We turn into an alleyway, where a man waits for us. He’s dressed in a long black coat with a white pressed-down collar, and his heavily ringed hand rests upon a cane that is the same sandy shade as his hair.
Elian flashes him a smile, and when the man doesn’t return it, he flashes him a pouch of coin instead. A toothy grin slides onto the stranger’s face, and he presses his palm flat against the gray stone wall. It slides out from under him, drawing back like a curtain.
He hands Elian a small key and gestures for us to step inside. Once we do, the wall closes behind us and leaves nothing but shadows in our midst. The torchlight flickers as wisps of air blow through the stone entrance. We hunch together at the foot of a staircase the narrow room can barely contain. I reach up to fiddle with my seashell. The space is too small, and I realize quickly that it’s the smallest space I’ve ever been in. Even the crystal cage seems commodious in comparison.
“What is this?” I ask.
Elian casts a glance over his shoulder. “Stairs,” he says, and begins to climb them.
I don’t waste good breath on a retort. Staring up at the never-ending spiral, I have a suspicion that I’ll need to save it. I can’t imagine the climb up the Cloud Mountain of Págos being this arduous.
I keep my silence as we ascend, wondering if we’ll reach the top before my legs buckle out from under me. But just as it seems I won’t be able to take another step, Elian comes to a halt and a large oak door emerges from the barely there light.
“This is dramatic,” I say, squashing myself into the space beside him. “Is someone on the other side going to try to kill us?”
“Since when did you become one of us?” Kye asks, and Madrid jerks him in the ribs. He grunts and then says, “Fine. I look forward to you laying down your life for mine, comrade,” at which point I debate whether or not to push him back down the stairs.
I watch Elian pull the key from his pocket and twist it into the slanted lock. When the door pushes open, I expect to be hit with a rush of dust or the smell of dying embers and decay. Instead I’m hit by light. It flashes away gray and echoes from dozens of sphere-shaped torches that blink with deep yellow flames.
The room is large and accommodating enough for a hidden attic, with an alleyway of doors that lead off to separate rooms. A low chandelier slices through the middle, with beads that graze the polished floors.
“This is not what I expected,” I say, taken aback by the misplaced opulence.
Elian steps farther into the room. “As you like to remind me,” he says, “I am a prince. This is where royalty who don’t want to be found go to never be found.”
“This is where we should always stay.” Kye throws himself onto a plush fur chair that leans against the farthest wall. “There’s no rum, but damn if the beds aren’t good.”
“Like you’re going to find out,” Madrid says with a smile. “Only enough beds for half of us, remember? And I think it’s your turn for floor duty.”
“We can’t share?” He presses an injured hand to his chest. “Plenty of women would kill to climb into bed with me.”
Madrid bristles. “They’re single beds,” she says sharply.
Undeterred, Kye places a hand on her knee. “I’ll flip you for it.”
Madrid pushes his hand from her leg. “Heads I win, tails you’re an idiot?”
“Torik should sleep on the floor,” Kye says, settling back into the chair. “He’s always on about home comforts being dangerous for making us believe we actually have a home.”
Torik casts him a side-eye. “I know enough about knives to stick them where the sun don’t shine if you aren’t careful.” Kye smirks. “It’s not good form for someone like me to sleep on the floor. I’m practically an aristocrat.”
Torik casts him a blank, unimpressed stare. “You’re an aristoprat,” he says.
I look to Elian, who stands like a statue beside me. It’s surprising not to hear him chime in with his crew’s tender insults, or smile as they carelessly throw cheers around. He brings his hand to the back of his neck, unsure what to do with himself when he’s not smiling.
“So our next step is to hide out here?” I ask.
“Our next step is to try to think of how we’re going to get our hands on an ancient artifact without revealing who we are,” Elian says.
“Steal,” I correct. “How you’re going to steal an ancient artifact.”