Loran sees the indecision flash across her face, but he continues shouting into the gag, his calls to her coming out as muffled sounds filled with urgency. He might not be able to make her understand, but perhaps he can engage her interest. He knows she’s the curious type.

  A particularly loud shout that rips at Loran’s throat makes Alyna turn her head towards him. Triumph ripples through him, but it’s quickly punctured when she just as quickly refocusses back on her task.

  He doesn’t give up, once more shouting loudly enough to pain his throat. This time, she doesn’t twitch. Frustration replaces his triumph. If not for this gods-forsaken gag!

  Luck help me, he prays fervently. Prick her curiosity so she comes to investigate! He stops himself from reaching for the second goddess that his mind goes to – Thievery’s price is one that, as a slave, he really can’t afford to pay, not even with the most understanding of masters. Hopefully Luck will be enough, though her favour is incredibly fickle, and her price just as unpredictable.

  He continues shouting, paying little attention to the increasing hoarseness of his throat – he’s had worse. And probably will again, especially if he doesn't get out of this cellar.

  Unfortunately, it seems that Alyna is doing her best to ignore him. She continues checking over Orion’s cage without paying any mind to the noise emerging from the man tied to the post behind her.

  If she will not respond, we must act as previously planned, Catches-leaves tells Loran, his mental voice regretful but firm.

  I…I know, the man tells him after a pause. He stops shouting for a moment and rests his head against the pole behind him. To be so close, yet so far….

  There is only one thing he can think of doing, much as he doesn’t want to. Well, if this won’t get her attention, nothing will.

  Opening his bound hands, he eyes the small bit of bread he saved from one of his meals. He’d saved it more out of habit than anything else – too much experience with not knowing where his next meal is coming from has left hoarding food almost second nature. He’s been keeping it aside, no matter how his stomach growls, knowing that it might give him a reserve of energy in an escape that he’ll desperately need. But desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Breaking off a small piece of it, he takes it between thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Throwing with both hands bound together won’t exactly be easy, but he doesn’t have any other option. Briefly curling his fingers into an ‘o’ shape for luck, he leans forwards as much as he can and aims – the little bit of bread he has won’t give him more than three attempts at this.

  His first throw falls short. He curses into the gag. Trembling fingers break the remaining lump of bread into two pieces. He tries again – too late, she shifts, and it clinks harmlessly off Orion’s cage.

  Loran’s heart moves into his mouth when Alyna spots the fragment of bread – barely more than a big crumb. She picks it up and inspects it, perhaps wondering where it came from. His heart then sinks when she drops it to the floor and turns back to her work.

  One last try, Loran tells himself, looking down at the miniscule fragment of bread that remains. There’s no point in trying to extend it further – too small and the missile won’t make it to Alyna at all.

  For a moment, his inner hoarder paralyses him – he’s already tried twice and gained nothing but wasted bread. And even if he does hit Alyna, there’s no guarantee she’ll come and speak to him, or even recognise him. Wouldn’t it be better just following the original plan? That way, he’ll be able to save this last fragment.

  Then he pushes through his hesitation and, pinching with his fingers, presses the bread together to make it denser and easier to throw – a misspent boyhood of throwing clumps of mud at lawmen will hopefully serve him well now.

  He aims, he fires….and he hits his target perfectly.

  “By Thievery, what was tha’?” Alyna demands with startlement covered by anger as the stinging pellet bounces off her cheek. She looks down and sees the offending missile. Picking it up again, Loran can practically see her thoughts on her face. Finding one crumb that she might have overlooked is one thing; being hit by another is something else. Loran sees the moment she realises just who it has to be behind the odd occurrences.

  “Why’re ye throwin’ bread at me?” she demands, finally turning to face Loran properly. He gestures at his gag to remind her that there’s no way he can answer that question to her satisfaction.

  For a moment, she just looks at him silently. Then, with a sigh, she pushes herself to her feet and steps towards him, lantern in one hand. Loran’s heart leaps with victory – finally!

  “You try’n do somethin’ to me, an’ I’ll hit ye so hard ye’ll see the gods,” she warns him. Then the light from the lantern illuminates Loran’s face, and Alyna takes in a sharp breath. “Loran?” she breathes out, in barely more than a whisper. “Is tha’ really ye?”

  Loran nods fervently, not taking his eyes away from Alyna’s. They’re the same dark brown that he remembers them being – in the poor light of the lantern, they look almost black. Emotions flicker through them, faster than he can interpret. But he sees remorse there, and guilt. He can use those.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He makes a wordless noise, just reminding her about the gag again. Her hands are shaking as they rise to the back of his head. She undoes the complicated arrangement of straps which keeps the gag in place. With the way his hands are bound, he had been unable to do the same.

  The moment he can, Loran spits out the gag and works his jaw, licking around his mouth, trying to moisten it slightly – the gag has absorbed away any saliva that he had in there. Not that it was much with as little water as they’ve given him to drink.

  “Alyna,” he says, or tries to at least – his hoarse throat and dry mouth make it come out as an almost incomprehensible croak. Alyna’s hand goes to a gourd at her belt and she pulls it free, uncapping it and offering it to him.

  “It’s jus’ water, I promise,” she assures him quietly. Loran eyes her for a long moment, then grasps it with his bound hands and tips it to his mouth. He doesn’t think she’d be likely to trick him like this, but he can’t afford to take chances at this time. If his throat and mouth weren’t in such poor conditions, and this conversation weren’t so important, he wouldn’t risk it at all.

  On his dry throat, the water tastes better than the finest wine Loran has ever stolen. He drinks deeply, then hands the gourd back to Alyna, far emptier than it was when she’d passed it over. She caps it again and tucks it back onto her belt.

  “I didn’ think I’d ever see ye again,” she tells Loran quietly, her fingers twitching. Her eyes dip and Loran is sure she’s studying his collar.

  “Nor I you,” he agrees, his own eyes pointedly drifting to the lack of a collar around her own neck. He knows that a pattern of whip marks decorate her back, just as they do his own. “I thought, after we got caught on that job, that both of us were done for.”

  He catches the flinch she gives that.

  “Dexil still had work for me,” she replies slowly, reluctantly. “He had some o’ the guards…misplace me records o’ the first two times I was caught. T’was a hefty fine, though – I’m still workin’ it off.”

  “So ‘e sprung ye an’ left me te rot,” Loran spits. “I always knew that bloke was a rous!” He only realises after he speaks that his dialect has unconsciously slipped back to what it has been for almost all of his life – until that one master who ordered him punished whenever he spoke with ‘that peasant accent’ in his presence.

  The reminder of just what he had suffered because of Dexil stokes his rage further. He thrashes in his chains like a rabid dog, the cellar echoing with rattles and snarls.

  When sense creeps back, Alyna’s already stepped away, fear etched clearly on her face.

  Loran immediately forces himself to still – she was always nervous. Never a fighter – her talents lie in her skill with runes. And apparently, as he’d feared, Dexil needs a pseudo-enchanter more than another talented thief. It’s not Alyna’s fault she was the one sprung and Loran was left to become a slave. And more to the point, if his unbridled rage sends her fleeing in fear, he’ll have lost his chance to get out of here.

  “Look, Alyna,” he says more calmly, this time intentionally leaning back into his old accent. He needs Alyna to feel kinship with him. “I know t’was Dexil who sprung ye an’ left me te the collar. But the fact o’ the matter is tha’ if ye had done ye job properly tha’ night, neither o’ us woulda been captured.”

  Her eyes flare angrily.

  “I did me job properly! I got ye inside without triggering an alarm!”

  “An’ what about inside?” Loran asks pointedly. “Ye job didn’ end at the window. Brice wouldn’ a tripped tha’ wire on the safe if you was with ‘im.”

  He sees the barb has hit home. They both know he’s right. That silent alarm on the second safe Brice found was the reason the band had been caught with their pants down when the lawmen came calling. And if Alyna had come with them instead of lingering by the window, he wouldn’t have tried to force it open without having it checked first.

  She might not be the main reason Loran’s stuck here with a collar around his neck and a lifetime of slavery to look forward to – however long or short that ends up being – but she certainly played a part. And he’ll use any lever he can to get her help right now.

  “An’ what d’ye want, Loran?” Alyna snaps at him defensively. “An apology? Fine! I’m sorry. Tha’ better?”

  “Get me outta ‘ere,” Loran returns, then sends a quick look around him. Shame scorches him as he sees the multiple pairs of eyes fix on him. Of course – they only hear his side. To them, he’s just begging for his own skin. He doesn’t dare touch the Bond network between them to feel the derision he’s sure is there. “Get us outta ‘ere,” he corrects himself.

  Anyway, what would my life be worth if I get out of here without them? They’re clearly more important to Master than I am, Loran justifies. He’s not foolish enough to try to make a break for it – Loran knows what happens to slaves who try to escape their masters and are caught. No friends, no funds – and the Titanbends’ reach is long. He’ll be found. And that’s even without the issue of the mental Bond. No, making sure they all come out of this together is the only option for him.

  Alyna sighs.

  “I can’t do tha’ Loran, you know tha’. Dexil’d have me head. I might not have a collar round me neck, but if I’m honest, I’m little better than you are while I owe him. If he realises I helped ye escape, he’ll cripple me ‘fore he throws me back te the lawmen – with all me files.” She swallows, fear clear in her eyes.

  Loran’s mind races. While her fear of Dexil is stronger than her guilt at what she did to him, there’s no chance of her helping them. He darts a look at Reducer. Maybe he should take inspiration from her.

  “Me master’s coming,” he tells Alyna softly but firmly, looking her directly in the eyes and using the conviction that he always heard in Reducer’s voice to fuel his own emotion. He pushes away his own scepticism about it – convincing Alyna is what’s important. “An’ when he comes, he’s gonna tear this place down, and punish everyone who’s captured us.” At least, that’s what Reducer insists he’ll do. Even now, Loran can feel her firm agreement with his words. “Help us an’ I’ll put in a good word for ye.”

  She looks at him with as much scepticism as he’s trying to hide from her.

  “Why would ye master come for ye? Ye that valuable to him?”

  Loran shrugs.

  “I’m not.” Then he gestures at the cages and bound Lizard-people with his own manacled hands. “They are.”

  Scepticism softens into uncertainty. Loran knows that Alyna must be considering the measures that have been taken to keep them confined – and using that to judge how the captives within are being valued by the bosses: Dexil and whoever is paying him.

  “Help us, an’ I swear I’ll do my best te see you come out o’ this – an’ better than ye are now,” Loran urges.

  This has to work.

  here!

  here!

  here!

  here