At the Queen_s command

Owen would have taken that as a blanket dismissal, but the words trailed off ruefully. Over the time he had been in Quarante-neuf's care, Owen had noticed subtle changes. Pierre Ilsavont, according to his son, had memories of his previous life. Quarante-neuf might have some as well. He might be hiding that information for a variety of reasons. Do the dead desire privacy?

"Please remember this, then: You are my friend. I cannot thank you enough for helping me, no matter what comes."

"You are welcome, sir."

They continued walking around the cell. Owen hissed when the pain spiked. Quarante-neuf would pause, ready to catch him. Owen leaned on him when his legs quivered so violently that he wasn't sure if he could take another step. Then he would push on.

Quarante-neuf nodded encouragingly. "You must continue. She is waiting for you, your wife."

Owen raised an eyebrow. "How did you…?"

"You spoke her name in your sleep."

Owen hesitated. He recalled the dream, when he was so cold. She had come with a thick blanket. She had laid it over him, then crawled beneath it. She held him, whispering that everything would be fine.

Bethany.

"That was not my wife." Owen struggled along several more steps. "It was a woman I met in Mystria. Another friend."

"I understand, sir."

"Not that sort of friend. She is a lovely young woman, is Bethany."

The pasmorte nodded. "It is a beautiful name."

"True, but we must never speak it aloud again." Owen glanced toward the door. "Your master is an evil man. If he suspects, he will find a way to harm her. I will not let that happen. Promise me."

"As best I am able, Captain." The dead man shook his head. "I would have no harm come to your friend."

Owen shivered again. He was fooling himself if he thought du Malphias did not already know about Bethany, about everything. Owen couldn't remember what he'd revealed under torture, but he'd have given anything up to stop it. He tried lying, repeatedly, and even kept one lie alive over three sessions, but finally broke down and admitted it had been a lie. All he'd done was purchase time and earn himself the thaumaturgical shackling.

I must escape. He labored under no illusion that his escape would protect his friends and his nation against du Malphias. The man was evil in ways beyond human comprehension, and incredibly powerful. The way he had assaulted Owen, the way he'd tortured him, implied depths of magick skill Owen had never even imagined could exist.

"To escape, Quarante-neuf, I will need your help."

"I do not know what I can do."

"I will need food and clothing. And I will need nails. Four nails, no, six. Maybe a dozen. Iron nails." Owen shuffled around to look at Quarante-neuf. "Can you get those things for me?"

The pasmorte considered for a moment, then nodded. "The Laureate has me under a compulsion to keep you safe."

"Then how can you can watch him torture me?"

"I am also constrained from harming him." Quarante-neuf shook his head. "It does not mean I cannot hate him. I just cannot harm him."

Owen nodded. "If you gather these things for me, you will be making me safe. Distancing me from du Malphias will keep him safe."

"Thank you, sir." The pasmorte smiled. "It shall please me to be of service to you both."

Quarante-neuf was good to his word. He collected everything Owen requested and concealed it somewhere in the fortress. He did not tell Owen where, so Owen could not reveal the location of the cache under torture.

As Owen identified new needs, he worded his requests carefully. "I would feel much safer if…" prefaced all of them. When Quarante-neuf told him of his success, Owen always thanked him with, "I feel much safer now."

The nails trickled in. Owen hid them inside the leather sleeves, sliding them between the shackle and his skin. It pleased him to carry the keys to his escape at all times and that du Malphias never noticed. When Owen was alone he'd pull one out and sharpen it against the cell's stone floor. He worked it until it was needle sharp, then started on another.

Du Malphias refrained from more torture, though he hardly became civil. He allowed Quarante-neuf to bring Owen out for some fresh air. He took great delight in the pain the hobbling caused. He seemed largely unconcerned about where Owen traveled, though Owen had no doubt that du Malphias catalogued every step.

The Laureate had taken to revising the fortress yet again, but his pasmortes worked with only a fraction of the industry they had previously exhibited. Du Malphias had begun the construction of a stone wall inside the north palisade wall. He offset it by four yards and was filling the space between the walls with smaller stones and debris. While cannon could destroy the outer wooden wall easily, the rubble would flow down to seal the breach immediately. Any troops trying to race in would find themselves at the bottom of a gravel slope staring up at soldiers on a stone wall.