Late in the evening, when all normal people were accustomed to going to sleep, and the not-quite-normal ones were just leaving their beds, the doors of the royal prison opened.
The heavy, time-blackened, massive oak leaves, bound with iron, from which rarely emerged anyone except men in black robes and the guards accompanying them, creaked ajar.
With a whistle, cutting through the damp, wet air, a body in a dirty, tattered smock flew out into the street. It landed heavily on the stones with a splat, then tumbled down the short, worn steps and flopped into the slush of mud softened by the recent rain, raising a small, brown tsunami of spray and liquid brown-black substance.
The poor wretch hadn't even had time to come to his senses, or at least lift his head, when THUD! something heavy and solid (someone from the doorway had accurately thrown a massive bundle) landed right in the center of his back as if guided.
"Your things. You can check not a single copper stolen!" one of the jailers, standing on the threshold, rasped with unconcealed glee. He simply didn't want to step out into the damp evening slush.
"Now get lost!"
His colleague, remaining in the gloom of the corridor, began to grumble: "Well, what does a dead man need with things? Maybe we should…"
"Had enough of yesterday? And the day before that, too?" the senior jailer turned sharply to him, and his voice held no mockery, only weary anger. "We barely escaped, and only because we really weren't involved! And you're still at it, you idiot!"
He concluded his speech with a not-strong but humiliating slap to the back of his partner's head. The latter just cringed. Overall, the senior was right. The past two days had battered them severely. Almost all the management and a good half of the rank-and-file jailers were now either feeding worms or would soon join them, headed for the harshest penal servitude. The rest were just lucky. No one here was clean, for as everyone knows, a fish rots from the head, but someone still had to work. So the least egregious offenders were conditionally "forgiven," stripped of all bonuses, and kicked back to work.
"Is he even alive?" the senior jailer squinted, peering at the figure sprawled in the puddle.
"Who gives a shit," the second one grumbled, shivering from the cold. "And anyway, close the door, it's cold…"
"Nah, wait… Gotta check. A corpse right at the gates is just not right. The townsfolk will write a complaint to the administration, and what will people think of us? Just reformed, and already back to the old ways."
The senior said this and was about to step into the slush when a large, cold raindrop hit him right on the bridge of his nose. He looked up and whistled.
A truly grand, leaden cloud hung over the city. The first drop was followed by a second, a third, a fourth… A moment later, the sky opened up, and a real downpour poured forth, icy, bone-chilling.
"Ah, to hell with it!" the senior cursed, clearly unwilling to get wet. He quickly jumped back under the awning covering the entrance.
A restrained chuckle came from his partner behind him. "See? Even the weather agrees with me. Let's go have some tea, before we catch a cold…"
The senior nodded, letting his grumbling partner go first, and cast one last glance at the "free subject." He lay flat as before, washed by streams of icy water, showing no signs of life.
Shrugging, the jailer slammed the heavy door shut. The massive lock clicked.
Now it's not my problem.
He was alive.
The wounds on his body burned with hellish fire, every movement echoed with a dull, gut-wrenching pain. He was weak. One could say, almost at death's door. If, of course, this half-oblivion, this borderline emptiness between agony and non-existence, could be called life.
In the week he had spent in the hold, specifically in its damp catacombs below, he had endured things a normal person wouldn't survive without going insane. But he had endured, though he wasn't entirely ordinary himself. And this ordeal had definitely changed him. After that conversation with the gray-haired guy and the impudent thief who was now celebrating his triumph something inside him had snapped, burned out, leaving behind only ashes and cold clarity.
The rain lashed painfully against the back of his head, icy streams pouring down his collar. His body, tormented by the dampness of the dungeons, ached and throbbed, his chilled muscles seized with cramps.
And he stood up, not knowing why himself. The temptation to stay here, in this dirty puddle, and just lie there, casting off the shackles of mortal existence, was so strong… He had lost. Everything he had striven for. Everything he had dreamed of. Everything was shattered, like a crystal vase, into fragments too small to be glued back together by even the most skilled master. Just like his soul.
But he stood up. First onto his knees, leaning into the sticky, cold mud. Then, with a quiet groan torn from his aching throat to his full height. Limping, sinking ankle-deep into the sodden earth, he trudged on, not choosing a path.
He fell. Then fell again. His face hit the stones painfully, but he again found within himself the strength not will, no, that was gone some blind, animal, stubborn force, to rise.
After several endless minutes, he reached a small lean-to under which someone's firewood was stacked. Here, he could finally catch his breath. Hungry, chilled to the bone, he gazed with tears or was it just the rain running down his forehead? into the murky water of a puddle, on the surface of which a tiny hell of bubbles gurgled and popped.
Need to find a place to spend the night. The cold was already beginning to stiffen his movements, creeping deep inside. Akno, though a psycho, was not an idiot. Freezing to death in this situation would be all too easy.
If I head to the southern slums… there should be cheap inns there.
His memory, faded, as if there had been no life outside the prison walls, guided him like a guide dog a blind and drunk guide dog.
It kept making mistakes, leading him into dead ends or towards groups of vicious rag-clad men who eyed him with rapacious intent. But the sword in his hand dirty, notched, but still deadly quickly cooled their ardor, and he moved on.
"Young master…"
A collected and somewhat gentle voice called out to him in another alley. He turned. Before him stood a woman of about thirty, in a simple beige dress, over which she wore a clean apron.
"What are you waiting for, wanting to die? Come in before you collapse!" she called out slightly sharply.
Akno looked at her, then at the rain-soaked street. He exhaled, relying on his luck, nodded silently, and followed her inside.
It was warm and cozy inside. A sturdy wooden table, chairs. In the corner, a fireplace crackled, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
"What are you standing there for? Get undressed, take off your rags!"
He obeyed. He had no strength to argue. Like a zombie, slowly and with loud creaking, as if controlled by an inexperienced necromancer, and not without the hostess's help, he pulled off his soaked, stinking rags, remaining in just a thin nightshirt stuck to his body.
"Change."
The woman tossed him a bundle of simple but clean clothes and went upstairs. He didn't even bother going behind the screen; he simply didn't care about propriety right now. He was finally safe.
Or was he?
Realizing this simple but very important thought, his eyes immediately darted around. His mind, having received a tiny portion of safety, began to feverishly search for a catch.
Why is she doing this? Akno couldn't answer that question, and just in case, without putting the sword far away, he sank onto a chair by the fireplace, stretching his hands towards the life-giving tongues of flame.
His face, still sallow and sickly, gradually began to grow pink. His body absorbed the healing warmth with pleasure.
"Baron Akno."
As expected, it couldn't be that simple. From the second-floor staircase, three pairs of inhuman eyes were already looking at him, peering from under low-pulled black hoods. The figures stood motionless, merging with the shadows.
Akno didn't even turn around. Not out of bravado or pride, but from utter weariness and a clear understanding that he definitely couldn't resist.
"What do you want?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the fire.
"We mean you no harm, Baron Akno. We need information."
"I know nothing," he replied immediately, mechanically.
A moment later, a heavy leather purse landed on the table next to him with a dull thud. The ties came loose, and gold coins spilled across the rough wood. They sparkled in the firelight, like drops of molten sun seeping from under the earth.
Akno slowly shifted his gaze from the gold to the shadows on the staircase, and something flickered in his eyes.
"What do you want to know?" His voice became quieter, but firmer.
"Everything concerning the murder of Kalis. And the man who committed it."