The Bone Palace (15 page)

“There are,” Spider said after a pause, “other tunnels down here. Crawlspaces and byways that I doubt are on your maps. I imagine whoever comes this way leaves the lock intact to avoid attention.”

“You imagine?” Isyllt’s eyes narrowed. “Have you known all along where we were going?”

“I suspected it.” He shrugged one shoulder, a disturbing articulation of bones. “You wouldn’t have trusted me if I’d had too much information too soon.”

“I don’t trust you
now
. But if you make me swim through the sewers again when there’s an easier way, I’ll give a few new scars for your collection.”

He laughed, like dry leaves scraping stone. “There’s always an easier way.” He twined two fingers through the shackle of the lock, another two through the nearest link of chain, and twisted. Link and lock groaned, and the shackle snapped free of the body with a screech. The sound echoed down the tunnel.

“Easier, but not quieter.” Isyllt fought the urge to cover her aching ears. If the vrykoloi were in their den, they’d soon know someone was coming.

“We hear you mortals crawling through the tunnels no matter how softly you walk,” Spider said. “Like mice in the attic, but clumsier.”

He stilled abruptly, raising a hand to cut off Isyllt’s reply; his ears twitched. She listened, but heard nothing but water and a distant carriage.

“Speaking of mice…” Spider’s wide mouth twisted in a frown. “I hear you, too, Azarné. Come out.”

For several heartbeats there was no reply. Then the tiny vrykola melted out of the shadows. She didn’t move with Spider’s drifting ghostly grace, but with the lazy purpose of a predator. Isyllt didn’t doubt her deadliness for an instant, despite her size and delicate, almost childlike beauty. Her eyes flashed in the light like an animal’s; also yellow, but a warmer, more golden shade than Spider’s. Her clothes had been lace and velvet once, something lovely, but now they hung in stains and tatters.

“You’re turning up quite often lately,” Spider said, still frowning. “One might mistrust it.”

Azarné smiled—or bared her teeth; Isyllt couldn’t
be certain. Either way, fangs flashed white, incongruous behind her tiny rosehip lips. “There’s much to mistrust in the catacombs these days. Thieves and schemes and strangers.” Her eyes flickered over Khelséa, and Isyllt thought she saw disappointment there. Ciaran often had that effect on mortal women—why not undead ones too?

“I’m Isyllt,” she said, stepping forward and holding out a hand. “And my friend is Khelséa. Fewer strangers now, at least.”

Azarné stared at the outstretched hand as one might at an unexpected dead mouse. Then she reached out and clasped it briefly, cold and light, with the echo of a courtier’s grace. “Manners,” the vrykola said, with a sound that might have been a laugh. “I remember those, I think.” She sank into a curtsy, ruined skirts pooling around her. Broken chains and jeweled pins glinted in the tangled mass of her hair. “I am Azarné, called Vaykush.”

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 her boots, rattling past Isyllt into the echoing darkness.

“Watch out,” Spider called from below. “The way branches here, and you have to turn.”

“Or what?” Isyllt asked, breathless.

“Or you go all the way down. It only gets steeper.”

“Of course it does.”

It happened in a rush: She yanked her right hand away from a particularly cruel bit of rock, just as one foot slipped in scree. Cursing, she grabbed at the wall, but her crippled hand was already cramping and her right had nothing to hold. Her stomach flipped as she skidded faster. Khelséa shouted her name.

By the wildly flickering light, she saw Spider reach for her. But undead strength was no use without a good grip. Her sleeve snagged and tore on his claws, an instant’s jolt that did nothing to slow her slide.

The witchlight only dizzied her; Isyllt let it die, wrapping her arms around her head. Spilling her brains down a tunnel was all she needed—

The ground beneath her vanished. She flailed through the air with an undignified yelp, getting her feet below her in time for an awkward landing. Her knees buckled and she fell sideways, bruising her shoulder and knocking the wind from her lungs. She rolled down wet stone toward the sound of water.

Not again,
she had time to think. Then her head struck something cold and unyielding, and there was nothing at all.

*   *   *

She woke with a groan. Her head throbbed and red spots swam across the blackness. Someone was calling her name, echoes scattering queerly. For a moment she couldn’t tell who it was or why they wanted her so badly. Returning memory only made the pain worse. She couldn’t feel her legs, and had an instant’s terror of a broken spine. Then she realized that from the waist down she lay sprawled in frigid water.

“I’m here,” she finally shouted, only to hiss in pain at the echoes. “I’m all right.” That was likely a gross exaggeration, but at least her legs moved. And, she realized a moment later, she hadn’t fallen in a sewer. The air around her smelled of stone and clean water, the bitter metallic scent of the Dis, and a subtle floral sweetness. She hadn’t realized the river flowed underground….

Something brushed her leg, cold and slick and curious. She jerked leaden limbs out of the water’s reach; the movement brought tears to her eyes. Her stomach churned, and she fell limp again.

“I told you to be careful,” Spider chided, crouching beside her. Cold hands eased beneath her arms, pulling her out of the water. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride,” she said. “And my head.”

“How badly? The latter, I mean.” His fingers were soft and careful as he touched the back of her head, but she jerked away when he found the injury. “Oh, hold still.”

She did, with an effort, clenching her teeth as he examined the back of her skull. “Barely bleeding,” he said at last, “but swelling. I don’t remember much of mortal injuries—is your vision blurred?”

“That implies I could see in the dark to begin with.” Even sitting still on solid stone dizzied her, and her ears
rang worse than ever—she doubted her vision would be any better. It took much too long to call a light.

The witchlight sparked and shivered, sending mad shadows capering across the walls. Isyllt hissed at the brightness, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Sure enough, when she opened them again, Spider was a bone-colored blur watching her with three sulfurous eyes.

He frowned. “You can’t go on like this.”

“Of course I can—” She broke off as she looked past him at the cavern they’d fallen into.

The cave was wide and cylindrical, stretching into shadow on either side. Black water filled the bottom, still save for scattered ripples. The walls glistened and sparked—not carved, for all their perfect arch, but oddly ridged; they seemed to ripple, like a giant sphincter contracting. Isyllt’s stomach lurched at the image. Columns rose from pool to ceiling, thick and gnarled as tree trunks. The light turned rough stone into leering faces, winking eyes and gaping mouths.

She dragged her gaze away from the pillars, and froze again as she saw the floor by the water’s edge. Coins, gems, and scraps of cloth lined the shore, beside carvings of wood and stone and bone. Flowers too—some brown and rotted, others almost fresh—and bowls of incense, sweet and cloying in the damp air.

Offerings.

“Isyllt!” Spider’s hand fell on her shoulder and she flinched. From the concern on his face, she guessed he’d called her name more than once already. The sound skipped across the water like a stone.

“Who are they worshipping?” she murmured. Spirit worship was illegal—one of the few Assari traditions the
founders of Selafai had kept when they broke away five hundred years ago. Mortal saints could be venerated, or abstracts, but turning little spirits into gods was dangerous.

The answer came to her as she stared at the columns and arch of stone overhead. What was this place, after all, but the river’s own cathedral?

She had visited another river’s temple once—the Mir, for which the city of Symir across the sea was named. A gentler river than the Dis, and a kinder one. A young woman Isyllt had known had sacrificed herself to the Mir to save the city, and the river had answered. She heard lately that the girl had been sainted.

She hadn’t thought that anyone worshipped the Dis, but of course they did. The river carved through the very heart of Erisín, swift and black and implacable, rich with lifeblood of the dozens of corpses that fetched up against the gates each decad. Flowers and trinkets were more pleasant offerings.

She wondered which the river preferred.

“Perhaps,” Spider whispered, “we shouldn’t stay and find out.”

In the depths of the pool the water bulged and rippled, and Isyllt remembered the cold touch in the dark. “No. Let’s not.”

She stood, and Spider’s hand on her elbow kept her from collapsing again. They didn’t run—mostly because she couldn’t—but their exit was too hasty for any dignity. Clinging to Spider’s neck like a child while he climbed back into the tunnel didn’t help either. At least she didn’t vomit, though she gave it serious thought. In the darkness below them, something heavy moved in the water and fell silent again.

Spider carried her back to the fork in the tunnel, where Khelséa and Azarné crouched. Khelséa had lit her lantern; the light hurt Isyllt’s eyes, and the heat and smoke choked the narrow space. Her soaking clothes warmed from frigid to merely clammy.