The spy had much more time than she to devise a plan of approach to the prison. She gathered uniforms, schematics, and sourced intel. It was impressively detailed for a person posing as a civilian to get access to. She wondered if this small woman was a far more formidable mage than she gave credit. They spent the day somberly plotting, preparing for a night time strike. Once ready, they traveled as far as the outskirts of the city with her cart. She could see the wall and the glittering lights of the inner city still miles down the hill.

  “You’ll have to make the rest of the journey on foot, I can’t be seen this close to the city if I’m to maintain my cover.”

  “I understand.”

  “You’ll check back in Nanendi on your way back to the gate and I’ll send news ahead of your return.”

  She gave a curt nod and exited of the cart.

  “We’ll have to disguise this as well,” Kesta muttered pragmatically, lifting the macana from the back of the cart to hand over to the soldier. “That is, if you want to bring it.”

  “Of course I do.”

  She winced slightly as Kesta held it aloft in front of her.

  “You’re not going to…change it, are you? Just an illusion?”

  Kesta broke her concentration on the thing and raised an eyebrow to the woman. “Sentimental?”

  Marhawet shrugged sheepishly. “Lucky sigils.”

  She smirked, “just an illusion. It’ll wear off in a few hours.” The woman spoke some words before the staff as it raised slightly out of her hands. The low thrum of magic was so familiar to Marhawet she barely took notice. She peered around the forest for any unexpected movement and light. When she looked back her macana was transformed into a much shorter, more pedestrian club wielded by guards of the empire. When she took it from her hands, she felt the familiar grip and weight of her own weapon.

  “Nifty trick.”

  “It gets niftier.” Kesta reached back into the cart and removed a covering from a large brass bowl filled with sundry arcane items. Marhawet winced for what was to come next. She was already prepared with the proper uniform, now she only needed the face to match. It was only the second time she needed to transform for a mission. She recalled the discomfort of the first. It wasn’t the pain, she was used to all manner of pain as a soldier, but rather the peculiar experience of sensation where you wouldn’t normally have any; under the skin, in the rarely thought about corners of the ears, throat, sinuses, scalp. A simple illusion wouldn’t work for humans. People were too attuned to the reading of faces, the uncanniness would be clocked immediately. It would have to be a transformation.

  Kesta performed the ritual over her as she lay supine, trying her best to fight the sensation to sneeze. She felt her brow push forward, her cheeks fill heavy with age. She grew a mustache.

  “It should wear off by morning,” she said finally, removing her items back to the cart. “You’re Captain Barro.” Marhawet nodded, lifting herself from the prickly grass of the valley and shaking out the strange tingling feeling in her face.

  Few words were exchanged in her departure. Marhawet was once again on her own.

  She approached the city with a steady gait, careful not to call too much attention to herself in the forest. Though at the angle of her embark there were no roads or houses. Only forest and the occasional plot of farmland.

  The prison grew out from the east side of the great wall that housed the central city of Tanetzlan. The rest of the wall was covered in sprawling buildings and neighborhoods, but the area around the prison was empty outside of the great red structure. It was an odd name, the Red House, but undeniably apt. It has the simple, streamlined shape of many of the adobe homes here, but on a much larger scale. A towering collection of squares and rectangles. The windows were so tiny and sparse that she had difficulty even estimating the number of floors in the building. It seemed as if there were no doors at all. But thanks to Kesta’s intelligence, she knew exactly where they were hiding.

  No one questioned her entrance, nor did she expect them to. There was no transformation magic here, why wouldn’t they trust a man they all knew? The halls were dark, but lit by gas sconces on the walls.

  She followed the corridor through several turns. She went up, one floor, two, three, four. At one point the corridor turned into a skywalk, a narrow rectangle bridge connecting to another tower. She looked down the four stories to the ground floor, still crawling with guards on their usual marching orders. No one seemed to be signaling her presence. The path led to a separate tower, it looked like the one she had seen on her entrance. She assumed at that time it was a lookout tower. Was she leading herself directly to the people whose gaze she was avoiding? As she got nearer to the tower, she recognised a second one to her left- that was the lookout tower she saw on the way in. The one she was heading to was blocked from view from the outside. A clever bit of architecture.

  The tower door was locked, with a guard on the other side that she could see through the grate in the center.

  “I need to speak to the prisoner,” she barked.

  “Sir...uh,” the guard fumbled a moment, “Where's Captain Iwai?”

  “Indisposed,” she responded indignantly.

  “She's...not coming?”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Well, you can’t go in there by yourself Captain, you know the rules,” he stammered.

  “Well you’re just going to have to come in there with me then, aren’t you?” she sneered. If there was one thing she was confident in, it was the way captains spoke to their subordinates.

  “Y-yes sir,” his moment of uncertainty passed and he stood stiffly again, like the symbolic pillar of strength he was supposed to be. He unlocked the gate and let her pass. She immediately bludgeoned him in the head with the handle of her macana. He slumped onto the ground. She didn’t check his pulse, but had no intention of finishing him off. She thought back to what Kesta said, if it somehow was a big misunderstanding, killing a dozen of their citizens in a rescue attempt wouldn’t exactly reflect positively on her kingdom. She dragged him over to a pipe in the far corner of the room and used his cuffs to attach him to it. The pipe led up the wall and turned in, seeming to funnel to the prison cell.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Prisoners get air conditioning?” she muttered to the unconscious man, fishing around his waist for the keys. When she found her plunder, she jolted to the door of the cell. Unlike the majority of the walls of the prison, this cell was metal, forged and shaped into a box set in the cool red clay. The door was entirely metal, with no grate at the front. She wondered how they kept an eye on the man from here. For a moment she wondered how he breathed. That must have been the purpose of the pipe- the room seemed completely sealed except for that iron pipe filtering in air. She slipped the key into the lock at the right side of the door. It was curiously high, nearly above her head. She turned the key, heard a clang, and pushed.

  Or, tried to push. the door didn’t budge.

  “The fuck?” She pushed, and pushed again. Nothing. She stepped back and searched the door. Along the same side, there was a second lock, down at her knees.

  “God damn,” she muttered. It did feel strange for there to be only one guard. Hers only had one key. Where did the other one roam off to?

  She took the former guard’s position, watching the skywalk from behind the door. It was the only entrance in, she could only assume he would come through here.

  And he did.

  “Captain?” the man addressed her as she opened the door for him, “what happened to-”

  “He’s an imposter! It's one of them!” She heard shouting from the pipe behind her. She leaped forward onto the bridge to grab the man as he immediately turned to alert the rest of the guards. She tackled him to the ground and managed to get her arm pressed to his neck long enough for him to go limp. She hunched over as she dragged his body back into the tower, worried she may be spotted through the open arches of the path. She walked over to the other man.

  “You’re one of them aren’t you? One of his little witch friends-” she knocked him out again before he could say more.

  “Oh you have no idea little buddy.”

  She locked both to the pipe and fished around for the second key. She prayed they didn't have to be opened simultaneously, she was tall but her arm span still couldn’t manage that. She knelt down beside the door and inserted the second key. She couldn’t hear any sounds from behind- she wondered how soundproof the doors were. Was he already waiting on the other side, expecting his salvation?

  As she turned the second key, she felt a release, like a seal that had been broken, and the thick metal door pushed itself just slightly outwards. Thank the gods, she thought, no more delays. As she pushed the door open, she saw a thin swirl of smoke escape from the room, quickly dissipating on the other side. The room was hazy, with only the dim glow of two lamps on either wall. In the center was a man.

  He looked like he was praying, at first. He was on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. It took her a moment to register that his hands were chained in suspension, and his head was drooped over them. She couldn’t make out his face. His hands were bound together by thick leather strands, in a position of prayer, to the extent he was barred from even moving a finger.

  She coughed. The air smelled sweet and grassy, but sickeningly so. It coated her lungs as she drew a sharp breath in. Her face tingled. The man at the center moved his head a bit in reaction to the sound. He released a small groan.

  She gave a sigh of relief, he was alive.

  “Councilor Patsik? Wake up.” As if clearing her throat, she felt the rasp of her masculine voice broken by the usual low timbre of her own. “What the fuck?” she muttered to herself, immediately reaching to her face. Her brow receded, her jaw tightened, her facial hair fell away. How was it fading now? It was far too soon. “Shit,” she cursed to herself, returning to the task.

  She leapt to his side and began trying the guard’s keys to release his shackles. After a few attempts, one finally worked. As she lifted them off his wrists, he immediately slumped to the ground. It was then she noticed his mouth was gagged. That's how they prevented his casting- if he can’t move his hands or speak the old tongue, he could do no magic. She pulled the gag down from his mouth and worked to cut the leather straps from his hands. But he still wasn’t alert. His eyes opened briefly, but seemed to swim about the room and focus on nothing in particular. His whole body was slick with sweat. His complexion was pallid.

  Marhawet tipped her head to listen outside the door for footprints. None so far. If the guards regained consciousness they would certainly make noise, but sound was unlikely to reach across the bridge to the main building. A shift change could be coming soon though. Kesta said the prison guards were constantly on the move, to stay vigilant.

  She felt a weak hand clasp her wrist as she pulled away the last bits of bindings. She looked back at the mage, who’s wandering gaze was now focused on her. He was muttering something. His eyes drifted off again.

  “What’s that?” she leaned her ear to his lips and gave him a bit of a shake.

  “Cover...your mouth…” he croaked.

  Marhawet jolted back from him to look around the room, but as she did her field of vision was invaded by black and red spots. The glowing orange lamps multiplied in front of her. “Shit” she muttered, quickly wrapping her scarf around her face. She didn’t bother to get to the straps binding his feet, she instead scooped him up under his shoulders and dragged him out of the room, into the center of the tower. That’s how they kept him from fighting back, that's how they prevented magic in the “witch tower.” How on earth did they manage that?

  She slowly heaved the door shut to keep any more of the smoke from spilling out into the main chamber. She looked to her side, the guards were still unconscious. No one was coming down the hall. Her head was pounding, but she could still feel her own strength. That much wasn’t magic. She lifted the prisoner and draped him over her shoulder. He was nearly as tall as her, but two months of wasting away made him shockingly light. Her steps were still unsteady as she stumbled into the pedway. She looked down at the courtyard as she moved. It was dusk now, a rolling fog was coming in from the north. She wondered if it was Kesta. That would be some powerful mage work. Or maybe it was just the gods acting in her favor. Maybe they didn’t mind the offering in that village after all.

  Without the disguise, she had only speed on her side. Quickly, she descended the tower to the main level. She met no other guards in the tower proper, but upon exiting was faced with two on either side of the door she just exited. Her uniform gave her a moment of hesitation from the guards. It was enough time to swing her macana and disarm them both, but not enough to prevent one from sounding off an alarm with an item around their neck. It was some manner of whistle, giving off a strong low tone that echoed across the courtyard.

  “Shit,” she murmured, leaping around the corner of the building directly across from them. A straight run wasn’t going to cut it, she thought. The northern clouds reached the walls, as she could start to feel a warm mist fall on her matted curls. She only made it a short distance from the tower before she was met with the reinforcements that the whistle called.

  They were young. They looked frightened of her, the kind of fear that only arises from superstition. Do they know where I’m from? She wondered, or is this just the fear of magic here? Even with the mage unconscious on her back, she powered through them like a breeze through a cornfield. Arrows on the gravel in front of her spilled around them. With the fog and darkness, she had no way of recognizing where they came from. Another tower, the wall perhaps. No bother.

  She lifted her macana and spoke the sigils engraved on its handle. It wasn’t a spell per se, merely an activation of an enchantment long ago cast by another far more powerful than she. The silver shimmer of magic was only detectable when an arrow came close enough to them to be reflected by the spell. Even then, it looked almost the same as the mist they were running in.

  She spoke the sigil on her boots, and felt weightlessness beneath her feet. She leapt the stories-tall gate. The lowlanders shrieked in horror as her figure was highlighted by the faint sheen of the quarter moon, and disappeared over their great stone barrier.