Darrow threw himself backward, knocking his head hard against the stone wall. He slid to the floor and felt shards of the broken lamp cut into his elbow. The same motion pushed the feeble wick into the escaping lamp oil.
Three horrid faces leered at Darrow, gradually moving closer after the surprising return of the flame. Their skin gleamed like black oil, reflecting colors where the light fled at its touch. Dull black tongues writhed between long yellow teeth in anticipation of the hot spurt of living blood. Their talons raked out to tear at Darrow's tunic.
Darrow could not hear his own scream. It was drowned in the thundering drumming of his pulse as he flailed uselessly against the attacks. He turned to get away on hands and knees, but an irresistible grip held his legs. One of the spawn flipped him onto his back. The third pinned him to the floor by straddling his chest. It reached out with long, half-webbed fingers and ripped away the last remnants of fabric to reach Darrow's naked throat.
A shriek of agony joined Darrow's terrified screams. Suddenly the weight was gone from his chest. Darrow opened his eyes and saw that the nearest spawn had vanished. The others still held his limbs, but their fishy eyes stared at his throat, where the coin of Tymora lay glimmering.
Darrow snatched the disk and held it forth. The spawn squealed and hissed, flinching from the sight of a holy icon.
Instantly, Darrow scrambled across the wet floor toward the steps. Heedless of the slime, he fled up the stairs, pushed through the slender opening at the top, and slammed the cellar door shut. Only after the key had turned twice in the lock did he realize he had never ceased screaming.
He stopped then and staggered out of the filthy pantry, where he slowly crumbled onto the floor. There he lay panting until sleep mercifully took him.
"Sometimes I feel…" said Darrow.
From her cot, Maelin looked up at Darrow. His conspiratorial attitude piqued her curiosity.
"What?" she said. "What do you sometimes feel?"
"Sometimes I feel as though I'm as much a prisoner as you are."
Maelin snorted and turned her eyes up to the ceiling.
"It's true," he said.
"Pardon me if I don't weep openly," she said. "Maybe if you took me to a tragedy at the playhouse, I could squeeze out a tear or two."
"Look what they did to me," said Darrow, pulling open the collar of his tunic to reveal the scratches on his neck.
"Then run away," said Maelin. "Buy a pair of balls next time you go to the market. Maybe then you'll have the courage to drop an anonymous note to the Scepters that there's a miniature slave trade going on down here."
Darrow gaped at her. He had hoped for some understanding, maybe even some sympathy. Now he realized that her earlier overtures were what he originally suspected them to be: a trick.
"I thought you'd understand," he said bitterly.
Maelin left the cot and crouched beside Darrow. Only a few inches of air separated them. That and the bars.
"I'd be a lot more understanding if we talked about it somewhere else," she said. "You've got the keys. Everyone else is asleep during the day. What's stopping you from opening this gate and leading me out of here? We could catch a ship before dark and be on our way to Westgate before that levitating slug even knows you're gone."
"There's Radu," said Darrow.
"He's never here! You said so yourself."
"He'd find us," moaned Darrow.
"Dark and empty, you jellyfish!"
Darrow only hung his head in response to Maelin's words. Suddenly, she grabbed his tunic and jerked him into the bars, hard.
"Give me the sodding keys!" Spittle sprayed Darrow's face.
Darrow grabbed her wrists and tried to pull her hands away, but as he feared she was stronger than he.
"Give them to me!" she demanded, slamming his face against the bars again.
"I can't!" shouted Darrow, his eyes welled with shame and anger. "They're over there." He jerked his head back toward the closed portcullis.
"Bloody, bloody bugger-all!" She pushed him away and threw herself down on the cot.
Darrow straightened his tunic and wiped the spit and tears off his face with a sleeve. He hoped Maelin saw only the spit.
"I'm not stupid, you know." He knew as he said the words how pathetic they sounded.
"No," said Maelin. "Just weak."
Darrow cursed himself again when he stepped outside. He'd wasted too much time sulking in the baiting pit gallery after the humiliating encounter with Maelin. The sun's edge had already touched the highest spires of central Selgaunt, casting them in grand silhouette. The warm red light of the western clouds belied the cold evening air.
There was no time to reach the market and return before Stannis awoke. Darrow did not look forward to explaining his encounter in the cellar, and he needed some way to soothe his master's displeasure at his failure to fetch the wine. Then he remembered a fancy shop on Sarn Street, one that he had never before thought to enter. If he pooled his own savings with what remained of his master's allowance, he might afford a bottle or two of wine fit for a noble.
Darrow returned breathless and shivering from the cold. Despite his worries, he had plenty of time to compose himself and await his master's return. Stannis emerged as usual from the pool in the River Hall. He seemed sleepy and indifferent to conversation until Darrow presented him with a goblet.
"What is this?" sniffed Stannis. He lifted his golden veil and brought the cup to his mouth. Darrow had yet to see his master's entire face. He took pains not to peer too closely when Stannis drank.
"The wine seller recommended this one highly," said Darrow. "It is not commonly available."
"How nice," said Stannis. He slurped at the wine. "Hmm. It is very sweet, is it not?"
"It is a dessert wine," said Darrow. "Storm Ruby, it is called."
"You are a thoughtful boy," said Stannis. "You must have a reward."
Stannis gestured toward the bottle and another goblet. Darrow bowed his thanks and poured himself a glass. He made a show of sampling the bouquet, for sometimes Stannis asked him his opinion, reaffirming Darrow's guess that his master's own senses were dulled with age and death.
The wine tasted faintly of cherries, with a slight, indescribable tartness that balanced the sweetness. Darrow momentarily forgot about the morning's ordeal, and a smile crossed his lips.
"Excellent," murmured Stannis, gazing at Darrow's face. Something he saw there made his eyes narrow. "But have we depleted the cellars so soon?"
"No, master," said Darrow. He felt a cold presence in the room, something that had not been there a moment earlier. "I thought you might like to sample some of the more recent vintages."
His eyes flicked unconsciously toward the shadows across the room. He knew that somewhere in that darkness crouched the spawn who had attacked him. Stannis noticed the glance and moved toward him. He reached out to touch a scratch on Darrow's cheek.
"Have my minions been interfering with you?"
Darrow hesitated before answering. He knew the spawn would retaliate if he complained, but he dared not lie. "Yes, my lord."
"Jealous creatures," hissed Stannis.
His great body shot up to hover eight feet above the floor. He turned with imperial grace to gaze upon the darkness that covered his spawn. With a gesture he summoned them forth.
The spawn shuffled out of the shadows, shivering in anticipation of their master's displeasure. It came with the utterance of arcane syllables and a flourish of the master's hand.
"Disobedient wretches!"
The unseen threads of magic plucked at the spawn's limbs. They twitched and moaned as pain filled their limbs and minds.
"Why must I repeat myself?" said Stannis.