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Chapter LXXVII : Spine
Earlnight of Terminus, Twenty-Eighth Day of Autumnmoon
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Cedric spent many nights in the old Angkorian dungeons, but his spirit was far from broken. He performed his work, as he had agreed, which led to quick progress on his Zounds airbase. Nevertheless, he never stopped searching for ways to undermine his captors.
Not a moment went by when the tortured screams of Mason Eckerd’s youngest son didn’t tear at his insides. Virgil’s odious act of coercion wouldn’t soon be forgotten. Nor would Cedric wash away the image of his sadistic eyes: bright orbs that reflected the nearby torch flames, as he gazed at his prisoner with unbridled malice from the other side of the cell.
It was the look of a madman. Or, perhaps, the same perverted demon magic that corrupted poor King Richard. No man of his right mind would ever commit such atrocities. Especially not without a hint of remorse. Cedric hated Virgil with a passion, but his animosity dulled over the passing days, instead forming a heavy lump at the bottom of his gut. A glowing ember, kept white-hot by his memories of the injustice. He vowed to carry it with him, always, to sustain his hunger for vengeance and retribution.
To outsmart Virgil’s shrewdness and cunning, he needed to know the man’s true motives. He tried to reason why Zounds was so important. Clearly, it was crucial to Virgil’s plans, but he didn’t know how. Fully operational, the airbase would have incredible destructive powers. But, if Virgil’s goal was simply to level the cities of his enemies, there were easier alternatives. Angkor’s military arsenal already had weapons stronger than any other force on the planet. Cedric surmised that it might have to do with the new “black box” devices. He studied their specifications, trying to work out their function. They appeared to be some kind of sensor, but what they were designed to detect remained a mystery.
As a last resort, he considered sabotage. An ever-so-subtle change might escape notice from the senior artisans, who thoroughly checked his blueprints for accuracy and validity. They were clever men, but far below Cedric’s intellect. He could sneak in a weak point along the main struts that would cause the hull to buckle at high altitudes, and no one would know the difference. He imagined Virgil on board, experiencing the fatal thrill of his weapon of mass destruction plummeting toward the planet. Cedric’s quill hovered over the design schematics, ready to ink in the bogus measurement that would cause the whole thing to collapse on itself. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
Zounds was too important. As wicked as the child might be, the father loved her too much to destroy her. Cedric clenched his teeth over his own sentimentalism, which stood in the way of perfect vengeance. Of course, he also had to consider the collateral damage, should a cathedral-sized airborne heap of explosive material come raining down on a populated area. The casualties would be too great to even imagine. He cursed under his breath. There had to be another way!
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But, not within his cell. And not without visibility to the outside world. He was denied a time piece or even an hourglass, leaving him with only the ability to judge relative time between events. Twice each day, the jailor interrupted his solitude. The first was to deliver and remove his waste and water buckets, which served for both drinking and hygiene, along with a smelly dish rag that reeked of old mold. The jailor also delivered porridge in the morn, the same gruel served to other prisoners. Hard to swallow at first, but being at the edge of starvation made it palatable.
Closer to lateday, the jailor delivered a more substantive meal. One of Cedric’s requests had been to feed off the same menu as the Royals, at least once per day. It consisted of starch, usually a crust of bread or some milk and potatoes; a slice of whatever fruit or vegetable had lingered longest in the food closets before spoiling; and a salty strip of fish or swine. At the end of the week, the Substratum butchered a calf and served red meat, though a few bites always seemed to be missing from Cedric’s plate. He suspected the jailor—an obese and repulsive man who always seemed to know how to raise his prisoner’s blood pressure—helped himself to a morsel or two before serving.
The new diet wasn’t all bad. Cedric consumed far less quantities of food than he had as Angkor’s Grand Craftsman. Consequently, he felt more energetic and began losing his stoutly figure. Between number crunching, he put his anger toward a regiment of exercise. His small cell was somewhat limiting, but the space between his cot and desk was adequate for stretching and pushups. He felt better than he had in years.
In response, the jailor worsened his treatment. Each time the filthy man entered the cell, he restrained Cedric’s left ankle to a clamp on the floor. Once secured, he bound Cedric’s arms tightly behind his chair and drove his head against the top of his desk. The man’s body odor was revolting. Every time he came within five spans, its potent effluvium brough bile to Cedric’s throat. The Craftsman glared at his assaulter, knowing the day would come when he would have his comeuppance. He vowed to find a means of escape, despite the risk of punishment. So he started scheming.
At first, the notion was more like a daydream. A passing fancy, like lazing between satin bed sheets with a warm brandy in hand. However, an accident born of frustration brought it closer to reality. While spending hours optimizing his design to accommodate another “black box” feature, he angrily shoved his blueprints off the desk, sending papers and tools cascading to the cold stone floor. Along went his calculatron, the precious adding machine of his own invention. When it hit the hard stone, he heard an audible crack. He was too late to save it, but when he bent over, he realized the frame was split, exposing a thin metal spine.
He gawked for a few moments before removing it from the broken instrument. So far, his captors had been meticulous in denying him any kind of metal tool, but here was something they had overlooked. It was rigid, yet pliable, about a foot in length. Given the right shape, it had the makings of a lock pick.
For days, he used the flame of his meager candle to soften and slowly bend the metal. He did this discreetly, no more than a few hours at a time, wary of being discovered. When he was done molding, he hid the tool inside his mattress. As soon as he was certain he was alone, he approached the lock and inserted the metal slowly, feeling around inside, imagining the mechanism’s inner workings. Then he made adjustments. He worked slowly and methodically, careful not to fracture the sensitive instrument and ruin his chances altogether.
At last, while twisting in the usual manner, he felt it catch. He applied a small amount of pressure, and the lock made a hollow clunk. His body surged with adrenaline, lifting him to unknown levels of euphoria. The gate opened, and he slipped swiftly into the darkness.