Pale Queen's Courtyard

by Marcin Wrona

  Chapter 4: The Buried City

  Majid’s company and their grey-bearded companion reached the Conqueror’s Gate of Inatum that afternoon, horses in a lather. Lugushu had almost collapsed along the way. He now had trouble standing erect, trembled and swayed. Kamvar stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the horse, as though propping him up. He wondered if Lugushu was dying, and didn’t much relish the prospect of planting an axe between his eyes.

  A queue of hopeful entrants into the city glared sullenly at Majid as he passed them to interrupt a potter haggling over the entry toll. The man scowled, but wisely remained silent. Men argued with Sarvashi warrior-priests only rarely, and then at their own peril.

  “We bear the Prophet’s Writ,” said Majid. “We seek a musician in his thirties, clean-shaven, with Sarvashi features and thick brown hair. He would have passed through recently, probably with two horses.”

  The guard shrugged. “I just got here an hour ago, master,” he said. “Check with the –”

  The gate scribe, a rotund man with an oily beard, had heard everything he needed to. He interrupted the guard, jowls trembling. “Yes, yes! I remember that man,” he said, running his fingers across the tablet propped up before his stool.

  “Here it is! Mushkenum Rakhshan. Performer. He arrived at midday, leading two horses, and paid a quarter in toll. Is he wanted?”

  Majid ignored the scribe’s question. “That’s him. Did he say anything about where he would be staying?”

  “Not that I recall,” the scribe replied, pursing his lips thoughtfully. “He did say he had lodgings prepared, but we do not normally ask for specifics.”

  “Start,” Majid growled. He turned to the gate guard.

  “Listen carefully. This man, who calls himself Rakhshan, Leonine, Vajih and Ahamash only knows what else, is a sorcerer, murderer and thief. I want every soldier in the city to know his description before sundown, and I want him found by tomorrow at latest. I want a messenger sent to the Lugal immediately. We will eat with him this evening, and impress upon him the importance of catching this Daiva.”

  The guard looked sheepish, and more than a little overwhelmed. “Master, begging your pardon, Lugal Zagezi is a busy –”

  “Every ruler is busy,” Majid interrupted. “But we are the representatives of the Prophet, and therefore of your emperor and his. The Kingpriest Merezad would not look kindly on his subjects turning us away, so we will speak with him, and tonight.”

  Majid was like this, sometimes. Normally self-effacing and polite, he was nevertheless a Hound. When he gave commands, he expected obedience, just as he unquestioningly obeyed Behdin Zashin. It was easy to forget that this man Kamvar so often diced with had authority surpassing that of a noble.

  They walked in the halls of the palace before sunset, flanked by rows of prostrate servants chanting respectful greetings into a floor of tiles glazed red and green.

  They paused before double doors of mahogany inlaid with flecks of black horn arranged in geometric patterns. At either side of the doorway stood great winged bulls of stone, with the bearded and crowned heads of munificent kings – shedu, the Ekkadi called them, spiritual guardians who warded homes and palaces against evil. Judging by the tales Kamvar had heard of Ekkadi tyrants, they were only rarely successful.

  The throne room, no doubt, was before them.

  “The Artalum painted these walls,” Shadmehr whispered while they waited. He had an interest in such things. “Those chained figures there, ahead of the soldiers: they represent the conquered tribes of Ekka. See the one in the peaked hat, carrying a basket of tribute? He’d be one of the Lumshut, whose city this was.”

  Ahead of them, Majid chuckled. “Nice to see someone listened to my lectures on Ekkadi history. Tahmin!”

  “Huh?” Kamvar’s friend looked startled.

  “What is the significance of those figures there? The bald men turned in the opposite direction from everyone else,” asked Majid. Kamvar stifled a grin at Tahmin’s look of desperation. His friend was famed for having fallen asleep during one of Rector Tourak’s classes about the territorial struggles between Karhan and Arta. Majid was unlikely to let him forget; he enjoyed putting Tahmin on the spot.

  “They … um. They represent the Ekkadi who revolted against Artalum rule. That is why they are facing them and carrying no tribute.”

  Shadmehr snickered behind him, and Kamvar could not help but laugh. Tahmin would be cooking their breakfasts for a week to come.

  “Very pretty,” Majid said. “And imaginative! I’m impressed, Tahmin. You could not possibly be more wrong than you are. They are the traitors of Ekur, who opened the gates of that city to the Artalum. There’s a song about them, Tahmin.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, of course,” Tahmin said, trying in vain to disguise the fact that he knew as much of Ekur as he did of the uncharted wastes of the frigid north, where the Shimurg’s light was wan. “Ekur. I remember now.”

  “Poor show, Tahmin,” said Yazan with a laugh. “Even I knew that one.”

  “Indeed,” Majid said sonorously, though the corners of his mouth quirked, belying his pretend-scowl. “Tahmin, you know what this means! It’s a long ride back to Sinmalik once we leave here, and you’ll be cooking every meal.”

  Tahmin groaned in concert with the door, which swung open to reveal a bowing man with a goblet-brand and the pale skin of a northern savage.

  “The Lugal Zagezi, king of Inatum,” he chanted through a heavy accent, “proud lord of the river-fork and beloved son of Labeshi-Solon, bids you welcome to his palace, sons of Sarvash, and of our Emperor the Merezad.”

  The Lugal himself was a hard-looking man, far from the fat, oil-bearded, silk-swaddled dandy Kamvar had half-expected.

  That’s what comes of expecting accuracy of our playwrights. The Artalum had been conquerors, and their blood still ran in the veins of the people of Inatum; certainly in this man, who sat proud and straight on a throne of red porphyry, a simple crown on his grey brow. His attendants – many of them fighting men, from the look of their scars – bowed to the Hunt as they entered, and Lugal Zagezi nodded to Majid in respect.

  “Be welcome in my sight, children of the mountains,” he intoned. “And you,” he said to Akosh, “son of the rivers.”

  “We are honoured, good king,” Majid said. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture of respect between equals. Kamvar and the others bowed at the waist, and beside them Akosh prostrated himself on the ground.

  “The Kingpriest smiles on his brother, the Lugal of Inatum,” said Majid. “I am the Hound Majid, and these men my Hunt. I regret that we come bearing only good wishes, and not a tribute fit for Your Eminence. However, we did not come to Ekka intending to stop in Inatum, and are here because disturbing events compel us.”

  Kamvar was glad to have come here with Majid. Barsam would probably have burst into the palace uninvited and unannounced, and started by berating the king for his lax security.

  “What disturbs Merezad disturbs Inatum. I take it this will require some explaining. Let us retire to more comfortable chambers and break bread together.”

  They ate a meal of beets and onions, and barley-stuffed hens roasted with coriander, while Majid explained what had brought them to Inatum. He omitted nothing, speaking first of the girl they’d been tasked to find, then of their attempt to track her to Ila-uanna’s mansion. He finished with the Daiva musician’s arrival in Inatum. When Majid stopped speaking, the Lugal motioned for date wine to be brought to table, and sat silently for a time.

  “And this… Leonine is now in Inatum?” he asked, finally.

  “Yes, he arrived just before we did. We asked the gate guard to circulate his description. He was most accommodating.”

  The king nodded. “I am happy to hear it.”

  The Lugal sighed then, and his craggy face seemed to soften. When he spoke, Kamvar heard something that sounded like frustration, or perhaps pain.

  “I will give you whatever aid you desire, Hound Majid. But you
must understand our situation here. To my great shame, Inatum is still called Inatum the Lawless, despite my best efforts over so many years to rid her of the criminal plague we have suffered. As you perhaps know, Inatum is built on the bones of something much older, the Ekkadi city of Lumshazzar.”

  Kamvar did know that, but the tale Lugal Zagezi wove, of a city with a veritable underworld of tunnels teeming with thieves, sorcerers and murderers, was beyond what he’d learned in the scrolls and lectures of the seminary. He was reminded of the tales of Angramash’s beastly realm in the chasms below the holy bridge of Shinvat, a place never brightened by the Shimurg’s light.

  As Lugal Zagezi spoke, in the matter-of-fact cadence of a soldier, Kamvar began to fear that this hunt would prove more difficult than anticipated. They had already spent two entire days on horseback, and that left only five to track the Daiva before they exhausted Hound Barsam’s patience. That was not a great deal of time, especially not in a city where thieves could spend days hiding below the Mound of Lumshazzar.

  Kamvar, already exhausted by the breakneck pace at which they’d galloped to Inatum, was unhappy to learn that a good night’s sleep would remain out of reach. Lugal Zagezi’s servants led them to luxurious bedrooms, two men to each and Majid to his own, but there was little rest for the weary – an hour, all told. When Tahmin shook him awake, Kamvar’s head was heavy and his vision bleary.

  “Get up, Kam,” Tahmin said, then he yawned sleepily and chuckled. “I swear, when this is over, I’ll sleep for a week and wake only to drink or fuck.”

  “You’d need a woman for that, Tam. Or I can lend you my sow. She’s about ready for another litter.”

  “Who needs a sow when I have your wife?”

  Kamvar leapt up and swatted his friend in mock rage.

  “I am slain!” shouted Tahmin, before falling back into his silken pillows.

  From the doorway came the rumble of a clearing throat. Kamvar turned to see Majid, and grinned at him crookedly. The Hound was attempting to look stern, and failing abjectly. “Are you quite done?” Majid asked.

  Kamvar nodded. Beside him, Tahmin stood up and brushed off his tunic, attempting to look dignified.

  “Then get your damn armour on, and let’s go.”

  Moments later, the Hound and his soldiers left the palace, fully armoured and spears to hand. Majid too was armed, a broad-bladed sword hanging awkwardly from his slender waist. Akosh fairly bristled with weaponry. Two cruel hatchets were slung through belt loops, and beside them hung two knives in leather sheaths, one to each side of his portly frame. A third was strapped to his thigh, and a shield to his back. His battered armour looked as though it had been intended for a smaller man. Kamvar found himself wondering how long it had been since the old man had touched a blade, but he was undeniably intimidating.

  As they descended by way of a long flight of steps into the palace gardens, three town guardsmen ran up to them, their leather breastplates creaking. They too carried spears, and heavy-looking shields were strapped to their arms. Kamvar felt for them. He hated shields, found them cumbersome and unpleasant. They had their uses on a pitched battlefield, of course, but in small combats such as those the Hunts faced, a man was often better served by a quick step and a deceptive spear. Many of the Huntsmen fought that way, in the manner of the vicious Serav tribesmen who had given their country its name. They leapt and whirled as they killed, attacking now with the head of the spear, now with its butt, like mountain hermits laying about with their walking staves.

  “Hound Majid!” said one of the town guards, saluting to them. “We have done as you ordered. Every known entrance to Lumshazzar that remains unbarred is under watch by disguised soldiers, and we have begun interrogating those we suspect of underworld ties. Men have also been sent to search every inn and stable where a man might leave horses. No news yet, but it’s only a matter of time, master!”

  Majid nodded. “Well done, soldier,” he said, and Kamvar silently agreed. The guardsmen had mobilized with impressive speed, although that was perhaps to be expected in a city rife with the criminal element. Zagezi seemed a strong and competent leader, and his guards were well equipped. It seemed odd that men who appeared so valorous were unable to police Inatum, underground city or no underground city.

  Corruption, I’ll bet. Kamvar wondered how many of the Lugal’s officials were trustworthy.

  They wandered Inatum’s streets for three hours that night, accompanied by the guards. The city was typical of Ekkadi design. They walked broad, straight boulevards, well lit by large copper braziers smouldering with fragrant Karhani wood, or bituminous pitch.

  Inatum seemed lively, even at this hour of night. Men and women walked the streets, heedless of the Serpent’s Eye, some swaying in time with the faint skirls of panpipe and lyre that had managed, just barely, to escape from behind the heavy doors of brightly painted buildings.

  The streets were full of pleasure halls, explained Anzatesh, the soldier who had first spoken to them, where men and women went to dance and drink, smoke and sing. Their guide took a certain joy in pointing out which of these establishments were well regarded, and which were crude and villainous. As they neared the Mound of Lumshazzar, the latter came to outnumber the former, and the streets grew deserted but for the occasional group of nervous-looking revelers stumbling home.

  The wise, Anzatesh told them, did not wander about the Mound when night had fallen. Good advice anywhere, Kamvar thought, doing his best to avoid peering into the silver eye of Angramash. Shimurg saw what men did during the day, and forgot none of their misdeeds. But God did not watch men by night. The Serpent did, but the Serpent reveled in brutality.

  Night is made for sin.

  This night, however, proved almost disappointingly virtuous. If any of Inatum’s locals had seen the murdering performer, they were not speaking of it. The night’s only criminal was captured by a pair of guards that had taken up posts beside a sewer sluice leading to Lumshazzar’s buried market street. It was not Leonine; merely a witless merchant who had crept into the under-city in search of untaxed hashish. No serious crime. Nothing a fine would not set straight.

  Leonine had eluded them, at least this night. Still, when Kamvar returned to his chamber to sleep, he was hopeful. Somebody on the Mound must have interacted with the Daiva, and it was only a matter of time until they found that person. As Majid had said, there were only so many places a man could disappear leading two horses. Sooner or later – sooner, he guessed – this Leonine would be uncovered. The only question that remained was whether they would kill him on the spot, or give him to Shimurg.

  Kamvar found himself hoping for the former. Barsam would have some choice words about that – so, for that matter, would Majid – but Kamvar was a soldier, not a priest. His world was a simpler place.

  They broke their fast the next morning on savoury strips of beef served atop fragrant rice from Bachiya, while Lugal Zagezi’s hired musician played a lilting tune on his bone pipes. The king attended to matters of state, and had left them in the charge of the master of guard, a man named Et-Halum who, Kamvar belatedly realized, had been standing beside the Lugal when they’d first walked into his throne hall.

  Et-Halum read from a tablet while they ate, summarizing the events of the previous night. “Mushkenum Tugash the sandal-maker, suspected agitator, claims not to have seen the suspect. Mushkenum Alushu the whore, common informant, claims not to have seen the suspect. Wardum Shapakarna, debt-enslaved petty thief, claims not to have seen the suspect…”

  He droned on in that vein, a litany of names Kamvar forgot as soon as he heard them, each ignorant of Leonine’s whereabouts. Or they’re simply uncooperative. Et-Halum stopped for a moment, cleared his throat, and then continued. “Lumshazzar gate in the sewers below the Green Square, no activity. Lumshazzar gate in the sewers near Shurulgi’s pleasure hall, no activity. Lumshazzar gate…”

  Kamvar lost track of the seemingly endless list, lulled by good food and the rhythmi
c rise and fall of the guard master’s voice. Ashuz would be rising now, helping his mother feed the chickens and pigs before their own breakfast. Sahar had probably cooked a gruel of emmer wheat. Her deft fingers had no doubt seasoned it with far too large a pinch of salt.

  He smiled wistfully at the thought of the home he’d left behind, then fretted about his son, too young to understand why his father was gone so often. Ashuz had asked him that, before he left for Sarvagadis. Kamvar’s heart ached at the memory of his son’s earnest little face scrunching up, his eyes brimming over with tears. He’d told him to be strong, as though that could mean anything at all to a three-year-old.

  Et-Halum had stopped talking. Kamvar looked up, and thought for a moment that the Lugal’s man was looking at him. He glanced back over his shoulder and realized that someone had slipped into the room without any fanfare, a middle-aged man wearing the leather armour and blue half-cloak of a militia soldier.

  “Master Et-Halum, we have news. The Daiva was last seen near the very top of Lumshazzar Mound. We spoke to a beggar who claimed he saw a man matching the description, right down to the two horses, heading to an inn owned by a man named Tusharta.”

  Kamvar glanced over at Tahmin, who grinned at him. Perhaps this will be easier than I’d expected.

  “We confirmed this with the stable-hand.”

  “You have men there?” Majid asked, the excitement obvious in his tone.

  “Yes, master Hound,” the guard replied. “We’ve got the inn surrounded by men out of uniform. They’re keeping low. We didn’t want to go without your orders… not if he’s a sorcerer.”

  “Good!” Majid said. “You’re a credit to the Lugal.”

  Kamvar had to agree; they’d lost Daiva to the bungling of unprepared, if well-meaning, guards before. If the girl proved so easy to find, he’d be back to his home in the shadow of great Mesav before the spring rains gave way to dry highland summer.

  “Men, gird up.” Majid was already striding purposefully towards their rooms as he spoke, his half-eaten breakfast left behind. “We approach as always. Akosh, that means we take him alive – preferably unconscious – if at all possible. If not, don’t hesitate to kill him. None of us will shed any tears if you split his skull. “

  Akosh grunted his assent, although something in the set of the old man’s jaw told Kamvar he had little intention of making Leonine a prisoner. It was just as well.

  “Above all,” Majid continued. “Do not let him speak, shout or sing. I might be able to defend you from his sorcery… or I might not.”

  They passed through the Lugal’s gardens shortly after, moving at a soldier’s trot that made their scale coats jingle like bells. Inatum’s citizens scattered as they climbed the Mound, staring after them with mixed expressions. Kamvar saw curiosity in some faces, naked loathing in others.

  Tusharta’s inn seemed a cozy, pleasant place, at least until Yazan burst through the door, waving about him with the point of his spear.

  Shocked patrons stared wide-eyed at them over plates stacked with bread and fruit. Kamvar quickly scanned the room, but saw nobody matching Leonine’s description. Majid ran towards a man standing behind a counter. He had been wiping a cup clean with a ragged square of cloth as they entered. His mouth now worked soundlessly.

  “Where is the man Rakhshan?” Majid asked. Kamvar did not hear the innkeeper’s response. He was already sprinting into the back rooms of the building, where patrons slept, Manoush at his heels. He opened the doors on the left side of the hallway, Manoush doing the same on the right.

  He startled a man combing and oiling his beard in the first room. The next two were empty. He woke two men sharing a bed who stared at him first blearily, then with terror in their eyes. A woman shrieked when he muscled his way through the next door; he stammered an apology as she turned her unveiled face away from him. Two more empty rooms, and it was done.

  “Nothing,” he said to Manoush.

  Manoush shook his head. “Nothing here, either.”

  They returned to the common room to see Majid standing over the innkeeper, who had prostrated himself on the ground as though begging forgiveness. A pool of blood spread beneath the man’s face.

  “Where is he?” Majid shouted.

  “I – I don’t… I don’t know. He paid for the week. He’ll be back, I’m sure! Please, I don’t know!”

  Majid snorted in disgust.

  “Next time you lie to me, I’ll spit you on my sword,” the Hound said, his voice cold, before turning his attention back towards the entrance. “Guards! Have this mahram whipped.”

  Kamvar blinked. Majid cursed only rarely. But then, he was lied to only rarely. The innkeeper bleated and groveled as grim-faced guards dragged him away.

  Majid turned and caught Kamvar’s eye. Kamvar shook his head, and the Hound sighed.

  “He’s not here! Move out!”

  They left the inn, no doubt to the great relief of its patrons. Majid instructed the guards waiting outside to keep their eyes on the inn’s exits, then called his men together.

  “Keep out of sight, in the alleys here,” he instructed. “ I doubt he’s stupid enough to walk into a trap, so if you do see somebody matching the description, quietly say so to Akosh. Strike only when he’s too close to run off.”

  They did not wait long.

  Akosh saw him first. “There!” he whispered, pointing at a man walking towards the inn, a sack slung over his shoulder. “That’s him!”

  Akosh made to leap forward, but Yazan was quick to react. He grasped the old man’s shoulder and pulled him forcefully backwards. “No! He knows your face!”

  Instead, Yazan walked into the broad boulevard with Shadmehr beside him, spears resting casually against their shoulders. Majid crouched just at the end of the alley.

  “I tell you, Shad, her tits were like gourds!” Yazan said, slapping his chuckling friend’s shoulder. Shadmehr looked first at Yazan, then at the other side of the street; avoiding, as they’d been taught, looking directly at the target until it was too late.

  Kamvar held his breath as the two edged closer to Leonine, making to block his path as casually as they could. When they were finally close enough, Yazan swung the butt of his spear at the Daiva’s head.

  “Stop!” cried Shadmehr, “In the –”

  Majid bolted from the alley. At his signal, Kamvar followed, Tahmin at his side, spear gripped between white knuckles.

  Shadmehr had not finished his sentence. The Daiva threw his sack into the face of the man who’d confronted him, dodged a whirling spear, and then he spun on his heel and ran, ducking into the first alley on his left.

  Kamvar felt blood rushing to his face as his feet pounded against the hard-packed road. Yazan had recovered already, and led the charge. Shadmehr… he heard a woman scream from the other side of the road. Shadmehr stumbled.

  No. Oh, Ahamash, no.

  “Shad!” An anguished scream behind him. Kamvar could do nothing but keep running. He passed Shadmehr and felt his stomach lurch. The wall was red where Shadmehr had fallen, painted by a spray of blood.

  “Oh, God. Shad!” Manoush’s voice.

  “Leave him!” Majid shouted. It all seemed unreal, as though he had fallen asleep back in the alley and was now dreaming. He knew he wasn’t. Shadmehr was not the first friend he’d lost.

  Kamvar rounded the corner of the alley at speed, ran almost into the far wall. He pushed off it with his right foot, and kept running. The dream state was shaken away, replaced by cold fury and a gnawing pain in his chest. He raced side-by-side with Yazan, and wondered if he knew. Yazan and Shadmehr had been close. Oh God, Yazan. I’m so sorry. He couldn’t look over, not now, not with the murderer ahead and so close.

  Another alley, this time on the right, and Yazan and Kamvar almost collided as they turned into it. He heard pounding feet and heavy breathing behind him, could not turn to look.

  Leonine turned another corner, right again, and Kamvar heard a strangled shout from t
he other side. Another corpse, in guard’s leathers, his companion staring at the fallen man. Ahead of them and to the left, a slender shape disappeared behind the wall.

  Kamvar sprinted, his lungs burning, moving too quickly to avoid the guard that stood gaping like an idiot in the middle of the alley. He lowered his shoulder and bulled through, almost tripping over his own spear after the jarring impact. The guard careened into the wall with a grunt, and Kamvar half-ran, half-stumbled into the next alley.

  It was empty. He yelled something furious and inarticulate, kept running. He had to be somewhere. Kamvar looked up, then down, and saw a foot disappear into the wall to his left, a mouse scurrying from a cat.

  There was an opening here, Kamvar realized, a gap in the brick wall, low to the ground, which he only now realized slanted downward.

  The sewer!

  “Down here, in the flood drain!” he cried, then dropped to his stomach. He did not bother to look behind him; he knew the others would be there.

  Kamvar crawled on his belly, leading with the point of his spear, which met no resistance in the darkness of the sewer. He wondered absently how he would see, then shook his head. It did not matter.

  The drain sloped downward past the opening. He stumbled headlong, and landed on his hands and knees in a squelching wetness. He leapt to his feet as quickly as he could, and blindly whirled his spear in tight arcs. It rebounded from a wall to his left, the impact vibrating through the shaft and into his arm.

  He heard a splash behind him, and realized his eyes had begun to adjust. A shadow passed over the weak beam of light extending from the alley above, and then came another splash.

  A sconce hung in the left wall. There might have been a torch there, but it was empty now. The Daiva was out of sight, having disappeared into the darkness.

  “Go! We have light!” Majid shouted behind him, and a torch flared up in his hand. Kamvar was not sure where he’d found it. He thanked Ahamash for Majid, and followed his order, running through sewer water that churned about his ankles, only now noticing the stench.

  He ran through a corridor of bricks that glistened moistly with reflected torchlight, until he reached a fork where the sewers turned to his left and right. He looked to the left first and saw nothing. The path to the right was brighter, lit up, perhaps, by a torch taken from where they’d entered the fetid tunnels.

  Kamvar followed the light. Something was wrong. It grew closer to him, as though their quarry was no longer fleeing. The tunnel ended ahead. Light flickered from the right side of it, sending shadows to dance across the wall ahead of him.

  Kamvar turned the corner and groaned, unsurprised. A torch burned merrily in a sconce in the wall, blinding him to the subtle play of light in the forking corridor that opened before him. Someone pulled up behind him and cursed roughly, and Kamvar shook his head clear. There was no time to wait, or to get one’s bearings. He ran to the next intersection in the tunnel, and saw nothing but darkness to his left and his right.

  Kamvar groaned and threw a fist against the wall. He felt the heat of a crackling torch at his shoulder, then, and turned to shrug helplessly at Majid. The Hound shook his head.

  “No sorcery.”

  Akosh held a second torch that he must have picked up along the way. Anger and frustration were etched into the grim folds of his face. In the yellow torchlight, Kamvar saw filth in the old man’s beard. He doubted his own was clean.

  “Akosh… that way!” Majid gasped, “I’ll go left. Sh-shout if you see anything.”

  Kamvar and Yazan followed after Majid, Tahmin and Manoush after the old ox. Kamvar looked first at the ground, then the walls, searching for any trace of passage. An unlit torch hung from the wall beside him. He pulled it from its rusted bracket, and stuck it through his belt. It could never hurt to have a spare, not down here. He did not want to think about what would happen if they ended up trapped here in the dark.

  Majid, deep in concentration, looked from side to side.

  “Here!” They heard Akosh shout from behind them, and broke into a sprint. The old man was already running ahead with Manoush, puffing like a bellows. His panting echoed in the tight corridors. Tahmin fell in line with Majid, pointing first at a bump floating in the ankle-deep water, then at an empty sconce in the wall.

  “He…. dropped... dropped his torch.” Tahmin was breathing heavily. Kamvar realized he was as well. “Must’ve taken another. Ran in the dark a ways.”

  They followed after Akosh and Manoush. Kamvar shook his head in disbelief as he ran. Tricky bastard. I bet you’ve done this before.

  Shadmehr was dead, killed in daylight, lying in a broad street in the sight of men and God. Above them, in the alleyway, a city guard bled out his life.

  This was supposed to be easy.

  Ahead of them, Majid slowed, then stopped abruptly. He held up a hand.

  “Stop,” he said, then leaned against the slick wall while he caught his breath. They had reached an intersection of tunnels, a warren that opened to the left, the right, and ahead. This time, there was no sign of passage.

  “There’s no time!” Akosh growled. “Split up! I’ll go –”

  “No!” Majid shook his head, then sighed. “No,” he said again, quietly this time, wearily. “That will only play into his hands. I don’t want to see another throat cut, or to have you fall under his spell without me there to ward against it.”

  “So now what?” Yazan asked, his voice taut with barely contained fury. Kamvar had loved Shadmehr, they all had, but there was something more between the dead man and Yazan. Kamvar had lost a brother in arms, but Yazan something greater still. Kamvar glanced to Tahmin to reassure himself that his friend still drew breath.

  Majid shrugged. “We go this way,” he said, pointing to the left. “It’s as good as any other.”

  They followed a corridor that looked like any other corridor, searching for any trace of the Daiva: a scuffed wall or a rock kicked aside. Kamvar, looking intently at the ground as he jogged after Majid, noticed suddenly that the water level had dropped. Where it had been an ankle-deep morass, it now reached no higher than the top of his sandaled foot. Soon, the water disappeared altogether, and the floor took on the consistency of mud. There was no sign of any footfalls but their own.

  “Wait,” Kamvar said, and he stopped. The torch in his belt had slipped to rub uncomfortably against his hip as he moved, and he adjusted it. “Stop,” he said. “He didn’t come this way. We’ve lost the trail.”

  Yazan made a disgusted noise ahead of him. Manoush punched the wall. In the flickering torchlight, Kamvar saw tears glitter on the young man’s bare cheek. Beside him, Tahmin shifted uncomfortably and sighed.

  “H-hey, look at this,” Manoush said in surprise, then pointed where his fist had fallen. A relief on the wall depicted one of the old Ekkadi gods. From a jug in his hands he poured a river. A line of bare-chested men fished in the water; bare-chested women filled their own jugs from it. One of the men lacked a head where Manoush had pulverized the clay.

  Shad would know what it means, Kamvar thought. He had little doubt the others were thinking the same.

  The wall ran ahead a hundred paces or more, interrupted now and again by recesses in the brick. Kamvar realized they were, or had been, doorways.

  “This must be Lumshazzar,” said Majid, breaking the silence. “The city proper. This … does not bode so well.”

  “Hm?” A grunt that was question; it came from Akosh.

  “Too many places to hide.” Majid said simply. Kamvar walked to the nearest arching doorway, and stepped through. It was true – it would be impossible to find someone here who did not want to be found. The doorway led to a house that lacked a fourth wall. A gaping hole opened at the far end of the room he found himself in, leading into another corridor, once an alley, that ran parallel to the one in which they stood. The Artalum builders had torn the buried city asunder when they’d installed the sewers.

  “So what do we do?” he heard Tah
min’s voice echoing oddly from outside.

  “Nothing,” the response, bereft of hope. Kamvar walked back into the torchlight.

  “So we let him run?” Yazan asked. He spat on the muddy floor. “Fucking fantastic, Majid. This went well.”

  Kamvar saw Manoush bristle beside the doorway he’d passed through. “It’s not Majid’s fault!” he began. He intended to say more, but he lost the words when Yazan whirled to face him, murder in his gaze. “It’s not,” he repeated, less forcefully this time, staring down at his feet.

  It wasn’t. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. Or perhaps it was everybody’s, which was for all intents and purposes the same thing. They’d taken the Daiva too lightly, and now people were dead. And Majid… Majid?

  The Hound was still, his eyes closed and brow furrowed. His nose twitched slightly, and then he opened his eyes and laughed.

  “I can’t believe it. What a fool.”

  Akosh was looking at the soldiers in confusion, but every other man in the tunnel understood.

  “Sorcery,” Kamvar said by way of explanation. Majid nodded. The Hound had caught scent of his prey.

  “Follow me!” Majid said, turning back the way they had come.

  “And this time,” he continued, an edge to his voice, “no risks. I want him dead.”