LJI F&R 10: Hedging my bet...
Feb. 19th, 2016 07:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alexpgpThe story so far:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5| Part 6 | Part 7
“There are two simple things that have to happen before you can escape from a jail cell,” Lascaux used to say. “First, you need to unlock the door, and second, you have to remove anybody that gets between you and freedom.”
I rolled my eyes the first time I heard the old man say that. Listen to the Master of the Obvious, I thought to myself, but as with so much else Lascaux had taught me, the words expressed an essential truth, though there were usually—no, make that always—subtleties involved. Take my current situation, for example.
It did not take me long to determine that the cell I was in was sturdily built, with no loose stones in the walls, and no trap doors hidden beneath the dirt floor. The blanket was more like a collection of holes kept together by bits of fabric. The bucket was in better shape than its appearance suggested, but it was encrusted with dried waste on the inside. Yuck! I yelled to get the jailer's attention, and though I thought I heard the sounds of movement out in the corridor, nobody responded to my calls.
So it would seem that I was on my own, with the only tools at my disposal being what I had brought with me into the cell—myself, my clothes, and my boots.
Oh, and four gold sovereigns, two secreted in the heel of each boot. To be used only in emergencies, Lescaux had insisted, so he made sure they weren't easily accessible.
So, I sat down on the blanket, removed my boots, and began the process of extracting the coins. As I did so, Lascaux's voice whispered in my ear, reminding me that a weapon was not a club, or a knife, or a sword, or a lance, but any inanimate object wielded with intent to impose one's will—Lascaux did so love his generalizations—and that while any village idiot could walk about with a sword in his hand and give the appearance of being tough and dangerous, the ideal I was to strive for was to walk about empty-handed, but completely capable of 'imposing my will' using anything within reach. Including gold. During my time with Lascaux, I had frequently fallen short of that ideal; here and now, I needed to achieve it.
My initial plan was to offer a sovereign as a bribe to the jailer when he came to feed me, but there was no telling when that would happen. There had been no morning meal, and for all I knew, prisoners might only be fed once a day, in the evening. I needed to figure out how to get the jailer to visit me on my terms.
I dropped one of my coins into the bucket, but it merely thudded against the crud inside. I picked up a few handfuls of dirt, threw them in the bucket, and—holding my breath—used the coin and the blanket to scrape and scrub the inside until most of the hardened waste was loosened. I emptied the bucket and dropped in the coin. It made a sharp, joyful clink! sound as it hit the bottom of the bucket..
One of the most convincing effects a magician can perform goes by many names—Lascaux called it “The Miser's Fantasy”—and the old man had made me practice it for hours. I'll not bore you with the details of how it's done, but I was about to put on the performance of a lifetime.
I put my boots on, stood up with the bucket in my hand, reached into the bucket, removed the coin, and then carefully raised my hand above the bucket and allowed the coin to fall in with another clink! I repeated the process, except now, after removing the coin, I made it disappear and then reappear, and then dropped it into the bucket.
Clink!
Clink!
Clink!
If my cries had not moved the jailer, the repeated sound of something hard and metallic—the unmistakable sound of money—being dropped into a bucket did, because after a few minutes of clinking the coin into the bucket, I heard the lock turn in the door. I removed the coin from the bucket.
Step one complete, I thought to myself, as the cell wall swung open, and I gazed at the jailer, who glanced at me and then looked around the room suspiciously from the other side of the threshold. With a smile and a flourish, I picked a gold coin out of thin air, spun it in my fingers so the jailer could get a good look at the shiny yellow prize, and then dropped it into the bucket.
Clink!
The jailer cautiously stepped into the cell. His face told me he was perplexed, as he had personally made sure I had nothing but my clothing about me when he locked the door earlier in the day, and yet here I was, in possession of gold! I ignored him, glanced at a point between us and a little off to one side, reached out my hand, and picked a second gold coin out of the air. I gave it a little bite and winked at him before dropping it into the bucket.
Clink!
The jailer's mouth was now hanging open.
“If I were to fill this bucket with gold coins, my good man,” I said, picking a third coin out of the air, “would you look the other way and let me walk out of here?” The coin fell.
Clink!
I shook the bucket, and the coins inside jingled.
“Here, let me see that!” said the jailer, forgetting good sense and everything else and reaching for the bucket.
“Ah!” I said, moving the bucket out of the jailer's reach. “First answer my question.”
“If that's real gold...,” said the jailer, with a nod of the head.
I handed him the bucket, and as he focused his attention on the bucket and the coins inside, I made use of a certain technique that Lascaux had made me practice for years, one that allowed a physically small man—such as myself—to turn the size and weight of a much larger opponent to my advantage. When the dust settled, the coins were in my pocket and the jailer was on the floor, unconscious, bound with the manacles that had hung from his belt.
Step two complete, I thought to myself.
I could now make my escape at any time, but first I needed some information. I squatted patiently next to my prisoner. After a short while, he regained conscousness.
“Where did they take Usha?” I asked, but the jailer paid no attention to my question, and spent his energy sputtering about the indignities he would heap upon me once he got free. I touched a certain point on his jaw with a fingertip, and applied pressure. The jailer screamed, and then fainted. When he woke again, I repeated my question.
“And don't make me use my finger to quiet you down again,” I added, pointing my index finger at him as if it was capable of dischrging a bolt of lightning. “I might not be able to control myself next time, and—who knows?—you might not wake up next time.” Between the memory of recent pain and my quietly uttered threat, the jailer's eyes had become wide with fright, and his attitude had changed completely.
“I don't know where the girl is,” he said.
“That's not what I asked, “ I said, casually waving my finger in his direction to see his reaction. “I want to know where they took her.” Lascaux had repeatedly stressed the importance of paying attention to questions and answers, both spoken and unspoken, during such exchanges.
“I don't know. I guess they took her to the inn,” said my prisoner.
“In what direction is the inn?” I asked. He told me.
I used the blanket to improvise a gag and then locked the jailer in the cell. I searched the small building, but found nothing useful to me, except for a too-large hat, which might change my appearance enough to improve the odds of not being identified before I gained the inn.
I donned the hat as I stepped out through the front door of the jail and onto the street. My appearance attracted no attention, and I turned in the direction of the inn.
I had to find Usha and free her, and as I made my way down the nearly empty street, I said a brief prayer for her safety to gods I really did not believe in, and made myself as inconspicuous as possible.
[To: Part 9: Innocuous...]
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5| Part 6 | Part 7
“There are two simple things that have to happen before you can escape from a jail cell,” Lascaux used to say. “First, you need to unlock the door, and second, you have to remove anybody that gets between you and freedom.”
I rolled my eyes the first time I heard the old man say that. Listen to the Master of the Obvious, I thought to myself, but as with so much else Lascaux had taught me, the words expressed an essential truth, though there were usually—no, make that always—subtleties involved. Take my current situation, for example.
It did not take me long to determine that the cell I was in was sturdily built, with no loose stones in the walls, and no trap doors hidden beneath the dirt floor. The blanket was more like a collection of holes kept together by bits of fabric. The bucket was in better shape than its appearance suggested, but it was encrusted with dried waste on the inside. Yuck! I yelled to get the jailer's attention, and though I thought I heard the sounds of movement out in the corridor, nobody responded to my calls.
So it would seem that I was on my own, with the only tools at my disposal being what I had brought with me into the cell—myself, my clothes, and my boots.
Oh, and four gold sovereigns, two secreted in the heel of each boot. To be used only in emergencies, Lescaux had insisted, so he made sure they weren't easily accessible.
So, I sat down on the blanket, removed my boots, and began the process of extracting the coins. As I did so, Lascaux's voice whispered in my ear, reminding me that a weapon was not a club, or a knife, or a sword, or a lance, but any inanimate object wielded with intent to impose one's will—Lascaux did so love his generalizations—and that while any village idiot could walk about with a sword in his hand and give the appearance of being tough and dangerous, the ideal I was to strive for was to walk about empty-handed, but completely capable of 'imposing my will' using anything within reach. Including gold. During my time with Lascaux, I had frequently fallen short of that ideal; here and now, I needed to achieve it.
My initial plan was to offer a sovereign as a bribe to the jailer when he came to feed me, but there was no telling when that would happen. There had been no morning meal, and for all I knew, prisoners might only be fed once a day, in the evening. I needed to figure out how to get the jailer to visit me on my terms.
I dropped one of my coins into the bucket, but it merely thudded against the crud inside. I picked up a few handfuls of dirt, threw them in the bucket, and—holding my breath—used the coin and the blanket to scrape and scrub the inside until most of the hardened waste was loosened. I emptied the bucket and dropped in the coin. It made a sharp, joyful clink! sound as it hit the bottom of the bucket..
One of the most convincing effects a magician can perform goes by many names—Lascaux called it “The Miser's Fantasy”—and the old man had made me practice it for hours. I'll not bore you with the details of how it's done, but I was about to put on the performance of a lifetime.
I put my boots on, stood up with the bucket in my hand, reached into the bucket, removed the coin, and then carefully raised my hand above the bucket and allowed the coin to fall in with another clink! I repeated the process, except now, after removing the coin, I made it disappear and then reappear, and then dropped it into the bucket.
Clink!
Clink!
Clink!
If my cries had not moved the jailer, the repeated sound of something hard and metallic—the unmistakable sound of money—being dropped into a bucket did, because after a few minutes of clinking the coin into the bucket, I heard the lock turn in the door. I removed the coin from the bucket.
Step one complete, I thought to myself, as the cell wall swung open, and I gazed at the jailer, who glanced at me and then looked around the room suspiciously from the other side of the threshold. With a smile and a flourish, I picked a gold coin out of thin air, spun it in my fingers so the jailer could get a good look at the shiny yellow prize, and then dropped it into the bucket.
Clink!
The jailer cautiously stepped into the cell. His face told me he was perplexed, as he had personally made sure I had nothing but my clothing about me when he locked the door earlier in the day, and yet here I was, in possession of gold! I ignored him, glanced at a point between us and a little off to one side, reached out my hand, and picked a second gold coin out of the air. I gave it a little bite and winked at him before dropping it into the bucket.
Clink!
The jailer's mouth was now hanging open.
“If I were to fill this bucket with gold coins, my good man,” I said, picking a third coin out of the air, “would you look the other way and let me walk out of here?” The coin fell.
Clink!
I shook the bucket, and the coins inside jingled.
“Here, let me see that!” said the jailer, forgetting good sense and everything else and reaching for the bucket.
“Ah!” I said, moving the bucket out of the jailer's reach. “First answer my question.”
“If that's real gold...,” said the jailer, with a nod of the head.
I handed him the bucket, and as he focused his attention on the bucket and the coins inside, I made use of a certain technique that Lascaux had made me practice for years, one that allowed a physically small man—such as myself—to turn the size and weight of a much larger opponent to my advantage. When the dust settled, the coins were in my pocket and the jailer was on the floor, unconscious, bound with the manacles that had hung from his belt.
Step two complete, I thought to myself.
I could now make my escape at any time, but first I needed some information. I squatted patiently next to my prisoner. After a short while, he regained conscousness.
“Where did they take Usha?” I asked, but the jailer paid no attention to my question, and spent his energy sputtering about the indignities he would heap upon me once he got free. I touched a certain point on his jaw with a fingertip, and applied pressure. The jailer screamed, and then fainted. When he woke again, I repeated my question.
“And don't make me use my finger to quiet you down again,” I added, pointing my index finger at him as if it was capable of dischrging a bolt of lightning. “I might not be able to control myself next time, and—who knows?—you might not wake up next time.” Between the memory of recent pain and my quietly uttered threat, the jailer's eyes had become wide with fright, and his attitude had changed completely.
“I don't know where the girl is,” he said.
“That's not what I asked, “ I said, casually waving my finger in his direction to see his reaction. “I want to know where they took her.” Lascaux had repeatedly stressed the importance of paying attention to questions and answers, both spoken and unspoken, during such exchanges.
“I don't know. I guess they took her to the inn,” said my prisoner.
“In what direction is the inn?” I asked. He told me.
I used the blanket to improvise a gag and then locked the jailer in the cell. I searched the small building, but found nothing useful to me, except for a too-large hat, which might change my appearance enough to improve the odds of not being identified before I gained the inn.
I donned the hat as I stepped out through the front door of the jail and onto the street. My appearance attracted no attention, and I turned in the direction of the inn.
I had to find Usha and free her, and as I made my way down the nearly empty street, I said a brief prayer for her safety to gods I really did not believe in, and made myself as inconspicuous as possible.
[To: Part 9: Innocuous...]
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2016-02-19 09:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-19 09:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-20 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-21 03:04 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading.
Cheers...
no subject
Date: 2016-02-20 02:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-21 03:04 pm (UTC)Cheers...
no subject
Date: 2016-02-20 09:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-21 03:05 pm (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying it.
Cheers...
no subject
Date: 2016-02-21 09:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-21 10:27 pm (UTC)But over the years, I've written wa-a-ay too many interesting "beginnings" to stories that I've never followed up. However with Feather and Usha, I sense something is different. I may (he says cautiously) have hit upon a pace and a technique that has allowed me to get to a "part 8" and, I am confident, will allow the story to continue for as long as necessary.
That said, even if I get voted off this week, I think I may be at the brink of continuing the story even without Gary's prompts and deadlines.
Cheers...
no subject
Date: 2016-02-21 12:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-21 03:06 pm (UTC)Glad you're enjoying the story.
Cheers...
no subject
Date: 2016-02-21 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-21 10:18 pm (UTC)Cheers...
no subject
Date: 2016-02-21 10:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-22 06:13 am (UTC)Things are certainly look up for Feather vs. the last couple of weeks...
no subject
Date: 2016-02-22 02:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-22 10:04 pm (UTC)Loved it!
no subject
Date: 2016-02-22 10:21 pm (UTC)Now, granted, that's a little different from the coin and bucket trick, but the idea is the same - somehow, money has more of a power over many people than knives or guns (or superpowers). Not that you're moralizing here, but that was a smart theme to embed here.
Spinal Tap (in their earlier guise as The Thamesmen) have an amusing 60's style song on this theme:
no subject
Date: 2016-02-22 11:52 pm (UTC)