. Lots of toasting forks. Polly felt let down. It was ridiculous to expect that someone imprisoning people in some ad hoc cell would leave in all the ingredients to effect an escape but, nevertheless, she felt that some universal rule had been broken. They had nothing better than a club, really. The toasting forks might prick, the lettuce strainer might pack a punch, and the rolling pins were at least a traditional female weapon, but all you could do with the thing with a funnel and a handle and mysterious screws was baffle people.
The door opened. Armed men came in to act as protection for a couple of women, carrying blankets and firewood. They scurried in with their eyes cast down, deposited their burdens, and almost ran out. Polly strode over to the guard who seemed to be in charge, and he backed away. A huge key ring jingled on his belt.
"You knock next time, all right?" she said.
He grinned nervously. "Yeah, right," he said. "They said we weren't to talk to you..."
"Really?"
The jailer glanced around. "But we reckon you're doing bloody well, for girls," he said conspiratorially.
"So that means you won't shoot at us when we break out?" said Polly sweetly.
The grin faded. "Don't try it," said the jailer.
"What a big bunch of keys you have there, sir," said Tonker, and the man's hand flew to his belt.
"You just stay in here," he said. "Things are bad enough already. You stay here!"
He slammed the door. A moment later they heard something heavy being pushed up against it.
"Well, now we have a fire, at least," said Blouse.
"Er..." This was from Lofty. She volunteered a word so seldom that the rest turned to look at her, and she stopped in embarrassment.
"Yes, Lofty?" said Polly.
"Er... I know how to get the door open," muttered Lofty. "So it stays open, I mean."
Had it been anyone else, someone would have laughed. But words from Lofty had obviously been turned over for some time before utterance.
"Er... good," said Blouse. "Well done."
"I've been thinking about it," said Lofty.
"Good."
"It will work."
"Just what we need, then!" said Blouse, like a man trying against all the odds to keep cheerful.