The Bone Palace - Amanda Downum [46]
Owl, the word meant in Skarrish. She looked it, with her wide eyes and small round face. And that would explain the faded accent, though her vowels didn’t sound quite like those Isyllt heard in the markets. How long since Azarné had last seen Skarra or Iskar?
“Pleased to meet you,” Isyllt said, the ridiculousness of the scene nearly making her head spin. From Azarné’s brief twitch of a smile, she appreciated the absurdity as well. Spider simply glowered.
“Since we’ve all established that we don’t trust each other,” Khelséa said, “shall we keep going?” She tugged the chain free of the broken lock, and the gate squealed inward.
“You’re hunting Myca, aren’t you,” the vrykola said. “And his friends.”
“Yes.” Isyllt raised her eyebrows. “Do you object?”
“They tried to kill you and your musician. They would break the truce and bring the armies of daylight down on us all. I remember the last time that happened.” She stripped the sleeve from one narrow forearm, baring the scar-slick ridges of old burns. “I’ll help you stop them.”
“As you will,” was all Spider said. He turned between heartbeats and ghosted down the corridor.
Isyllt and Khelséa exchanged a glance, then resumed their hunt. Azarné drifted behind them, as silent as her namesake.
Another stretch of tunnels, these rougher than before, less traveled by sewer workers. Isyllt could feel the difference in her head—not the sharp chill of death, but a cool stillness. The absence of life, not the end of it. It might have been soothing, but her legs ached and the constant witchlight was giving her a headache.
The knowledge that she was lost did nothing to ease it. Khelséa’s map was a comfort, but even that wouldn’t help them if they turned into one of the uncharted tunnels. She felt like a spirit caught in a maze-trap. Better, she supposed, than being caught in a labyrinth, and circling toward one certain fate.
A rustle of parchment drew her out of her brooding. Khelséa unrolled the map and stopped to frown at it. Isyllt leaned close to look over her shoulder.
“What is it?”
“We’ve been going south all this time, more or less.” One dark finger tapped a section of faded lines and branches, slid down the paper and stopped against a darker, wider line. “Which means we’re going to hit the river soon.”
“Problematic,” Isyllt murmured. No architect was mad or ambitious enough to dig under the Dis; the sewers on either side were unconnected.
“I told you—” Isyllt stiffened to realize Spider was right beside them; the map crinkled in Khelséa’s hands. “There are passages not on your maps.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing, or you’ll bring the whole city down one day.”
“Not on accident,” Spider said with a grin. “Come on—we’re almost to the crossing.”
“On second thought,” Khelséa muttered, “next time you can take the minstrel.”
The crawlspace was as close as Spider promised, at least. A narrow crevice in the wall, barely wide enough for a man to squeeze in. It shivered in Isyllt’s head as she leaned close—not human magic, but the same sort of glamour that Spider wore in the city streets. Most eyes, she suspected, would slide over it unnoticing.
“Be careful,” Spider said. “The way is steep and long.” He twisted sideways and vanished in a pale blur.
Isyllt and Khelséa exchanged a glance. “Well,” the inspector said. “Go on.”
“I’ll be right behind you,” Azarné added, with only the phantom of a smile.
Isyllt glared at both of them, then sent her witchlight into the fissure and followed it down.
“Steep” was an understatement. Her boots slipped and slid, and bits of rock skittered down into the darkness ahead of her. Her hands soon ached from bracing against the wall. The roar of the sewers faded, leaving the ringing in her ears and the harsh echo of her breath. Sweat ran down her back, slicked her scalp and squelched inside her gloves.
“This wasn’t quite the sort of misadventure I had in mind,” Khelséa muttered. A rivulet of dust and pebbles spilled from beneath