by Tom Deitz
Another bite, as a second rat joined the fray, then another, and he could feel his strength start to fail. He was twisting every way he could think of, trying to crush them against the walls or scrape them off, but it seemed to be doing little good.
Abruptly, the air changed, and he felt the duct expand around him. Not that it was much wider, but he sensed more space above his back and head, which let him move faster. And then more again, and he could stand. Suddenly, he was running. The rats followed, but the constant jarring proved too much, even for those that held on most tenaciously. As soon as he dared, he slowed enough to reach down and slap away the few that remained. His legs were slick with blood, and he couldn't count the points of pain from his hips down, yet still he staggered onward, utterly lost, utterly tired and hungry. Utterly aimless.
And so was paying no attention when a mislaid step unbalanced him. His palms brushed rubble as he pinwheeled briefly on the brink of what sound and more subtle senses told him was a vast gulf. Something snared his tunic and steadied him for a moment before the fabric ripped free. And then he was falling, in truth.
The fall seemed to last forever, but in fact took less time than it took to draw one breath, ending when his hips slammed into what proved to be a steep slope that changed pitch again soon after, sending him sliding down some kind of chute.
And he knew what these chutes were, for Strynn had considered using them when they'd planned their escape back in the winter. These were the master shafts that brought air from close to the ground outside and ducted it to the hold's interior. And if he remembered right, they ended in grilles recessed into the hold's outer walls at twice a man's height above the ground.
As if to confirm that supposition, the air turned warmer yet. Fresher, too, with the spice of conifers overriding the stench of burning. And then, in final confirmation, he found himself brought up short when his feet slammed into something with sufficient force that shock and pain became all of reality. Abruptly stationary, his body folded down around itself, so that he found himself wedged, half-sitting, half-lying, halfstanding, atop something very solid indeed. Probing fingers found a pierced stone grille set at an angle in the wall. But even his most energetic efforts loosened it not a whit—while serving to tire him further.
At least he'd evaded the rats—for a while. He wondered, grimly, if he'd remain there, unable to crawl upward, until he died and began to stink. Or maybe they wouldn't find him until he rotted enough for his small bones to fall through to the ground.
One thing was certain: He wasn't going up—at least not very far. And he didn't think he'd be going down, either— alive. Worse, there were even odds whether he'd wound up on the east side of the hold, which meant he was two spans away from freedom, assuming he could reach the ground, or on the side that faced the mountain, where a number of tiny enclosed gardens occupied the hollow between the hold and the mountain proper. He suspected the latter, if only because he didn't think he'd slid long enough to have traversed the six or so levels between where he'd begun and the grilles in the eastern wall. Which meant he was farther down than when he'd started, but farther than ever from freedom.
He awoke to the sound of running water. It was raining; he could tell by the way the air felt, and the patter of heavy drops against the bare earth below the grille. But water was running elsewhere, too, and not, though he feared it, down the shaft in which he'd become lodged. No, this was somewhat muffled, yet at the same time it echoed, as though it flowed through channels. He could even feel it, as a vibration in the surrounding stone. The hold had drains, he knew, that fed into cisterns throughout the edifice. It also had drains that flushed out the garderobes. In either case, water close enough to hear was water close enough to investigate.
Drawing himself up to his full height, he stretched along the shaft down which he'd fallen, gratified to hear the sound intensify as he rose. He closed his eyes, too, for entering that deeper dark helped focus concentration. Slowly, methodically, he slid his hand along the walls of his stony prison in the direction in which the water lay. Right! Then farther to the right. The slope was steep, but not so much that he couldn't force himself up it, progress aided by a thin growth of lichen that had rooted there. The water sounded louder now, and definitely to the right. He stretched his hands that way, seeking some opening—some crack in the wall—anything that would provide one more choice than he'd had heretofore.
Twice he slipped and slid back down, but the third time he gathered what strength remained and hurled himself as far up the shaft as he could reach, flailing right as he did. And this time his fingers found something useful.
A ledge, as it turned out, and one that was dry enough and big enough that he could ease his other hand there. The water sounded louder, too, and he guessed the hold was being visited by one of those torrential storms that characterized summer in the mountains. Pushing with his feet, he forced his way higher, twisting his torso so as to give his fingers better purchase on what he hoped was the lower edge of an opening onto that invisible watercourse. It was artificial masonry, not hewn native stone—or maybe not, for it began to narrow as he slid his arms through into a nothingness that was nevertheless cooler and wetter than any he'd encountered before.
In any case, it was worth the chance; besides which, he'd managed to work his feet to the other side of the shaft, so that he could brace against it and push.
A particularly strong thrust, coupled with a strained twist, put his upper half into the opening, and from there, it wasn't hard, all things considered, to wriggle the rest of the way in.
Water roared in his ears, but with it came the thunder that marked a truly magnificent storm outside, coupled with occasional gusts of chill wind that found him even there.
But the place he'd lodged was cramped—not that he was certain he could continue anyway. Besides which, he couldn't really swim, though he'd managed enough training at War-Hold to be able to float with reasonable confidence. If he set his mind to it. If panic didn't overrule rationality.
Well, he concluded, he could either lie there worrying and dreading, or he could take action. And he was privy to information Avall desperately needed. Information that had cost Crim her craft.
That decided it. Fumbling forward, his fingers found the opposite end of whatever this opening was that linked the air shaft and the drain. One minute his hand lay on solid rock, the next it flopped in air. Running water brushed his fingertips when he strained an arm downward, and a similar check above showed at least as much space overhead. Good: There might be enough air in the space beyond to allow him to breathe. Also, whatever he'd found was close to the hold's outer walls, which was where the main cisterns lay. More importantly, there was a series of overflow gates near the hold's south end, which diverted any surplus into the Ri-Megon, which ran under the hold for most of the hold's length before exiting past the south court and the water garden.
Which would probably not be watched now.
But which were also at least three levels lower.
Still, he had to die eventually, and drowning was better than starvation.
Without further contemplation, he took a deep breath, pushed himself forward—and fell into water half a span below. The cold shocked him, making him belch out half his cache of air, but by then a current had him. He started to fight his way to where he imagined the surface to be, then realized that was stupid and relaxed as much as his hovering panic allowed, letting his body rise of its own accord. Fortunately, the runoff drained through man-made channels; thus, there were no rapids such as made rivers perilous, so that an instant later, he felt cold air across his back and realized he'd bobbed to the surface. In his efforts to flip over, his feet touched something, and he discovered that the bottom wasn't very far down at all, so that he could actually walk, though with his head less than a hand's width from the ceiling. With no energy left to choose another option, he let the current thrust him where it would, which he fervently prayed was out.
It seemed
to take forever, but actually required no more than a quarter hand, for the hold, though enormous, was still no more than a shot long, measured at its major axis.
Besides which, he could hear a change in the outflow's pitch, which told him water was pouring through some opening into a larger space ahead.
And then he stepped on something slick, and fell—and was still trying to find either the bottom or the surface when he began to fall in earnest, surrounded by water that was also falling.
He did panic then, and was starting to breathe more water than air when something solid made him see colors he hadn't seen since going blind, and then he simply gave himself up for lost and let ultimate darkness claim him.
Kylin's breath was coming harsh and ragged, and his pulse seemed none too steady, but at least he had them. As he also had more scrapes and abrasions than Div had ever seen on a live man, even during the war. And she'd seen most of Kylin's, too, because his clothes—nice indoor velvets, she noted absently—were torn to ribbons, and he was missing his shoes entirely.
Setting her mouth, she scooted to a more viable position on the steep rock shelf atop which she'd just hauled the harper's body and slid her elbows beneath his armpits. It wasn't so much that he was heavy as simply deadweight, which, with the slope, made standing with him both unlikely and dangerous. She was therefore reduced to edging backward up the stone, while Kylin gasped, wheezed, and finally began choking and—to her relief—trying to knock her hands away.
She let him go and scrambled farther upslope to wipe rainsoaked hair from her eyes and cast a wary glance through the slanting sheets at the portion of hold visible beyond the intervening screen of laurel—which was as close as she dared approach, lest someone note her spying. It was exactly as it had been a finger ago—which was to say that it was overtly the same as it ought to be, down to the Gemcraft standard flopping soddenly above—save that no one walked its many arcades but men in white cloaks she knew far too well. As well as anyone, in fact, since men in that same livery had tried to kill her and left a scar on her hip to prove it.
And, of course, there was that substantial crack running from the hold's foundations halfway up its eastern wall, on which smoke stains had still been visible when she arrived. And a good thing they had been, for that had been the final proof she needed that things weren't as they ought to be when she'd come riding up shortly after noon intending to retrieve Kylin and head back to Tir-Eron.
She had retrieved him, too, but not in the way expected.
He was moving more vigorously now, and trying to cough, while his fingers scrabbled at the rock. She eased down to help him—an action rendered awkward by the rainwater that slid unabated over the outcrop, courtesy of a storm grown fiercer yet.
“Kylin,” she called, having remembered that he was blind and therefore unable to recognize friend from foe save by voice. “It's me, Div.”
“Div … ?” he managed through a mouthful of water. “Where … ?”
“On a rock, south of the hold. I have to get you to higher ground.”
He sat up at that—and promptly slid half a span back down the shelf. She grabbed him frantically, heard fabric rip in what was left of his tunic. “Steep slope, Kylin, below woods. You'd best back up crabwise, but there's no good way for me to help without falling. Just take it slow. It's maybe three spans.”
To his credit, Kylin didn't protest. Obedient as a child, he leaned back and did as instructed, scooting ever upward, with Div positioned above to assist how and when she could. Only when they'd reached the shelter of a copse of laurel strung between a span of oaks did he find his feet again, and that only long enough to collapse against her in a soggy, bony bundle. At least he was clean, if massively abraded. “Div,” he gasped, “I— we have to get away from here. We have to tell Avall. We— Where are we, anyway?”
“About a shot south of the hold, where the river makes a turn and there're sandbars—which you didn't have the grace to wash up on.”
Kylin released his grip abruptly and slumped back against a tree. “Is it … ?”
“I've got a camp two shots south of here. A cold camp, I'm afraid. I didn't dare build a fire for fear of being seen. We can talk there.”
“But …”
“We can talk there,” Div repeated, hauling Kylin to his feet.
“You're alone?” he ventured, as he found reasonable footing and she got her arm around him, the better to lead him along.
“Not anymore,” she grunted. “But if you're asking whether I have a dozen armed knights with me, the answer's no. I have myself, my horse, and a packhorse for the furs I was going to trade away at the hold.”
“Maybe that's just as well,” Kylin sighed as he trudged along. “That way we can make better time to Tir-Eron.”
And then the rain came harder and conversation turned to the more basic demands of overland travel through stormwracked woods.
Kylin shrugged the blanket loosely around his shoulders and reached down to unknot the drawstring that snugged his drawers, letting them fall in a heap at his feet before stepping clumsily out of them. At that, he lost his balance and flailed out—until he felt Div's strong grip behind him, steadying him. “Thanks,” he murmured as he regained his balance, then hugged the blanket more closely around him. At least it was dry. So was the ground underfoot—a blessing, that, after what seemed like an eternity of slippery leaves, dripping branches, and the rain itself that still came down in torrents beyond the edge of the rocky overhang beneath which they sheltered. It was too shallow to be called a cave, Div said, merely a shaded indentation in the ledge above the river they'd followed to get there. They were south of the hold, which made sense, for not only did her hold lie in that direction, but the land was wilder there. The South Road followed the opposite bank of the river above which they were sheltering, while fishing was usually confined to the cleaner water north of the hold, since, in spite of all efforts to the contrary, a thousand people housed in one building produced a lot of wastewater that had to go somewhere.
“You're welcome,” Div replied offhand, as Kylin folded himself down in place and waited. “If you don't mind, I'll get dry; then we'll talk.”
Kylin nodded mutely, accustomed to waiting, though he didn't like it. To his right he heard the sounds of Div stripping, and decided that from her point of view there were advantages to sheltering with a blind man. Not that she was very modest anyway. More sounds ensued, likely her laying out clothing on rocks. He wished the rain would abate. The steady rush of the drops themselves, coupled with the roar of the wind through heavy summer foliage, made it hard to catch the more localized nuances of sound that helped define his environment. He compensated with his other senses, though touch was mostly confined to the roughness of the blanket against bare skin and the occasional trickle of water from his hair down his back. Drying his hands as best he could, he patted the ground round about, finding it an even mix of naked rock, sand, and small stones. Probably material that had washed in during the spring floods, which explained why birkits hadn't denned there— though it might also be too exposed.
His sinuses were still too clogged with river water for smell to be very reliable, but he did catch the scent of horse from the blanket and what might be sharp cheese and some kind of liquor.
Div had evidently finished changing now, and eased close enough for conversation. He could feel the warmth of her body near his and was insanely grateful for it. A final bit of fumbling on her part, involving leather, glass, and metal, followed by wood being filled with liquid, and she eased a cup into his hand. “It'll warm you inside, if not out,” she informed him tersely.
Kylin drank, recognizing the fumes of one of Brewing's more potent products—a thrice-distilled whisky, if he wasn't mistaken, mixed with honey and some kind of herb that could be either mint or tarragon. It numbed his tongue, soothed his throat, and flashed through his nose like cold fire, even into his eyes. He blinked away tears, but found his head far more comfortable.
&
nbsp; For the rest, he was bruised and beaten, but alive.
Div was slicing bread, so he thought. An assumption that was confirmed when she passed him a slab, augmented with some of the cheese he'd smelled earlier. “Your tale first, or mine?” he asked, after a pair of very welcomed bites.
“Mine's simple enough,” Div replied with her mouth full. “I was coming to the hold to retrieve you, pick up our escort, and head back to Tir-Eron, just as we'd planned. I'd already seen smoke where there shouldn't be that much smoke and become wary. I'd also seen horsemen riding toward the hold, all in white cloaks I recognized as belonging to those who attacked Avall, Rann, and me last winter. Unfortunately, they were too far ahead of me to catch, and in any case, the smoke was all the proof I needed that they'd already taken the hold, or at least attacked it, and that these were simply reinforcements. I assume they wanted to control the source of the gems,” she added, “if not the gems themselves.”
“You're correct there,” Kylin agreed, through another mouthful. “Go on.”
“At that point, my intentions became twofold. I wanted to find out as much as I could without betraying myself, so I picketed the horses in the safest place I could find and put the place under surveillance.” A pause for another drink, then: “I also knew you were in there, and I doubted things would go well for you if anyone found out that you were one of Avall's intimates, so I decided to try to find out what had happened to you, and free you if necessary. If I'd known about the water gate, I might've tried earlier, but the fact is, I wanted to take it slow. I was trying to get a sense of when sections are guarded, when they're not, and when the guard changes—and that takes time. I'm sorry if you suffered while I scouted.”
“You couldn't have found me,” Kylin assured her, rubbing absently at a particularly vicious scrape on his wrist and wondering if it looked as bad as it felt. “I was holed up inside the walls. Speaking of which, how did you find me?”
“Luck, if you want to call it that—or Fate. I'd been favoring this direction because this is where my camp is, and where the best shelter is that's still reasonably close to the hold. I'd just gone out to see if the rain changed anything about the patrol habits and saw something floating down the river. Turned out to be a certain harper.”