D’Jenn’s jaw tightened, but he nodded his head in assent.
“Victus will send people after us,” Dormael said. “He’ll send our friends after us.”
“Small point,” Allen said, “but they’re not exactly your friends anymore if they’re trying to kill you. Those are called enemies, brother.”
Dormael gave his brother a flat look, but Allen just shrugged his shoulders in response.
“And you will not be seen leaving,” the Mekai cut in. “There is a way, through the lowest level of the Rat Holes, to get into Ishamael’s sewers. It’s an old escape route only revealed to the Mekai, passed down from one to the other. It comes out north of the city, on the western side of the river. From there, you’ll have to continue on your own.”
The thought of going into those sewers again filled Dormael with cold anxiety. He schooled his face to a bland expression and loosened his shoulders. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to see him unmanned by the thought.
“Even if we make it out, he’ll have Warlocks searching for us by morning,” D’Jenn said. “And when he makes his move for power, they’ll issue Death Coins for us. We’ll be hunted to the ends of Eldath for all our days—that’s the law. They’ll name us rogue sorcerers, treat us as any Rashardian Mystic.”
“Yes,” the Mekai nodded. All eyes in the room turned to him. “The Conclave will hunt you. You will be forced to fight your own. But that’s not something you can change, those pigeons have flown. If you wish to join your deacon, then say so now—it’s your only guarantee for safety, after all.”
Everyone at the table traded looks, but no one said a word.
“Good,” the Mekai said. “Then from this night on, you will be considered unsanctioned operatives. I have faith, though, that you boys are uniquely suited to surviving such a distinction—and ladies, of course.”
Shawna bowed her head in acknowledgment.
Dormael felt a small bit of warmth for the Mekai’s vote of confidence, but he knew the odds were against them. Every Warlock under Victus’s command had received the same training, had survived the same trials. Each one of his colleagues had their own unique strengths and weaknesses, and Dormael knew that amongst their company, he was nothing special.
“So we escape through the tunnels under the Conclave, into the sewers under the city,” Allen said. “Then we dodge hostile wizards all the way up the countryside to the most accursed place in all our histories, and from there…something. We hope something, anyway.”
“If you wish to boil it down into absurdity, then yes,” the Mekai said, turning a serious look on Dormael’s brother.
Allen turned a flat look on Dormael.
“Well, you did promise me a bit of excitement, didn’t you?” he said.
“You could always go home,” Dormael offered. “Hope that Victus leaves you alone.”
Allen snorted. “And leave you lot to stumble on without me? The best warrior amongst you is a woman, by the gods.”
“Still is, even in your company,” Shawna said, giving Allen a patronizing pat on the shoulder. “Don’t feel too bad about it, though. I’m sure they could use you back on the homestead if you’re feeling a bit light in the ankles.”
“I’m not sure if you’re calling me a whore, or a coward,” Allen said. “But there’s no way I’m going anywhere. You’ll have to put up with me the entire way.”
“Do you think they could use me back on the homestead, then?” Shawna asked.
Everyone shared a laugh, but the mirth in the room was thin at best.
“The important thing is that none of you have a choice,” the Mekai said. “I’ve taken the liberty of having your horses taken to the place where the escape route terminates. Go a different way if you wish, but you will do so on foot. I had to act quickly, you understand, and there was no time to convince you beforehand. I am the Mekai, after all—for a short while longer, anyway.”
“You should go with Lacelle, Honored One,” D’Jenn suggested. “Go into exile, stay out of Victus’s reach.”
“I will not run from him, D’Jenn,” the Mekai said. “I have been Mekai for a very long time, and I will not be the first to abandon the Conclave in such a time. If Victus wants to take my seat, he’ll bloody well have to take it. I am not as defenseless as he seems to think. You all have other things to worry about, however. I will worry about the Conclave, you worry about finding the Nar’doroc.”
“Very well, Honored One,” D’Jenn said, though Dormael could see the tension in his jaw.
“Now is the time, I’m afraid,” the Mekai said. He rose and walked to one of the windows, peering out over the moonlit grass of the Green. “The moon is high, and most of the Conclave is already asleep. If you’re quite ready, we should make our way down to the Crux. Gather your people, Lacelle, and meet us there.”
“Yes, Honored One,” Lacelle said. She organized the research into a scroll case, and gathered it to her chest before rushing from the room. Dormael watched her go, willowy form disappearing through the door.
“We’ll need to cover our retreat somehow,” Dormael said. “Even if most of the Conclave is asleep, Victus will have someone watching.”
“Leave that to me,” the Mekai said.
“What are you planning to do, Honored One?” D’Jenn asked.
“I am the most experienced wizard in the Conclave, with access to the most powerful magical Circle in all of Eldath,” the Mekai smiled. “I’m going to do magic.”
Into the Tunnels
If it comes to a fight, D’Jenn thought, we can’t depend on this lot.
Lacelle herded her people down the tunnel like a clutch of frightened children too nervous to stray from the edge of the light. The light that hung in the air above them was bright, cold—like the woman who had conjured it. Lacelle’s Kai sang into the ether with a clear, precise note.
The scholars that the Deacon of Philosophers had jostled into the corridor were an odd bunch. D’Jenn had spent so much of his time around Warlocks that he’d forgotten what the rest of the Conclave was like. None of the three looked a day over twenty springs, and they fumbled along the hallways as if they weren’t sure they were supposed to be there. D’Jenn couldn’t blame them—if he had been roused from his bed in the middle of the night, been made to pack a bag, and ushered out of the Conclave with no warning, he would probably be just as clueless as Lacelle’s three helpers.
The Mekai had ushered them all down to the Crux, and sent them through a little-used tunnel that went deeper underground. He had assured them that it would connect with the sewers, given them instructions on how to navigate it, and retreated back to the Convergence Chamber to use his magic to cover their escape.
For that, the Mekai had chosen a sleeping spell. It wasn’t a standard one, though—it was much more insidious. The Mekai’s spell would be a slow, unnoticeable thing that would creep up on unsuspecting wizards and draw them into a slumber. They wouldn’t fall asleep right away, but the closer they got, the sleepier they would become. Those who were already out for the night would be impossible to wake until the Mekai’s magic had run its course. With the power of the Crux behind him, the Mekai had whispered his spell over the entire Conclave. Anyone caught in it would be affected.
Vera’s letter burned in the pocket of his cloak.
The Mekai’s words had ignited a storm in D’Jenn’s mind. Connections were made as everything fell into place, and the deaths of his friends had taken on a new stink as all the information was mixed together. All it had taken was the off-hand mention of a purge taking place, and D’Jenn knew it had to be true. Being lost at sea was such a convenient way for his friends to have disappeared, and he cursed himself for not having seen through it before. A thousand questions came bubbling to the surface. Mataez had told him that he had looked into the deaths himself, and D’Jenn had trusted his word. What reason would he have had to discount it? His brothers and sisters, his family, had never lied to him.
Never before, an
yway.
His hands shook with the urge to rip Vera’s letter from his cloak and tear into it, but everyone was too close. He didn’t care to have anyone’s eyes on him when he read it—he knew it would be trying, regardless of what he found within. Still, the urge was wrapped up with rage at what Victus had done. Another part of him, the one that had little doubt as to Victus’s responsibility, knew why they had so likely died at his command.
If he was in Victus’s place, he might have done the same things.
“My cat is probably hungry,” said Jev, one of Lacelle’s Philosophers. He made a sour face as he wrestled with his pack, the man’s narrow shoulders doing little to support its weight. Jev was short, sallow, and surly in the way that old women were surly—though the bags under his eyes spoke of his sleepiness.
“Nobody gives two golden shits about your cat, Jev,” spat Lilliane. She wiped a meaty arm across her brow, cheeks already red from the exertion of the walk. Lilliane was fat—very fat, in fact. The woman was pouring sweat already, and they had only just started. D’Jenn worried that she wouldn’t make it if they had to run. For all her sweating and heavy breathing, though, she outpaced Jev with ease, and with the least amount of complaining.
“Your cat,” she breathed, “is going to die, Jev. Maybe a dog will get hold of its neck and shake it like a little doll. Snap it right in half, you know? You’ve seen what happens with dogs, I’m sure.”
“You’re such a bitch, Lilliane,” Jev snapped.
“Maybe a street urchin will cave its little skull in with a sling, and it will end up in a stew. They’ll leave its guts out in the streets, but maybe they’ll make a little hat out of its skin.”
“You don’t have to be so mean to him,” said Torins, the third of Lacelle’s team. Torins, in contrast to both Jev and Lilliane, was built like a bull. He was four full hands taller than D’Jenn, and had shoulders wide enough for a plow. Torins, though, jumped at every shadow, and constantly talked about the gods.
“Torins, I hope they find a cure for the fungus that ate your mind away,” Lilliane huffed. “There’s another thing—maybe your cat got snatched up by an apothecary. I heard that they experiment on cats sometimes. Just think of little mister tickles—”
“That’s not her name,” Jev snapped.
“—just think of him, little legs twitching, tongue lolling out its mouth around all that bloody foam—”
“If you were a man, Lilliane, I’d smack your face right off!”
“If you were a man, Jev, you’d shut your gods-damned mouth about your cat,” Lilliane huffed. “You’ve been muttering about your cat the whole damned way, and everyone’s damned tired of hearing about it.”
“Don’t you think everyone’s also tired of listening to your fat arse slither down the hallway?”
“Slither?!”
Bethany let out a tittering laugh, uncaring in the way that children her age always were. D’Jenn was tired of listening to the three of them bicker back and forth, but he stifled his own chuckle at the comment. Shawna shushed Bethany’s laughter, and the walk continued in silence.
Only for a few moments, of course.
“Jev,” Lilliane huffed, eyes still trained straight ahead, “does your father write you every season to tell you how disappointed he is, or is it more often? If I had a son like you, I think I’d marry him off to a real man.”
“You and I both know that when you finally pass a calf, Lilliane, it will go straight to the gods-damned milking stable,” Jev spat. “When is the farmer planning on putting you down, anyway? Aren’t you seasoned enough yet?”
“That was mean, Jev,” Torins sighed, shaking his bull head. “Just mean.”
“Says the eunuch,” Lilliane clipped.
Torins grew red in the face, but said nothing in return.
“All three of you need to keep your mouths shut,” Lacelle snapped, stopping and turning on them. The little trio almost ran the woman down, but Lilliane was able to skid to a halt, and Torins pulled Jev up short by the scruff of his neck. Lacelle gave them all a frosty eye. “Need I remind you of the possibility that we’re being watched? Do you think this is a friendly jaunt, just a little trip through the tunnels to the outskirts for an early morning picnic?”
“Deacon, we—” Lilliane started.
“Quiet!” Lacelle hissed. “I know you’re all frightened, but this is no way to deal with your fear. You’re endangering everyone!”
“We’re sorry,” Torins said.
“Take your cues from the Warlocks,” Lacelle said, gesturing at D’Jenn with an angry sweep of her fingers. “If they’re silent, then you keep silent!”
With that, the deacon turned and stalked away, her back as stiff as a board.
That’s a tough woman, D’Jenn thought. Victus underestimates her.
At the thought of his former mentor, D’Jenn again felt warm anger twisting around in his chest. Every moment they tread through these darkened tunnels, D’Jenn could feel his revenge getting farther away. More than anything, he needed to know the man’s reasons. What was so important that it had warranted the death of Vera, the deaths of so many of his friends?
Dormael strode up, scowling at the three Philosophers. Jev, Lilliane, and Torins scurried away in Lacelle’s wake, avoiding Dormael’s frown. D’Jenn had seen that look on Dormael’s face a hundred times, and it usually meant that he was thinking. Dormael’s ‘pensive’ looked a great deal more like ‘angry’. D’Jenn wondered if Lacelle’s researchers had been cowed by the look.
Jev and Torins, maybe—not Lilliane, though. That woman is as nasty as a snake.
Dormael was carrying his spear over one shoulder, and staring at everything around them like the very shadows were going to jump out and grab him. It hadn’t been a day since his last trip under the city had seen him tortured, though. Perhaps his memories were what stalked the shadows around him.
Shawna hovered nearby, and the two of them each rested a hand on one of Bethany’s shoulders. D’Jenn wondered if either of them could see what was happening. His cousin could talk a country girl right out of her dress—and brag about it later—but he couldn’t see it when a woman was stalking him in turn.
“Do you think we’re being watched?” Dormael asked. “I think we’re being watched.”
“He hasn’t stopped talking about it since we came down the ramp,” Shawna sighed. Dormael gave Shawna an irritated look. Bethany looked at D’Jenn and rolled her eyes, the expression invisible to the two adults flanking her.
“I haven’t felt anything,” D’Jenn shrugged, “but I wouldn’t take our guard down.”
“I thought those three were never going to shut up,” Dormael said, scowling in the direction of Lacelle’s bubble of light. “I thought about saying something to them, but they’re Lacelle’s people. I didn’t want to step on the deacon’s toes.”
“Why not?” D’Jenn said. “You heard the Mekai—we’re unsanctioned operatives now. Disavowed. Set free, like a pair of pigeons.”
He smiled and made himself laugh, but something inside of his chest writhed at the comment. From the sour look that Dormael gave him in return, his cousin felt the same way.
“I don’t like it,” Dormael said.
“What an eloquent way to put it,” D’Jenn replied.
“I don’t bloody like it.”
“What are you thinking?”
Dormael took a long breath, then let it out in a slow exhalation.
“I don’t know. I still don’t like running away.”
“Do you think the Mekai was right?” D’Jenn asked. “Do you think we’d be killed if we went after him?”
“I don’t know,” Dormael shrugged. “All I know is that I’m not leaving Bethany’s side until I’m sure that she’s safe. If we go after him, and he comes in behind us and steals her away—”
“Do you really think that would happen?” D’Jenn asked.
“It’s possible,” Dormael said. “It happened once already, don’t forget.”
“Maybe,” D’Jenn sighed.
“Besides, you know that if we want to take him out—and we do—that we’ll have to make a plan,” Dormael said. “As much as I want to see him dead, it’s just not feasible. The Mekai was right.”
D’Jenn let out a chestful of air, and nodded his head.
“I suppose you’re right.”
“We’ll have our chance, coz,” Dormael said. “Once the rest of this is over, we’ll have our chance.”
“I suppose,” D’Jenn said. Still, the anger didn’t go away. It sat in his chest like a warm stone.
The tunnels under the Crux were wide and tall—large enough to ride a pair of horses through. D’Jenn tried to occupy his mind with wondering why the things had been made so large. What needed to be moved underground that required a tunnel big enough for a marching column of men? There were no decorations, glyphs, or candles. Everything smelled like centuries-old dust.
The Mekai had given them all the directions through his secret passageway. When Dormael had called it a ‘secret passage,’ though, the Mekai had pointed out that it was only a secret route through the tunnels, and nothing quite so dramatic as a passageway. D’Jenn thought of it as a secret passage, anyway.
All one had to do to follow it, however, is keep a certain location marker on one’s left side. At every intersection they had to search for the marker. If it was there, they took the branch that put the marker over their left shoulder. If there was no marker, they continued forward. D’Jenn began to grow impatient with the pace, as they had to stop at each branch and look for the mark—an engraved Eye of Eindor no larger than D’Jenn’s palm.
This was the one thing, however, that Lacelle’s team was good at. The three scholars took to the task with gusto, talking in excited, hushed tones while they worked. Once they were focused on something, the bickering took a back seat to their task. They searched out markers in record time, and Jev was apparently keeping track of all the turns they made in his head. Things crept along slowly, but creep along they did.
The Knife in the Dark (The Seven Signs Book 2) Page 40
