Out of the Darkness

One of the Unkerlanter gang bosses--one of the few captives who ranked as Ceorl’s equal in the cinnabar mine--said, “Why don’t you cut your throat? Then we won’t have to listen to you anymore.” But even he smiled when he said it. He didn’t want trouble from Ceorl. Nobody, not captives, not guards, wanted trouble from Ceorl.

Another Unkerlanter, one less prominent in the camp hierarchy, said, “Why don’t you cut off that ugly beard? Maybe that would do some good. It sure looks like you’ve got the mange.”

“It does not,” Ceorl said indignantly. He was right, too; he had a fine, thick, curly beard. But he could have kissed that Unkerlanter--he’d been waiting for days for somebody to suggest shaving to him. He scratched again, then cursed again. “Powers above, maybe I will cut it off. Anything would be better than what I’m going through now. Who’s got a razor he can lend me?”

The gang boss said, “You’ll need a scissors first, to get that mess short enough so a razor will cut it.”

“If you say so,” Ceorl answered. “I don’t know anything about this shaving business. I really may cut my throat.”

He didn’t get the chance to find out for another couple of days. He carefully spent all that time grumbling about how his face itched. When he got a scissors and a broken piece of mirror to guide his hand, he snipped away at the whiskers he’d never done more than trim before. By the time he set down the scissors, he was shaking his head. “I really do look mangy now.”

The Unkerlanter called Fariulf handed him a straight razor and a cup of water to wet down what was left of his whiskers. “You won’t once you’re done here,” he said.

Ceorl rapidly discovered he despised shaving. He cut himself several times. The razor scraped over his face. Had he really had an itchy skin, he was sure what he was doing would only have made things worse. His hide, in fact, did itch and sting by the time he got done. He shook his head again. “People have to be out of their cursed minds to want to do this every day.” Reaching for the scrap of mirror, he added, “How do I look?”

His Unkerlanter was still foul. He knew that. People mostly understood him now, though. Somebody--somebody behind him, whom he couldn’t note-- said, “You’re still ugly, but not the same way.”

Looking into the mirror, Ceorl had to admit that wasn’t far wrong. A stranger stared back at him: a man with a thrusting chin with a cleft in it, hollows below his cheekbones, and a scar above his upper lip he’d never seen before. He hadn’t shown the world his bare face since he was a boy. He looked as if he’d suddenly got five years younger. He also looked like an Unkerlanter, not a Forthwegian.

“How does it feel?” Fariulf asked.

Lousy, Ceorl thought. But that was the wrong answer. He splashed a little water from the cup onto his abused face and ran the palm of his hand over his cheeks and chin. His skin felt as strange to him as it looked. Making himself smile, he said, “I think it’s better. I’m going to have to keep doing this.”

Acquiring a razor of his own didn’t take long. Unkerlanter miners died all the time. Survivors split what little they had. They weren’t supposed to have razors, but the guards usually winked at that--picks and shovels and crowbars made weapons at least as dangerous. One of those razors ended up in Ceorl’s hands. Little by little, he learned to shave without turning his face into a mass of raw meat.

One afternoon, he took Sudaku aside and said, “When I give you the word, I’m going to want you and the boys to screw up the count.”

“Ah.” The blond from the Phalanx of Valmiera nodded, unsurprised. “Going to disappear, are you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ceorl answered. He slapped Sudaku on the back. “I wish you could come along. But it wouldn’t work, you know.” He wasn’t even lying; Kaunian or not, Sudaku made a pretty good right-hand man.

But Sudaku was a Kaunian, a blond. If he escaped from this mine, from this captives’ camp, he couldn’t possibly pretend to be an Unkerlanter. Ceorl could. “Good luck,” Sudaku told him, and sounded as if he meant it.

“Thanks,” Ceorl said. “I’ll let you know when.” Sudaku nodded. Ceorl knew he was taking a chance by saying even this much, but judged he could trust Sudaku so far. And the longer the head start he and Fariulf got when they broke out of this mining compound, the better the chance they had of getting away clean. If Ceorl hadn’t believed in taking risks, he never would have become a robber or joined Plegmund’s Brigade.

Then he had to get as ready as he could. Saving food wasn’t easy, not when the captives got barely enough to keep them alive. Still and all, he managed to accumulate a good many little bricks of black bread. They would be stale and hard by the time he made his move, but he would still be able to eat them. He hoped Fariulf was making similar preparations. He hoped so, but he didn’t try to find out. If Fariulf wasn’t ready once they broke out, too bad for him.