#8 - Attempting a Breakout

The healer stopped, just inside the first door.  Emperor in exile Ahrimaz lay on the cold stone floor in the middle of his cell, wearing only his trousers, shirtless, flesh pressed against the rock.

He turned to wave at the guard, young Oriké, who came in and startled, grabbed for his keys.  The Imaryan put a staying hand on his, mimed with a hand over his nose and mouth.    The guard nodded and fetched Pleta who was also on duty.

They locked the outer door, then the two of them waited while Pleta, with rope and kerchief, carefully went in to check.  He went to one knee, pressed fingers to Ahrimaz’s neck, looked up at the Imaryan and nodded.  The instant he took his attention away from the body on the floor he exploded up, snatched Pleta’s wrists and with a single move had him immobilized, arms straining, nearly pulled out of their sockets, armour creaking under the stain.  Ahrimaz stared out at them over Pleta’s body, leaning to press the boy’s head forward against his own gorget.  His breathing began to rasp.  “Let me go, or I’ll kill him.” As the other guard moved, Ahrimaz twitched.  “Show me the damned knock-out cloth!” – “Slowly.”  Limyé’s fingers moved and Oriké, moving carefully, used two gauntleted fingers to pull the cloth free.

“Wait,” the healer said, as the cloth came free.  He reached out, pushed the barred door open and walked into the cell.  Calmly he stopped in front of Ahrimaz and said.  “Let him go.  It’s me you want to kill.”

Ahrimaz shoved the choking guard away from himself, lunging toward the Imaryan healer, whose only move was to bring up the stole around his neck and as Ahrimaz’s hands closed on his throat, pressed it to his attacker’s face.

**

How many times in this world am I suddenly weakened, wrapped in blackness?  My hands fall away from the damned Imaryan’s neck, leaving only the barest red imprints of my fingers.  I was startled by him just walking into my reach like that. He’s got more guts than any Imaryan I ever saw. It didn’t work.  I should have stuck to the plan to get me out of here, rather than being side tracked by a deliciously offered bit of side murder.

The guard I would have been less likely to kill.  He’s a soldier and even if he’s not mine, and deaf and mute to boot, I cherish soldiers.  Damn you, Imaryan, for distracting me.  Damn you.

**

Ahrimaz’s eyes blinked open and a thunderous headache crashed around in his head. He was in the cell. Lying on the bed.  Damn you it is NOT my bed.  The bed.  He closed his eyes as he heard the rustle of cloth from outside.

“The soporifé will give you a headache, I’m sorry to say.  Water with a bit of juice in it will help.” Limyé said, from his place safely outside the bars.

“Why did you come into my reach, Imaryan?  You were right.”

“It would distract you enough for me to apply my nostrum,” Limyé said quietly.

“How could you do that so calmly?  Imaryans don’t fight.”

“But we do defend ourselves from our patients. I was an orderly in the Hospital for the Violently Deranged before I became the Hand’s personal physician.”

“I’M NOT YOUR PATIENT!” Ahrimaz coughed, wheezing up onto his side.

“Indeed. And you have reminded me.” Limyé rose and brushed off his robe, turning to go.  “That’s three times.  The two I warned you of and a third attack on me.  Goodbye, Ahrimaz.  I will continue my research in a less dangerous place.”

You don’t have the guts to walk away from… wait. Wait!  “Wait!” He cried and the Imaryan turned back at the outside door but didn’t say anything.

“Would we be back in the conversation stage if I apologised?”  He coughed again.

Limyé stood still, looking at him for a long moment and the candle lamp flickered and hissed, just for an instant, flaring up.  Then he sighed.  “That would depend entirely on if you meant it or not.  Good day, Ahrimaz, I will think about hearing an apology from you for a short time.”

The guard opening the door was Pleta who glared at him before pointedly locking the door behind the Imaryan.