Point of Sighs

by Melissa Scott

  “Smuggler’s marks,” Rathe said, frowning. “But not—that one should be ‘safe anchor’ but it’s been scored through.”

  Sure enough, someone had crossed out the mark with two slashes of chalk, bright and new-looking in the lantern light. “Trys, do you think?”

  “Or someone who didn’t want to deal with him. Or who was afraid of the rumors.”

  “I’m starting to think they’re more than broadsheet fare,” Eslingen said, and his tone wasn’t as light as he had intended. “This feels different, Nico.”

  Rathe nodded. “A little further. We’ve still an hour or so before the tide turns.”

  That was encouraging to hear. Eslingen opened his lantern a little further, but the light seemed puny against the darkness ahead, shadows that seemed somehow darker than before. The air was different, too, smelled not of mud and decay, or even of the bodies they had passed, but something heavy, vegetal, like the heaps of waterweed left to decay on the river’s banks after the spring tides. There was salt, too, and an iron tang, like old blood.

  Ahead, the channel widened suddenly, ended not at the edge of a tunnel but a sudden circular basin nearly fifteen ells across. Arches crisscrossed an enormous dome, and as Eslingen looked up, he thought he could see a paler circle at the height of the ceiling. A distant light? An opening to the outside? It was impossible to tell.

  There was no crossing this. Not without a boat, or unless you wanted to swim, and there was nothing Eslingen wanted less than to drop down into that black water, stirred by only the faintest of ripples as the water from the channel flowed into the pool.

  “A turning basin,” Rathe said, determinedly practical. “Look, there’s another tunnel.”

  Sure enough, a quarter of the way around the pool, on the inland side, another arch gave onto a dark opening. Eslingen started toward it, playing his light over the wall as he went.

  “There were lights here once,” he said. “Dozens of them.” The niches were about an arm’s-length apart, set into the brickwork; some still had twisted iron hooks that must have held lanterns—and must once, Eslingen realized, have looked more than a bit like a dogfish. Each of the niches had been outlined with tiles, but they had all been broken away, leaving only a few fragments of terra-cotta and here and there a speck of color. “Nico! Take a look at these niches. I don’t think this was a turning basin, or not just that. Didn’t Cambrai say something about a temple?”

  Rathe turned his own light on the wall that curved back toward the channel. “He did, but—” He stopped. “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  Eslingen turned, surveying the cavernous space. “There must have a been a hundred lamps here. Maybe more.” He couldn’t imagine it, not with the dark pressing in on him, rising up from the water, sidling in from the open tunnel. Once the place would have been filled with light, each one a hundred times brighter than the lantern he carried, light to drive back the shadows, to make the water glow agate-brown as boats slipped through the narrow spaces. Now there was only the darkness, silence and the smell of wet iron.

  Something fell into the water, a splash so soft that he could almost have convinced himself he imagined it, except that he saw Rathe stiffen.

  “Was that you?”

  “Not me,” Eslingen answered, and swung his light over the pool.

  Where the surface had been still, barely moving, ripples appeared, chevron shapes turning to point toward their side of the pool. The ripples swelled, became waves, and there were more waves behind them, taller still, rising impossibly from the basin.

  “This way!” Rathe shouted, and Eslingen turned toward him as the first wave struck. It slopped over the edge of the walkway, soaking his shoes. He swore, and the second wave hit, catching at his ankles.

  “Philip!”

  Rathe was almost at the mouth of the channel, one hand clutching at the brickwork, the other waving his lantern.

  “Come on, Philip, over here!”

  The next wave knocked Eslingen sideways, landing hard against the bricks; he stumbled, went to his knees on the walkway, the lantern clattering away from him. He could see the next wave rising, brown and weighty, scrabbled frantically for something, anything, to cling to. His fingers scraped the stones, and the wave came down on him like a pile of stone. He felt his nails tear, and then the water tumbled him away.

  Rathe clung to the piling at the edge of the walkway as the wave rolled over him, soaking him to the waist. He saw Eslingen fall, shouted his name, and the next wave rose. He saw Eslingen vanish into the water, and then the water hit him breast high, ripping him loose from his hold. He rolled out and down, felt the edge of the walkway strike him just above the knee, and the surge of water carried him further up the channel, away from the basin. It dropped him, coughing and choking, on his hands and knees in the debris at the edge of the channel, and he rolled clumsily to his feet, leaning against the channel wall. The water was over his knees now, deeper than it had been, and he fumbled for his lantern, still mercifully tethered to his belt, the light shining valiantly beneath the surface of the water. He recovered it and opened the shutter, relieved to find that he was still within sight of the basin.

  “Philip! Philip, can you hear me?”

  There was no answer, not even an echo, and he started back down the channel, swearing under his breath. Eslingen’s stars were bad for water, he knew that, had known that all along; he should never have let him come with him, not here, not into this place….

  “Philip?”

  Still nothing, though it would be hard to hear anything softer than a shout over the sound of his own splashing. He pushed forward, an unnatural current slowing him, streaming up the channel against the tide. There was mud on his face, in his mouth, and he hawked and spat, trying to rid himself of the bitter film. The wave had carried him a good fifteen ells, and the current still pressed him back; he moved like a man in a nightmare, fighting for every step against a pressure that seemed to grow stronger with every heartbeat. He heard a distant splashing, out of synch with his own movements, and fought to hurry. Eslingen could swim, he knew that much, but with the stars against him—he cut off that thought, and struggled forward.

  A wave loomed above him, surging up from the basin, a wave with teeth that glinted from the brown water in the lantern’s light. An instant later, the teeth resolved to the shadow of a dogfish, and he yanked his truncheon from his belt as the water crashed down on him. He felt the dogfish brush past him, its teeth catching for a moment in the thick leather jerkin and then ripping through his sleeve as it lost its grip. He staggered, stumbling half to his knees, and dragged himself upright as a smaller wave rolled back toward him, the dogfish riding its crest. It had lifted itself half out of the water, front fins spread, the bottom of its toothy jaw just skimming the surface, and Rathe swung the truncheon with all his strength. He felt the blow connect, felt teeth splinter, and the fish vanished in a swirl of bloody water.

  “Philip!”

  Still no answer, and the water was gathering again, a rushing wave sweeping toward him. The water was up to his hips now even at the side of the channel; he braced himself, holding his breath, and the wave bowled him over, sent him tumbling, bouncing painfully off the stones. He felt something squirm past him, another dogfish struggling against the current, kicked out hard as something touched his ankle. And then the water was receding, the dogfish circling against its pull, seeking him through the dark water. He’d lost his hold on the lantern again, and it bobbed just below the surface at the end of its tether, leaving just enough light to see the ripples on the water’s surface. He shifted his truncheon to his left hand and drew his knife, circling to put his back against the channel wall. The water was still rising, though the tide should be nearly dead low.

  He kicked at a shadow, and a dogfish drove in from his other side, nearly oversetting him. He staggered back, bracing himself against the wall, swept the knife through the water where he thought a fish might be. The blade met nothing, but something
sliced along his calf, drawing a swirl of blood and searing pain. He struck left-handed, felt the truncheon connect, struck again as though he was gaffing a fish at the end of a line. The dogfish rolled away, but there was more blood in the water.

  The water was still rising, rolling up in a long slow wave that was cut by the fins of three more dogfish. Rathe kicked as something grabbed his other ankle, shearing through stocking and shoe leather and flesh, and dropped his knife as the wave rolled closer, jumping for the edge of the channel wall. The water lifted him, and he caught it, kicking at yet another of the fish, then scrabbling for a toehold in the rough stones. His right foot caught, the stronger, and then the weaker left, pain shooting through ankle and knee as it took his weight. He tossed the truncheon onto the walkway and used both hands to pull himself up, the lantern dragging behind him in the water. One of the dogfish struck at it, catching it like a fisherman’s hook, and the new weight nearly jerked him backward into the stream. He clawed for purchase on the rough stone, wedging one foot hard into a gap in the stones, and then the tether parted, the magelight vanishing into the depths.

  Rathe hauled himself up onto the walkway, feeling with battered hands for the tunnel wall. Without the light, there was no way to tell if the water was still rising, no way to know what else might be waiting in the dark. Something splashed in the water, almost at his feet: one of the fish, presumably, but he couldn’t feel how close it really was. He crouched there for a moment longer, letting his breathing slow, then drew himself to his feet, keeping his back pressed against the stones. He was still bleeding, but he didn’t think the cuts were bad; his hand stung when he gripped the truncheon, but the real problem was the lack of light. Without the lantern, there was nothing he could do.

  He tasted bile then, fear and guilty fury tangling in his gut, but the cold sense that had made him a better than average pointsman held him still. He’d lost the lantern, he couldn’t search without it. But outside, on the river itself, Cambrai was waiting with his people. Get back to them, and they could come after Eslingen. Half a dozen pontoises would be a help against the dogfish.

  If he could get back to them. If he could find his way out. Something splashed again at his feet, and he snarled silently at it. He wasn’t that far from the last tunnel, and by all the signs, it had been in use. If he could just get there, he had a chance. Of course, he was on the wrong side of the channel, but the water had been much shallower there, the bed of the tunnel dry in spots. He would take that chance when he got there.

  He took a breath. He had flint and steel in his pocket, though it was even odds if the tinder would have stayed dry enough to catch even in its waxed box. Nothing to burn, though, except his soaked clothes, and they wouldn’t make much of a torch even dry. The flares would light, they were meant to light at sea in storms, magist-spelled to keep off salt and wind and water, but they just spat out a single ball of light, with enough power behind it to soar hundreds of feet in the air and still keep burning….

  Maybe that would help, if he could lodge the ball in the stones of the ceiling. Maybe that would give enough light to let him feel his way along the footpath. At worst, it would give him a glimpse of the situation. He found the packet of flares and carefully extracted one, feeling along the tube to find the firing end. He pointed that down the channel, aiming for a low arc, and hooked a finger in the loop of string that dangled from the other end. He pulled it once, and again, harder, and felt the trigger give.

  Light exploded from the tube, blue-white and blinding, soared down the length of the channel and slammed into one of the arches just beside the keystone. For a second, he thought it would bounce back, but it stuck, clung hissing to the stones. It wasn’t as good as the lantern, but it was enough to see the path, enough to see that the water in the channel was sliding slowly back and forth, against all normal forces that ruled the river. A frilled fin cut the surface, and vanished again: the dogfish were still waiting.

  Rathe kept his back to the wall, and edged along the walkway, trying not to cast a shadow or draw the dogfishes’ attention. If they were the Riverdeme’s eyes and ears, if he could just avoid their notice, get ahead of them, then maybe he could get away. He held his breath with each step, trying not to disturb even a single crumb of gravel. Two ells, ten, a dozen, and the water in the channel seemed lower, less affected by the weird movement. He moved faster now, his ankle throbbing. Ahead, the light seemed brighter: he was drawing closer to the arch where the flare had struck.

  And then he had reached the arch, the harsh light showing the water in the channel almost normal, no more than a couple of feet deep. Looking back the way he’d come, he could see the wave rising and falling but never coming closer, as though it was held by an invisible barrier. Eslingen was somewhere behind that, taken by the Riverdeme, and surely, surely she wouldn’t kill him outright. Surely if the tales were true he was handsome enough to be one of her chosen, and surely that would give them time to find him and break him free…. Maybe there would be time—Astree, Oriane, Seidos, let there be time—but there was certainly none to waste. Rathe ducked past the arch and hurried up the channel, heading for the tunnel he had seen earlier.

  He found it at the edge of the flare’s light, and set off another to guide him to the river’s edge. He had lost all sense of time, was shocked to find himself walking dry-shod down the edge of the tunnel, with barely half a foot of water in the center of the passage. Still the ebb tide, still the Riverdeme’s detriment, though the stars were more in her favor than he would have liked. The flare was nearly out by the time he reached the barred gate and hauled it open with a shriek of hinges.

  After that noise, he would have expected some call, some response from a watchman on the streets above, but he staggered out onto the empty shingle without drawing any notice. It was raining, a thin, steady drizzle, and the beach stretched almost three ells to the water. The nearest dock was a quarter mile away, the ships black shadows unmarked by any lights; there were lights on the far bank, and on the Queen’s Bridge, and Rathe reached for the last of his flares. He pulled the string to set it off, and watched the ball of light rise like an unnatural star over the river. If Cambrai hurried—if they could find Eslingen in time—he shook his head, drowning fear in anger. They had to find him, and they would.

  CHAPTER 13

  The pontoises’ boat scraped ashore, the oarsmen driving half its length onto the shingle. Rathe stared at it, shaking, unable for a moment to focus. The river’s cold had driven deep into his bones, seemed worse in the open air even as his clothes dried on him. Someone was speaking to him, but the words refused to resolve into sense; mage-light surrounded them, heatless and bright, and he could have wept at its useless touch.

  Something touched his lips, the neck of a bottle nudging at him, and he opened his mouth and nearly choked on brandy and strong herbs. He recognized it, though, the pontoises’ rescue cordial, and managed to get most of it down, only a little spilling down his chin.

  “Another,” Cambrai said, and Rathe swallowed obediently, feeling new warmth seep through him. He was still shivering, but not as hard, and someone had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

  “Philip…the Riverdeme took him.”

  Cambrai hissed softly. “You’re sure?”

  “I wouldn’t say it otherwise.”

  “Perrine!” Cambrai waved to one of the pontoises. “Dry clothes, quick as you can. Come on, Nico, strip, and tell me while you’re changing.”

  “We need to go after him.”

  “You’ll do him no good if you can’t stand for shivering.” Cambrai was already plucking at the clasps of Rathe’s jerkin, and reluctantly Rathe moved to help. He grudged every moment, but he knew that Cambrai was right, that there was nothing he could do until he was capable of clear thought again.

  “Where would it take him?”

  The pontoise, Perrine, brought shirt and breeches and a loose coat. None of them fit well, but Rathe dragged them on, folding fabric where it w
as too big and pulling his own belt tight to hold everything in place.

  He saw Cambrai and Perrine exchange unhappy glances, and knew what they were thinking.

  “Yes, if he’s not dead. We have to assume it, have to assume he’s alive, or we won’t find him. And it took him, Euan. It could have killed both of us, but it drove me off and took him.”

  Perrine gave the ghost of a shrug. “The stories say she takes men.”

  “The stories say she kills them,” Cambrai said.

  “You have to look,” Rathe said, through clenched teeth. “We have to look.”

  “And we will,” Cambrai said.

  Rathe grabbed his arm, tightening his grip until Cambrai winced and swore. “Really look, Euan. Like you mean to find him alive.”

  For an instant, he thought Cambrai would protest further, but then the cap’pontoise shook his head. “That means we move now.” He lifted his arm, and Saffroy came loping over.

  “The tide’s on the turn, Cap’.”

  Cambrai took a breath. “Take out every boat we have, send them up and down the southern bank—concentrate on the area between the bridges, but check below and above just in case. Every place a body—a woman might be washed out of the tunnels.”

  “If she took him,” Rathe said again.

  Cambrai gave him an unhappy look. “The drowning cell. Only I don’t know where that is.”

  “No one does,” Saffroy said, and Cambrai glared at him.

  “Go on, get the boats in the water. Leave me Perrine and half the crew. And Benet, he knows the old tales better than most.”

  “Right, Cap’.” Saffroy touched his forehead and backed away.

  “We have to find it,” Rathe said.

  “If we went back the way you came out,” Cambrai said. “Go in force, plenty of light—”

  Rathe dug his hands into his filthy hair, trying to think clearly. “It wouldn’t be hard to backtrack, and maybe we can find something in the basin, it looked important.”