The damage done, Rhaif jumped back.
Muskin dropped his whip and pawed at the impaled knife—then he fell to his knees with a gurgle that turned bloody. His eyes went huge, both surprised yet knowing the truth.
Rhaif backed away, horrified and shaking all over.
“I’m sor … sorry,” he mumbled.
While the overseer deserved a harsh end, Rhaif had not wanted to be the one to deliver it. He had witnessed countless deaths, but none by his own hand.
Rhaif took another step away.
Muskin’s end took far longer than Rhaif would have wished. Long after the man toppled on his side, blood continued to pool and spread. His chest rose and fell. Rhaif stared unblinking until all movement stopped with a last rattled sigh.
Rhaif took another three breaths of his own before finally approaching the body. To the side, the bluish skull on the floor stared its empty sockets at him. He touched his fingertips from forehead, to lips, to heart. It was less this time to ward off spirits than it was to settle himself to the task at hand.
With this death, Rhaif had committed himself to one course.
Escape or suffer a worse fate than Muskin.
“Get on with it,” he whispered.
Working swiftly, he searched Muskin’s body and found the keys to his ankle irons. As miners were commonly shifted from one crew to another, the locks were typically the same. Still, he huffed with relief when the chains fell from his legs. He felt a hundred stone lighter.
Encouraged, he stripped Muskin of his blue overseer cloak and used the man’s waterskin to rinse away the worst of the blood. Once satisfied, he set about trading clothes with the dead man, including the short boots to hide his scarred ankles.
Lastly, he hauled on the overseer’s wide belt and secured the whip and dagger. He inspected himself one final time and pulled up the cloak’s hood to shadow his features.
He started to collect the lantern from the floor, then remembered.
He returned to his pile of clothes and fished out the wayglass. He was about to return it to the same pocket from which he had pinched it when he noted the lodestone no longer pointed toward the egg. Instead, it pointed in the opposite direction, toward the tunnel where the bronze woman had been hauled away.
Strange.
Rhaif set back along the same course, climbing the slope with care.
He reached the tunnel and followed the scuff of bare feet and boots. It was an easy trail to follow. He knew this path would eventually lead him to the mine proper. Still, he did not hurry. He had no intention of catching up with the others. He knew—once he got his bearings—he would split along another course. Using his disguise and keeping his face hidden, he would do his best to escape the mine and flee.
If he failed, it would mean his death—and an end far worse than the one Muskin had suffered. Like all prisoners, Rhaif knew the punishment for a prisoner who tried to escape. When he had first been dragged into the mines of Chalk, he had noted the rows of decaying, bird-plucked bodies, all impaled from arse to mouth, that lined the entrance.
His pace increased with the memory. He had to force himself to slow. Overseers—the lords of the mines—did not rush about. And now was certainly not the time to be hasty. Even when disguised, it would take stealth and artifice to safely make his escape.
As he hiked the tunnels, he pictured his freedom and all that it entailed—but the serene face of the bronze goddess kept intruding.
“It’s not my concern,” he intoned.
But deep down, he suspected he was wrong.
6
RHAIF HAD NEVER been happier to hear the crack of a whip.
The pained cry that followed echoed down the dark tunnel to him. He took heed of the warning. It meant he was nearing the mine proper. He rechecked his stolen clothes and pulled his cloak’s hood farther over his head.
At last …
He had been following the trail of the others for at least two bells. He wagered it must be close to last meal. The fare was usually a maggoty gruel, crusts of bread, and maybe a sliver of hard cheese or sometimes the rind of a melon left over from feeding the oxen. Still, his empty stomach growled in complaint at missing out.
“Hush,” he whispered. “I’ll feed you later.”
Taking an extra bit of caution, he trimmed the lamp’s oil taper and squeezed the flame to a flicker. Shadows drew more tightly around him. He knew he had to hurry.
If it was indeed close to last meal, that meant the hundreds of overseers would be corralling their charges into the various gaols and afterward heading topside, leaving only a bare few to watch over the mines.
Rhaif intended to leave with them.
He continued to follow the trail that skirted along the edge of the busy core of the mine. Clearly the Shrive did not want to be spotted, let alone draw attention to the mystery hauled forth from the copper egg.
For now, that worked for Rhaif, too.
The rumble and grind of the mine grew ever louder. Soon a constant hammering echoed from all directions, discordant and arrhythmic, interrupted by barked orders and harsh laughter. It was all undercut by a cacophony of squealing wheels on iron tracks and the strident whistles from the mine’s many shafts, where tubs full of chalk and kohl were hauled upward or lowered empty.
Rhaif had long grown accustomed to it, barely heard it any longer, like the beat of his own heart. But not now. His ears strained for every note of this dark chorale of misery and hardship, listening both for any hint of discovery and to orient himself to his location.
He was fairly certain he had his bearings. His nose picked out the scent of the burning brimstan from the smelting fires topside, which only could be smelled near the main shaft.
I must be close.
He tightened his jaw. Muskin’s body could be discovered at any moment. When that happened, the mine would ring with gongs and every shaft would be sealed or guarded. Then the hissing thylassaurs would be set loose on the trail, following the blood scent with their flared nostrils and running down their prey.
Namely me.
Rhaif checked the damp side of his cloak. The bloodstain had mostly dried, making it almost indistinguishable from the blue of the cloth. But it would not fool the sharp nose of a thylassaur. Knowing that, he dared wait no longer.
Now or never.
He tightened a fist and abandoned the trail. He took the next tunnel that aimed for the heart of the mine. As he rounded the corner, focused still on his stolen cloak, he ran square into a pair of hulking overseers coming his way.
Startled, he stumbled backward—only to have his shoulder grabbed, his cloak bunched in a scarred fist. Rhaif was sure his ruse had been exposed. Still, he kept his head down.
“You’re with us,” the overseer said, and marched past him, dragging Rhaif along.
He dared not resist but tried his best. “I … dumped my crew and was headed topside.”
“That can wait,” the man’s partner said. “Work’s not done yet.”
Rhaif was released and was plainly expected to follow. He obeyed but he trailed by a few steps. In another few breaths, he found himself back in the tunnel he had abandoned a moment ago.
It seems I’m destined to walk this path.
The overseers grumbled to each other, looking no more pleased than Rhaif about this extra duty.
“What’s all this tumult about anyway, you think, Hrahl?”
A heavy shrug. “Best not to be too curious, Berryl.”