Her accent is so heavy it sounds like her words barely make it past her lips. I don’t know what she means by the “ropes,” but I hesitate to ask. She mutters something I catch only half of, but I piece together the meaning. Qequan has finally lost his mind. And then what sounds like a curse about humans.
Unach searches through a bag at her side as we reach the top of the stairs, and she hands me a hard, lopsided, bright-pink circle, roughly the size of my hand. “Here.”
I take it, the edges rough and flaky. “What is this?”
Her brow lowers. “What does it look like?” She rolls her eyes. “It’s food, human.” And she starts walking again.
I turn the disk over in my hands, hurrying to catch up. This is food? My stomach tightens and rumbles, so I raise it to my lips. It smells oddly floral and doesn’t taste like much, slightly sweet with a mildly bitter aftertaste. But it’s edible, so I chew and swallow, chew and swallow, until my jaw hurts.
We walk down a narrow corridor that isn’t stonework like the council room or the prison, but solid stone, carved out of the cliffside itself. The corridor gives way to a short wood-and-metal box, which Unach steps into. There’s a pulley inside, and after I join her, Unach tugs on the rope and lifts us up, her biceps bulging impressively. Her clothing appears to be mostly leather, with some fur, covering her shoulders but leaving her arms exposed, save for two leather straps that meet a leather cuff. Bony nubs, roughly the size of coins, protrude from her forearms. I wonder if she catches me staring, for when we reach the next level, she gives me a chiding look and walks even faster than before.
I hurry to follow her, nearly tripping over myself as I take in my surroundings. The short, narrow passageway opens into an atrium lit by sconces and other lights I can’t identify. I assume that the dark holes in the ceiling are flues of some kind to let out smoke. Carefully mortared stonework, concrete, and metal beams are ever present, but here an artful array of iron and wood composes my surroundings, not unlike the architecture of a bridge.
A gleam of starlight falls through a large window ahead, and I look up, catching a glimpse of the constellation Swoop, the spoon. It’s before midnight, then. My hands tighten on the disk in my hands. Swoop is the constellation of harvest and bounty. It seems to say, See? I’ve fed you.
Down toward the shadowed canyon below me, trolls call out to one another, but I can’t understand them. The canyon distends from the city, impossibly deep and dark, but Unach allows me little time to gawk. I glance up and catch sight of one of the Empyrean Bridge’s girders. We are well and truly below the bridge, then. I see nothing else through that sliver of a window, only the bulk of city above me, nearly as dark as the canyon below. Human settlements tend to spread out like an open hand, but Cagmar is long and deep, like a tooth.
My fascination is almost enough to quell my apprehension.
Up, up, up, I’m led, then down again. Unach pushes me through a winding tunnel, past a few watching eyes. No one asks what she’s doing. I wonder whether it’s because she’s unfriendly, or if there’s a different reason. We take another lift and walk a darker corridor before she finally slows at a door. Under the maze of beams and arches, Unach pulls out a heavy key, shoves it in the lock, and turns it.
“Don’t touch anything,” she says. “And stay out of the way. This is only temporary.”
I don’t think she cares for a response. I don’t blame her for her rudeness. Aside from having a stranger cast upon her without warning, humans and trolls have a history. No human township would treat her kindly. Indeed, they’d likely kill her. I’m merely grateful I’m not dead.
The door opens, and I’m surprised at the apartment within. I was expecting something coldly constructed, like the rest of the city, but it looks rather . . . homey. A fireplace fits snug against the far wall, and two braziers smolder on either side of a decent-sized main room. They give it light, though little warmth, and the chill of Cagmar burrows into my skin, almost making my teeth chatter. Furs and woven rugs take up much of the floor, and an enormous, overstuffed pillow—to be used as a chair?—sits near the fireplace. On the other side of the room is a tall table and a narrow kitchen with a strange-looking sink, cabinets, and shelves. Everything is a little too large, made for the use of a troll. The room curves in the back, toward the left, to somewhere I can’t see. Past the entrance to the small kitchen, there’s a door on the left and a door on the right, both closed.