The bathhouse loomed out of the dark not long after, a large, rectangular one-story structure with brick chimneys once used to clear the steam out of the bathing rooms. There were four doorways, one facing outward from each wall, allowing the separate genders to enter their segregated chambers from one direction and leave in another. Where there’d once likely been open archways, the Mahsadën had hired masons to erect thick double doors with lock-bars that could be dropped from the inside of three, effectively sealing the building every night.
Raz darted across the road. Reaching the wall of the bathhouse by the south-facing entrance, he looked left and right, still keeping an eye out. Satisfied that he was alone for the moment, he knelt down in front of the door and pulled a thick roll of soft leather from the back of his belt. Leaning Ahna against the wall within easy reach, he unrolled the leather sheet over the ground at his feet. Wrapped inside were a series of odd instruments, all designed by Jerr—with the help of some lower-moraled consultants—and most of which Raz had never used. He wasn’t good at picking locks. Despite his claws, his fingers did well enough with the delicate work, but he’d always been too strong for his own good, often bending or cracking the fragile mechanisms before he could get them open. Even with the picks and shims tailored to fit him he was a better pickpocket, and getting the key always seemed easier than breaking in. Unfortunately, only one of the doors worked by key, and thieving it hadn't been an option tonight.
Choosing carefully, Raz selected two of the instruments and tested their weight. The first was the odder of the pair, a flattened steel rod with a long braided metal chain at the end, thin but strong. The second was little more than a long, thick needle, its tip bent into the shape of a hook. Taking this one, Raz stood up, pressing it carefully through the slit between the double doors at head height. Finding no resistance, he slid it all the way to the base of its leather handle, then moved the entire instrument down through the crack, inch by inch.
He’d pushed it all the way to his hip before, with a quiet tink, it ran into the lock-bar.
Raz knelt down, still holding the hooked instrument in place. He lifted the narrow chained end of the other tool and started pressing it through the doors at his knee. It took more effort, but after about a minute of wiggling and grunting he managed to force it through. With another push the trailing end of the chain disappeared into the door crack. This done he slid the handle upward until it hit the same metal bar about a hand-width below the other instrument.
And now for the fun part, Raz thought sardonically. Grimacing, he turned the hooked tool and tilted it down, working blindly to catch the chains.
It was painstaking work. Again and again he tried, failing with each attempt. It wasn’t long before he found himself cursing between grunts of frustration and grumbling threats at various inanimate objects. After five precious minutes wasted away, he was near ready to throw caution to the wind and take Ahna to the door, noise be damned.
Then at long last he felt the hook get a solid catch, and Raz groaned in relief. Drawing it carefully back through the door space, he felt the chain strike against the wood on the other side. Then he pulled, hard.
The hook came out with little resistance, completing the crude metal noose around the lock-bar.
Thanking Her Stars, Raz dropped the first tool back onto the leather roll, grabbing the exposed chain. Using both hands to pull each end of the instrument, he jerked upwards. The bar thunked out of its hold, and he cringed as it clattered to the stone floor on the inside of the bathhouse. Even through the thick timber the sound echoed down the silent streets.
Muttering under his breath, Raz rushed to pull the chain back through the crack, wrapping the instruments up again before tucking the kit away. Grabbing Ahna from the wall, he pushed the unlocked door open just wide enough to fit his body through, slipping into the darkness of the room inside.
The air tasted of sweat, new fabric, and the day-old food that was always left scattered after the merchants closed shop for the day. Raz could hear his heartbeat in the silence of the building, listening to the echoing of the door shutting behind him. He stuck an armored hand out, trying to see something. In the absolute lack of light, even he was blind.
He’d anticipated that, though, and as he found the wall to his left he reached up, sliding his fingers across the stone until they came in contact with something metal.
He’d noticed the torches the first day he’d started stalking the property. When night fell, a man would go around to light them so customers could still peruse the wares after sunset. They were replaced when the market closed an hour before midnight, leaving fresh ones for the next day. Raz’s hand found the wood through the iron grate, and he pulled the torch free, smelling the oil waft through the air. Leaning Ahna against his cheek, he reached into the pouch hanging from his hip and pulled out the tinder and flint he’d brought for just this reason.
A minute later the torch roared to life, and Raz held it up, squinting into the darkness of the room he stood in.
The building was divided into four large chambers, two for where the men once bathed and two for the women. Originally these sections were separated by a solid wall that diagonally bisected the structure—mostly for the women’s sake—but when the building had been converted, parts of the wall had been knocked down and refortified in several places with wood and iron. Now an open path for the foot traffic joined the four rooms, each of which had their own door leading back to the streets.
It was an impressive adaptation, but for Raz it meant only frustration. Now that he was inside, he realized how little space there was to be spared for a secret meeting room, or even a segregated corner where the Mahsadën might make their private dealings. Taking a step forward, Raz raised his torch high, Ahna slung back over his shoulder.
The chamber’s floor was rough and dirty, the day’s refuse splattered over the tiled ground, dropped by the careless or carefree. There was a wide walkway that encompassed the entirety of the room, wrapping around a flat-bottomed pit about hip deep where the bath had once been. Tables and makeshift tents were set up everywhere, left standing overnight to be claimed by the earliest risers the next day.
None of it was any help as Raz made his way around the room.
Maybe they’re doing their business in the open, he thought, peeking behind one of the tables set up along the wall and wrinkling his nose at the soured half slab of meat lying there on the floor.
But no, that didn’t make sense. It would be easy for the Mahsadën to make a few underhanded deals directly under the noses of the market goers, true, but Raz had seen more than a few suspicious people come and go from this place in the last four days. No, there had to be something going on here, something more elaborate than a handful of minor exchanges. If men like Adrion Blaeth and Vyrr Gaorys were involved, then the place was bound to hold sweeter secrets than it was revealing at first glance.
This is gonna take a while.
Moving quickly, Raz began his search, careful not to leave any trace of his passings. An open door was one thing, easily explained by a careless closer or a poorly set lock, but if he tore the place apart the Mahsadën would know someone had come snooping around, and the night would be a waste. He was hoping whatever he’d find here would lead him further, maybe even where and when the slave shipments came and went from Miropa. If his intentions were discovered, not only would he lose his advantage, but the Mahsadën’s defenses would probably increase once again. They might even request aid from the rings in the other fringe cities. None of the other southern metropolises had as great a presence as Miropa, but they also didn’t have the Monster of Karth running around wreaking havoc. Dynec, Cyro, Karavyl, even Acrosia or Karth itself had resources to spare, and it was best not to tantalize them into offering support.
In fifteen minutes he’d done a general sweep of every one of the four chambers, looking for signs of hidden doors in the walls or maybe some particularly suspicious tent tucked away in one corner or ano
ther. Finding nothing promising, he started over, moving more carefully, making sure to light up every square foot so he could look for anything that might point him in the right direction.
It was frustrating work, especially since Raz didn’t know what exactly it was he was looking for. Soon another quarter hour flew by with no results. He was halfway through scrutinizing the second room, his temper spiking every time the firelight revealed nothing but more rotting food and empty shadows, when he stopped.
Were those footsteps outside, muffled by the stone?
Raz’s ears perked. He stood up, turning west, in the direction he’d heard the noise. He didn’t bother extinguishing his torch, confident the light wouldn’t be able to sneak through the windowless walls, but nonetheless he shrank back into the most distant corner of the room, listening hard.
So hard, in fact, he almost jumped out of his skin when his foot hit the floor of the corner with a loud thunk.
Elation shot through Raz like lightning, and he looked down, moving the torch to illuminate the ground. There, well hidden under a moth-eaten old rug, was a wooden trapdoor. Kneeling, Raz set Ahna on the ground and reached out, tapping the bit of exposed wood with a steel claw.
It knocked hollow.
That same feeling of anticipation rocked through Raz’s core again, and without a moment to waste he flung off the dirty rug, revealing the door in full. Three thick padlocks latched the wood in place, looped around iron hooks bolted to the stone floor on two sides. Raz lifted one of them in his hand and tugged it firmly. The lock held, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. Drawing the leather kit from the back of his belt once more, he leaned the torch carefully against the closest wall. Shapeless jumping figures licked at the floor around him, the flames dancing against the stone.
The picks he chose were simple things, short and slim but flexible. With careful precision one tip went into the narrow keyhole, followed by the other. Three painstaking minutes later, the first lock snapped open.
It took more effort to undo the other two, their mechanisms more complex and heavy. There was much cursing and pointless threatening before Raz finally pulled them off the latches to be tossed aside. His work done, he replaced his picks and grabbed the torch again with one hand, running the other over the door hurriedly. There was no handle, but after a few seconds the metal claws of his gauntlets found a divot between the tiled floor and wood.
Getting a good grip, he heaved and threw the door open.
CHAPTER 37
Beneath the hatch was nothing but reddish, sandy dirt.
There was a hole, about half a foot deep, as if someone had taken a shovel and roughly scooped out a heavy wedge of earth from beneath the tiled floor of the bathhouse. Then a door had been carefully placed over it, and locked tight. A time-consuming decoy. A tantalizing distraction.
A trap.
The thought flicked through Raz’s head, and in the instant that it registered he knew it was too late. He could hear them now, the footsteps outside thundering in from all directions, pouring out of the alleys and roads to circle the building. He’d been too distracted, too preoccupied and fixed on his treacherous trapdoor.
Now, though, he could even smell the men and women of the Miropan guard surrounding him.
There must have been two hundred of them, lining up on every front. The drumming of their feet quieted as they came to a stop at different intervals, replaced by the frantic pounding of Raz’s heart. He snatched Ahna up from the ground. Muffled orders for silence dulled by the thick walls of the chamber did nothing to hide the vast size of the group. They numbered enough that Raz could still hear the clatter of spear butts hitting the ground, and sword scabbards knocking against hard thighs.
He ignored it all, his mind a violent blur of jumbled thoughts and realizations. An unbidden, wrathful snarl built in his throat, and he looked around, frantically trying to think.
His planning was heavily impeded by the screaming, self-berating wrath that seemed to consume his every idea.
The Mahsadën had made him dance again, playing on his strengths to ruse him into a deathtrap. The large room was a double-edged sword; while he’d be able to fight at full advantage, putting Ahna and his tail and wings to perfect use, he would also be surrounded, with no avenue of escape. Even Raz doubted he’d be able to last more than a few seconds ringed by an enemy whose numbers seemed to have reached triple digits. As for making a stand outside, he might be able to get his back against a wall, but he’d still be overrun. Not to mention he had no doubt Ulan Orture, the šef who doubled as head of the city guard, had posted his best archers and crossbowmen on top of the highest properties in range of the bathhouse.
Not even Raz’s talents for acrobatics could help him now. Even if he could get to the roof, the jump to the next building would be too wide and high to manage.
Cursing his own folly, Raz bared his teeth. He was caught. The Mahsadën had known he would go after Adrion again, given time. They’d planted all the evidence he needed, then had notable men purposely come and go from the market, knowing he’d be watching the place. But there was nothing here.
Nothing.
Stupid. Fucking. Idiot! Raz cursed himself. His eyes darted around the room, assessing his situation. He had no time to rebuke himself. He had to get out. But, even before he could think of escaping, he had to focus on surviving. The guards were still outside, no doubt waiting for a signal to storm the place, and as soon as they did they would be flooding in from three directions: both arched entrances that led to adjacent rooms, and the barred entrance door in the west wall.
It was when his eyes fell on this door that Raz’s mind started to click together the details that lay around him. A plan started to form, and he almost laughed out loud at the desperate ideas bouncing around in his head. Looking up, he scrutinized the rafters that supported the ceiling, slightly sloped to avoid catching the Sun all day. The wooden beams crisscrossed in several places, overlapping and webbing, with their foundation timbers in each corner of the room…
Giving in to his own daring, Raz leapt into action.
Jumping down to the pit floor, he pulled the leather pouch free of Ahna’s blades and tucked it into his belt, dropping the dviassegai directly in the middle of the room. This done, he ran to the doorway. Stuffing his torch into the nearest wall bracket, Raz didn’t wince as the fire caught the tip of the other already hanging there, lighting it with a short-lived whoosh of flames. Grabbing the nearest table, he grunted and dragged it to block the door, flipping it over. Repeating this, he grabbed the next table—more of a small stall than anything—and, thankful it wasn’t bolted to the ground, heaved it over on top of the first.
In a frenzy Raz worked, tearing down cloth and the thin wooden beams that held up the room’s tents, tossing them on top of the pile that was growing wider and higher with every second. Chairs and empty wooden boxes left from the day added to the mess, and Raz was careful to keep spreading it to the left, southward. Within several tumultuous minutes the heap of dirty rags, tipped-over tables, and splintered wood was wide enough that it cut around the corner, blocking the arched opening to the next room. Raz was just heaving a wide bench over to completely bar the path when he heard a distinct shout from outside, and as the timber crashed to the ground he stopped to listen.
“—Arro! Raz i’Syul Arro! By order of Captain-Commander Ulan Orture of the city guard, you are to surrender yourself for arrest!”
Oddly, the call seemed to be coming from all directions, as though several people were yelling at once.
They don’t know where I am, Raz realized.
He was torn. Shouting back would lose him what little advantage he might have, but it might also buy him some time. Reaching up to tear down the cloth overhang of a small tent, Raz thought quickly.
Even if they didn’t know where he was at the moment, it would be seconds before the guard rampaged in and found him. No, it was better to clue them in and take the risk if it meant he might get so m
uch as another minute to prepare.
“On what charges?” he roared back through the wall, tossing the fabric onto the pile in front of the arch, already grabbing yet another table. Sure enough, over the groan of the heavy wood he could hear the flurry of feet and the not-so-quiet orders of the guard surging in front and around the western room.
“You are to be arrested on charges of disturbing the peace, theft, assault, and multiple counts of murder and attempted murder! Place your weapons on the ground and come out unarmed, and we will escort you to the court keeps where you will receive fair trial!”
Raz snorted. Fair trial only meant one of two things: either the Mahsadën would try to flip him again, or they’d have him assassinated before he could so much as reach his cell. Grabbing a chair in each hand, Raz threw them on top of the mess, stepping back to examine his work.
“And if I don’t?” he shouted, not really caring what the man said in return, studying the pile. It satisfyingly blocked both the west door and southern archway, crossing the room’s corner in an even L-shape and peaking in the center. Moving back to the wall bracket where he’d hung his torch beside the previously unlit one, Raz reached up and pulled both free. He heard the man outside shout something about “executed on sight” and “strung in the Cages for all Miropa to see.”
The Wings of War: Books 1-3: The Wings of War Box Set, Vol. 1 Page 31