Point of Sighs

by Melissa Scott

  Cambrai beckoned to his people. “Into the tunnel. Nico, you’ll need to show us the way.”

  Eslingen came to himself in darkness, oddly surprised to find himself undrowned, and not entirely certain that he was, though as his thoughts cleared he could feel bruises enough to convince him that he was still alive. He was on dry ground, pebbles and shells and all the familiar debris of the river’s shore meeting his questing hands. There was a stone wall behind him, the same sort of rough-hewn blocks that lined the river’s edge, and for a terrified instant he feared he’d been flung blind onto the shore. But no: he was beginning to distinguish faint changes of light and shadow, and when he looked up, a brighter circle showed overhead. Not daylight, or even the winter-sun behind clouds, but definitely light, maybe ten or twelve feet above him.

  “Hello?” His voice sounded hollow, deadened by the stone. He cocked his head to listen, but there was no response. “Hello!”

  Still no answer, not even the scrape of foot on stone, but he stood for a long moment anyway, until the possibility of an echo had died.

  He ran his hands over the stones, searching for a handhold, but the stones were too tightly fitted to offer any purchase. He felt his way along the wall, looking for any break, any change in the pattern, but the wall curved gently to his right, bringing him around in a slow circle. After a while, he scuffed a mark in the ground and found a paler stone to place in it, then followed the wall again until he came back around the circle. It was smaller than he had thought, maybe ten feet across, which meant the darkness in the center of the cylinder was something more than shadow.

  He had lost his lantern, but there were still two flares left in his coat’s torn pocket. He pulled one out, unwinding the thin oilcloth that covered it. There was always the chance that the flare would fall back on him—there was nothing else to set on fire, as far as he could tell—or the less likely possibility that it would shoot through what might be a gap at the top of the cell and vanish into the dark, but all in all it seemed worth risking. He took a deep breath, pointed the flare toward the ceiling, and pulled the string.

  Light blasted upward, golden as sunlight, rising with a hiss like a hundred lizards. Eslingen shaded his eyes, ready to dodge, and caught a brief glimpse of smooth stone rising all the way to a cross-barred grating. The light struck one of the bars, clung for a moment, then fell back, still hissing. Eslingen moved quickly out of its way, and it landed at the foot of the opposite wall, a spitting ball hot and bright as a furnace. In its light, the thing in the middle of the cell came suddenly clear: a pump, an old-fashioned sailor’s pump, with a cylinder as thick as his thigh and a single long lever for a handle. There was water at its foot, glittering in the flare’s light.

  The drowning cell.

  The breath caught in his throat. He had feared it from the instant the wave washed over him, feared it on waking, and even so the knowledge was like a knife blade to the heart. He was meant to die here, to struggle and fail and die, the very stars condemning him out of hand. He looked up at the grate again, twice a man’s height above him, a paler circle against the dark. If Rathe had been there, they would have had a chance—Rathe could have climbed on his shoulders, he would have been just tall enough to reach the grate, and he could pick any lock ever made. But of course the drowning cell was meant for one person at a time, one slow and savored death.

  “Hey!” He stopped, cleared his throat, and tried again. “Hello! Anyone out there? Hello?”

  There was no answer, just the hissing of the flare against the damp shore. At the base of the pump, the water shimmered, reflecting its fire. Was the water spreading? They had to be approaching low tide; it had been falling the whole time he and Rathe searched the tunnels, and eventually it would turn. Would the pump even work? By all accounts, the drowning cell had been abandoned, unused and unmourned, for hundreds of years.

  He reached for the lever before he could change his mind and pulled down hard. It moved easily, no suction behind it, but he could hear the parts sliding smoothly over each other. Possibly it was functional—something might be broken deep inside, but at least the outer parts worked. At least there was a chance. He was strong, unhurt, and if he was cold now, the exertion would surely warm him. He could pump for hours if he had to. And in those hours, Rathe would find him.

  The group retraced Rathe’s passage through the tunnel, torches and lanterns at the ready, traveling as quickly as they could along the narrow walkways. As they got closer to the basin, Rathe could see the signs of the waves that had rolled over him, debris washed into new piles, new water in the central channel. There was far less, however, than he had expected, only a little more than there had been when he and Eslingen first passed that way. Behind him, the pontoises whispered to each other, trying to match his pace without making unnecessary noise.

  Ahead, the mage-lights showed the first shadow of the opening that gave onto the basin, and Rathe swung his borrowed light along the bottom of the channel. Surely the wave had reached this far—yes, that had to be the arch where he had lodged the flare’s light—but the water had drained away, leaving nothing behind but the same sort of debris he had seen the first time. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cambrai give him a wary look.

  “You sure we’re going the right way?”

  Rathe nodded. “The basin’s just ahead.”

  “It’s just—” Cambrai stopped, visibly choosing more tactful words. “I don’t see any signs of flooding.”

  “This is the way,” Rathe said, tight-lipped, and one of the pontoises behind them called out softly.

  “Cap’! Take a look.”

  Rathe turned with Cambrai to see one of the pontoises leaning over the edge of the channel, holding her torch so that the smoke streamed up thick and black, but the light picked out a metal object at the base of the wall.

  “That your lantern?” Cambrai asked.

  “Yeah.” Rathe swallowed his anger, and saw Cambrai nod.

  “Right. Let’s move it, you lot.”

  They reached the basin without attracting any attention, and Rathe paused on the edge of the walkway. The place looked different—the water was lower, which shouldn’t be possible, and it seemed less dark, the niches in the walls clearly visible. There was no body floating in the basin or crumpled on the walkway, and in spite of himself he gave a sigh of relief.

  “Turning basin,” Perrine said, and Cambrai gave a considering nod.

  “Take a look at these hooks,” Rathe said, and lifted his lantern so that the light played over the nearest niche. The twisted hook showed clearly, but it seemed less suggestive of the dogfish than it had before.

  Cambrai pursed his lips. “Benet? What do you make of this?”

  That was the man who knew the old tales, Rathe remembered. The person who worked his way forward was small and wiry, with hands that looked too big for his skinny frame. He tucked the tail of his cap over his shoulder and met Cambrai’s eyes squarely.

  “Turning basin it may have been, but there’s talk of a place like it. She had a temple down here, you came to it by water. This could be part of it.”

  The light seemed to fade, for an instant, as though a shadow had passed over the suns, and the air seemed heavier. Rathe braced himself against another attack, but the water remained quiet, the surface ruffled only by the most ordinary of ripples.

  “All right.” Cambrai looked back at Rathe. “Where now?”

  “I was standing about here,” Rathe said. “Philip was further along, heading for the tunnel there. My guess is he was taken there.”

  Cambrai nodded, though he let his light play for a moment longer across the water’s surface. Rathe followed it unwillingly, afraid to see shadows beneath the surface, not dogfish, but a hand or an arm or a twist of sodden clothing, a swirl of dark hair. There was nothing but the brown water, and he made himself turn away.

  The group paused at the tunnel entrance, focusing lights ahead of them into the dark. The beams picked out the familiar
walkways and the still brown water—deeper here, deep enough to carry a small boat, though the passage itself was barely wider than the boats the watermen used to carry passengers up and down the Sier.

  “Not meant for cargo,” Perrine said, and Cambrai nodded.

  “Benet?”

  The old pontoise shrugged. “Like I said, she had a temple here. Or so they say.”

  Rathe let his own light play along the nearest wall. It was brick, and old, once sharp edges worn away, the mortar failing in spots, gray crumbs scattered across the stones. “This has to be it.”

  He saw Cambrai purse his lips, but finally the cap’pontoise nodded. “Everybody, stay sharp. Anything we ought to do, Benet? Or not do?”

  Benet shrugged one shoulder. “Be respectful, Cap’, that’s all I can say.”

  Lovely. Rathe swallowed the word, and eased cautiously along the walkway. The others followed, silent except for soft footfalls and the occasional scrape of stone on stone as the bits of mortar grated underfoot. The tunnel ran straight—due south? Rathe wondered. That might make astrological sense. Eslingen would know, and the thought was like a knife to his guts. He fell back a little, forcing himself to search the surface of the water, but the light found only ripples, not even a floating leaf or stick to break the glassy surface.

  Ahead of them, someone swore, and he looked up, to see the lights focused on the tunnel ahead. Tunnels ahead, he amended, his heart sinking. Ten ells ahead, the tunnel split, dividing not into two but into five separate branches, five arches opening into the dark. Rathe shoved his way to the front as though a clearer view might change what he saw, and Cambrai caught his sleeve.

  “Nico. There’s no way on.”

  Rathe flashed his light at the water. “How deep do you think that is?”

  “Oriane only knows,” Cambrai answered. “And you’d be a fool to swim it. Who knows what you’d wake if you tried?”

  Rathe swore himself, knowing the cap’pontoise was right. “Just to get across…I wouldn’t be in the water very long….”

  “Which one would you pick?” Cambrai’s voice was almost gentle. “We should go back—try from above ground.”

  “Hold me,” Rathe said, and leaned out over the edge, angling his lantern to send as much light as possible down each of the openings. Cambrai cursed, but leaned back to balance him. There was nothing but smooth brown water and the pale stone of the walkways—no, something poked above the surface of the middle tunnel, rocks or broken stone, and behind him someone grunted.

  “Never get a boat down that one.”

  Rathe pretended he hadn’t heard. “Look, we can at least keep on down the right hand tunnel, the walkways connect.”

  Cambrai pulled him upright. “Look.” He pointed, and another pontoise obligingly swung her light in that direction. More stones poked above the surface, not a solid barrier, but a jagged line stretching into the dark. “I don’t think that’s the way.”

  “If we went back for a boat,” Perrine said. “One of the collapsibles, maybe.”

  Cambrai nodded. “We’ll do that.” He looked at Rathe. “But it’s going to take a hour or more to bring one, plus the time to carry it back here, and the tide’s turned. I think we can do more from the surface.”

  “Such as?” Rathe shook his head, unable to think of anything but Eslingen trapped somewhere in the tunnels, Eslingen drowning, Eslingen dead…. He shook his head again, forcing himself to think calmly. Cambrai was right, it would take too long to search here. They needed a boat, and they needed more people, and most of all they needed more time. Someone at Point of Sighs might know—Couenter, for one, had seemed nervous on the subject—and Benet might know more people. “No, you’re right.”

  “I’ll send Saffroy down,” Cambrai said. “With boats and enough people to search properly. And you and I will work from the surface. We’ll find him, Nico.”

  Eslingen crouched against the wall at what he thought was the highest point of ground. The flare had gone out some time ago, but it seemed as though more light was seeping in from the grating overhead, so that he could make out the shape of the pump and its handle, and the bars of the grate itself were very dark against a pale circle. He could see his own hands, pale shapes resting on his knees, and the trail of his cravat across his waistcoat. Of course, one didn’t need to see to be able to work the pump, assuming the pump worked at all.

  The still air was filled with the soft sound of water, a gentle murmur against the stone. The pool at the base of the pump was growing deeper, and its edge crept slowly up the slope. It had almost reached the stone he had placed a double handspan from his last marker: the tide was definitely coming in, and faster now than before.

  He pushed himself to his feet, muscles twinging with every move—whatever had brought him had left him bruised and sore on top of the bruises he’d gotten in Customs Point—and reached for the pump handle. He pulled down, feeling no resistance, pushed up and pulled again without any better result. A part of him wanted to flail frantically, pump hard and fast until the pump was primed and finally began removing the water, but he made himself stop and turn away. He would need all his strength later, if he was to make it through high tide. Surely the pump would work once the water rose high enough.

  The edge of the puddle had overlapped his marker stone now, and he moved it a careful handspan further up the shore. There was still room to sit, though the ground was cold and damp, and he made himself settle again. Patience was what he needed now, patience and calm. The water was rising, but eventually it would rise far enough that the pump could take hold, and then he was strong enough, disciplined enough, to last a long time. To last though the turn of the tide, he amended; he only needed to hold on until the water began to recede, and then he could rest. And by then, Rathe would have found him. Rathe knew Astreiant like the back of his hand, better than most women knew their lemen; he’d find this place, wherever it was. All Eslingen had to do was hold on.

  The water was lapping at his marker again, and he suppressed a curse. The tide was definitely on the way in, running faster now with every step. He rose and tugged at the pump handle again. It felt heavier this time, and he let himself take two more strokes, but the pump did not quite engage. Next time, though, he thought, and settled himself to wait.

  Something moved above him, a scuffling of boots on stone, and he shot to his feet, staring up at the grating. “Hello? Anyone there?”

  There was no answer, but the circle brightened, and then Eslingen flinched away from the sudden glare of a mage-light lantern.

  “Hello! Hey, down here!”

  “Captain?”

  Eslingen frowned, shading his eyes. “Balfort?”

  The light wavered, was withdrawn to the edge of the grate. “It’s me.” De Vian sounded breathless, as though he’d run some distance. “Wait, I’ll get you out.”

  “It’s the drowning cell,” Eslingen said, and heard his voice waver. He cleared his throat, and tried again. “The tide’s turned, it’s coming in—”

  “I’m working on it, sir.” Eslingen heard soft thumps, as though the boy were searching through a pile of debris. “There’s no key, but—this might work.”

  Eslingen shaded his eyes, stepping around the curve of the room to keep de Vian’s shadow in sight, and caught a glimpse of a sturdy-looking piece of wood as de Vian brandished it happily. Then it and de Vian disappeared, and Eslingen heard a grunt of effort as de Vian did something out of sight.

  “Almost, sir!” De Vian shifted position, and there was a sudden snap of breaking metal. “Got it!”

  “Good job, lad!”

  De Vian heaved at the grate, dragging it sideways—it seemed to move on a single pivot-point—and leaned over the opening. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine,” Eslingen said. In the new light, he could see how far the water had risen, an inky pool filling the center of the cell, the pump rising from it. “Is there a ladder, a rope?”

  “I’m looking.”

&nbs
p; There were more sounds of scuffling, and then a pleased exclamation.

  “Anything?”

  “Rope ladder, sir!” De Vian reappeared, busied himself with something at his feet, and then a rope ladder with wide wooden rungs unrolled itself and clattered down the side of the cell. Eslingen eyed it hungrily, and gave it a sharp tug. It felt solid, and he reached higher, letting his full weight dangle for a moment from the ropes.

  “Excellent—”

  There were sudden footsteps above, loud on the stone, and de Vian screamed. And then he was falling, a twisting shadow against the light. Eslingen hauled himself up the ladder, but metal shrieked against stone, and the ladder sagged sideways under him. He dropped free, cursing, and the ladder slithered down the cell wall, the wooden rungs battering against the stone. Eslingen swore again as a woman leaned over the opening. There was no mistaking the Vidame d’Entrebeschaire.

  “Maseigne! What in Seidos’ name do you think you’re doing?”

  “You should have stayed clear.” She hauled the grate back across the opening.

  “You’ll leave your brother to drown?”

  The grate slid home with a clang. “He made his choice.”

  “Aliez….” De Vian’s voice was weak, but it carried far enough.

  “Worthless, spineless bastard! Mother should have drowned you at birth.” D’Entrebeschaire caught her breath. “Be damned to you.”

  “He’ll die here—” Eslingen began, and she cut him off.

  “One of you certainly will. Maybe not this tide, you’re strong enough, and hale, and Balfort’s no weakling either. Maybe not even the next one. But the tide will come. She’ll take one of you.”

  “You don’t have to do this!”

  D’Entrebeschaire laughed. “I owe the Riverdeme a death.”

  She turned away, the light receding with her, and Eslingen shouted after her, “At least leave us a light!”

  “Please…please, Aliez….” De Vian’s voice was thick with tears. D’Entrebeschaire hesitated.