His men departed. Shea felt it was safe to peer out. Her stomach clenched at the sight of a man standing with his back to her.
His shoulders shook as a chuckle escaped. “Woman’s a bloody escape artist.”
He ambled off in the direction of his men, leaving Shea to sag against the tent in relief. Thank goodness they hadn’t thought to check the tents nearby. She doubted it’d be long before they realized there’d been too much time between sightings and back track.
That meant it was time to rid herself of these manacles. She studied her wrists. This wasn’t going to be easy.
Dropping her hands, Shea looked around her temporary shelter. This tent was much smaller than the one Damon had chained her to. There were a few rugs spread across the ground, but these were threadbare and showed the wear and tear of usage. Not new and luxurious like the ones covering Fallon’s floor. The tent’s occupant had set up a bench in the corner. Tools were strewn across it and in the short buckets next to it.
Maybe the mess contained a tool that might help her get these things off.
She picked up a set of pliers. Those probably wouldn’t work. Back to the bench they went.
Oh! Maybe that would work. She picked up a handsaw. Maybe.
She straddled the bench. She contorted her wrists, trying several variations before giving up. It was impossible to get the right angle.
Maybe the chain binding her wrists together could be sawed through.
She tried holding the chain in place for the saw but every time she moved her arm forward or back in the sawing motion, the chain would move, making it impossible to start a cut.
“This is useless,” she hissed flinging the tool down.
Her eyes smarted, and she pressed her palms to them. No. No. She wouldn’t succumb to frustration. To do so meant giving up. Shea did not give up. Especially when this close to freedom.
She stood and walked over to the saw she’d thrown across the tent. So far it was the most useful of the tools she’d found. She grimaced at the black oily goop on the handle. It had landed next to a bucket of the sludgy substance. Beginning to wipe the black stuff on her hands off, she paused and rolled the goop between her fingers. It was slippery. Perhaps slippery enough to grease her hands so they’d slip through the manacles? It was worth a try at least.
She set the handsaw down and held her hands over the bucket, grimacing. This stuff looked disgusting.
Holding her breath, she sank into the sludge up to mid arm, shuddering at the cool, slimy feel of it against her skin. When her arms were sufficiently coated, she took them out. The substance had turned them nearly black. She shook off a bit of the excess liquid.
That should do it.
She hoped.
She set her fingertips against the rug and stepped on the chain linking her wrists together. She started pulling slowly but steadily on her left hand, feeling her heart leap in victory as it slipped half an inch out of the manacle. Biting her lip, she applied a little more pressure and then more until it felt like her wrist would pop off her arm.
With little warning, the hand slid free. It worked. Shea went immediately to work on the next hand. She stifled a grunt of relief when that hand slipped out easily. She would never complain about her small hands again.
Standing up, she held her arms away from her body. The sludge might have just saved her, but no way did she want it getting on her clothes.
Now that she’d regained mobility, she needed to see about finding a disguise. Dressing as a boy might help. The perimeter guards were expecting a woman. Not a teenage boy.
She wiped her hands against the rug, getting some of the black substance off, before walking over to pick up a worn knife from the table. She examined the dull metal. Whoever owned this tent sure didn’t care about his knives. It would work for her purpose but not much else.
Grabbing her braid in one hand, she lifted it off her neck and slid the knife under. With a sharp jerk, she sawed the length off and held the tail up in front of her. The rest of her hair fell along her jaw in soft waves as it worked itself loose of the remaining braid. Placing the other half of the braid next to her, she grabbed another hunk of hair and sawed that off, repeating the action until her hair stood out from her head in uneven clumps.
Next, she dipped her hands in some of the black sludge and ran them through what was left of her hair to darken it from her distinctive shade of honey brown. After going to all the trouble of cutting it, she didn’t want anybody recognizing the color.
A quick search of the tent yielded no alternative clothing, and Shea resigned herself to making do with what she already wore. Her shirt and trousers were baggy and didn’t immediately scream woman, but if anyone looked close enough, they’d see the outline of her breasts against the thin fabric. She needed something to put over it and maybe a few strips of cloths to bind her breasts flat against her chest.
As she turned to leave, she noticed a small knapsack sitting beside the flap and smiled. Just what she was looking for.
Moments later, she stepped outside clad in a baggy pair of black trousers and a cream-colored undershirt that was two sizes too big. She had to roll the sleeves up three times because unrolled, the fabric fell almost to her knees. Its previous owner must have been some kind of giant. Over the shirt, she donned a dark green, nearly black, sleeveless tunic, further disguising her figure.
The last piece of clothing she salvaged from the bag was a dark green leather jacket with yellow trim around the collar and at the wrists. It was the nicest piece of clothing in the bag, and Shea imagined the owner would be upset to part with it. The leather had been stretched and shaped to create patterns around the waist and on the upper arms. Someone had sewn a pattern into the edges where the coat buttoned together. Shea could tell by the slick feeling of the leather that it had been treated to withstand rain. Water would roll right off it. Best of all, it had a hood.
It was a little hot with the tunic and jacket but not unbearable. Shea hoped nobody would think the jacket was suspicious. She slung the man’s knapsack, with her former clothes stuffed inside, over her shoulder, hoping anybody who saw her would think she’d been tasked with a mission.
She tossed a handful of hair into the campfire. The manacles, she left in the tent.
It was tempting to disappear into the small spaces between the tents, but she resisted. Now that the Trateri knew she had used them, it would be best to take a different route. The soldiers probably used the easily accessible main paths. Skulking about would just arouse suspicion.
She was confident in her disguise but not enough to brave scrutiny by either Damon or Darius.
She headed to the edge of camp closest to the mouth of this valley. She wanted to be out of sight of the sentries as soon as possible and she’d be in view a lot longer if she went to the other side of camp.
She hurried along the dirt pathway, trying to project the air of someone with important matters to attend to. Meanwhile, she kept an eye out for anyone whose eyes lingered on her for too long or any shadows that might have followed her.
Shea clung to the tent’s shadows, watching as the perimeter guards conducted a systematic search of everyone heading to the outer ring of the encampment. She’d made it all the way to the end of the tent city. Now, she just had to pass the massive horse corrals and the training fields rimming the camp.
Beyond them was the outer perimeter, which would have stationary sentries watching from the high ground and roving sentries to keep an eye out for anything trying to slip through the cracks. That’s if whoever set this camp up knew what they were doing. From the looks of it, they did.