The fourth door in the corridor showed the light I was looking for. I listened, kneeling on the floor with my ear pressed against the crack, but heard nothing more than the thin crackle of a fire.
The door was unlocked. I pushed it open a small crack and peered cautiously within. Jamie was there, sitting on the floor against one wall, curled into himself with his head between his knees. He was alone.
The room was small, but well lit, with a rather homely looking brazier in which burned a cheery fire. For a dungeon, it was remarkably cozy; the stone flags were halfway clean, and a small camp bed leaned against one wall. The room was further furnished with two chairs and a table, on which sat a number of objects, including a large pewter flask and horn cups. It was an astonishing sight, after my visions of dripping walls and scuttling rats. It occurred to me that perhaps the garrison officers had furnished this snuggery as a refuge in which to entertain such female companionship as they could induce to visit them within the prison; clearly it had the advantage of privacy over the barracks.
"Jamie!" I called softly. He didn't raise his head or answer me, and I felt a thrill of fear. Pausing only long enough to shut the door behind me, I crossed rapidly to him and touched his shoulder.
"Jamie!"
He looked up then; his face was dead-white, unshaven and sheened with a cold sweat that had soaked his hair and shirt. The room stank of fear and vomit.
"Claire!" he said, speaking hoarsely through lips cracked with dryness. "How did you—ye must get out of here at once. He'll be back soon."
"Don't be ridiculous." I was assessing the situation as rapidly as I could, hoping that concentration on the job at hand would ease the choking sensation and help melt the large ball of ice in the pit of my stomach.
He was chained by the ankle to a bolt in the wall, but otherwise unfettered. A coil of rope among the rubble of objects on the table had plainly been used, though; there were raw marks on his wrists and elbows.
I was puzzled by his condition. He was clearly dazed and every line of his body was eloquent with pain, but I could see no obvious damage. There was no blood and no wound visible. I dropped to my knees and began methodically to try the keys of my ring on the manacle around his ankle.
"What has he done to you?" I asked, keeping my voice low for fear of Randall's return.
Jamie swayed where he sat, eyes closed, the sweat beading in hundreds of tiny pearls on his skin. Plainly he was near to fainting, but opened his eyes for a moment at my voice. Moving with exquisite care, he used his left hand to lift the object he had been cradling in his lap. It was his right hand, almost unrecognizable as a human appendage. Grotesquely swollen, it was now a bloated bag, blotched with red and purple, the fingers dangling at crazy angles. A white shard of bone poked through the torn skin of the middle finger, and a trickle of blood stained the knuckles, puffed into shapeless dimples.
The human hand is a delicate marvel of engineering, an intricate system of joints and pulleys, served and controlled by a network of millions of tiny nerves, exquisitely sensitive to touch. A single broken finger is enough to sink a strong man to his knees with nauseated pain.
"Payment," Jamie said, "for his nose—with interest." I stared at the sight for a moment, then said in a voice that I didn't recognize as mine, "I'm going to kill him for this."
Jamie's mouth twitched slightly as a flicker of humor forced its way through the mask of pain and dizziness. "I'll hold your cloak, Sassenach," he whispered. His eyes closed again and he sagged against the wall, too far gone to protest my presence further.
I went back to work on the lock, glad to see that my hands were no longer shaking. The fear was gone, replaced by a glorious rage.
I had gone through the complete ring of keys twice, and still found none that would turn the lock. My hands were growing sweaty and the keys slid through my fingers like minnows as I began to try the most likely ones again. My muttered cursing roused Jamie from his stupor, and he leaned down slowly to look at what I was doing.
"Ye needn't find a key will turn it," he said, bracing a shoulder on the wall to keep upright. "If one will fit to the length of the barrel, you can spring the lock wi' a good bash on the head of it."
"You've seen this kind of lock before?" I wanted to keep him awake and talking; he was going to have to walk if we were to leave here.
"I've been in one. When they brought me here, they chained me in a big cell with a lot of others. A lad named Reilly was chained next to me; a Leinsterman—said he'd been in most of the jails in Ireland and decided to try Scotland for a change o' scenery." Jamie was struggling to talk; he realized as well as I that he must rouse himself. He managed a feeble smile. "He told me a good bit about locks and such, and showed me how we could break the ones we were wearing, if we'd had a spare bit of straight metal, which we didn't."