I sit huddled on the roof of the guards' barracks, watching the moon as it silently rises ever higher in the sky. My eyes trace the Fireline and I instinctively orient myself while I wait patiently for the guards' next shift change. The Palace residents have all long since retired to bed and the footpath below me is silent, but at any moment, I should be able to pick up on the heavy shuffle of the last guard emerging from the barracks to begin his night of work.

The dark clothes I lifted from the laundry help me melt into the shadows. I relax, focusing on keeping my heartbeat slow and steady.

As I wait, it occurs to me how strange it was not to run into anyone during the silent journey from my bedroom to the gaol. Assuredly, the courtiers must feel safe behind the faultless walls of their Palace. They sleep soundly, certain that any threat of Wastelanders would be first felt by the unfortunates at the outer edges of the City.

Finally, the man I was waiting for emerges from the building below me. From my position I see him adjust the sword at his waist before he strolls off toward the gaol, whistling a low tune. I stay perched on the roof, listening for any sounds of someone awake and rustling about inside the barracks. Hearing nothing, I assume that all the men are tucked securely into bed and snoring contentedly.

This is the moment. I roll over the edge of the roof and lower myself toward the window, swinging forward and landing silently on the floor inside. Finding myself between two narrow beds, I drop down onto my stomach between them, slowing my heartbeat so I can make out the individual sounds from the beds around me. I lie stone still, concentrating and counting the number of distinct snores. I repeat the count one more time, just to be certain, before I rise slowly to my feet, assured that every off-duty guardsman is accounted for and dead asleep.

With my breaths shallow and my footsteps light, I ease my way over to the footlocker at the end of one of the beds. I grasp the lid of the wooden chest and lift it, my heart leaping into my throat at the sound of the groaning wood. The man in the bed in front of me snorts loudly and I freeze, the lid of the footlocker only half-raised. The man shifts his position and expels wind before sighing and sinking back into his steady symphony of snores.

I wrinkle my nose, raising the lid further and pulling out one of his neatly folded uniforms. Taking stock of a pair of boots, a tunic and pants, I gather the items into a bundle and gently place his sword and belt on top. I tie the assortment quickly and securely before closing the lid and then tiptoe back toward the window, chucking the items out onto the ground below.

I heave myself through the window, my landing muffled as I land on the bundle of stolen clothes. I grin to myself, pulling the items on over my own dark outfit and hoping that the extra layer will help to fill out the uniform. After pulling the boots on, I tie a dark scarf around the lower half of my face, tucking my braided hair down the neck of the tunic and smoothing away any wayward strands. Finally, I pull on the heavy leather breastplate and cinch the belt and sword around my waist, grunting when it slips down my hips. I wrestle with the belt for a moment before impatiently tying the length of leather around my waist in a crude knot.

I pull the hood up over my head and cross the short distance from the barracks to the gaol. I was lucky in that the guard I had relieved of his clothes appears to be on the smaller side, but the boots shift around uncomfortably against my feet and rub blisters onto the back of my heels. I ignore the discomfort and continue onward, adopting the kind of swagger I have seen the guards use; I pull open the thick wooden door of the gaol and stride inside.

A low, flickering torchlight laps against my face and I slow my pace to take stock of my surroundings. The entrance is occupied by a single older man sitting behind a wooden desk in front of an ominous gated door. He glances up lazily at my approach, his expression blank.

"Heading down?" he asks.

I nod and he stands up, rattling his keys, and unlocks the heavy door behind him. I sidle past him and head down the stairs, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the low rocks around me as I descend.

I can scarcely believe how smoothly everything is going. I move slowly and purposefully down the stairs, wanting to give myself ample time to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The air feels dry and heavy, made cold by the oppressive stone walls surrounding me. I am warmed by my heavy breastplate, at the same time feeling a stab of sympathy for anyone made to stay down here without such luxuries. I can hear the low murmur of voices coming from below, interrupted intermittently by wracking coughs. Besides that, it is ominously quiet.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and walk down a low-ceilinged hallway, my mental map laying out the ground before me. I know that the general-population prisoners will be split between two cells located at the far end of the hallway, but I am uncertain of how many guards will be down here and where they will loiter. The aim of tonight's scouting mission will be to familiarize myself with the area and the guards' placement so I can plot an escape route.

The voices grow louder as I reach the end of the tunnel. Here, the space opens up and the torches dotting the wall cast an eerie glow, throwing menacing shadows across the narrow tunnel. Directly in front of me are two heavy wooden doors, which I know to be the locked entrances to the men and women's cells. Following the sound of talking, I turn my head and spy two guards sitting at a small wooden table shoved against the far wall.

One of the men looks up at me and raises a hand in greeting. I nod and make my way over to them, wrinkling my nose at the smell permeating from their corner, worse than the unwashed bodies behind the cell doors.

The source of the stench appears to be coming from the tin cask on the table between the guards. The smaller of the two takes healthy drags from it; cheap whisky dribbles down his chin.

"Evenin'," the larger man greets me. His partner sets the cask down and grunts out his own acknowledgement.

"Evenin'," I say, speaking from my chest and lowering my voice by several octaves. I rest my hand casually on the hilt of my sword and widen my stance, believing myself to be taller and broader than I am.

The cask is offered to me and I shake my head, gesturing at the darkened corridor ahead.

"Rounds," I grunt. When impersonating a different gender, I find it best to keep to low light and limit my words as much as possible.

The glassy eyes of the larger guard seem free of suspicion. He turns away from me, suddenly distracted by an itchy armpit. His associate appears even less interested; he slumps forward in his seat, crashing his head onto the surface of the table.

I turn and walk into the gloom, careful to pass near the cell doors. Allowing my eyes to rove over the brass locks, I note that they appear to be secured with a single, heavy latch. I make a mental note to check the guards for the keys on my way out.

Rounding a corner, I find myself in a narrow, darker tunnel illuminated by the occasional torch; several others are burned out and long forgotten.

The solid wooden doors of the isolation cells begin to dot the walls to my left and right but I keep my eyes straight ahead, ears pricked for the sound of unwanted company. The silence begins to feel claustrophobic as I move deeper and deeper into the depths of the gaol. The isolation corridor appears completely unpopulated and I don't spy a single guard as the tunnel curves further. I round another corner and make my way toward the very back of the prison.

My heartbeat and footsteps reverberate loudly as I am plunged ever deeper into the darkness and encroaching silence.

Eventually, the hallway widens once again and I stop in my tracks to regard the final chamber, listening for the sounds of any remaining guards. Hearing nothing, I step forward, surveying the imposing doors of the final rooms.

I have no doubt that these are the doors to the torture chambers. Each is made of a solid piece of wood and sits snugly in the cold stone frames, silent and strong, guarding the secrets of the atrocities hidden behind.

I shiver beneath my layers of clothing, though whether it is from fear or anger, I can't be sure. My gaze travels down the hall toward the dead end and my breath catches in my throat when I notice the very last door standing open on its hinges.

I should turn back. I have established that there are only two guards stationed out front and none further along; I don't stand to gain anything by looking into that room.

But my feet are already moving forward and my hand has reached up to grab a torch off the wall. I brace myself against the door frame and hold the torch in front of me, illuminating my path as I step inside.

At first, there is nothing. My eyes gradually adjust to the darkness as I sweep the torch in front of me, expecting at any moment to see an instrument of unspeakable torture or some other garish scene, but all I can make out is a single wooden pole, centred in the space and standing harmless. An inconspicuous fireplace lies beyond, the coals long burned out and turned to ash.

I circle the pole, looking around at the walls and floor. Nothing jumps out at me and my breathing gradually returns to normal. I am making my way back toward the exit when the torchlight reveals several objects hanging on the wall near the door and I stop dead in my tracks.

I gasp, stumbling back a step.

Whips. Dozens of them.

Arranged by a careful hand, they cover the facade of the chamber. Some are long and forked with cruel leather tongues swaying in the draft; others are short and biting, nothing more than a brutal wooden switch. My chest constricts as I take in the sight, scarcely able to believe the sheer size of such a macabre collection. I choke on a gag as I notice the oily stains soaking the ends of various straps, mementoes of a job done.

It is then that I remember the pole standing in the middle of the room.

I turn around slowly, holding the torch up higher and bringing my eyes to the top of the wooden pole, understanding now that I see the iron manacles dangling impassively from a hook near the top of the pole.

"There you are."

I nearly drop the torch as I whip back toward the door, forgetting momentarily that I am wearing a disguise. The darkened form of the larger guard stands in the archway, his features shadowed and impossible to make out in the flickering torchlight.

"I..." I clear my throat and try again. "I was just looking around. Quite the display over here." I nearly retch again as I say the words.

The guard chuckles and moves into the room, positioning himself so he is looking up at the wall of torture.

"It's somethin', ain't it? You can tell that our Inquisitor takes a lot of pride in what he does." He snorts and yaks a ball of spit onto the floor.

"Right." I have no desire to linger and dwell on any questions about the mysterious Inquisitor or any sick pleasure he might get from tearing open the backs of his victims. I want to get out of this room, finish my scouting and return aboveground as soon as humanly possible.

"We should be gettin' back," I say, moving into the hallway and waiting for the man to fall into step behind me.

We make our way wordlessly down the tunnel back toward general population. I pick up the sound of jangling metal behind me and surmise that this man does indeed hold the keys to the men and women's cells.

When we reach the front of the prison, I halt in front of one of the two large doors barring the prisoners.

"Last thing to check," I say, holding out my hand for the keys.

The man makes no move to reach for his belt and instead eyes me, scratching at his armpit again.

"We don't usually bother with that," he says. "C'mon, I'll get you a drink."

"I was told to be thorough." My voice is even as I leave my palm out expectantly. The image of the whips flashes before my eyes again and I have to concentrate to keep my hand from shaking.

I am met with a glassy stare, though now his eyebrows are furrowed and he appears more alert.

"Who told you to do that?" he asks.

"Lieutenant Griss," I say smoothly, drawing from the back-story I fact-checked and rehearsed.

Without another word, the guard unclips the keys from his belt; he tosses them over to me and stumbles back toward his companion at the wooden table. He collapses ungracefully into his seat and takes another dram from the cask.

I turn to the first door and study the keys in my hand, trying to make a quick assessment so that I don't appear to be fumbling with the correct combination. I draw out a large brass key that seems to be made of the same material as the lock and slip it through the hole; I turn once firmly and breathe an internal sigh of relief when the latch lifts. After glancing once more toward the table, where both guards appear fully engrossed in scratching and snoring, I push the door open and slip inside.

The room is illuminated only by a small barred window near the roof, which allows a weak trickle of moonlight to filter in. Through the gloom I can make out roughly a dozen bodies huddled against the walls. Scanning the dank cell, I feel my heart break at the sight of the men curled around themselves, some coughing feebly. As my gaze lingers near the far end of the room, I am arrested suddenly by a pair of eyes staring intently at me from beneath lowered brows.

I pick a path across the room, careful not to disturb any of the sleeping prisoners. Reaching the man, I lower myself into a crouch in front of him, noting that he doesn't flinch or move away when I get close.

Now that my face is level with his, I am struck by how bright his eyes are, striking against his dark, matted hair and grubby features. He appears to be about Will's age, but it's difficult to be certain with all the grime coating his face.

I reach up and tug down my scarf. His brows shoot up in surprise and his eyes widen.

"I don't have much time, so I'll make this quick." I keep my voice as soft as possible. "What is your name?"

"Marc," he whispers in a scratchy voice.

"Marc. I am going to get you all out of here, but I need your help. Will you help me?"

"Yes."

"Brave man," I say, shooting him a small smile. I reach into the pocket of my uniform and pull out a folded piece of paper. I grab hold of Marc's hand and press the parchment into his palm, curling his fingers around it. "I will be back in four days. In the meantime, I need you to read these instructions and get everyone ready. Can you do that?"

"Yes." He swallows and then coughs. "Yes, I can do that."

I make to stand when his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. His grip is surprisingly strong.

"Are you her?" he asks softly.

I grin and gently pull my arm away, tugging the scarf back over my face.

"Four days," I tell him.

I ease back toward the door, catching one last glimpse of Marc studying the slip of paper in his hands as I pull the door closed and lock it again.

Glancing back at the guards, I see they have both passed out, the smaller one practically beneath the table. I shake my head as I move to the door of the women's cell. With any luck, these two bozos will be the ones on the midnight shift the night of the ball.

The lock barring the women's cell clicks open and I prepare to repeat my routine, feeling more eager than ever to return aboveground. There is still much to take care of in order to be ready for my return in four days.

Four days.