Exhausted, and with eyes blurry and limbs heavy, it was difficult to gauge how much distance we traveled, and impossible to tell what time of day it was in the world above. Below, time was meaningless, or would have been if Thumaar hadn’t insisted on pushing us hard, and reminding us after every new turn that haste was paramount. Cynead could be vanquishing his cosmopolitan army any time, and we were the only thing that stood a chance of stopping them. We’d gambled everything on our ability to sneak into the Citadel and reclaim the Memoridons.
As we walked down a curving corridor surrounded by ribs and skulls, I asked Vendurro, “When we were closing in on the cistern tower, someone exchanged a bird call type of signal to create a diversion. I’m assuming that was Jackals?”
He nodded, lantern bobbing in front of him. “Ayyup. Commander Darzaak knows we’re on the move by now, and surely sent runners to some of the other Towers that still support Thumaar.”
“To what end?” I asked.
Vendurro switched arms and shook some life back into the fingers of his free hand. “Part of the reason we got to hurry here. The Towers still loyal will throw in their support the second we seize the Memoridons. But only then.”
I marked down a side passage we chose not to take, as it headed southwest. “So . . . they’ll know the moment Soffjian works her memory magic. The Memoridons Cynead tasked to still monitor the Towers, they’ll feel it immediately, just as they did when Cynead stole them when we were in the Hippodrome.”
“Ayyup.”
“And then what? Cynead will know as well, won’t he? He’ll sense the loss of them. He might not know Thumaar orchestrated it, or how, but he’ll know his Memoridons have been stolen.”
Vendurro glanced at the new part of the corridor as we passed through an arched doorway. “Plague me. Are those all . . . teeth?”
I looked at the wall. They were indeed. “It would appear so. But back to Cynead. What will—”
“Nothing all that original. Bloody coup.”
I reached the edge of a page and swapped it out for a clean one. “But he’ll still outnumber Thumaar’s forces in the field. Even without the War Memoridons helping him, or the others giving him rapid intelligence, he could still prevail.”
“Could,” Vendurro agreed. “But he’ll still lose Sunwrack. Well, should anyway. Still plenty of Towers loyal to the bastard in here too, but Thumaar’s supporters inside will rally once they know he’s in the city and has the Mems with him. Capital of Coups is going to get real bloody today, but once it all gets mopped up, Thumaar ought to be the one standing with the crown on his head.”
I thought about all the priests and their attendants with a never-ending parade of carts laden with new bones coming down here, filling new corridors somewhere, arranging the last evidence of the dead in obscure patterns for obscure reasons perhaps only they understood. Would Thumaar send Cynead’s skull down here, to be an anonymous testament to the never-ending struggle, treachery, and bloodletting in the world above?
The tunnel of teeth gave way to a corridor of tibias, which ended in a grotto and required more backtracking, but we found another hall heading east.
Still, while we seemed to be making halting progress, the number of recursive passages and dead ends was maddening. There was no guarantee that any of the tunnels on this level, or one below, or any we might actually traverse, would actually lead to the Well. We’d been down here for what must have been half a day, stopping only briefly to rest our legs and swallow some quick mouthfuls of food, but there was nothing to say we were any closer to where we needed to be than when we started.
No one spoke of it. No one had to. Not even curmudgeonly Mulldoos, snide Benk, or the most vocally critical of all, Azmorgon. There was a heaviness about traveling here, an unyielding leaden dread, that made conversation seem like an abomination. And that, with the growing doubts about us being able to actually break into the Citadel, silenced everyone.
But not long after our break, there was a change as we continued east, passing walls of alternating scapulas and skulls, when they suddenly stopped. We hadn’t passed through an archway, which was the usual demarcation, and they weren’t replaced by a new kind of configuration of bones. The stone walls on either side beyond were blank.
It was almost startling, after so many miles of the remains of the dead. The passage continued for a hundred yards, and then we passed through a square doorway. The space was bigger beyond and I sighed, expecting to have to pen another grotto, but this room was square, boneless, and only an antechamber to another larger space seen through an open doorway ahead.
Thumaar kissed his fingertips and lifted them towards the sky. The ceiling anyway. Then he turned and looked back at us. He had a beatific smile that seemed horribly out of place on his normally stony face. “We are close. The gods have willed me to return to my proper place. And when I do, that will be a harbinger of their own imminent return. Come.”
Mulldoos looked back at us and rolled his eyes as we pressed forward.
Passing through the door, we entered a domed rotunda, the walls filled with carvings that appeared to be a millennium old. The dome itself was covered in alternating ceramic tiles of black and white.
There was a doorway on the other side, but Thumaar marched immediately to the left, seeming to know exactly where he was.
We all followed into a large rectangular chamber filled with columns carved in the same style as those of the Hippodrome—spiraling panels depicting ancient battles, victories, losses, discoveries, treaties, statesmen, soldiers.
In the center of the room there was a rectangular sarcophagus, the lid inlaid with alternating rows of lapis, turquoise, and carnelian, forming a border around a remarkably lifelike effigy of a hawkish looking man. Thumaar ran his fingertips over the surface, tenderly, reverently.
I whispered to Vendurro, “What is this place?”
He whispered back. “Never seen it. Heard tell of it. Chamber of First Emperors they call it. Expect that’s the tomb of the first Eagle emperor. Three hundred years ago, or thereabouts.”
“How many have there been?”
“Eagles? Two,” he replied. “Well, Thumaar would make it three if he retakes the throne. Thumaar Twiceking, they ought to call him.”
The chamber of the Eagles’ first emperor gave way to ten more in succession, each filled with a single sarcophagus.
If we’d had more time, I would have taken a bit of charcoal out of my case to try to take a rubbing of the effigy. But time was certainly our enemy rather than ally.
We navigated around the remaining dead emperors. There was another rotunda beyond, identical to the first, a short passageway past that, and then a set of spiral stairs heading up.
Thumaar was moving like a man possessed and had already started up the stairs, apparently knowing exactly where they led, as half the company had already disappeared above us.
I jotted a note about the stairs as I stubbed most of my toes on one of them, and then just paid attention to the wild flashes of lantern light on the walls above me, like something alive and trying to escape this place.
We had gone up what felt like a thousand stairs but couldn’t have been a third that when they abruptly ended, and Thumaar and Braylar were already halfway down the unadorned hallway ahead of us.
Unlike all the halls of the catacombs, this corridor had torches in brackets, lit and well maintained, and from the flickering flames it was clear we were about to taste open air again soon. The walls were a black smear behind each one. But even if the wind didn’t take them, someone had to replace or relight them every hour or two, so we could be expecting company at any moment.
I watched the figures ahead, and saw Soffjian laboring a bit. While the injury might not have been life threatening (yet, anyway), she had obviously lost a fair amount of blood and was woozy. She matched her brother for stubbornness and pride, so if she was allowing anyone else to see the effects, it was only because she was completely unable to mask them at al
l.
Considering that the success of this mission was entirely on her bloodied shoulders (and Nustenzia’s bonier ones), this was fairly concerning.
As we reached the end of the corridor, we turned to the right. But it was clear from the natural light ahead that we were entering a far more open space than we’d seen in what felt like forever, and I had to force myself not to rush ahead.
When I came to the end of the hall, the torch flames danced so much I thought they might go out as a gust caught them. I stepped out onto a small stone landing, catching my breath. We were in a giant brick cylinder that disappeared into the darkness below, seeming to sink into the earth even deeper than the Trench that surrounded Sunwrack, and rising several stories above us where light poured down from a large circular space in the middle of the domed atrium roof.
The rest of the small party was already moving up, walking the single set of stairs that spiraled up the interior of the stone cylinder to the top.
Vendurro was looking back at me and must have seen the look on my face. “Well of Stairs. Guessing you guessed that already, huh? I’ve only been up there looking down. Right different perspective going the other way, ain’t it? Well, you can’t say, of course, never having seen it before from any direction. Anyway, mind the stairs. No rail, and it does get gusty.”
He started up, and I said, “Does anyone use this anymore? For water, I mean?”
“Nah,” he called back. “Used to be a major source of water for the Citadel, years back. Springs or underground river of some such thing, down there in the deep.”
“What happened?”
“Can’t say for certain. Be better off asking Cap or Hew or—” He stopped himself, then spoke again as if he hadn’t said the other lieutenant’s name at all. “Cap. But the only important thing is climbing out of here without letting a big old breeze suck you down into the black.”
He was right about the wind—it seemed to be flowing both up and down, dragging at sleeves and anything projecting off the body. The stairs were three feet wide, but even keeping as close to the wall as I could, I felt the incessant tug towards that indeterminate fall in the center.
Round and round we went, up towards the light, until the steps finally reached the rim at the top, which was the most treacherous moment, with no wall to cling to as I practically jumped off the stairs. I hazarded one look back down into the depths, and even without wind swirling around the Well, I still felt as if I might be drawn in.
I stepped away and looked around. The building we were in housed a fabulous garden and collection of small trees and shrubs and what appeared to be a diverse collection of medicinal plants I recognized from university— feverfew, lavender, sage, peppermint, tansy—as well as many that weren’t even vaguely familiar. It was obvious why so much of the roof had been left open to allow sun and the occasional rain in.
Thumaar’s band hadn’t drawn any weapons yet, which I thought odd before remembering that we had all donned various Imperial badges, surcoats, and embattled shields with the Suns and Leopards each occupying half the field. Still, Nustenzia obviously didn’t belong, and a number of soldiers had wounds, Soffjian in particular looking as if she just had just visited a battlefield surgeon.
Everyone swatted the dust off as best they could, with most walking off to a narrow irrigation trough that delivered water from some aqueduct piping or other hidden in the wall and rinsing off.
I splashed some water on my face and forearms as well, which helped wake me up for a brief moment, and turned to Vendurro, whispering, “What’s the plan now?”
He was gargling some water out of his cupped hands, and Rudgi chose to answer, despite my not having even seen her sidle up next to us. “I expect we are going to walk through the Citadel like we own the place, make for the frame room when opportunity presents itself, and head to the streets when the festivities kick in.”
I looked at her, blinking water off my eyelashes. She must have been as exhausted as the rest of us but managed to seem both alert and somehow looking forward to what happened next. I said, “We do look decidedly . . . beat up.”
“Ayyup,” she replied. “Not a handsome group, that’s for certain. But Cynead just rode out of the capital to meet an enemy in the field this morning, the Jackals have been causing a ruckus all over the city all night, staging fights here, there, and everywhere, and the populace has got to be right nervous I’m guessing, especially with rumors of Thumaar’s return flying faster than hungry hawks right now.”
“Which means . . . ?”
Vendurro said, “Which means, war is in the wind today. The short sergeant has the right of it. Blood is being spilled. Not in every street just yet. That’ll come later. Gallons of it. But it’s still dribbling just now here and there with a lot of folks suddenly real restless, so some nicked-up soldiers won’t be causing any raised eyebrows today. Besides, I’m sick of skulking around like a plaguing ferret, ain’t you? Or were you hoping we’d crawl up Cynead’s shitty garderobe? Come on.”
Rudgi gave me a punch in the upper arm. “Just act like you belong. It’ll all work out fine.”
I nodded, completely lacking confidence in anything she said. I didn’t believe for a moment that everything was going to be fine. In my relatively short stint with the Jackals, even when things went perfectly according to plan, the results were never what any non-Syldoon would think of as “fine.”
We all started walking towards a door on the far side of the garden. I whispered to Rudgi and Vendurro ahead of me, “What if someone recognizes Thumaar? Or Braylar? Or anyone? I mean, it’s not as if the emperor has been gone a tenyear or two.”
Vendurro replied, “Well, Thumaar is presumably out there in the field, so it ain’t as if anybody in their right skulls would be thinking he’s like to stride down a corridor in the Citadel, all dressed up like a Leopard. And anybody looks like they are slowly parsing all that out are like to be hitting the stones dead before they finish.”
Rudgi nodded. “Anybody recognizing somebody here is going to be awfully bewildered, even if only for a hot moment.” She snapped her fingers. “And that’s about all it will take. We got this, Arki.”
I remained unconvinced. “So, we’re just going to stroll through the Citadel, killing off one bewildered Leopard after another until we reach our destination?”
She looked at the lieutenant. “You were right on that score. He sure as hells does ask a lot of questions, doesn’t he?”
Vendurro nodded. “Ayyup. That he does.” He looked over his shoulder and gave me a crooked grin. “Cap and Thumaar got it worked out, Arki. Well, provided Soff doesn’t bleed out on us. That would throw a big fat turd in the soup, wouldn’t it?”
There was no arguing that point.
We were exiting the garden when we passed a Thurvacian servant carrying a bucket with shears and a spade, and other small tools I didn’t recognize. I held my breath, but the servant kept his eyes low, bowing once as we all filed past.
I looked back at him as we started down a hallway with a tall corbelled ceiling, but if he though it odd passing a group of armed “Leopards” in this part of the Citadel, he kept about his business and disappeared among the twisty trees.
The first thing that was immediately clear was that the Citadel was adorned and decorated in far more grandiose fashion than the rather austere and simple Jackal Tower. The walls were draped with rich tapestries that seemed imported from every corner of the empire, and also broken up frescoes and murals and small alcoves with marble statues designed to impress upon the viewer the power, wealth and, to some degree, absurdity of the Leopard and Sun Tower. There were fabulously carved triptychs and rich paintings that stretched for a tenfoot or more. Even the most basic and functional of surfaces or elements of construction were decorated, engraved, to ridiculous degree, as if the artisans commissioned had been promised payment only if they managed to outdo the sculptor, carver, or painter on the previous panel.
Which meant every hall was fill
ed with priceless artifacts, which also meant we would be encountering armed occupants at any moment.
And so we did. Rounding a corner, Thumaar still leading at a relentless pace, we nearly collided with another group of ten Leopards walking in the opposite direction.
Braylar addressed one as he helped steady him. “My apologies, good man.”
The one similarity the Citadel had with the Jackal Tower, and I presumed all Towers in the Empire, was that they were occupied primarily by Syldoon, slave soldiers waiting for manumission, and the indigenous Thurvacian servants, clerks, and staff. Spouses and families seemed to be housed in residential buildings in the vicinity, but out of the way so as to avoid throwing silt or shit in endlessly turning gears.
This was no different—there were eight slave soldiers, not yet with inked nooses or surokas, but clearly bearing themselves in a way that would have gotten Thurvacians executed for insolence, and two armed Leopard escorts.
The soldier Braylar helped gave a curt nod. “You best watch yourself,” he glanced at the pewter badge on Braylar’s gambeson, “Sergeant. I’m a forgiving sort, but that would earn some odorous tasks from practically any other officer you nearly knock over. Maybe even some lashes, if you truly got unlucky.” The officer looked over the rest of our bloodied company, stopping when he saw Soffjian and Nustenzia. “Unless you have reason for such haste. Looks likes you just had yourselves some action.” His amicable demeanor clouded over. “The streets?”
“Aye, Lieutenant,” Braylar replied. “Some plaguing Thurvacians were being . . . disruptive.”
Chains of the Heretic Page 47
