Page 11 of Tair

“My name is Lucy, and I wouldn’t dare. This is your world, not mine, remember?” Telling him that was in a weird way like acknowledging it to herself. “The laird knows more about it than I do. Go talk to him.” Wanker, Wanker, Wanker.

As if he heard her silent litany his mouth flattened, but he finally turned his back on her and walked out of the cell, slamming the door shut. The lock engaged with a heavy latching sound, but he didn’t look back at her or the cell. A moment later he was gone, and then she heard a strange, brief scraping sound.

“You’re a brave one,” a young voice said from the other side of the cells.

Lucy peered at the shadowy chamber across from hers, and saw a skinny kid who looked about twelve years old watching her. He came over to the bars, and the light from the torches revealed his ragged garments. He had tangled long brown hair around a face with black streaks running from his brow to his chin. Other than being pretty grimy he didn’t look too bad, considering where they’d locked him up. He clutched the bars with loose hands, so he didn’t seem to be scared.

What kind of people were these MacRunes, that they threw little boys in dungeons?

“Why are you in here?” she asked.

“Seneschal caught me eating a honey cake,” he said.

Lucy frowned. “You get locked up for having a sweet?”

“You do if ’twas meant for the laird.” He grinned, giving his narrow face a foxy look. “I’m Seumas, the spit lad. Why do you wear mannish garments?”

“Because a dress would be bothersome when I work,” she said. At least the boy didn’t have any wounds or bruises that she could see. Did they beat their children, too? “My name is Lucy. What does a spit lad do?”

“I turn the meats on the spits, of course.” Seumas tucked a hand inside his ragged shirt to scratch his ribs. “Chieftain Dorchad shallnae bid the smith make shackles for you, you ken. ’Twas a jest he made.”

“With that mug of his, how could anyone tell?” Avoiding that man once she got out of here made it to number one on her to-do list. “Why wouldn’t he have the shackles made?”

“The MacRune dinnae lock up females,” the boy said. “They use them for their pleasures."

Implying she had rape to look forward to, Lucy thought. Yet while both Tair and Dorchad had manhandled her, neither one had behaved like rapists. “How long have they kept you locked up in here, Seumas?”

“Since the evening meal last night, when Cook called me to bank the roasting fire and saw me gone. He sent Seneschal after me, and that one’s as quick as a hunting dog.” He wrinkled his nose. “I couldnae help myself, Mistress Lucy. Cake, ’tis my weakness.”

No matter what time they lived in, all kids liked sweet things, she thought. “How long do you have to be locked up down here?”

“Och, I hope no’ another night,” Seumas said, his expression turning glum. “’Tis cold, and the rats shall soon come out and plague us.”

Lucy glanced around the piles of dirty straw around her boots. Odd that there were no roaches or any sign of vermin. “You’ve seen rats running about in here?”

“Aye, many,” the boy said, gesturing from one side of his cell to the other. “I would beat them off with my boots, only Seneschal took them from me.”

The boy was really quick with his answers, almost as if they were rehearsed, Lucy thought. “Why would he steal your boots?”

“So I’d suffer.” Seumas eyed her and quickly added, “Cook may send for me in a few hours to help with cooking the evening meal again, for I’m the only spit-boy. Or mayhap he shall hire another and leave me here to starve. Such is our lot.”

That wasn’t going to be her bloody lot, Lucy thought, and then she noticed how closely the boy was still watching her. Something was off about this situation; because of her work she knew all about how to give a particular appearance to an area. In reality the dungeon looked much dirtier than it was; in her cell, it hardly smelled at all and the straw appeared to have been mixed with soil. If the kid was acting, he was doing a pretty good job of it. When he reached up to scratch the side of his neck, she saw that his palm and fingernails were black, matching the marks on his face. It suggested that he’d rubbed the soot on his skin, maybe to make her believe he’d been stuck down here for a while.

Had someone staged all this to convince her that she was in danger? Was any of it real?

“Do your parents know you’ve been thrown in the dungeon, Seumas?” she asked.

“I’m an orphan, Mistress Lucy.” He sniffed and shifted into a patch of torchlight as he wiped his sleeve over his dry eyes.

He was definitely older than twelve, Lucy thought, noting some details like the shadow of a beard on his jaw, and the shortness of his arms and legs compared to his head and torso.

He’s a little person, not a kid, and I’m being swindled.

“Maybe you don’t have to wait that long.” She tested the door to her cell, making the bars rattle, and then inspected the lock, which seemed fairly simple, with just an internal latch.

As she pulled one of the small clips she wore from her hair and bent the end out, Seumas made a surprised sound. “How do you ken to do such?”

“My father’s assistant taught me,” she said as she inserted the clip in the lock, and began delicately turning it to try to force the latch. “He worried that I might get snatched and held for ransom someday. I also know how to get out of handcuffs and things like car trunks. Those are the dungeons in my world.”