Sarn consulted his mental map seeking the route freest of pedestrians since his son’s safety hinged on secrecy. If he kept a firm mental grip on his goal, the magic would bend his path to reach it leaving him free to watch for spies and other dangers.
His son's hand was so small, yet it extended a trust bigger than them both. Does the ghost trust me to investigate its death? That would explain why it keeps appearing but not its strange behavior. Sarn set the mystery aside for now and concentrated on his backtrail. There—a hazy icon almost indistinguishable from the map’s darkness followed them.
As they turned a corner, Sarn held a finger to his lips signaling for silence. Ran’s eyes widened, but he nodded. The tunnel was abandoned just as his map had predicted. Sarn scooped up his son, rushed up the wall and crouched on a shield-shaped rock formation. With his eyes squeezed closed and his cloak wrapped tight around them, they should be invisible. Below, the spy paused.
“Lift up the hem of my cloak slowly and look down, but don’t make a sound,” Sarn whispered into his son’s ear.
Mystified, Ran nodded, dropped to his belly and crawled until he could peer over the edge. Sarn gripped the back of his son’s tunic but stayed focused on their watcher. When it continued down the tunnel, he reeled his son back in.
“What did you see?”
“A rat I think. But I’m not sure. It’s dark down there.” Ran’s face screwed up in a grimace.
Sarn nodded and cursed the weak light cast by the strip of lumir twenty-feet overhead. He rolled off the shield and landed in a crouch. Rising, he caught his son who tried to copy him and set the boy down. Best he kept his hands free in case grappling became necessary. At least a mile ahead, a man-shaped icon flared up on his map, but it wasn’t the usual amber of the non-magical kind. This man was a middling gray, and the rat headed straight for him.
“Walk as quietly as you can.” Sarn held out his hand for his son. Ran took it, eager for that adventure.
“Are we sneaking up on someone?”
Sarn nodded and motioned for silence. Maybe skulking around counted as a father-son outing. Sarn hoped it did as he followed the rat away from the warren comprising the heart of the Lower Quarters.
Other rats scattered as they passed piles of refuse but none of them rated a mention on his map. There was something off about the one they followed something—unnatural. The word bounced around Sarn’s skull, as he ducked behind a stalagmite.
“What do you see?” he asked his son, wishing his damned eyes didn’t glow.
“A gray cloak and rats all around it. They’re sitting on here too.” Ran tapped Sarn’s shoulders. “It’s floating.”
“What’s floating?”
“The cloak.”
It took a moment to work out what his son meant. This Rat Person stood with his back to Ran, leaving nothing but a cloak-draped back visible.
“What is he doing with the rats?”
“Talking to them.”
“Can you hear what he’s saying?”
Ran shook his head then cowered against Sarn’s chest. “They’re coming.”
Sarn hugged his son tight, shielding him as a horde of rats climbed his body and scampered up the stalagmite. From there, they leaped, catching hold of a stalactite before racing out of sight. Sarn pushed to his feet still holding his son and swept the tunnel with both his magic and his eyes. There was no trace of the Rat Man or his spies.
Moldering banners billowed like giant wings in the slow, rhythmic breathing of the mountain. And it carried on its breath a phrase Sarn had heard far too many times in the last twenty-four hours: eam’meye erator.
Turning in a slow circle, Sarn scanned the tunnel seeking the source of that voice, but the sudden ring of a hammer on metal drowned out every other sound. Why do I keep hearing that phrase? What does it mean? Shaking his head, Sarn steered his son around a grate.
“Did you hear anything just now?” he asked when the hammer paused.
Ran shook his head. “I’m hungry. You promised breakfast then an ad-ven-ture.”
“Yeah, I did, let’s find some stairs and get you fed.”
Except when Sarn pivoted, he stared at a dead-end and had no idea how many turns they’d made. Finding the Rat Man had distracted him.
“Where are we?”
Hot air puffed up from a nearby grate, and Ran backed away to avoid being cooked. He turned curious eyes on Sarn.
Beyond the steam, a pile of rubble blocked part of an unfamiliar intersection. Sarn shook his head and called his map, but it resisted his summons. What the hell is wrong with my map? And where the hell are we? Its betrayal rocked Sarn, and he fetched up against a wall, startling his son whose hand he still held.
“Are you okay?”
Sarn blinked at the question. Was he?
“I don’t know.”
On his third try, his map finally spawned, but it displayed only featureless darkness ahead. They’d followed the rat right off his mental map without any warning. A shudder cut through Sarn. How is that even possible? I've wandered all over the Lower Quarters over the six years I've lived there. Except this one spot, and that didn't make sense.
A green arrow blinked, superimposed over his featureless map, demanding he head deeper into unknown territory. Where the hell is my map leading us? Curiosity warred with unease. Down here the unfamiliar could prove deadly. So could retreating. Sarn chewed the inside of his cheek.
Ran tugged his hand and pointed.
“There’s a bad thing there.”
Sarn slashed a hand through the indicated spot. Cold bit his skin, numbing his fingers on contact. Was it unexpected yes, but dangerous—no.
“It’s cold air. It won't harm you. Come on.”
Sarn pulled on his son's hand, but Ran refused to budge.
Unnatural, whispered the magic as Sarn’s stomach heaved. He swallowed bile as the cold spot dissipated.
Ran looked around, brow creasing in confusion as the boy chopped his hands through the air.
“It’s gone. Where did it go?”
“I don’t know, and right now, I don't care. I just want to find a staircase and get off this level.”
The upper levels were more gridded and less twisty than this warren. But they were dangerous too in their own way.
Ran nodded, but he checked again before taking a single step. And Sarn did the same; his son was too precious to risk. Unexplored tunnels invited trouble, and he needed to avoid dangerous situations right now.
“Where’re we going now?”
Ran formed a bright pinpoint in the darkness covering this section of the map. And his tiny flame wanted breakfast.
Thoughts of his son made Sarn's magic flare around him in a blinding sphere. He struggled to suppress it, but too much magic surrounded him, and he had too small a place to hide it away. So he was stuck with emerald ribbons circling them and nuzzling his son.
Ran giggled at the magic’s attention. What would I do without that sunny child?
With such ominous thoughts in mind, Sarn grasped his map desperate to make it respond to his commands. Pulling back on the distance, he relaxed as it zoomed out and confirmed he and his son were still inside the mountain.
Something tugged his map, centering it at a Y-intersection a mile back where he should have turned right instead of left. A quarter mile beyond it, a staircase corkscrewed through the mountain, and an almost imperceptible long-tailed icon scampered up it. The watcher.
Sarn smiled. At last, something had gone right. His magic still had a tenuous fix on the spy. Maybe it was rendezvousing with the Rat Man again. If we hurry, I could get a fix on the spymaster himself and find out why he’s tailing us. A tug on his pants directed his attention to his son, whom he still owed breakfast.
“Is the Middle Kitchen okay with you?” Sarn said preempting his son’s question.
Ran nodded as he caught the boy’s hand and hurried toward answers and food.
Having a destination relieved Sarn, though t
he holes in his map still bothered him. They existed too close to his cave. They’d have to be explored, especially if the Rat Man and his spies called them home but not now. He added them to the growing list of questions he needed to answer before time ran out. Fate only knew how long he had and which pieces were relevant.
Ran looked from the ladder masquerading as a staircase to Sarn.
“Does this go to food?” His eyes pleaded for the answer to be no.
“Yeah, they all do,” Sarn said.
Of course, there would be a brief stop on the next level for a chat with the flickering gray man-shaped icon. With luck, it was the Rat Man with some much-needed answers. On his map, the stairwells all looked corkscrewed into place by giant hands, maybe they were. No stories he’d ever heard mentioned the average height of a Litherian.
“You can reach every level I know of from any stair including this one.”
“Oh, okay,” Ran shrugged and climbed toward the promise of breakfast. “Will they have saw-sages? I like the red ones.”
“You mean the ones with dried tomatoes in them?”
“Yes, I like them.”
“They might. If I see them, I’ll grab some.”
“Get two for me,” Ran licked his lips in anticipation.
“I don't know. Two might be too much for you.”
Ran nodded and continued climbing; his enthusiasm for sausages propelled him until his foot broke through the rotting wood.
“No more.”
Ran clung to Sarn’s legs. His son had been brave to make it this far.
“Here, climb on my back. I’ll find us a better staircase.”
Sarn crouched down, and his son climbed on without a word.
“Hold tight, okay?”
As Sarn finished speaking, his foot broke through the step, but it struck stone underneath. Magic shot up his calf anchoring him in place. Sarn cursed and willed the magic to release. His boot pulled free, but he slammed his shoulder into the wall, thanks to the narrow confines of the stair. Thank Fate the pain faded as he climbed. He’d take every small mercy life offered.
Sarn stepped onto a reassuring stone platform and set his grateful son down. Five-feet onward, a portal led to a tunnel and the level above the Lower Quarters.
Sarn pulled his hood down to cover his face before peering out of the stairway into the narrow corridor beyond. He spotted the rat zipping over piles of crates. Ran copied him, and his hooded head poked out around Sarn’s leg to do his own people-check. Sarn looked down at his son, who, as if cued, glanced up at him with a look of such concentration, it made Sarn laugh. He patted his son on the head and Ran grinned, pleased with his performance.
Before venturing into the realm of the non-indentured, Sarn bent to deliver his usual warning.
“If anyone comes—"
Ran rolled his eyes and nodded.
“I know. I hide until he goes away, or you tell me to come out. I’m not a baby.”
“No, you’re not. Alright, let’s go.”
On alert for trouble, they stepped out into a lumir-lit tunnel and stayed low as they wended through stacks of crates. Since Sarn had never had a reason to visit this level in any depth until now, his magic sketched in details as they skulked, making his head itch.
Sarn tried all the doors they passed, but they were all locked. Any goods kept under lock and key must be valuable, and he was always looking for something to trade in the Lower Quarters’ thriving black market. Sarn patted down his pockets but found nothing to pick or force those hasps. He cursed his ill luck and starred this place on his map for later.
Too bad Miren isn't here. He could have read the words stenciled on the boxes. Oh well, another time perhaps.
Sarn pressed on scanning the numeric sequences stamped on every parcel committing them to memory for later perusal. There was a logic to them and a hint of a pattern. The mystery teased his imagination, but he had more pressing mysteries in need of solving. If only I had a crowbar.
Before he came within eyeshot of the man-shape on his map, Sarn crouched behind a short wall of rolled up rugs. Ran tapped his shoulder.
“What’re you doing?”
“Checking something out.”
“But I’m hungry.”
Ran rubbed his belly, reminding Sarn of the purpose of their outing.
“I know. I’ll make it quick. Stay here and be quiet.”
Ran’s eyes widened, but he nodded and stayed put. Sarn crept around the pile, hand, and magic extended toward a cloaked figure. His fingers closed on gray fabric and he flung it aside.
“Who are you and why are you spying on me?”
She had no face, just a blank spot where her nose and mouth should be. But her eyes—oh Fate, they were flat discs reflecting his glowing eyes and the slice of his scarred face visible beneath his cowl.
“What the hell are you?”
She dissolved into a sea of scurrying rats. But her eyes remained. They lingered, laughing at him then they, too, vanished. Sarn dropped her cloak and backpedaled, tripping over the hundreds of rats racing toward the muffled shrieks of his terrified son. As soon as he reached the boy, he pulled Ran into a tight hug, then rubbed his back as he apologized to the top of his son’s head.
“I’m sorry, so sorry about all of this. I got carried away, and I’m sorry. We’ll get breakfast now.”
“No more rats.”
Ran clung to Sarn and balled his fists in his tunic. As Sarn nodded, his magic circled them, alert for long-tailed spies. Green tendrils curled around his son hugging him too, and Ran finally relaxed.
“I’ll keep them away from you.” So would his magic.
Ran nodded and rubbed tears from his eyes.
After giving the crates to his left one last glance, Sarn poked his gift. But his magical senses declined to penetrate the wood. They were preoccupied with protecting his son, and Ran needed its reassuring touch more than he needed to know what was inside those boxes. Stymied, Sarn let the mystery go for now until the number thirteen caught his eye and drew him to a box one foot on a side.
Ran lifted his head from where he'd nestled it. His little face was puffy from crying, but his eyes brightened with curiosity as he set the boy down, so he could get a better look.
The parcel was half-hidden behind two stacks of odd-shaped bundles with a pair of wings inked on its side. As Sarn traced the image, a skull-and-crossbones symbol interrupted his vision. His magic recoiled, staggering Sarn. He took an involuntary step back and cursed.
“What is it?”
“Drugs,” Sarn said finally, his lips twisting in disgust. “It’s aliel or Angel’s Dust judging by the design stenciled on its side.”
Which made it Shade’s hallucinogen of choice. Sarn kicked the offending box.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ran dart behind a pile of crates. Sarn turned too late to see what had spooked his son. A man rammed Sarn up against a wall, and an elbow the size of his knee jammed into his throat. Why didn't my magic warn me?
His attacker was in his mid-thirties with bad teeth, and a waistline rivaling the columns supporting the thirty-foot ceiling. He squashed Sarn, pinning one arm behind his back and the other against the crate-tower hiding Ran. But the stupid fool had left his lower half free.
Catching his son's eye, Sarn shook his head. He could take care of this oaf without help. But his magic disagreed. It strained to touch the wall, making his hand spasm. He clenched his fist, glad his cloak was trapped between his hand and the naked stone calling to him.
“What the hell happened to Beku? I heard she’s dead,” the big man asked.
“Who are you?” Sarn kneed the jerk in the groin. The big man crumpled, and Sarn stepped over the groaning heap. “Be glad I didn’t head butt you. At least you’re still conscious.”
“You’re a rank bastard Sarn,” the big man bit out.
How the hell does this creep know my name? Who is this guy and why does he have a grudge against me? I had nothing to do with her
disappearance.
“And the son of a whore, I know.” Sarn turned in time to avoid a flying fist aimed at his head.
Seizing the newcomer’s wrist, he twisted it behind the man’s back and caught the wiry fellow in a joint lock. The same one Gregori had immobilized him in time and again.
“You’ll dislocate my arm if you keep pulling on it.”
“Thanks for the suggestion.”
Sarn increased the pressure, eliciting a high-pitched scream from his prisoner.
“What the hell do you want?”
Hearing footsteps behind him, Sarn kicked out, and his foot collided with something fleshy. A pained groan followed the thud of a body hitting the floor. Pivoting, Sarn kept the cowed man between him and the two approaching men. This new group looked to be in their forties and late thirties.
Their fists and jaws clenched as they glared at him, and hate darkened their eyes. Sarn towered eight inches over his attackers, giving him reach. Add in a one- to two-decade age difference, and he had speed on his side too, but not mass.
“What the hell do you want?” he asked again.
The five men exchanged glances and, after a few nods, chose a spokesman. Gray streaked the man’s beard and hair highlighting it. His dark brows knitted over brooding eyes when he spoke.
“We heard about Beku’s death.”
Sarn stared at Gray. Why did she matter to them? And why now when she'd vanished back in early March?
“Who are you?”
“We know you had something to do with it.”
Gray’s companion, a hook-nosed lout with a cowlick, snapped ignoring Sarn’s question.
“And we’re here to make sure you pay for it.”
Muscled arms wrapped around one of Sarn’s ankles and tried to trip him. Sarn shoved his prisoner at the hook-nosed pugilist telegraphing his next move. His captive stumbled over the crawler’s body and crashed down freeing his ankle. Seizing the first crate to hand, Sarn bashed it over the first head he saw. Nails rained down as the man he’d hit folded.
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