“Any sense of your surroundings?” I ask. “Up high? Ground level? Conveniently near a stable where horses for your escape are waiting?”

  She laughs and I get even more nervous. People who laugh when tied to chairs with death awaiting on the morrow are definitely not to be trusted.

  “Sorry. No such luck. Where are you anyhow?”

  “I think I’m in a storeroom. No windows. I see a door, but it looks forbiddingly closed. I don’t think I’m too far from you, though. The communication seems very clear.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. I’ve never done anything like this before. However, desperation is a strong motivator.”

  She isn’t kidding. The more I sense of her fatalism, the more desperate I become. “Let me break the link so I can figure out how this body works, see if I can even get out of this storeroom. Promise to contact me if your situation changes. Don’t do anything foolish.”

  Laughter, ragged with bottled up stress. “Oh, I’ve already done that. Now I’ve got to hope the foolishness was worth it.”

  The sense that we’re connected falls away and I’m alone in my head. One thing that doesn’t change from my natural form is the sense that the space inside my mind is infinite. That’s good because, over the next bit of time, I need every bit of me I can get.

  Flying isn’t too hard to get a hang of. All that practice I’ve done as owls and crows—and a very short stint as a pigeon—pays off. What takes some doing is adjusting to the different orientation of my body. There’s a lot more undercarriage involved. However, this body has a nice long tail and, as I’ve learned from my time as cats, tails really do help with balance.

  Once I can fly with relative confidence, I inspect my surroundings. I’d told Enslaver that I was in a storeroom, but now I modify my assessment. Treasure room is more like it. No windows. One door, very heavily made, strapped with iron. Not even a keyhole, so it’s probably barred on the outside. That’s the bad.

  The good is that there’s a lot of stuff in here with me. Fragile stuff. Breakable stuff. I’m considering how I might use that when I get a new message from Enslaver.

  “Hey, you. Update. Remember the fellow who leered? He’s been back. I think he has plans. And if he unties me from this chair, he’s going to find the drawings and then things are going to get worse really, really fast.”

  “Drawings?” I shake my head. “Never mind. Do you have any sense of what time it is? How late?”

  “Hmm… It’s pretty dark out. Now that I think about it, the revelers have been making less noise, so it’s probably getting late.”

  “That’s good, except that it also means morning’s coming. Still, this may be our best chance. I’m going to try to break out now.”

  “Do. I had the impression that my ‘admirer,’” the word tastes like salt and lemon on a raw cut, “is waiting for his supervisor to go off duty.”

  “Right. And you don’t want him to see the drawings.” I’m still puzzled by that, especially since the fellow probably intends something a lot less friendly than a chat about art. Guards take liberties with prisoners they figure are doomed anyhow, something I’d learned from the final days of several unfortunate witches.

  “Absolutely not! Before I let you get on with your part, I’d like to ask a favor, if you can manage it.”

  I blink, only then realizing I have at least three eyelids. Useful. But that realization occupies just a corner of my mind. What startles me is this asking for a favor. It sounds like a genuine request, not a politely phrased order.

  “Yes?”

  “Did you notice any little carvings when you came around? They’d mostly be stone, but some shell, too.”

  “I did.”

  “If you can manage to carry a few out with you, that would be helpful. I might be able to use them to help me escape.”

  She breaks the connection then, but not before I feel more of that disturbing desperation. I’d better get out of here before she gets both of us killed.

  I glide back to the shelf. As I come in for a fairly smooth landing I note that next to the carvings there’s a small suede bag with a drawstring closure. Experimentally, I pick it up. It’s not too heavy, but I’m not very strong. Next I inspect the carvings. The shell ones are lightest. My front feet have three talon “fingers” and a ripping claw that more or less doubles as a thumb—another great improvement over prior shapes.

  Fumbling a bit, I manage to stuff several shell carvings and an irregularly shaped chunk of polished stone into the bag. Then I pull the drawstring closed and duck my head through the loop. The end result is cumbersome, but I can still fly. Now for the grand escape. I hope…

  Rising into the air, I circle the room until I’ve gathered as much momentum as I can in this limited area. Then, rear feet extended, I come in for a dive into a lovely porcelain vase that holds pride of place on a light-weight, multi-tiered display unit. As I had hoped, the vase’s toppling creates a cascade effect. Soon the room is echoing with the sound of smashing valuables.

  Once I knock the vase over, I flap a few laps to restore my momentum. I’m contemplating what I can break next, if I haven’t made enough noise to get the guards curious, when I hear a promising thumping against the door. Although I can’t hover like a hummingbird, I manage to keep my place, rather as a hawk does before stooping into a dive. When the door is jerked open, I’m ready.

  Two guards dash in. I dart over their heads and out. Happily for me, the door has high clearance and I swoop over their heads before they notice. I’m also helped by the fact that this is a subterranean corridor for which the lighting is supplied by lanterns hung where they will light the lower portions most effectively. The shadowed area above wouldn’t hide a human. It might not even hide one of the larger owls, but it’s enough to cover a small dragon like myself.

  Ignoring the gongs beating and shouts from behind me, I race overhead. The heavy door at the end of the corridor opens as I approach, admitting a half-dozen or so armored guards. They thunder under me without looking up. As I duck through the door, it’s slammed behind me and the bar dropped. While the remaining custodians are occupied with the security precautions, I assess my surroundings.

  I’m in a relatively large room marked by doors similar to the one through which I have just escaped. More treasure rooms probably. The only exit is a wide stairway heading up. If I know my humans, before long even more people will come pouring down that, but I don’t have the leisure to hide until they decide that the vase slipped of its own accord and the fuss was for nothing.

  My enslaver is doing her best to keep her feelings to herself, but I have a lot of experience reading tyrannical masters and I can sense that she’s growing increasingly nervous. While the custodians’ backs are turned, I wing up the stairs. Here I get my first lucky break. (The crashing of all that valuable porcelain wasn’t luck. I planned that.) The door at the top of the stairs has openings, probably for ventilation. These are barred. The builders weren’t stupid but, while the openings wouldn’t permit anything large to be handed out, if I fold my wings down tightly, my slinky lizard body can slide through. I shove the suede pouch through in front of me and go.

  Once I’m out, I find myself in a wide area where several corridors come together. This isn’t really a room, although it is carpeted and has some nice ceremonial suits of armor displayed against tapestried walls. I don’t bother to stop and admire the decorator’s taste, because I’ve spotted something far more wonderful—an open window.

  Again, this is latticed, but even a cat could get through. For me, it’s no barrier at all. I dive out and come to rest in a neatly pruned ornamental tree which is planted in a nice courtyard, surrounded by heavy stone walls. I catch my breath and concentrate on finding where Enslaver might be. That’s easy enough. She’s in one of the five elegant towers that rise up from the surrounding walls.

  Groaning a little, because my wings are beginning to ache, I flap out of the tree and into the darkness. Most of the windows show little light, confirming the lateness of the hour, but a few bright spots here and there show that not everyone has retired. The occasional flare of sudden brightness I smugly credit to some official awakened to deal with the problem in the storeroom.

  When I come to the appropriate window, I’m unsurprised to find it open, since Enslaver had mentioned hearing the sounds of revelry. Nor am I surprised to find it latticed against easy departure. After landing, I take time to assess the situation within. The room is a nicely appointed combination bed and sitting room, much as one would expect, except that the sole inhabitant is roped to her chair.

  She slumps forward, apparently held in place only by the ropes. Dark blue-black hair, intricately braided and interwoven with ropes of pearls, screens her face, so I can’t tell if she is conscious or not. She has an opulent figure, well-displayed by a gown of violet shot with gold. Amethyst and pearl earrings swing from dainty ears.

  “Hey, you!” I say, mind to mind. “You ready to escape?”

  She sits up with a suddenness that makes me suspect she was preserving her strength. “Can you get these bonds off me?”

  “Not sure. Let me take a closer look.” I push through the lattice and soar over, landing for a moment on Enslaver’s knee. She gives a small gasp of admiration. I have to resist the urge to preen. Whatever other advantages it has, this dragon body is really vain. “I’m going around to the back where the knots are. Has that guard been through?”

  In reply, Enslaver turns her face so that I can see the far side. Her skin is a nice golden brown, but the vivid red mark stands out nonetheless. Her right eye, snapping black as polished jet and framed by generous lashes, is beginning to swell shut.

  “Ouch!” I say, reluctantly sympathetic. I’d been enslaved by a few really nasty witches, but even with them I didn’t like when they were tortured. I don’t expect you to understand, but don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m soft. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  I try to sound confident, but I’ve already gotten a look at the knots holding the rope and I can already tell they’re beyond the ability of my claws to untie. Experimentally, I grab the uppermost cord between my fangs and tug against the knot. The cord moves slightly.

  “Good news, bad news,” I send. “I think I can untie these, but it’s going to take a while. How long before that bastard comes back?”

  “Not long. He only left because one of the other guards called for help. Please! Isn’t there anything else you can try? I tried for someone who could get me out in time to rescue the princess. Surely there must be a faster way.”

  I arch my eye-ridges at this mention of her rescuing anyone else, not to mention the rest of this nonsense. Doesn’t she know anything about summoning familiars? Still, I don’t really want to be forced to fight an armed guard to keep her from getting raped and maybe killed. The entire situation is giving me acid indigestion… or is it?

  Turning my head to one side, I emit a small, experimental belch. To my supreme satisfaction, not only does this relieve some of the discomfort, a small gout of flame bursts forth.

  “I may have a way to set you loose quickly, but it might hurt.”

  “I don’t care! I must find the princess before she’s forced to do something she’ll hate until the end of her days.”

  “If you say so. Bite down. This is probably going to hurt.”

  I feel her brace herself, then I breathe down hard on where the rope encircles her delicate wrists. Before you ask, yes, I could have chosen higher up, where her skin was shielded by the fabric of her gown, but I had a bad feeling that the cloth would go up in flames. Bare skin blisters, but it takes more to set it on fire.

  Enslaver breathes in a deep gasp, but doesn’t cry out, not even when I start clawing at the now-charred cord. My flame might be tiny, but a focused burst like that is very hot. Within a short while, I have her wrists free. Although this does not cause her bonds to fall away all at once, she now has the ability to wriggle.

  As she pulls her hands in front of her, she sends, “I see you’ve brought my amulet pouch. Can you carry it over here?”

  Again, asking, not ordering! I wonder what her problem is but, even though she didn’t order, I obey nonetheless, even leaning down so that she can slide the drawstring over my head. Then I flap off to rest on a tabletop while she spills the contents onto her skirt.

  “Oh, you precious dragon,” she breathes aloud. “You brought my blade!”

  I’m still blinking my three lids back into place when she touches her finger to a curved bit of shell that, now that I look at it right way around, does, in fact, look something like a scimitar. She concentrates, her good eye shut as tightly as the swollen one. I feel the burst of energy that comes from her into the bit of shell. When it ebbs, what rests in the shell’s place is a very tiny dagger.

  “Kranu’s eyes!” she curses in a harsh whisper. “I must have used too much on you.”

  She’s not crying, but I feel panic rising. Not wanting anything to do with that, I hiss something soothing, flap over, and pick up the miniature blade. Then I set to work on the rope that binds her arm. The blade may be tiny, but it’s sharper than a razor. I’m able to saw through the restraint before the sword turns back into shell. Enslaver flexes her arms and the bindings loosen enough so that she can finish freeing herself.

  When she stands, I see what she meant by drawings. Although her hands had been restrained, they hadn’t been tied too tightly for her to move them. With her fingernails she had managed to scrape an intricate pattern into the varnish at the back of the chair. Although the lines are stylized, they clearly depict a winged dragon.

  I want to ask a lot of questions—like how she managed a summons this way, but it never does to show an enslaver that you’re impressed. Besides, I don’t think she would have stopped for a chat. After glancing at her burned wrists, she ignores the blistering surface. She shoves the rest of the bits of shell back into the pouch, pulls it shut, stuffs it down her bodice, and rises to her feet.

  “Thank you,” she says, speaking softly. “If you want, you can go now.”

  “What?” I send. “Can you unbind me?”

  “Bind?” She coils up the longest section of the rope that had bound her, and sets a few smaller sections aside. “I didn’t bind you.”

  “I beg to differ. You did and very firmly.”

  “Well, I have no idea how I did it, and so I have no idea how to undo it. Nor do I have time to figure out how. If and when I get free of this place, I’ll take the time. First I need to free Kolasanvalida.”

  “Kolasanvalida? Your princess has a really embroidered name.”

  “Kolas and Valida. They’re not the princess. We’re her attendants. We’re also her friends. If we don’t all get out of here, the duke is going to torture each one of us in front of Princess Snowdrop until she agrees to marry him, name a child of his lineage as her heir, then sign over her rights to the throne.”

  I’m interested despite myself. I’m also scared again. Enslaver has been burrowing under the bed and now emerges with a sturdy chamber pot.

  “Could you stop thinking of me like that?” she asks. “I’m sorry if I bound you, but I didn’t mean to. I was born a slave myself, and I’d never willingly enslave anyone. My name is Ryanne. I needed help to get out of that chair. Now you can stand by and I’ll do the rest.”

  Clearly this Ryanne has no idea of the consequences to me if she fails. If I want any chance of living long enough to be unbound—if she even keeps her promise, which I doubt she’ll do when she has time to consider what sort of being she has in her power—I’d better help.

  “Am I correct that you can’t do any more magic now?”

  “That seems to be it,” Ryanne agrees. “Normally that charm turns into a handy medium-weight sword, perfectly balanced for my needs. I usually keep it on a bracelet, in case you’re wondering.”

  I had been, but I’m not going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that. Instead, I say, “So, the plan is to wait until your guard comes back, hit him over the head with that chamber pot, and get out?”

  “I knew you were smart,” she says. “If you’d heard the things he said after he slapped me, you wouldn’t have any doubt he’s coming back. I’m only worried he’ll bring a friend to share the fun.”

  “I like your plan,” I say. “Why don’t I go see what’s keeping him? I can fly down and peek in windows.”

  “Great!” Ryanne says. “While you’re at it, could you see if my friends are in this tower? Kolas is a big guy, blond as I’m dark, fair-skinned, with steel-grey eyes. Valida has brown hair, eyes, and skin. She’s lean as a beanpole, so you might take her for a boy. A lot of people do.”

  Any hope I had that Ryanne and I don’t actually have a familiar bond vanishes with the descriptions, because I don’t just get words, I get images. For example, I know Valida’s brown hair is very straight and impossibly long. I also know there is some important reason she wears it that way, though I can’t figure out just what. And I know that when Ryanne said Kolas had “steel-grey” eyes, she didn’t mean a shiny grey, she meant that when seen in direct sunlight they reflect light like polished metal.

  “I’m on it. Let me know if you brain anyone before I get back.”

  “Will do,” she says, moving a small table so she can experiment with angles.

  From my exterior vantage, I don’t see any guards, so they’re probably in an internal corridor. I do find Valida and Kolas. I decide I’d better hold back the exact details until Ryanne is free of her prison suite. After all, if she doesn’t get free, their condition won’t matter. I tell myself I’m not sparing Ryanne distress, just that I don’t want her unduly distracted.

  I return to the room to find that Ryanne has changed her strategy. She’s apparently realized that if she isn’t in the chair when the guard comes in, still apparently tied up, the plan will be blown. Therefore, she’s returned to the apparently hopeless pose in which I’d first seen her. However, this time the hand that isn’t visible from the door holds a stout length of wood.