The Last of the Runners

“You had me followed?” The Sub-Magister was furious.

“I wanted to be sure you got the information we need,” the Magister said, mopping the sweat from his forehead. He knew he had been caught out, which he hated, and gained nothing – which he hated even more because the Watcher had heard nothing except that the boy’s mother wouldn’t give them the time of day. “I thought you might have had problems as this runner was from your village.”

“I would have had no problem gaining her confidence if that oaf had not made her suspicious!”

“And what did you discover?”

“Just that he had left two days ago,” the Sub-Magister snapped back. “It seems he’d been feigning an upset stomach for several days which put her off guard. She went to get herbs to cure the boy’s stomach and found him gone when she returned.”

“Did she say which way he went?”

“She didn’t. If she knew, the elephantine noises made by that idiot on the porch alerted her to our serious interest, rather than it being a polite enquiry by someone who used to live in the village. It is unlikely she will open up to me again.”

“Well let’s pull her in and interrogate her properly.”

“You will gain nothing that way,” said the Sub-Magister. “Have your methods got anything from the Bruntler woman?”

“Not yet. She is being most stubborn.”

“And you think the mother of a runner will be less so?”

“There are ways to make such women talk.”

The Sub-Magister did not like the tone in the voice that oozed from the fat man. He knew from his own time under the Magister’s close supervision that he enjoyed hurting people to get his own way.

“It might prove easier to unravel the runner network if you did not give this woman your special treatment.”

“You think the parents of such runts deserve better?”

“The boy is unlikely to be a reliable source of information if his mother has been subjected to interrogation for several weeks. He will say whatever comes into his head to get her released and we will not be able to proceed calmly and logically to close the network down forever.”

“And you believe your methods will be more successful than mine?” The Magister resented the constant challenges from the younger man.

“It wouldn’t be difficult, would it?” The Sub-Magister was equally weary of the older man’s insistence that no change was necessary to achieve his end.

“Well, see what you can get from them by the end of the week,” the Magister said grumpily. “Let’s see how clever you really are. Anyway, I need some air.”

Slipping the leather pouch from his desk drawer obviously into his pocket, the Magister stomped out and the Sub-Magister could hear him grumbling away toward the gatehouse. He would be left alone for an hour at least.

It was time to visit Mrs Bruntler again.

The old woman slipped out of the front door of her cottage, closing and locking it as quietly as possible. She hurried along the road, hugging the shadows, towards the end of the village. Her skirts brushed the ground as she went, moving faster than she had been seen to do for many years. She went past the last house and out the edge of the trees. Two shadows emerged to greet her.

“Well?”

“He saw the dragon, my lord,” she panted. “Blue and green and swooping towards him. He saw the tail when he took hold a second time.”

“Anything else?”

“Sunlit forest, beautiful birds.”

“So how long did he hold the staff?”

“Seconds only. The first time he dropped it almost immediately.”

“You are sure he saw the dragon?”

“It didn’t sound like he was making it up, my lord.”

“You will send him on towards Racontour?”

“Indeed, my lord, and to the hewer of staffs.”

“That is the next test. Let us see how he responds. I thank you. You have been most helpful.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Feed him well.”

The shadows blended back into the trees and the old woman made her way slowly home. Quietly opening the door, she went through to the small bedroom where Kyrin was sleeping. Seeing that he was still comfortable, she went back into the kitchen. She pulled a chair up to the stove, sat down and within a few minutes, she was dozing peacefully.

The cells were as he remembered them – if it was possible to remember somewhere where it had always been dark. He was surprised to find how few people there were to supervise the cells. Just one decrepit old man, who shambled to the door and gave him the key to the cell, grateful not to have to go down the stairs and open it himself.

The Sub-Magister took a shaded lantern and made his way down the winding stair to the lower cells. The smell of damp was overpowering and the cold silence caused his stomach to knot, that deep sense of fear returning in an instant. He took a deep breath and tried to conquer his fear.

The key screeched in the lock as it had when he had been on the other side. It was not yet long enough ago for it not to frighten him. What pain would come when the door banged shut again? The hinges still squeaked but he did not shut the door. He let the dim light from the corridor seep into the cell for a moment before he went in, carefully putting the lantern a distance from the bundle of rags in the corner that was Mrs Bruntler.

The Sub-Magister said nothing for a long while, as he took in the bruises on Mrs Bruntler’s arms and face. She blinked in the light. If he had disliked the Magister before that moment, he hated him now. No one deserved to be treated like that, an old woman least of all. He took off his dark glasses and crouched down in front of her. She squinted at him from her one open eye, the other being too swollen to use.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’d like to help,” he said quietly, “though I haven’t much time.”

“There’s nothing I can tell you,” she sighed. “You should know that. I just teach you how to recognise the signs when you are running.”

“What have you told the Magister?”

“That oaf?” she laughed, though it obviously hurt to do so. “He tried his pathetic weaving, but that didn’t work. So he started hitting me, which works even less, so he hits me some more.”

“What do you know about Kyrin?”

Mrs Bruntler hesitated, the merest half second, but the Sub-Magister noticed it.

“I don’t know who you are talking about.”

“Yes, you do,” he persisted. “The last boy to come to you. What can you tell me about him?”

“Nothing other than what should rock this city to its foundation.”

“Come now.” There was a fervour in her voice he found disconcerting.

“They’ve been dreading his coming for years. Why do you think they’ve tried so hard to suppress the runners? Just they forgot what happens if there’s only one.”

“This is nonsense,” said the Sub-Magister crossly. “Tell me what you know about Kyrin.”

“Why should I tell you as didn’t recognise his friend for what he was?” Mrs Bruntler was laughing again. “For all his cleverness, he never saw what was right in front of him. And now he wants me to tell him!”

“I want to help,” said the Sub-Magister, though he found the old woman’s mocking tone hard to accept. What had he failed to notice?

“Do you? Do you really?” Her tone was more aggressive now. “And how do I know I can trust you?”

“He’s my friend,” said Gan simply, putting his hand to his forehead. “He’s always been my friend. I don’t want to see him hurt.”

Gan felt a shooting pain run across his forehead behind his eyes. He winced. It took his breath away.

Mrs Bruntler struggled to her feet and came right up to him. She smelled awful. The time in this cell had not been kind to her. Her one open eye burned brightly as she looked first into his left, then his right eye.

“I always thought you were clever,” she said after a moment. Then, clicking her tongue, she patted him on the cheek. “You’ve done wonders, boy, to defeat his weave this well. There’s many a grown man would have gone right under, but I still can’t trust you.”

“But…”

“Wait, boy,” she whispered, smoothing his cheek with one hand and resting a grimy finger on his lips. “I can’t trust you ’cos I don’t know how much of the fat oaf’s weave is still working within you. It might still hurt you. How long have you been having those headaches, eh? It’s hard playing a double game, my dear, I know it is. So I need to give you something that might help, don’t I?”

Gan nodded. In the last couple of minutes, he had begun to feel like a boy again. As Mrs Bruntler had looked into his eyes and spoken so gently to him, the grown up shell of the Sub-Magister had opened and the frightened boy inside had peeped out. He did need her to give him something that he could give to the Magister. It would allow him to help her a little and to keep the Magister off Kyrin’s trail.

“You’re a clever boy,” Mrs Bruntler said, “So you can do some reading, can’t you?”

Again, Gan nodded, eager for the hint Mrs Bruntler was going to give him.

“See what you can find out about the Tourney of Tales and the prophecy. That should help you understand,” she paused a moment, as if trying to remember something, then shook her head. “Don’t I sacrifice old friends now?”

This last had been almost to herself, a part of an argument going on in her head that had just slipped out, for she stood for a moment continuing the debate in silence.

“How long since the moonless night?” she snapped.

“Two days now,” said Gan.

“And they arrested me six days before, so he must have started about five days before.”

“No, four,” said Gan. “I spoke to his mother yesterday. She said he left five days ago.”

“Does the fat oaf know?”

“No. I wrote two days in my notebook,” said Gan, wincing as the pain shot across his forehead again. “The Watcher he had tail me was still making his way noisily up to the door.”

“Clever to lie in your notes. Stupid to be followed. Do you think he’ll have done it again?”

“I don’t think so. He hates being caught out.” When would the throbbing in his head stop? “He’d gone to the gatehouse with his pipe when I came. He’ll not be back for an hour.”

“Let’s hope so. Anyway, tell him I sent the boy to the village of Contefay.”

“It’s where you sent me,” said Gan.

“Exactly,” whispered Mrs Bruntler, “Which will help him believe it and you will know where to find the signs that point out the safe house. That will make him trust you further. Might give you a break from the headaches. Only make sure they aren’t too hard on the old dear. Tell her I had to, if you get the chance.”

“Does this put Kyrin in danger?” asked Gan.

“Not if I have calculated it correctly and he walked fast enough. He should be well away before you get there. Now you’d better go.”

She smoothed his cheek one last time, then kissed him. Despite the smell, it was the first sign of tenderness the Sub-Magister had received since the summer.

“You have more reading to do,” she said softly. “Could you leave me the lantern? It’ll be nice to have a little light for a while.”

The Sub-Magister nodded and left the cell, in many ways relieved to be away from the damp, the dark, the smell and the cold. As he climbed the stairs, head still thumping, he heard Mrs Bruntler singing a simple song he half remembered, a shadow of the life he had left behind and to which he could never return, however hard he tried.

Sing me a story of Dragons,

Dragons both green and both blue.

Sing me a story of Dragons,

Dragons will always be true.