Текст книги "Whisper of Venom"

Автор книги: Richard Lee Byers

Соавторы: Richard Lee Byers
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She shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Keep working on it.” As she began another prayer, he rose and rushed back out into the hallway.

The drake looked like a wingless red wyrm charging on all fours. It nearly filled the passage, making it difficult to discern the dragon priest behind it.

Scarcely slowing, the drake spewed slime. Aoth wrenched himself out of the way. The muck spattered the floor, where it sizzled and gave off vile-smelling smoke.

Unfortunately, the evasion deprived Aoth of the time necessary to cast a spell. Nor was there any ranged magic stored in his sword potent enough to neutralize the drake and its master too. Regretting the absence of his spear, he poised himself to receive the reptile’s attack.

The spitting drake sprang in an attempt to carry him to the floor. Somehow, though there was barely room for it, he sidestepped, released more of the power inside his blade to augment his strength, and stabbed downward.

He missed the drake’s neck but pierced its shoulder. The sword drove in deep, then tore free in a shower of gore as the beast plunged onward. A pulse of Cera’s yellow light gilding its crimson scales, the beast reared onto its hind legs to spin around in the narrow hall. When it lunged again it was on three legs, the maimed one curled against its chest, but that didn’t slow it down.

Aoth freed the last of the raw might stored in the sword, then heard the wyrmkeeper chanting at his back. A howl of frigid wind slammed into his back, knocking him forward. Off balance and chilled to the bone, he still tried to stab the onrushing drake. But it snapped, caught his sword arm in its teeth, and whipped its head.

Only the truesilver mail shirt he wore beneath his outer garments kept the shearing action of the fangs and the whipping action from severing his hand. As it was, the drake threw him to the floor, and the pressure of its bite was as unrelenting as it was excruciating. The armor wouldn’t protect him for long.

The drake lashed him back and forth. He tried to transfer his sword to his free hand but couldn’t reach it. He called darts of blue light from the blade to stab into the reptile’s body. It snarled with pain, but that was all.

Her voice a little stronger, Cera chanted. A shaft of dazzling light blazed out of her cell onto the side of the drake’s head and neck, burning red scales black and melting a slit-pupiled yellow eye.

Finally, recoiling, the reptile let go of Aoth. Then it glared in Cera’s direction, and he sensed it meant to spit more vitriol. He heaved himself to his feet, flung himself at the reptile, and stabbed. Sadly, the weapon no longer had extra force to lend, but, bellowing, he put every iota of his own strength and weight behind the stroke.

The sword punched in one side of the drake’s neck and out the other. The beast thrashed, and a flailing leg or tail clipped Aoth and knocked him staggering. As he recovered his equilibrium, the drake collapsed to lie twitching and bleeding on the floor.

He spun toward the wyrmkeeper. The priest was running and had already reached a branching corridor. He vanished around the corner before Aoth could even cast more shining darts from the sword, let alone recite an incantation. He growled an obscenity.

Which failed to improve the situation. So he turned back to Cera just as she came limping out of the cell. “If the whoreson didn’t recognize me-” he began.

Cera smiled wryly and ran a finger along his bare, sweaty temple. Which demonstrated that at some point during his struggles, his cowl had fallen back, giving the dragon priest a clear look at his head-shaved scalp, tattoos, glowing eyes, and all.

He grunted. “Right. He did recognize me. So, now can you run?”

“I think I can at least hobble quickly enough to reach the stairs before our friend assembles every wyrmkeeper on the premises at the top.”

“Satisfying as it might be to kill our way through the whole pack of them, we’re not going out that way. Or at least I hope not.”

“How, then?”

“Often if a rich man thinks he needs a secret area in his home, he thinks he needs a secret way in and out of the house as well. If there’s one down here, I shouldn’t have much trouble spotting it. Let’s look.”

When he saw how much trouble she was having keeping up, he put his arm around her and half carried her along. Then echoing voices called back and forth. The wyrmkeepers were coming after them.

They seemed to be proceeding cautiously, but it was still just a matter of moments before one of them caught sight of their quarry. Aoth had just about decided it was time to turn around and make a stand when he and Cera came to the largest room they’d seen so far.

The wyrmkeepers had turned it into the holiest part of their secret temple, complete with a sizable lacquered statue of their dragon goddess-batlike wings half unfurled, wedge-shaped heads glaring in all directions-that they’d somehow smuggled in. But what instantly snagged Aoth’s attention were the tiny cracks defining a rectangle on the back wall.

In his haste he all but dragged Cera across the room, and she gasped in pain. “Sorry,” he said, examining the hidden door more closely.

He found the catch and pressed it, and the panel clicked open. It was actually wood, with a stone veneer to make it look like the rest of the wall. On the other side was a tunnel. He and Cera scurried inside, and he shut the door.

“You realize,” she whispered, “I can’t see a thing.”

“I know,” he said. “I’ll guide you.”

He only had to do it for a short distance. Then they reached the end and a ladder leading upward. When he cautiously cracked open the door at the top, he found himself peeking out into a cobbler’s shop where the air was redolent of leather. The place was dark at that hour, the proprietor likely asleep upstairs.

He led Cera inside. A little light seeped through the oiled paper windows, enough for ordinary eyes to discern the essential nature of the place, and so she breathed, “We made it.”

He snorted. “Not yet. My guess is that the wyrmkeepers will run to Halonya, and she’ll run to Tchazzar. But maybe we can get to him first.”

FIVE

5 KYTHORN, THE YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

Some of the horsemen and griffon riders still had work to do. They had to chase the enemy warriors who’d fled the battlefield. Oraxes couldn’t imagine how they’d find the energy. He felt utterly exhausted, and while his own contribution to the victory had required intense concentration, at least he hadn’t had armor weighing him down or needed to swing a mundane weapon over and over again.

He’d ridden out of Soolabax behind Gaedynn on griffonback. Since the archer was busy elsewhere, he had to find the stamina to trudge back into the town. He made it through the gate, then flopped down on the ground with his back against a wall. A steady stream of soldiers passed before him, their strange mix of satisfaction and weariness a match for his own. The scene stuttered as he repeatedly dozed, then jerked awake.

“The sellswords who looked after me said I should stay and loot the bodies with them,” said a soprano voice.

Startled, Oraxes snapped his head around. Meralaine was standing in front of him.

“But I was too tired,” she continued.

He dredged up a sneer. “Besides, it’s wrong to rob your friends.”

She stared at him for a moment. Then she said, “No zombie ever cheated me or threw stones at me just because I had green marks on my hands. There are worse friends than the dead.”

“And I guess that if you can’t find any living ones, that’s good.”

She sighed. “I thought that fighting the immolith together might help us be friends. But maybe not. Is it because you think I want to be the leader of the mages?”

He frowned. “Don’t you? You were certainly kissing Gaedynn’s boots.”

“I was not!” She hesitated. “But if I seemed like it, it was probably just because he and the other Brothers act like they don’t hate arcanists. Why would I care about being in charge of just three other people? Especially knowing how contrary the rest of you are. Especially since this Jhesrhi person will take over the job as soon as she comes back.”

He surprised himself by chuckling. “When you put it like that, it does seem kind of stupid. I just …”

“Was never put in charge of anything or anybody before?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

She sat down beside him. “You should learn necromancy. Then you’d always have dead things to order around.”

Tchazzar kissed his way down Lady Imestra’s body. Like so many Chessentans, she had a taut, athletic frame, and her milky skin was smooth as silk. She was also the wife of one of the city’s principal lords, and that made her even more desirable. It had always been thus, and evidently a century in exile hadn’t changed his proclivities.

At first she squirmed and arched her back in delight. He didn’t notice precisely when that changed. Eventually though, he realized she’d started screaming and struggling, tangling her fingers in his hair and straining in a vain attempt to pull his head up.

When he raised it, he saw reddened, blistered skin. A trace of a red dragon’s fire must have warmed his lips and tongue.

In wyrm form, mating with one of his own kind, he would have deliberately caressed his lover with his flame. He wondered if, addled by passion, he’d made an embarrassing mistake.

But that possibility only troubled him for an instant, and then he perceived the truth. He was a god, and so his divine nature protected him. Imestra couldn’t bear his touch because she was disloyal.

“Traitor,” he said. “Traitorous bitch.” He jumped up, grabbed her arm, and jerked her off the broad canopy bed onto the gleaming marble floor.

“Majesty!” she wailed.

“I know how to deal with traitors.” He dragged her across the floor to the chair where he’d tossed his clothing and the dagger he’d worn along with it.

Then someone knocked on the chamber door. “Majesty!” called the sentry posted outside. “Is everything all right?”

“In a way!” Tchazzar snarled. “My guards are evidently too stupid to keep traitors away from me. But fortunately a deity can protect himself!”

The sentry hesitated, then said, “A lot of people are here waiting to see you, Majesty. Even though it’s late, and we told them you gave orders not to be disturbed. There’s Lady Halonya, Lords Daelric and Nicos, the sellsword captain-”

“You mean Fezim?”

“Yes.”

Even with the insight of a divine being, Tchazzar couldn’t imagine what was going on. But it seemed clear he needed to find out. He started to call the guard in, then hesitated.

He’d proved Imestra’s guilt. But would mere mortals understand that? It might make life simpler if he provided more conventional evidence.

He left her sprawled and sobbing, picked up the dagger, unsheathed it, and tossed it to clank down beside her. Then he told the sentry to come in.

“Arrest her,” Tchazzar said. “Watch out for the knife she smuggled in.”

“Yes, Majesty,” said the guard.

“Arrest her pimp of a husband too. Where did you put all these folk whose problem can’t wait until morning?”

“In the Green Hall.”

“That will do.” Tchazzar momentarily considered dressing properly, then decided that given the hour and the impromptu nature of the assembly, a robe was good enough. He pulled on one sewn of crimson mocado and headed for the door. Behind him, Imestra blubbered.

An escort formed around him as he exited the royal apartments, and they all marched into the Green Hall together. Tapestries depicting Chessentan naval victories adorned the walls. The seas in the woven pictures were the color one would expect. So were the tiles on the floor, and the upholstery on the high-backed, ornately carved chair atop the dais.

As Tchazzar seated himself, he surveyed all the frowning folk awaiting his pleasure. They stood in three clumps.

On his right were Halonya-he really would have to tell the poor child to stop second-guessing her dressmakers, jewelers, and hairdressers-a couple of her subordinate priests, and plump Luthen with his balding head and goatee.

In the middle, as if to separate the other two groups, were sour-faced, mannish Shala Karanok and one of her clerks.

And on the left were Jhesrhi, Nicos, Daelric, Aoth, and the sunlady the war-mage had brought to the coronation-Cera, that was the name. The priestess had scratches and bruises all over her, and her yellow vestments were torn and stained.

That seemed a little ominous, but what bothered Tchazzar more was seeing the only two mortals he completely trusted on opposite sides of the hall. Halonya was the visionary who most clearly perceived his divinity, while Jhesrhi was his luck, the agent of destiny who’d helped him escape the endless torture of the Shadowfell. Even the hint that they might be at odds was … disquieting.

He let the men bow and the women curtsey, then told them when it was enough. As they straightened up, he said, “All right, what is it?”

Several people starting babbling at once.

“Stop!” Tchazzar glowered at Shala. “Chamberlain, what is it?”

“Captain Fezim and Cera Eurthos were the first to arrive,” Shala said. “That was a while ago. They claim that after she sneaked into your interim temple to look for evidence of treason, the sunlady was held against her will in a secret dungeon. They further claim the priests tried to kill both of them when Fezim entered the building to set her free.”

“That’s nonsense!” Halonya shrilled. “I’m told Cera Eurthos was detained-briefly-after she broke in to snoop around. Then the Thayan broke in too. Together they assaulted two of Your Majesty’s holy servants and killed a sacred beast.”

“Several days isn’t ‘briefly,’ ” said Aoth. “And what gives your gang of ruffians the right to lock up anyone for any length of time, under any circumstances? If they thought Cera had committed a crime, why didn’t they summon the city guards?”

“The Church of Tchazzar is the instrument of his sacred will,” Halonya replied. “Whatever we do is lawful and proper by definition.”

“Amen,” Luthen said.

“If your fellowship was truly and only the Church of Tchazzar,” said Aoth, “that mightbe a proper sentiment. But Cera and I found proof that some of the folk who pledged you their service are really priests of Tiamat.”

Tchazzar snorted. “Is that was this is all about? I already knew that, of course.”

Aoth stared at him. “You did?”

“Why wouldn’t they serve me, when I’m the Dark Lady’s champion, and she’s my mother and my bride? When I am her and she is me?”

Aoth took a breath. “Majesty, as I’m sure you realize, you’re talking about mysteries beyond a mortal’s understanding. What I do understand is that wyrmkeepers sent abishais disguised as dragonborn to murder me in Soolabax. There’s every reason to believe they used the same ploy to commit the Green Hand murders here in Luthcheq. They captured Jhesrhi and Gaedynn when they were in Mourktar and delivered them to Jaxanaedegor. They’re enemies of Chessenta, and that means they’re your enemies too.”

“It’s the way of wyrmkeepers,” Tchazzar said, “to attach themselves to one dragon or another. Those who committed offenses against Chessenta plainly serve Alasklerbanbastos or his lieutenants. The ones who pledged their devotion to me are just as obviously a different group.”

“Then why did they keep me prisoner for days on end without telling anyone?” Cera asked. “Why did they torture me to find out what I knew about their schemes? Why, if they have nothing to hide?”

“Frankly, milady,” Luthen said, “if they held you for a little while and twisted your arm a bit, that’s regrettable. But no more than you deserve for your meddling. Undertaken, I would assume, without the knowledge of your patriarch.” He turned an inquiring eye on Daelric.

Stout and ruddy-faced, his yellow vestments trimmed with amber and topaz, the sunlord took a long breath, then let it out again. “I knew nothing about it, and, rest assured, I will discipline her. But I must also say that the person of a priestess of Amaunator is sacred, and I’m outraged at the treatment she’s received.”

Halonya made a spitting sound. “No one cares a turd about your outrage.”

“Did you even understandthat many of your new clerics are actually wyrmkeepers?” Daelric replied. “Did you even know they were holding a sunlady prisoner? I think not, just as I’m reasonably certain you can’t perform even the simplest feat of divine magic to support your pretensions to sanctity.”

“ Iproclaimed her a prophet and a priestess!” Tchazzar snapped. “Do you question my ‘pretensions’ to divine Power as well?”

Daelric’s pink block of a face turned white. “No, Majesty, of course not. It’s just … Lady Halonya is a visionary, but likewise an innocent. That may be precisely the quality that enables her to see what others don’t. Still, to appoint her leader of your church and thus, in effect, a part of the government, is perhaps no benefit to anyone, herself least of all.”

“Apologize,” said Tchazzar. “On your knees.”

Daelric swallowed. “Yes, Majesty.” He started to lower himself before the throne.

“No,” said Tchazzar. “To her.”

The high priest faltered.

“Do it,” Tchazzar said. “Or I’ll break you into something so wretched that even an illiterate pauper will look like a queen to you.”

Daelric stiffly kneeled before Halonya. “I apologize,” he said, “for doubting your fitness for your office.”

Halonya lashed him across the face with the back of her hand. The big red stones she wore on every finger tore his skin, and Tchazzar smelled the coppery tang of the beads of blood. “Now I forgive you,” she said in a tone as sweet as honey.

It was funny, and Tchazzar laughed until he realized that except for Halonya, no one else was laughing or even smirking along with him. These humans didn’t enjoy the perspective of a god, so he supposed they might not see the joke. Still, their failure to join in irked him nonetheless.

Well, if they wanted their master serious, so be it. There were still judgments to hand down.

“Captain Fezim,” he said, “we have yet to explore a fundamental point. What are you doing in Luthcheq at all?”

“I came back to urge you to come to the border as fast as possible,” the war-mage said.

Tchazzar noticed that unlike many other people, Aoth had no difficulty looking him in the eye. There was a part of him that respected that, and also a part that wondered if such boldness was the outward manifestation of disrespect. “I already told you I’ll come when it’s necessary.”

“Majesty, it’s necessary now. The dracolich is bringing all his strength to bear, including his circle of dragons. We griffon riders managed to kill a wyrm at Soolabax, but we can’t handle all of them. Not without your help and the support of the troops still hanging around this city.”

“Majesty, this is misdirection,” Luthen said. “Since the Thayan already had your assurances, it’s obvious he ignored his responsibilities in the field to search for his missing accomplice.”

Like Daelric before him, Nicos didn’t look happy about needing to speak up on behalf of his protege, but he evidently felt that he couldn’t let his rival’s remarks pass unchallenged. “Majesty, who is Lord Luthen to criticize any decision that a soldier as famous as Captain Fezim might make concerning the conduct of the war?”

Luthen sneered. “He does have a kind of fame, I’ll grant you that. Or maybe notoriety is a better word. For breaking his contract with the Simbarch Council of Aglarond, taking the zulkirs of the Wizard’s Reach on a foredoomed expedition that cost each and every one of them their lives, and losing to a rabble of crazed demon-worshipers in Impiltur. When Shala Karanok was war hero, I warned her about trusting such a man, or relying on the judgment of the counselor who sponsored him. Unfortunately she ignored me, but perhaps Your Majesty will find a measure of prudence in my words.”

“Yes,” Tchazzar said, “if only because I don’t like people creeping around behind my back.” He fixed his gaze on Cera. “I leave your punishment to Daelric. I’m confident it will be severe, because I’m going to require him to donate the tenth part of your church’s revenue until such time as my new temple is complete.”

“Yes, Majesty.” Daelric dabbed at his face with a bloody handkerchief.

Tchazzar turned his gaze on Nicos. “Poor judgment is a lesser offense than sacrilege. Still, it carries a penalty. You’ll donate the twentieth part of your income.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Nicos said.

Tchazzar glowered at Aoth. “Now, what to do with you?”

The war-mage still had no difficulty meeting his gaze. “Nothing. Not if you’re wise. Cera poked into the wyrmkeepers’ business because she thought Amaunator wanted her to, for the good of Chessenta. Maybe she was right, or maybe not, and I was just as misguided to try and pull her out of trouble. Either way, this little affair means nothing compared to the defense of the realm. And you need the Brotherhood to see to that.”

“You forget I’ve been to war with sellswords many times. I know what drives you. Your men will happily fight under a new commander if the price is right.”

“I’d make damn sure of that before you do anything you can’t undo.”

Tchazzar recognized that he almost certainly could make good use of Aoth Fezim. But it felt like the mortal was defying him, and suddenly that blasphemy seemed more important than any mundane consideration of military matters ever could. He drew breath to order the Thayan’s arrest.

Then Jhesrhi cleared her throat. It surprised Tchazzar a little. So often uncomfortable in crowds, she’d been quiet and still up until then, so much so that despite her golden comeliness and the esteem in which he held her, he’d all but forgotten she was there.

His anger cooling slightly, he said, “My lady? Is there something you wish to say?”

“I want to plead for clemency.” She waved her tawny-skinned hand in a gesture that indicated Aoth, Nicos, Cera, and Daelric too. “For all of them.”

“Are you sure?” Tchazzar asked. “It occurs to me that with Captain Fezim locked away to contemplate the fruits of sacrilege and insolence, you could command the Brotherhood of the Griffon.”

“That’s kind,” the wizard said. “But I don’t want to be a war leader. Even if I did, I would never want to steal what rightfully belongs to Aoth. He once saved me in much the same way.… What I mean to say is, I know in my heart that he and Cera truly were trying their best to serve Chessenta and you.”

“They desecrated your sanctuary!” Halonya snarled. “They have to pay!”

“Not if His Majesty shows them mercy,” Jhesrhi said.

“Witch!” Halonya replied. “Witch whore to a Thayan wizard! Naturally youdon’t understand the importance of sacred things!”

Jhesrhi took a long breath as though quelling the impulse to answer Halonya’s gibe in kind. Then she said, “Majesty, you’ve been more than generous to me, and I’m grateful. But unlike Lady Halonya, I’ve never asked you for anything-”

“Liar!” Halonya cried, drops of spittle flying from her lips. “You asked him to let the dirty green hands live like honest people!”

“I was going to say,” Jhesrhi said, her teeth gritted, “I never asked for anything for myself. Now, I am. If what happened on that dark hill we both remember means anything to you, pardon these people. At worst Aoth and Cera are guilty of overzealousness in your service. What’s the point of punishing devotion?”

Tchazzar looked at the determination in the set of Jhesrhi’s jaw and the blaze of her golden eyes, then at the rage and disgust manifest in Halonya’s scowl and rigid posture. He realized he simply wanted the unpleasantness to end. Jhesrhi had a point. What did any of it mean, anyway?

Then he smirked. Because actually, there was a point of sorts. A secret the sunlady might conceivably have uncovered, if she’d been clever or lucky enough. But it wasn’t a secret intended for human beings.

“All right,” Tchazzar said. “I pardon everyone.” He looked at Jhesrhi. “Understand, I’m still your friend. But if I owed you any sort of debt, this pays it. So no more talk of dark hills.”

“I understand,” the wizard said.

Meanwhile, Halonya glared. Well, another present or two should mollify her. For all his deficiencies as a high priest and counselor, Daelric was right about one thing. She was endearingly childlike in some ways.

“That’s that, then,” Tchazzar said, gripping the arms of the throne as he prepared to rise. “We can still get a little sleep before my brother Amaunator summons us from our beds.”

To his astonishment, Aoth took a step forward. “Actually, Majesty, I still need you to tell me when you’re coming north.”

In truth, Tchazzar knew he had to go. He reminded himself several times each day he needed to announce his departure. But it was hard to forsake the pleasures of Luthcheq after decades of pain and deprivation. Nor was he eager to launch a campaign that would take him back to Threskel and conceivably even the Sky Riders.

He didn’t fear Alasklerbanbastos or any other foe he could fight with sword or fang. But no one could fight bad luck, and who could doubt that the hills were unlucky for him? It was there that the Blue Fire had crippled him and hurled him into the Shadowfell for Sseelrigoth to find and imprison.

“If Aoth says the matter is urgent,” said Jhesrhi, “then I promise you it is.”

And she’d be there with him, good luck to counter bad. He sighed and said, “So be it. Those of us who can fly will leave tomorrow. The rest of the army will follow as soon as it can.”

It was like the night of Balasar’s initiation. As he stood in the shadow of a stall on the dark Market Floor, laughter and the music of a mandolin, longhorn, and hand drum trio drifted on the breeze. He wasn’t close enough to hear the clatter of dice, but his imagination supplied it, just as it put the tart heat of spiceberry liqueur in his mouth.

Although he didn’t actually have to depend on imagination for the latter. He opened the pouch on his belt, removed a silver flask, pulled the cork, and took a swig.

Medrash might not have approved of him drinking when he had important work to do. But as far as Balasar was concerned, he’d earned a nip. Because it turned out that he didn’t care for spying. Not so much because of the ongoing strain of trying to pass himself off as a true worshiper of the dragon god, although that could be nerve-racking. Because it was so cursed hard to find out anything.

He’d infiltrated the Platinum Cadre on the assumption that there was something truly sinister about it, something that tied it to the wave of calamities that seemed to be afflicting countries all around the Alamber Sea. But he still had no idea what that might be. It didn’t become obvious just because a fellow wormed his way inside.

That left Balasar to grope for clues. Things that made no sense or didn’t fit, although he had little faith in his ability to recognize them. How was he supposed to know what was anomalous when none of this praying and groveling before altars made sense to a rational, properly raised dragonborn like himself?

But finally, he noticed something. It might not mean anything, but, bereft of more promising leads, he meant to find out for sure.

Raiann was one of Nala’s most fervent converts, and one far advanced in the mysteries. She swayed constantly from side to side like her mentor, went berserk in every battle, and could spew lightning a dozen times before running dry. More to the point, she’d abandoned her trade as a glassblower to serve the cult full-time.

So why did she still periodically slip away to the fields surrounding Djerad Thymar and fill a cart with fine white sand?

It was possible she was merely stockpiling the stuff for when the war ended and she could resume her profession. But hoping, if only forlornly, for a more damning explanation, Balasar had shadowed her to her dark, shuttered shop.

Two figures stalked out of the murk. Balasar couldn’t make out their faces, but they too displayed the subtle slithering-straight-up-into-the-air tic that afflicted Bahamut’s most devoted worshipers. They glanced around, then knocked on the door to the shop. Raiann opened it immediately, and the others went inside.

It was probably just Balasar’s impatience playing tricks on him, but it seemed to take a long while for anything else to happen. Then hooves clopped on the granite, and Raiann drove her donkey out from behind the building. A tarp covered the sand in the bed of the cart, and the other cultists walked to either side like they were guarding something precious.

Balasar waited for them to get a little way ahead, then followed.

He wasn’t surprised when they descended into the Catacombs, or when the wyrm-lovers subsequently chose a path that led into a part of them that wasn’t patrolled. He just hoped they wouldn’t turn down one of the passages where the working sconces gave out altogether. Although he supposed they couldn’t do that without striking a light of their own.

The echoing click of the donkey’s hooves was somehow sad and dreamlike in the gloom. A draft from somewhere blew cold in Balasar’s face and moaned almost inaudibly in his ear. It was like he was rubbing shoulders with a ghost, and it whispered his name as it brushed by.

Axles creaking, the cart turned another corner. Raiann or one of her companions whistled three ascending notes.

A signal? Balasar skulked onward even more warily than before. He peeked down the branching passage.

He glimpsed a surge of forward motion and the flicker of wings just beneath the ceiling. He started to look up, and then everything went black. At the same instant the floor beneath his feet became uneven. He lost his balance and fell on the hard edges of something. Stone steps or risers?

Before he could feel around and find out, something slammed down on the back of his head and neck. It reached around to scrabble at his face, slashing him just above one eye and just below the other.

He threw himself backward in an effort to crush his attacker between his body and whatever he was lying on. He grabbed, caught handfuls of what might be leathery wing, and shredded them with his claws.

Something hissed right beside his ear. Then his hands were empty. His attacker was simply gone, and his back and shoulders dropped through the empty space it had just occupied, giving him another bump.