Aurian

29 Sewer Rats

The old bakery had changed so much that Anvar, had he been there, would scarcely have recognized his childhood home. After Ria’s death, Tori had lost heart. His thriving business in the Arcade had been destroyed with the fire that killed his wife, and he had been forced to fall back on his older, smaller premises in the poverty of the laborers’ district. But without Ria to clean up, and without Anvar’s labor, things had gone steadily from bad to worse. Despite Bern’s efforts to save the business that he would inherit, the bakery was in a shabby state, its plaster crumbling and its roof sorely in need of repair. The inside was cobwebbed and filthy, and badly in need of a new coat of whitewash.

No wonder we’ve lost our customers, Bern thought disgustedly, as he took tomorrow’s loaves out of the oven. Tori, now a sullen, bitter man, no longer bothered to get up early to bake a fresh batch each day. In truth, it was scarcely worthwhile. Bern frowned at the pile of stale loaves that lay on the table beneath the window. Everyone in the district knew the conditions under which Tori’s once famous bread was now made —and no one would touch it.

Just then the object of Bern’s gloomy thoughts came into the bakery. The flames of the oven flared in the strong draft from the doorway, and a swirling cloud of snow followed Tori indoors, the flakes lit like sparks in the glow of his lantern. The new Council, in the pay of the Magefolk, had decreed that no more money should be wasted on lamplighters. Crime flourished in the darkened streets, and people were now forced to carry their own illumination.

“Rough night,” Tori grunted. “Bloody winter!”

“Wipe your feet, Dad!” Bern knew before the words were out of his mouth that it was hopeless.

Tori shrugged, as he always did, and began to load the stale loaves into a sack that he had brought from the empty stable. “I’m off to the tavern,” he muttered. “Harkas wants these for his pigs.”

“Dad, not again!” Bern protested. “We can’t go on like this! If you brought home the money you get from Harkas, instead of drinking it, maybe we could afford to fix this place up so our bread would be fit for people to eat! Besides, he can’t be paying you much. It’s a long time since I’ve seen you come home tipsy, let alone drunk!”

“You mind your own business, Bern!”

“Mind my own business? This business is all I—we—have, and you’re letting it go to wrack and ruin!”

Tori scowled. “What if I am? What’s the point in working, while those cursed Magefolk bleed the city dry! Tithes here, taxes there ... I’d sooner burn this place down than put another penny into Magefolk coffers!”

Bern, thoroughly alarmed, strove to be conciliatory. “Look, Dad, why don’t I come with you tonight? I could use a beer myself, and maybe together we could wheedle more money out of Harkas for the bread. What do you say?”

“No!” The violence of his father’s reply took Bern by surprise. Tori’s glance slid slyly away from that of his son. “Not tonight, Bern, eh?” he gabbled. “It’s filthy weather out there, and you’ve worked hard today. Don’t drag yourself through the mud and snow just to keep me company. You have a nice rest. Come another night instead.” He was out of the door and away before his son could blink.

“What the blazes is he up to?” Bern muttered. Pausing only to bank the oven, he whisked his tattered cloak round his shoulders, lit a lantern, and left the bakery, following the prints of his father’s footsteps on the snowy ^ground.

Tori was freezing. Carrying the sack in one hand and the lantern in the other, he was unable to pull his cloak about him, and it was flapping wildly in the icy wind. In trying to rescue it he dropped the sack, and loaves fell out to roll across the ground, so that he had to stop and pick them up. “Bloody Vannor,” he cursed. “Don’t know why I do it, now he’s run out of gold.” In truth, of course, he knew perfectly well. He was aiding Vannor’s rebels out of pure hatred—to get back at the accursed Magefolk who had destroyed his family, ruined his business, and wrecked his life. With that in mind, a few stale loaves and a certain amount of risk seemed a small price to pay.

Vannor had set up his headquarters within the city’s intricate sewer system, miseries of tunnels built above the level of the major drains to take the runoff from heavy rains or snowmelt. Cleaner than the actual sewers, they would remain fairly dry and habitable until the thaw. The Magefolk had few supporters in th-s northern part of the city, so food and other necessities were smuggled down to the rebels by allies who lived above. The storm drain beneath Tori’s home was an ideal base. With his bitter hatred of the Magefolk, he could be trusted. In addition, the bakery oven was usually alight; a little of its warmth filtered down through the earth to improve conditions in the freezing drain. Karlek, formerly a siege engineer in the Garrison, had broken a chimney through into the flue of the oven, so that they could have a fire without its smoke being seen above, and of course the baker provided them with a regular supply of bread. Really, thought Tori, Vannor and his men were doing pretty well out of him.

It wasn’t far to go. Tori rounded the corner of the bakery and branched off into the narrow alley that ran behind the high-walled stable yard. He paused for a brief glance all around, but no one ever came into this dead end. Putting down the sack, he bent with a grunt to lift a grating that was set into the cobbles. Taking bread and lantern with him, the baker lowered himself into the drain, reaching up to pull the cover down behind him. He was unaware that he was being watched.

Bern could hardly believe it when his father vanished into the drain. He moved quickly from his hiding place in the shadows and sped across to the grating—just in time to hear Tori’s whisper echoing out of the-btackness beneath it, “It’s me, Tori, Look, I need to talk with Vannor. I think my son is getting suspicious.”

Bern stiffened. Vannor? Vannor had been declared an outlaw! There were rumors all over the city that he was gathering an army against the Magefolk. It took seconds for Bern to reach the obvious conclusion—and the solution to his problems. Tori would die for treason and be out of the way for good—and there’d be a reward, of course! He could build up the business again . . . Bern scrambled to his feet, and ran. Should he go to the Academy? No, the Garrison was closer. They could surprise the rebels and catch Tori in the act. He’d make sure of the reward first, though. The new Commander was a vile-tempered mercenary hired by the Magefolk, the sort who’d sell his grandmother for a profit. Still, if he and his troops secured Bern’s inheritance, who cared? Heedless of the snow, Bern ran faster.

“She’s alive, I tell you!” Miathan’s bony fists hammered with soundless violence on the thick quilt that covered his bed. His face, below the bandage that concealed the ruin of his burnt-out eyes, was twisted with frustrated rage.

Bragar stepped close to Eliseth, to whisper in her ear: “Are you sure she didn’t fry his brain as well as his eyes?”

“I heard that!” Miarhan turned toward the Fire-Mage with unerring accuracy, and lifted his hand. A chill, misty vapor flowed rapidly from his fingers and pooled round Bragar’s feet, coalescing into the form of a glimmering serpent that began to make its coiling way up the Mage’s legs. Bragar bit down on a scream, and tried, too late, to make frantic warding gestures as the cruel head reached the level of his face. The serpent hissed, showing ice-pointed fangs that glittered with venom.

“Miathan, no!” Eliseth cried hastily. “He didn’t mean it!”

“She’s right, Archmage! I—I apologize!” Bragar’s voice was no more than a squeak. The serpent vanished.

Miathan cackled spitefully, a laugh cut off with shocking suddenness in mid-breath. “So what are you going to do about it?”

The Weather-Mage frowned, “About Bragar, Archmage?”

“No, you stupid woman! About Aurian! She’s coming! Coming for me, for all of us! She stalks my dreams—corning after us with death in her eyes . . .”

“Archmage, how can that be?” Bragar protested. “She drowned in Eliseth’s storm, We all felt it—”

“It wasn’t strong enough!” the Archmage snapped. “Not like when that ass Davorshan got himself killed.” Eliseth gasped, and he cackled again. “Oh, I knew all about you and Davorshan from the start. I may be blind, but I don’t miss much around here, let me tell you.”

Eliseth turned on him furiously. “That’s beside the point,” she said flatly. “Aurian is dead. What difference does it make that we barely felt her passing? It’s not surprising, with the distance, and the ocean between us, not to mention all the panic from her attack on you—”

“Eliseth, you’re aJo4>l,” Miathan retorted, “Aurian is alive, and a threat to us all. If we’re to keep what we’ve gained, she must be intercepted.” His spidery hands clawed at the crystal around his neck. “And what about that accursed Anvar? I know he survived your blundering storm!”

“Who the blazes is Anvar?” Bragar interrupted.

Eliseth gave him a blank look. “I’ve no idea.”

“He was Lady Aurian’s servant.” Elewin’s respectful voice came from the corner. The Chief Steward had been there so long, devotedly nursing his master, that they had forgotten his presence. “My Lord Archmage never liked poor Anvar,” he continued, “yet he was as diligent a lad as ever I—”

“Shut up!” Miathan spat. “Yes, he was her servant, against my wishes. I want him dead, do you hear? His head on a spike! His heart ripped from his living body! His corpse hacked to pieces and trampled into the ground! I want—”

“Hush now, Archmage,” Eliseth murmured, handing him a cup of wine. “Bragar and I will deal with Aurian and her servant, I promise.”

“Not Aurian, you imbecile! I want her brought to me alive! I want her—” Miathan licked his lips in an unsavory manner, and lapsed into a crooning reverie.

Bragar opened his mouth to protest, but Eliseth waved him silent. “Don’t worry, Archmage,” she said. “You may leave the matter safely in our hands. Stay with him, Elewin.” Taking Bragar’s hand, she hauled him firmly away from the bed.

Elewin bowed them^ respectfully out of the room. Then: “More wine, Archmage?” He tugged the cup from Miathan’s grasp. Slipping a twist of paper from his pocket, he poured its contents, a greenish powder, into the wine, and handed it back to Miathan. “Is that better, Lord Archmage?”

Miathan drained the cup. “It’s good. I don’t recognize the vintage, but it’s very good . . .” He slumped back against the pillows, snoring gently. Elewin took the cup from his hands and straightened; his subservience vanished. Following the Mages, he crept downstairs to Eliseth’s door. Setting an ear to the panels, the Steward composed himself to listen.

Eliseth’s white-painted chamber was spacious and spartan, its furnishings elegant but spare and uncomfortable. Bragar squirmed uneasily on a hard wooden chair, wishing that she wouldn’t insist on presenting such a chilly front to the world. He knew that the bedroom behind those doors at the far end of the room was a den of luxury; a fur-carpeted, silk-hung, perfumed temple dedicated to sensuality and lust. The thought reminded him unpleasantly that since Eliseth had started taking an interest in Davorshan, he, Bragar, had been pointedly denied access to that inner sanctum. How glad he had been when that slimy youth had died!

“Wine?” Eliseth took goblets from a cabinet in the corner.

“Have you nothing stronger?”

The Magewoman raised her eyes to the ceiling. “You’re drinking too much, Bragar,” she snapped. “How can I depend on you if your brains are permanently pickled?”

“Shut up and give me a drink!” Bragar snarled. You wait, he thought. Someday I’ll make you pay for treating me like this. And when I’m done, you’ll be begging for mercy—or begging for more! The thought, along with the glass of spirits that she grudgingly handed him, was some comfort.

“Well, what do you think?” Eliseth’s voice dissolved his fantasy. “Not that there’s any point in asking you,” she said with a sneer, settling herself in a chair near the fire, a glass of white wine in her hand.

“What a shame you’ve no one else to ask,” Bragar retorted,

le to resist needling her about Davorshan’s death. He had satisfaction of seeing her face twist with rage. “What can I say?” he replied to her question. “Miath’an’s brains have clearly been addled by Aurian’s attack. How could she not have perished?”

Eliseth frowned. “I’m not so sure,” she said. “Remember how close Aurian and the Archmage used to be? He should know whether she’s dead, if anyone does.”

“Rubbish! The old fool is senile, and you know it. We should put him out of his misery, and take power ourselves!’

“Bragar, you’ve the brains of an ox!” Eliseth snapped. “We need the Archmage as a figurehead! He made sure of that when he spread the tale that it was his power that destroyed the Nihilim! We were able to bribe that toad Narvish onto the Council as the merchants’ representative, and Angos at the Garrison is nothing but a thickheaded mercenary who will do whatever we say for a price, but they won’t last long if Miathan is not seen to be behind them! It is only the Mortals’ fear of his power, and what will happen if he withdraws it, that keeps the city in our hands.’”

“If he’s only a figurehead, why do we have to jump whenever he snaps his fingers?” Bragar sulked.

Eliseth took a sip of wine. “As a rule we don’t—but if there is a chance that Aurian survived, we cannot risk her returning. Miathan may want her alive, but I do not! I’ve been giving it some thought. We know she was at sea, and I know the strength and direction of the storm I raised. If she is anywhere, it has to be the Southern Lands.”

“The South? But even if we had the people, we could not send a force in sufficient numbers to find her,”

Bragar protested. “The Southerners would take it as an invasion, and a war is the last thing we need at present. Besides, they’re supposed to be hostile to the Magefolk. If that’s where Aurian is, the problem will take care of itself.”

“Why rely on it, when we have other means at our disposal?” Eliseth glanced at him slyly.

Bragar knew she wanted him to ask what she meant, so she could accuse him of stupidity again. Refusing to play her game, he gulped the contents of his glass and went to refill it. “You always did have a high opinion of yourself,” he said, sneering.

“How dare you!” Eliseth rose to the bait. “I’m the only Weather-Mage in the world! If I deal with them, the Southerners will be lucky to havejapy survivors, let alone that redheaded bitch! I’ve seen the maps,” she went on more calmly. “The Southern Lands have huge mountain ranges and vast deserts, and even jungle, if you go far enough south. With topography like that, it’s easy to produce violent weather. A sandstorm in the right place, or unseasonal blizzards in the mountains, could solve our problem. It would also soften up the Southern races for conquest,” she added persuasively.

“Eliseth, you can’t!” The bottle jerked in Bragar’s hands, splashing brandy on the white tiled floor. “You’ll alter the weather everywhere! It could take centuries to restore the balance!”

Eliseth shrugged. “So what? Who cares if we lose a few thousand Mortals to storms or famine? With their numbers reduced, they’ll be easier to control. We need not suffer, now we know Finbarr’s preserving spell. We’ll have Elewin stockpile food in the catacombs, and keep it indefinitely. It’s not as though we had many mouths to feed nowadays.”

Gods, she was ruthless! Bragar was both impressed and appalled. Once he had been the instigator of their plots, but now that it was time to act instead of talk, he was finding himself increasingly out of his depth. It was one thing to talk about Negative Magic, but having to deal with those things from the Caldron had jarred his confidence badly. Bragar gulped his drink, remembering the horror of the Wraiths, How could Eliseth be so composed? Her slender form looked delicate and brittle as a spear of ice, yet she throve on situations that turned his blood to water. His vision of her, submissive and conquered, evaporated. He was losing this game; he knew it now. His one hope lay in going along with her—and waiting for her to overreach herself. Then, at last, it would be his turn.

Bragar decided on a change of tactics. “Maybe you’re right—” He cut the words off, alerted by a warning prickle at the base of his neck, by the merest hint of a sound outside. Overturning his chair, he shot across the room and flung the door open.

“Bragar, what are you doing?”

The Fire-Mage peered at the empty stairway, then closed the door, shaking his head in puzzlement. “I thought , , .”

Elewin, pressed flat to the wall round the curve of the staircase, let out the breath he had been holding in a long sigh. That had been close! For a moment he considered returning, but there was no sense in taking risks. He had heard enough, and the information must be passed on. He hurried downstairs and let himself out of the Tower.

Gods! Would spring never come? This accursed winter was lingering forever. After several hours within Miathan’s warm chambers, Elewin shivered in the bitmgly cold air. A new sprinkling of snow had fallen while he’d been tending the Archmage, but the night skies were clear now, and the temperature had dropped sharply. The snow, frozen to a hard, brittle crust, crunched loudly beneath his boots as he crossed the courtyard, and Elewhrgianced nervously up at the lighted window of Eliseth’s room. If they should hear him, and look out . . . He’d never be able to explain why he was going to the library, especially at this time of night. Miathan had no need of books nowadays, he thought wryly.

Since Finbarr’s death, the library had lain dark and empty. The preserving spells, which required frequent renewing, were already decaying, and as Elewin pushed open the heavy door he heard a rustling patter like wind-blown leaves as mice and cockroaches scattered for cover. The Steward shook his head sadly. Finbarr would have been appalled. The irreplaceable knowledge of centuries, which he had tended with such care and skill, ending up as rat’s nests! I must get someone to see to this, Elewin thought, hating the notion of Finbarr’s precious volumes moldering beneath a shroud of cobwebs and dust. It was disrespectful to the Archivist’s memory to let his life’s work go to ruin—but in truth, there was no one to tend them, Most of the servartts had fled in terror on the Night of Death, as people in the city called it, and few were willing now to come near the Academy. Elewin was hard-pressed to maintain the basic necessities, let alone spare a servant to dust books.

Not daring to venture a light, the Steward groped his way across the long, musty room, cursing as he bruised himself on the corner of a table, and fell over a displaced chair. If only there had been a moon, to cast some light through the tall windows. If only he had Mages’ sight! At last he reached the farther end, recognizing Jtjy feel the recessed door that led down into the catacombs. Smiling in the darkness, he slipped an intricate key from his pocket. Eliseth and Bragar thought all the keys to the archives were safe in their keeping, and it was small wonder they wanted no one in the catacombs, considering what they had stored down there! But they did not know that Finbarr had given Anvar his own key. Elewin had found it among his scanty belongings, after he fled. Entering the archives, the Steward carefully locked the door again behind him.

The walls of the corridor were icy to the touch, and Elewin had trouble lighting the lantern. The flint kept slipping from his frozen fingers, forcing him to kneel and grope on the floor, cursing. How things had changed! Once he had thrashed any servant caught swearing in the Academy! But that was before he’d become a spy and a traitor to the Magefolk. Their changes had forced the change in him.

Having finally managed to light the lantern, Elewin relaxed a little as its mellow glow banished the darkness, making the frigid air of the corridor seem warmer. Thank the Gods! Being down here in the dark with those Wraiths was more than he could bear! Though they had been disabled, it was easy to imagine that he could hear them stirring . . . Waking . . . Elewin shuddered as he began to thread his cautious way through the maze of passages and stairways beneath the Academy. When he passed the room where the Wraiths were stored, he held his breath and hurried.

The blade came whistling out of the darkness, not half an inch from his face. Elewin jumped back round the sharp bend in the corridor, almost dropping the lantern in his fright. “It’s me, you fool!” he hissed. “What the blazes are you doing up here? You nearly took my bloody nose off!”

“Sorry.” The small, wiry form of Parric the Cavalrymaster appeared round the corner. He was grinning from ear to ear. “I must be getting rusty. It was meant to be your head!”

Elewin was not amused. “Why didn’t you wait in our usual place? What if I’d been one of the Magefolk?”

Parric shrugged, “You were late,” he complained, “I was freezing my bollocks off down there, Elewin. I had to move about, to keep warm!”

“Never mind,” the Steward sighed, It was clear where he was learning all his bad language nowadays. “I have news for you. Come farther down where it’s safer, and we’ll talk,”

“I don’t know why you’re so worried,” Parric grumbled. “Who in their right mind would come down here on a night like this? I swear there’s icicles growing on the end of my—”

“Porricf”

The Cavalrymaster chuckled.

The ancient parts of the catacombs that Anvar had discovered were little more than a series of natural caves, set low in the end of the promontory. They had been stripped of their treasures now, and the footfalls of the two men echoed loudly in the bare chambers. Singe the ancient spells that guarded their contents had been broken, damp had begun to seep in from the nearby river. The dark walls were jeweled with ice crystals that splintered the lamplight, and the floor was slick and treacherous underfoot. Elewin gripped the lantern tightly to prevent it slipping from his numb grasp, and wished that Finbarr still lived. In the Archivist’s day, these caverns had been lit by Magelight, and kept warm and dry by means of his spells.

“See? I told you. Colder than a prostitute’s heart down here.” Parric pulled the remains of a broken wooden chest out of a corner and sat down, motioning for Elewin to join him. “I don’t suppose you brought some food with you? Or a bottle?” he asked hopefully.

“Didn’t get the chance. Sorry, Parric. I know there aren’t many comforts where you men are hiding out. Still, I have some news that will warm your heart better than a bottle.” Elewin grinned, savoring the moment. “The Lady Aurian is said to be alive!”

He hardly got the reaction he had expected. The leathery, hard-bitten little Cavalrymaster stared at him, tears welling up in his eyes and rolling unheeded down his cheeks. Then turning abruptly away, Parric hid his face in his hands and began to sob.

“Parric!” A very startled Elewin put the lantern down, and laid an arm across the man’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” Parric choked. He wiped his face, looking emBarrassed. “Not what you’d expect of a tough old bastard like me, is it?” He swallowed hard. “But by the Gods, I was so fond of that lass! We all loved her—her and Forral. We thought they’d both been killed—then Vannor told us she’d been carrying Forral’s child . . . Elewin, it’s a miracle! A bloody miracle!” He clutched at the Steward’s arm. “Where is she? How is she?”

Elewin hated to dampen the man’s joy. “Don’t get your hopes up, Parric. It isn’t certain. But Miathan insists she’s still alive, and that her servant is with her—”

“What, young Anvar? Well, I’m blowed! Forral always thought that lad had some good stuff in him!”

“The bad news is that they think she’s in the Southern Kingdoms, if she’s anywhere.”

“What? How the bloody blue blazes did she get down there?”

Elewin told Parric what he had overheard. “So you see how grave the situation is,” he finished. “If Eliseth tampers with the weather, it would not only put Aurian in danger, but it could be catastrophic for our own folk—worse than anything we’ve seen since the Cataclysm.”

Parric frowned. “This changes things. I’ll discuss it with Vannor, of course, but I think we’ll be leaving the city now. We can’t stay where we are if it thaws, and we’re too close to the Academy to assemble an effective force. But when Aurian returns—”

“You think she’ll come back?” Elewin was surprised. “Aurian? Of course she will! It’d take more than an ocean to keep that lass from Miathan, after he killed Forral, I’ll wager she’s on her way back already—to settle with the Archmage, And when she does we’ll see a thing or two,”

“Parric! We’re talking about the Magefolk!” Elewin protested. “It won’t be that easy!”

The Cavalrymaster sobered. “I know. That’s why we need an army. Aurian can’t do it alone, just as we can’t, without a Mage, But together, maybe . . . Anyway, I must get back to Vannor with this news.” He hesitated, his expression thoughtful. “Elewin, why don’t you come with me? If we move elsewhere, you won’t be needed here as an informant, and it’s dangerous for you to stay,”

Elewin shook his head, though he was sorely tempted. “I’d better not. If I suddenly vanish, Elfseth and Bragar will get suspicious and start searching for me, and that might put your people in danger. And if you want to attack the Academy, you’ll need someone on the inside.”

“But it could be ages before we can do that!” “It can’t be helped, I’ll be all right. Besides, Miathan depends on me. To see him this way—blind and crippled—oh, I know it’s his own fault, but he seems so helpless . . .”

Parric clasped the other’s arm, “Elewin, I know this is a trial for your loyalties, and we’re very grateful, but—”

“It’s not just that! The balance of power is changing within the Academy. Be warned, Parric. Eliseth is the one to beware of now,”

I

“I’ll bear it in mind. Aurian always hated that bitch. Look, are you sure you won’t come?”

“I cannot.”

Parric nodded. “All right. You’re a brave man, Elewin—or daft. Forral always said there wasn’t much difference between the two. Farewell, my friend. Our prayers go with you. Vannor will try to get word to you from time to time.”

“Vannor? What about you?”

“Me? Personally, I have a sudden hankering to head south. It’s warmer there!” The Cavalrymaster winked, and picking up his own lantern, vanished into the shadows at the back of the cave, leaving Elewin gaping in astonishment.

The sewers ran the length and breadth of the city, a democratic highway connecting the grand and lofty Academy to even the meanest of dwellings. Not the pleasantest of places to lie low, but there was a certain satisfaction in being able to move around under the very noses of the Magefolk, and it had been simplicity itself to break through the thin stone barrier into the old part of the Archives. The hole was hidden in a corner, where a spur of rock formed a kink in the tunnel so that the opening was obscured by the shadow of the jutting stone. Because of his slight stature, Parric had been chosen as go-between. Holding his lantern out at arm’s length, he squeezed through the hole into the narrow drain beyond. Luckily the current low population of the Academy, coupled with the cold weather, had reduced the smell, but he still tried to hold his breath. Given time, a man could get used to most things, but there were limits!

The cramped drain continued for some distance back beneath the Academy’s promontory before connecting with the main sewers. The rusted stubs of an old inspection ladder protruded, sharp and dangerous, from the wall, marking the junction. Parric hooked the lantern to his belt and pulled on leather gauntlets to protect his hands from the jagged iron, before he began, very carefully, to climb. Any cuts or abrasions could be fatal down here—the chances of infection were high. They had already lost two men; one to a poisoned rat bite and the other to lockjaw.

The sewer was a tunnel of slick and rotting stone, with raised walkways on either side of the stinking, sluggish channel. Parric was glad that the water level was too low to reach the slanting mouth of the drain. He had sometimes done this climb with all manner of filth cascading down on him, and it was not an experience he cared to repeat. Emerging from the mouth of the drain, he made his way along the walkway to his makeshift raft. Since the stream was low, he could use it to return. When the torrent was in full spate, the journey had to be made via the slimy, crumbling walkways, with the prospect of drowning in the sewage-filled channel only a slip away. With the lantern that swung from his belt providing the only light, Parric picked up the paddle and began to make his way back through the network of tunnels that led to the rebels’ hideout,

Parric had almost reached his destination when he heard the first harsh sounds of fighting. His heart lurched. Great Chathak, no! He steered his raft into the side, his soldier’s brain already working out the odds. Who had betrayed them? No, that was for later. How long since the attack had started? How many of the enemy? They had the advantage of surprise, but they didn’t know these tunnels like Parric did! Once on the walkway, he extinguished his lamp. While his eyes to adjusted to the darkness he checked his throwing knives—one up each sleeve—and pulled a long dagger from his boot. He left his sword sheathed. This was knife work. With a grimace, he slipped over the side and began to wade, thigh deep, up the stinking channel, gripping the edge “of the walkway to keep from slipping on the sludge that coated the bottom.

Had Parric not wanted information, the guard would have died instantly. As it was, she only had time to feel a hand come out of nowhere to grip her ankle, before a quick jerk pitched her headlong into the channel. Before the choking, panic-stricken warrior could flounder to her feet, Parric was on her. He hauled her up roughly, his knife against her throat. “How many of you?” he growled, “Answer me!” He felt her stiffen against him.

“Great Chathak—I know that voice!” she exclaimed. “Parric—is it really you?”

“Bloody right itjs! Now answer my question!”

I

I

“Parric, it’s me—Sangra! Gods forgive us, they said you were dead! Put that stupid knife away, so I can hug you.”

The emotion in her voice was too intense to be feigned, and Parric felt a surge of joy. Sangra was an old, old friend—a big, rowdy, rawboned girl with assets that no fighting vest could contain. Ah, the tumbles they had had in happier days! Grinning, Parric lowered the knife, and managed to get in a quick grope before she turned to face him.

“Now I bloody know it’s you!” There were tears and laughter in her voice as her arms went around him with a force that made his ribs creak as they hugged, oblivious to the filth that coated them both.

“Sangra, what’s going on?” Parric disengaged himself reluctantly.

“The baker’s son betrayed you—or Vannor, at least. We had no idea that you were down here. Parric, are any of the others with you?”

“Yes. Quite a few.”

“Gods! I’ve got to warn our folk! We won’t fight our own!”

“That’s my girl! Come on—quick!”

The troops from the Garrison had Vannor’s little force penned into a cul-de-sac, and the fighting was fierce. The soldiers had brought torches, but most had been extinguished in the battle, and in the half darkness it was difficult to tell friend from foe. Sangra knew, however. She and Parric joined the melee from the rear and plunged into the fray. Parric, with his small stature, found itrcasy to worm his way through the press of fighters. His methods were straightforward. Anyone he recognized, he spared. Any stranger felt the bite of his knife. Sangra, in the meantime, was circulating, pausing to whisper to any of Forral’s old troops that she came across. The change in them was immediate. Relief and joy shining on their faces, they turned their weapons on Angos’s vicious mercenaries.

It was over very quickly. Vannor’s rebels, freed from the pressure of the fight, were able to take the offensive, and the mercenaries found themselves under attack from both sides. Parric managed to break through to the merchant, to explain what had happened, and before very long, joyous reunions were taking place between the members of Forral’s old band, over the bodies of the mercenary dead.

If Vannor looked bewildered to discover that his little force had doubled to some fifty-odd troops, he took it in stride, and when Parric introduced Sangra, he greeted her with the utmost courtesy, manfully ignoring the fact that she and the Cavalrymaster were in an appalling state after their immersion in the sewer.

“If we’d known you were all down here,” Sangra apologized, “we would have joined you. We’ve had an awful time up there since Angos brought his mercenaries in to augment our forces. But we felt we had to stay. We thought Forral would expect it, because of our Oath of Loyalty to the city, and because we wanted to protect the people from the worst deprada-tions of Angos and the Magefolk.” She looked at Parric. “What do we do now? Angos is waiting with more soldiers at the mouth of the drain, and now he knows you’re here, we daren’t stay.”

“Go north,” a decisive voice broke in. “It shouldn’t be difficult to get out of the city—Angos can’t be watching all the drains. The Nightrunners will take us in.”

Vannor grimaced. “Dulsina, will you never stop organizing?”

The tall, dark-haired woman grinned at him. “Not while there’s breath in my body,” she said cheerfully. “Besides, Zanna has been missing you, despite the messages we managed to send. It’s about time you saw your daughter again.”

“Wait a minute!” Parric interrupted. “You know the Nightrunners? Enough to leave your daughter with them?” The Cavalrymaster raised his eyes imploringly. “May the Gods give me strength . . . Those bloody smugglers were a constant thorn in Forral’s side. He drove us all to distraction trying to discover where they were hiding, and you knew all the time!”

Vannor winked. “How do you think I managed to make my fortune?”

Parric burst out laughing. “You villain! You were using them to trade with the Southerners, for gems and silks and stuff, weren’t you?”

“A man has to get ahead somehow.” The merchant shrugged. “Besides, my criminal past is proving useful now. Come on, let’s get going.”

There were few casualties among the rebels. But as they left the storm drains, Parric discovered the body of Tori, floating facedown in the sewer with a knife in his back. He sighed. Miserable as the old man had been, he’d been a good friend to the rebels. Still, it was better this way. At least he would never know that his own son had betrayed him. Or would he? On closer inspection, Parric saw that the knife was not a soldier’s dagger, but a long, saw-edged domestic blade—the sort that a baker might use.

The rebels decided to use the sewers to make their way across the city, then travel downriver to Norberth, following Aurian’s route. Once there, they could contact one of Yanis’s agents, who would arrange a ship to take them to the smugglers’ hideout. It was a nightmare journey. Vannor’s band were used to negotiating the slick walkways, but the new additions had a difficult time of it. Every few minutes, there would be a splash followed by curses, as someone fell into the channel, and had to be rescued. Though the troopers made light of it, Parric was concerned. He knew all too well the chances of losing some of their band to the diseases that proliferated in this place.

As they passed the drain that connected with the Academy catacombs, Parric heaved a sigh of relief. Not much farther now to the outfall and blessed fresh air. He was getting twitchy, bringing up the rear as he was. His instincts, developed over many years, were telling him that he was being followed. Nonsense, he told himself. Angos couldn’t track us through that maze of tunnels! But it was no good. Unable to stand it any longer, he dropped back.

“Got you!” The cloaked figure, though tall, was slimly built, and no warrior. Parric had no trouble subduing him, and at least the fellow seemed to be alone. Then to his astonishment, a series of shrieks came from the muffled figure. Without a doubt, his captive was a woman! He was about to rip the hood aside when he heard the sound of footsteps hurrying too fast for safety on the slimy walkway, and Elewin appeared, carrying a lantern. His face broke into a smile of pure relief at the sight of Parric’s captive.

“Thank the Gods you’ve found her!” Elewin exclaimed.

“Found who?” In the light of the lantern, Parric removed the woman’s hood—and gasped. “Lady Meiriel!”

The Magewoman spat in his face. “Take your hands off me!”

“What’s going on?” Vannor, accompanied by Sangra and Dulsina, came hurrying up. “Parric! We thought we’d lost you—” His eyes widened at the sight of Meiriel. “What’s she doing here?”

“Mind your own business, Mortal!”

“She escaped from the Academy.” The Mage and Elewin spoke simultaneously, then turned to glare at one another.

“You say she escaped?” Vannor’s eyes flicked from Elewin to Meiriel. “Would someone care to explain?”

“It’s simple,” the Healer said coldly. “I couldn’t Heal Miathan’s eyes, so that bitch Eliseth locked me up—”

Parric pounced on her words. “Couldn’t—or wouldn’t?”

Meiriel spared him a haughty glance. “His eyes were utterly destroyed. But even if I could have Healed him, I would not have done it. Not after his creatures murdered my Finbarr!” Her voice was thick with hate. “Anyway, I managed to escape tonight. I followed Elewin, and heard what he told you, about Aurian being alive. I must find her—”

“She’s alive? Why the blazes didn’t you tell me?” Vannor turned on Parric.

“There wasn’t time,” he protested, “with the fight—”

“Fight?” Now it was Elewin’s turn to interrupt.

Vannor nodded. “We’ve been betrayed,” he explained.

“You two must come with us,” Parric put in. “You can’t stay here now, Elewin, and it isn’t safe to leave her behind.”

“Just a minute.” Vannor confronted Meiriel. “Why do you have to find Aurian?”

“She needs my help,” the Magewoman replied. “Miathan put a curse on the child. She’s carrying a monster—”

“What!” Parric exploded. “The bastard! I’ll kill him!”

“Steady, Parric.” It took all of Vannor’s strength to restrain his friend from starting back up the tunnel. “This is not the time. We need to get away to safety before we can deal with this.”

They set off to join the other rebels at the sewer outfall, Sangra leading the way with Parric, who was still beside himself with rage and grief. Dulsina took Meiriel into her charge. As they walked, Elewjjxjdrew Vannor back, out of earshot of the others. “Listen,” he said, “Lady Meiriel may be telling the truth, but I’d caution you to take care. She may seem lucid now —but since Finbarr’s death she has been completely deranged. You’re dealing with a madwoman, Vannor. Whatever you do, don’t trust her.”