At the Queen_s command

Quarante-neuf had learned through the exercises as well. He broke other pasmortes instead of reintroducing them to death. Repair made more work for du Malphias. The Laureate, in turn, taught Quarante-neuf enough magick to affect basic repairs, mending bones and flesh.

He pulled the sharpened nails from beneath the shackles. "Pull on your glove. Now, pinch the flesh at the back of my thigh. Get a good handful. Yes, now, shove one of the nails all the way through the fold."

"I cannot. I would hurt you."

"No, you're preventing hurt." Owen held nails out. "Please, you have to do this. I can't."

The pasmorte sank to a knee behind him. He grabbed a hunk of flesh and drew it away from the muscle. The nail popped through and out again, more of a burning sensation than pain, but nothing in comparison to the magick hobbling. Quarante-neuf repeated the procedure on the other leg.

"How does that feel?"

Owen took a step. He felt the tug at the back of his leg, and some of the magickal pain triggering, but less. Another step and another, longer each time. "The iron mutes the magic. I need more nails. Another above the knee. One below. One below the calf, and maybe at the small of my back. Please, my friend, hurry."

"Yes. Let me prepare things." The pasmorte quickly bent the nails into a gentle curve. He tore the shackle covers into rectangular strips and pierced them with the nails first. He used the strips to pinch the skin, then inserted the nails through Owen's flesh and the leather. The wounds burned, and blood welled up to stain the leather.

Once all the nails had been set in place, Owen made several circuits of his cell. He moved more easily, but couldn't run. Then again, with the deep snow, what could? This will have to do.

He dressed, careful not to catch clothes on the nails. He wrapped one thin blanket around him and saved a corner as a hood, then pulled on the leather tunic Msitazi had given him. They tore the other blanket into strips and bound his feet in several layers, then tied them in place with strips of canvas. The remaining canvas he pulled around him as a cloak, and used the last two nails to hold it closed.

Quarante-neuf nodded. "Ready?"

"Wait, I need Agaskan's doll."

The pasmorte produced it from a drawer and Owen tucked it inside his tunic. "Now I will be safe."

Owen followed the pasmorte from his prison, hunching himself over. He moved haltingly, imitating as best he could the pasmortes circulating as sentries. He mimicked their awkward gaits and ducked his head as he turned north. The full brunt of the storm battered him. He snarled defiantly and forced himself toward the wall.

Snow drifted against the walls' northern faces. He fought the wind and reached the stone wall construction inside the north wall. The open end and ragged line of stones allowed him to easily scramble up to the top. He crouched, searched through the blizzard for any sign of pasmortes nearby, but saw nothing.

He couldn't see a dozen feet in any direction, but that hardly made him feel safe. He imagined du Malphias had some arcane means of piercing the storm's curtain. Or he might have a way to track me or Quarante-neuf. That thought soured his mouth, but he dismissed it.

Knowing where I am and dragging me back are two different things in this blizzard.

He grabbed the wooden wall's points and hauled himself over. He fell for a yard, then sank into snowdrifts. He floundered for a moment, then another body crunched down beside him. Quarante-neuf grabbed his arm and pulled him from the snow. The pasmorte wore no heavy clothes, but did have a pack on his back. "Come."

Owen began wading through the snow. "You have to get me away from here. I will kill du Malphias if I stay."

Quarante-neuf nodded. "Thank you, my friend…" His voice trailed off for a moment. "Is it that we are truly friends? Can it be?"

"Of course." Owen leaned heavily on the pasmorte 's arm. "Why would you think we are not friends?"

"I am dead, Captain. I may not remember much, but that cannot be forgotten. The dead have nothing to offer the living."

"Not so, Quarante-neuf, not so." They stepped free of the largest drift-which had totally filled the trench-and made their way across the wind-scoured glacis. They forded another drift, then pushed on straight north, toward the looming hill from which he had first scouted du Malphias' domain.

They paused in the lee of another drift. Quarante-neuf knelt with his back to the wind, providing Owen shelter. Snow caked the pack and his clothes, but he did not seem to notice. He did not shiver, he did not brush snow away. He remained untouched by the storm.

Then he grabbed Owen by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet. "Come, Captain, we must go."

"Just a moment longer."

"No. Every step away from here makes my master safer." The pasmorte nodded. "And it brings happiness one step closer for your Bethany."

Owen smiled and warmth coursed through him. "She is a good woman, kind and smart. You would like her. But I am bound for the reunion with my wife."