Radiant Days Read Free Page B

much time passed before they reached the towering black fortress that was Mazas Prison; never knew how many men he fought off inside the wagon until, exhausted and beaten till his ears bled, he collapsed, and they tore at his clothes in the filthy darkness, searching for money, tobacco, anything of value.
    “Leave him!”
    Arthur moaned as someone pulled him from the floor. A man cursed angrily, grabbing at the boy’s coat, then screamed in pain as a flash of quicksilver momentarily flared: a knife. The man fell back. Arthur found himself propped against the wall of the wagon.
    “Are you all right?”
    Arthur blinked, wiping tears and grime from his cheeks. A young man perhaps five years older than he crouched a few inches away. Deep-set eyes; a lean, slightly wolfish face; shaggy dark hair spilling to his shoulders. He set a hand on Arthur’s knee, glancing at the subdued group behind them, then spoke in a low voice.
    “Your first time?”
    Arthur nodded.
    “Do you have family here?”
    “Not in Paris.”
    The young man shrugged. “Maybe for the best—these days,they might hunt them down and throw them in with you. I’m Leo. What are you in for?”
    “Vagrancy. Arthur.”
    “Vagrancy, that’s not so bad. If you send for someone, they’ll release you. Can you pay the fine? I’ve been here seven times—vagrancy, theft, collusion, you name it. This time it’s for spying.”
    “They thought I was a spy. But I’m not.”
    “Well, I am. Or I was, anyway. Carried a few letters for a Prussian soldier—love letters to a girl here in Paris. She’ll be crying her eyes out that she’s never heard from him. That idiot police chief thought they were some kind of code.”
    “How do you know they weren’t?”
    “Because that Prussian was dumb as a plank, that’s why—he could barely spell his own name. Serves me right for doing a favor for someone even stupider than I am.” Leo grinned and settled beside Arthur. “But if you’re going to prison, Mazas is the place. Relatively clean, and they let you outside for an hour every morning. Can you write?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ask the guard to bring you paper and a pen; you can write a letter to ask for help. Make sure it doesn’t look like it’s in code. If you want to talk to other prisoners, do this”—Leo rapped on the floor—“once, that’s
A
; twice,
B
; three times,
C
.”
    “And what? Twenty-six knocks for
Z
?”
    “Try not to use
Z
. Actually, try not to use anything after
I
.” Leo leaned against the wall and dug in his pocket for a pipe and a twist of tobacco. “You learn to be creative in Mazas. Also concise.”
    He lit his pipe, drew avidly on it, and passed it to Arthur. Exhausted as he was, after a few minutes Arthur fell asleep, his head pillowed against Leo’s arm. When the wagon finally halted, Leo helped him to his feet, his hand lingering on Arthur’s shoulder as he gazed into his face.
    “Look for me when they let you go outside,” he said softly, and squeezed his shoulder. “We can share another smoke.”
    Arthur joined the queue of men being pushed toward the entrance by guards armed with truncheons. Inside, they stripped him and searched his pockets, finding only a stub of pencil and the wad of poems he always carried. They shoved these back into his overcoat, then proceeded to shave his head against lice, pour disinfectant that burned like acid onto his bare skull, and finally toss him back his soiled clothes.
    “‘Raimbault,’” the registration clerk said, squinting to read a scrawled document. “‘Vagrant.’ This way.”
    He was marched down one cold, echoing corridor after another, past ironclad doors and ranks of silent, tight-mouthed warders. He looked in vain for Leo, avoiding the dispassionate gazes that followed him down the dim hallway as he passed each cell with its grated window.
    “Here,” the warder announced at last, opening a heavy door with an iron grille. “Good afternoon, Monsieur Raimbault.”
    The