Rhaif climbed rickety stairs and passed down a hall where closed doors did little to mask the grunts, gasps, and spats of laughter, some genuine, more feigned. He reached his room and rushed Pratik inside.
Once the door was closed and barred, the Chaaen inspected the cramped space. The bed was a flat board with a thin spread of hay atop it. The privy was a bucket in the corner. Nothing had been freshened in several days.
Pratik’s face pinched with disgust. He covered his mouth and nose against the stench. He mumbled between his fingers, “I now regret leaving the dungeons.”
Rhaif grinned. “Oh, fear not, we’re not home yet.” He crossed to the wall, dropped to a knee, and lifted away a section of planks to reveal a tight squeeze. He had secretly sawed this opening shortly after securing the room. “You’ll need to crawl the last of the way.”
Pratik bent down and inspected the dark pass-thru between old beams. “Where does it lead?”
“To both our freedoms,” he said, voicing his best hope.
* * *
RHAIF DUSTED OFF his knees and helped Pratik out the far end of the cramped passageway. It emptied into a larger rented room in a neighboring whorehouse. This one backed upon the first and opened onto a different corner of the Boils, one slightly less tawdry. He had prepared this arrangement early on, anticipating trouble, because it always found one eventually.
He had also been following a creed ingrained into any rogue.
Never trap yourself in a room with only one door.
In this case, such an extra measure served an additional purpose. If any of Llyra’s hunters had managed to shadow Rhaif across the city, they would believe their mark had holed up at the other establishment. If Llyra attempted a raid there, the commotion through the thin walls would alert him in time to make his escape from here.
At least, I pray so.
Once Pratik was out of the tunnel, Rhaif refitted the section of planks on this side back into place. He rubbed grime and dust over the outline in the wall, doing his best to mask the secret door.
Once satisfied, he rolled to his feet.
Pratik had used the time to inspect the new room. His expression looked relieved. The chamber had a single thin window, presently shuttered. A small hearth glowed in a corner, its ruddy coals sprinkled with incense, casting a spicy hint to the air. The bed was far more stout with a pillow and mattress, both stuffed with sweethay, and all covered with a light blanket. A clay washbasin sat atop a table, and the privy had its own closet.
Pratik passed his judgement. “A slight improvement on the dungeon. But…” The Chaaen glanced full around the room, even stepping to peek past the open door into the privy. His brows were pinched when he faced Rhaif again. “Where is the bronze artifact you promised to show me?”
Rhaif grinned and crossed to the other side of the bed. While the room’s hall door was barred against any unwanted trespass, he had taken one extra precaution. Along the far wall, he found the carved fingerholds and revealed his last bit of carpentry. He lifted free yet another secret door—this section far taller than the others—and exposed a cubby between dry beams.
Pratik came to stand at Rhaif’s back.
Inside the niche, the bronze woman stood as if a statue. Her eyes were closed, and her hands were demurely folded at her waist. She still wore the yellow linen robe he had bought with coins pilfered from the milling crowds of the port.
“Mes wondres,” Pratik murmured in his own tongue. He drew closer. “I’ve never seen such perfection in forge and mold. It looks as if she is about to take a breath at any moment.” He glanced to Rhaif with wide eyes. “Such a sculpture belongs in the finest imri garden or among the House of Wisdom’s collection of ancient treasures. Even the Imri-Ka himself would pay dearly for her.”
Rhaif chuckled, realizing how little this Chaaen knew about how truly mes wondres this statue was. But the man’s ignorance made sense. Of course, Laach, Wryth, and Llyra would have shared as few details as possible about the discovery in Chalk, restricting such knowledge to themselves.
“Why do you laugh at me?” Pratik asked with a frown.
Rhaif pointed to the cubby. “Maybe she can explain.”
Pratik turned in time to see the woman’s eyes open. The cold glass glowed brighter as the fires inside her form stoked her back awake. Her gaze quickly warmed and softened under that heat, finally shifting to linger on the stranger.
The Chaaen gasped and stumbled back a step.
The woman’s head cocked to one side, her attention still following him. Rhaif lifted an inviting arm toward her. She responded by unfolding her hands and gently lifting a shapely leg to step free of the cubby.
Choking in shock, Pratik retreated until he reached the bed and dropped heavily atop it. He stammered, leaning farther away, “Wh … What magick or alchymy is this? Or is it some form of artifice?”
“No, it’s far from trickery. And in truth, beyond anything that I understand.”
In order to win over the Chaaen, Rhaif knew he would need to reveal all. He started by explaining about the quake deep in the mines of Chalk and the bizarre discovery even deeper. He described the blood sacrifice that revived the artifact, including the Shriven’s seeming knowledge of it.
Pratik interrupted with a smattering of questions, but there were few that Rhaif could answer.
Rhaif finally finished the tale with his escape and arrival in Anvil. “But we can’t stay here. I must find a way of absconding with her. Hopefully to the lands of the Southern Klashe, where those hunting us will not follow.”
Still seated on the bed, Pratik spent much of Rhaif’s story studying the bronze woman. Though calmer now, he was clearly fearful of drawing any nearer to her. She had crossed to the thin window and opened the shutter. She stared up at the sooty skies, toward the wan glow to the west that marked the moon. From the slump of her shoulders and doleful bend to her back, she was a bronze sigil of sorrow.
I’m doing what I can, he silently promised her.
Over the past fortnight, he had come to sense a desire in her. Though sluggish, she would drift around the room for a spell, then eventually come to a halt somewhere, but always facing to the west, like a lodestone in a broken wayglass that could only point one direction. Plainly she fretted upon some concern known only to her.
As he stared at her now, he could not forget the one mournful word she had spoken on the train, staring up at the full face of the moon. It haunted him.
Doom …
Over the past fortnight, her trepidation had seeped into his bones. He knew he could not discount her warning.
But what could a petty larcener from Anvil hope to accomplish?
It was why Rhaif had chosen to free a Chaaen with an iron collar, one steeped in alchymical lore. He needed an ally to help him understand what he had stolen and to perhaps discern what mystery lay buried in her bronze heart.
Yet, there was another reason he had needed the Chaaen, but that could wait for the moment. Right now, a more pressing question required his attention.
He faced Pratik with a challenge. “Will you help me?”
20
RHAIF FUSSED WITH his robe’s headgear, which consisted of a leather helmet and a mesh of linen draped across the front. The only opening was a narrow slit across his eyes. Each inhale sucked the cloth across his mouth and nose.