“His name is Torden and his owner left him with us for three days while he visits his sister who lives in town. He’s light gray - or he was until I used shoe blacking and soot to make him a nice, dark piebald with a distinctive star on his forehead. Once he’s wiped down, no one will recognize him.”

Elisa tucks her hair up under the floppy hat while Ava and Ibb get the stuffing in place under Papa’s oldest work shirt. With luck no one will recognize her in her garb as a fat chicken farmer.

“The rope will be under the boxes tied to his saddle. Mrs. Mueller gave Ibb a really good price for the chickens since they are old and too ornery to be useful anymore. Well,” she corrects herself with a grin, “if this goes right, they will get a chance to be really useful once more and they can earn their freedom.”

Being busy keeps her from thinking too hard about all that could go wrong with their plan. Obviously, saving Thaleia is the most important thing, but Elisa is really looking forward to striking a blow against the nasty, stinking Sergens who have taken over her city. She wonders wistfully if the Vessel will ever know how much support she has.

Ibb resists the temptation to pat Torden. But Elisa’s grin gets them to smile as well. “And they’ve got plenty of fight in them.”

They peer up and around Elisa’s padded side at Eva. “You should be able to get out all right after you ‘accidentally’ set them loose, everyone will be running around. And I’ll be there right behind you. That’ll spook them even more, when I run in, and then I can…”

They half close their eyes, trying to map out the keep’s courtyard in their mind. “…if I keep looking in the wrong places… no wait, if I run over there I can keep an eye on both of you, I’ll just have to look really lost. And then I’ll tell the first guard who stops me I have a message from Captain Everys-“

In the middle of patting the padding in place, they freeze. “-no, Everys was last time. This time was… was… Elisa, you know them, the loud one. Made me fetch your potato stew because they were so sure it was us who made it. That one. Them.”

Leaving the others to handle the actual prison break – Ursus never in his life imagined that terms like prison break would ever be part of his vocabulary, and yet, here he is, actually participating in one! – the genteel halfling bustles along what is to be the escape route. A horse was to be acquired somewhere, but it is best if he knows little about that end of things.

His contribution has been to identify a likely hidey-hole into which the erstwhile prisoner could be stashed, while the horse continued on its way as a distraction. Ursus knows the perfect place: a prearranged cellar underneath a friend’s smokehouse, a place where a person could lie hidden among the hams safe from the tracking of dogs and other creatures.

He hopes that Thalia isn’t allergic to woodsmoke.

The way is fairly clear the whole distance between the Gentle Keep and Biddleshire’s Fine Smoked Meats, and Ursus feels a growing confidence that this part of the plan will go smoothly, up to the point where he glances down the wide alley besides the storehouse towards the cellar entrance.

There are approximately three dozen Sergens stationed in the alleyway!

Ursus stops, open-mouthed. That cannot be right! He counts again, and to his slight relief realizes that shock and nerves have multiplied the number of swords and helmets in his imagination, but it’s bad enough! A patrol of soldiers are overseeing the loading of an oxcart with hams. Ursus can see Biddleshire himself arguing with a bored looking sergeant, as his men systematically emptied the storehouse of meats.

Biddleshire looks up, sees Ursus in the alleyway, shakes his head slightly, and continues to gesticulate at the Sergen.

Biddleshire is being robbed! Ursus thinks. How long will that take?

And is there an alternate safe-house that they can use? Time is running out!

One of the chickens scratches Torden as it flutters and squawks toward freedom and Elisa’s heart contracts in remorse as he rears up in surprise. She throws one arm around the horse’s neck and strokes his nose with the other.

“Oh, poor baby! Did that mean chicken claw you? There, there. You just stand quiet and I won’t let them near you anymore. What a pretty boy you are under this soot.” She croons to their borrowed party member and releases his neck to slap at her pockets for the apples she had brought for him. She is unwilling to break eye contact as he seems to be settling a bit.

“Ibb, can you help me find the apples? He really likes them and he is such a good boy. He deserves them, don’t you, Torden?” Even speaking to her friend, she uses the same soothing sing-song tone as she continues to stroke rhythmically and gaze into the big, brown eyes still rolling in unease.

They have to calm him down enough to keep him steady to anchor Thaleia’s rope. It wouldn’t do to lose him when they are so close to their goal.

A pair of bored Sergen Lieutenants, each looking about 15, wander towards the mouth of the alley where Ursus is standing. They are chatting amiably, their polished leather shakos under their arms, and pay no notice as the halfling squeaks and disappears into the nearest doorway, pressing himself against the glass door in an effort to vanish entirely.

To his surprise, the door opens behind him, and he is hauled inside by a large, callused hand, belonging to a human man dressed in neat town clothes. Ursus stumbles and sits down heavily.

“Inside, you fool, and keep quiet” the figure hisses, closing the door and locking it. He presses his face against the glass of the door, and peers out at the young officers. Ursus is first aware of the rich smell of leather, and glancing around realizes that he is in a cobbler’s shop.

After a bit, the man turns around. He is approximately 50-years of age, and solidly built. By this time, Ursus has regained his footing and found a spot away from the door. The man approaches and stands with his hands on his hips, looking down at the flustered halfling.

“The bastards are raiding Biddles and that’s no mistake. He’ll keep ‘em talking a while, which should distract them. What did you think you were doing standing there gawping? Did you want them to catch you?”

Ursus blinks. “Goodness, no! I was just taken by surprise, that’s all. You are a friend of Mister Biddleshire, then?”

“Aye,” the man replies, returning to the door to look outside. Whatever he sees appears to satisfy him. “Biddles is my friend and neighbor these thirty years. My name is Hedwigson. And you are Mister Sharpbrite. Biddles told me about you.”

“He…he told you….” Ursus begins, but Hedwigson motions him to stay quiet.

“He told me that someone needed a place to hide. And that I should maybe expect a little fellow like you about this time. That’s all he told me before the Sergens came knocking.”

With a swift movement, Hedwigson lifts a little gate in his counter and passes behind it, motioning for Ursus to follow. Through a door and into a crowded back-room, with a scarred work bench, and the corners all filled with rolls of finished leather in different colors and styles, spools of laces, roughly-cut blanks, needles, aglets, eyelets, and more types of punch-tools than Ursus can imagine uses for.

Shifting a carton aside, Hedwigson reveals a tiny crevice, barely large enough for Ursus, hidden within the clutter.

“Here. It’s cramped, and we’ll need to to be damn subtle to get your person out of the street and hid, but it’ll do. Now, tell me your plan.”

Ursus does.

Elisa’s always had a way with horses that Ibb never really could manage. Horses are too big by half, and they… well, it’s simple addition, they have to admit. Horses startle, and that tends to startle Ibb, and that startles the horse…

But Torden calms a little, and so does Ibb.

“Ibb, can you help me find the apples? He really likes them and he is such a good boy. He deserves them, don’t you, Torden?”

And now they have something to do. That’ll have to do.

“I can,” they answer as steadily as they manage and carefully begin to rummage for the apples.

Finally, they find one (after only stabbing their finger on something twice) and carefully take it out so that Elisa can give it to Torden.

Except Torden has noticed the apple, and… Ibb might not have Elisa’s skill with horses, but with the Sergans at the Giant’s Head, they know exactly how it looks like when someone won’t take “later” for an answer.

Ibb stands very still, rooted into the stone, and slowly extends their flat hand with the apple on it.

“Hello? I think this thing is on. I certainly hope so! Thaleia! You may not remember me, my name is Ursus Sharpbrite. I am a friend of…well, that’s not important right now. Slight change of plans. Ham is off. I repeat. Ham. Is. Off. I recommend instead a new pair of shoes. Oh bother, the light is going out –”

Elisa can hardly believe Thaleia is close enough to touch, so she does. She grins up at the bewildered face of Eva, convincing herself she can see the Thaleia behind the big eyes and squeezes her knee.

“This is Torden. When you get off at your hiding place, just slap him on the rump and he’ll head for the stable. We’ll come for you later today or tonight once things settle down. Don’t forget to change your face!”

Elisa is tugging the last of the chicken cages off the back of the patient horse when Thaleia whispers, “What does Ursus mean when he says, Ham. Is. Off. I recommend instead a new pair of shoes.?”

The girl looks blank for a moment wondering when Ursus had become so shoe conscious and then flutters all ten fingers in excitement. “Not the smokehouse, go to Hedwigson’s Shoes. That’s where you get stashed. Hurry! They’ll notice you’re gone soon!”

With that, Elisa gives Torden a slap to send him off in the right direction and tucks the coil of rope under her arm before grabbing Ibb’s hand in elation.

“We did it! I can’t believe it…oh, no!” The happiness on her face turns to dread and she turns pale. “Oh, Ibb! Torden isn’t ours - he can’t find his way back to the stable. How do I get him back home to clean him up? That man will be furious if I lost his horse! What am I going to do?”