Pulling myself to my feet under the frankly amazed stares of the servants, I walked more slowly to the top.
Lower ceilings up here, and less ornate decor. As I’d thought, this was a section of the house intended for minor relatives, or senior servants perhaps. Not for the quality intended to be lodged below.
I could see all the way down the hall in both directions. No guards. That wasn’t good. Carefully I trotted to my right, passing above the scene of the recent fight. She had been above, right? Above.
This was a nightmare. I went door to door, opening them-after the first two I stopped kicking. My foot hurt too much. And I was definitely slowing down.
Surali and the Prince of the City had already moved their people out. Despite my hopes, we’d caught the tail end of the evacuation. It was cold up here, no fires in the hearths. The smoke from downstairs was growing thicker. The air bore the heavy odor of burning house-carpets and paint and the varnish from furniture all burn differently from firewood. I wondered how fast the fire was spreading below, but I had to keep checking.
Leaving Ilona’s daughter here to burn would have been even more hideous than allowing her to be borne away by Surali.
I wondered if my Blades had gotten out. I wondered if they would make it to the Tavernkeep’s. I wondered how Mother Argai was doing. I wondered how I was doing.
Finally reaching the end of the entire floor, I admitted defeat. I had failed. Corinthia Anastasia was not here. Long gone, to the docks, to sea, to wherever that bitch Surali had taken her. Tears welled in my eyes.
No, not just tears. Irritation. The smoke was even thicker, and I realized that I’d heard no shouts for a while. Firelight flickered in the stairwell behind me. This wasn’t looking well for me.
Then I remembered the laundry chute. The one I had climbed was on the other wing of the house, but it might well have a mate down here. I’d seen a linen room already. I ducked back in there and found, yes, a trapdoor for the chute. Wrapping myself more tightly in the furniture covers and holding the borrowed sword close so it wouldn’t bang against me, I slid feet-first into the hot darkness. I rattled downward with increasing speed, bumping against the laths that held the panels of the chute in place, until I belatedly wondered if I would smash into an iron door deep within the bowels of the mansion.
I landed with a hard jar to my ankles and shins. Nothing worse, thank the Lily Goddess. After rubbing my legs a moment, and soothing the baby, who had not liked the sudden descent, I checked my surroundings. This chute ended much as the other had, in a hallway. The laundry room was back to my right. Given that Surali had stationed archers on the grounds, emerging into the backyard alone without the Rectifier for a shield seemed dubious at best. The plumbing was a far better bet.
Sewers ran beneath the Velviere District. In most houses you’d have to be the size of a rat to climb up and down the pipes, but in a building this large, anything was possible. Perhaps there was even a cistern to draw from.
I cast about the stone-floored basement. The smell was just as bad down here, but the smoke not nearly so thick yet. Fire preferred to climb. I found laundry tubs, filled from a pump. They drained into a trough, then through a grate in the floor too small for me. So there was a sewer. I just wasn’t getting in that way.
Ovens, too, fires banked now. No evidence of cooks or scullions. No handy open sewer pits in the bakery.
Pantries. Tool rooms. Maids’ dormitory. Guards’ dormitory. Room after room, none of them filled with what I needed.
Finally I took a mattock, rather too heavy for me, and dragged it back to the laundry room. The ceiling was getting hot, and I could hear the fire roaring. At this point I might not be able to depart by any other route.
The edge of the tool allowed me to lever the grate off. I stared doubtfully into the darkness. How far down did this reach? Did it branch or split, or drop straight into a sewerway? There had to be a tunnel to the street, at least, as the mains didn’t run directly under most buildings.
Below was complex enough from within. I’d earlier deliberately avoided using that as a path. Guessing a route from above…
Outside held fire, archers, killing cold, and by now, a dearth of my allies. I’d been too long within the house. Taking a deep breath, I uttered a formless prayer and began to hack at the stonework edge supporting the grate.
The flags came up with quite a bit of strain on my part, peeling away to reveal a somewhat fatter pipe than the grate had implied. Straight down about six feet from the look, then opening into a horizontal run.
And wide enough to send a boy down to clear the drains as needed.
Plumbers’ boys did not usually work pregnant. Unfortunately, I did.
I dropped the mattock down the drain. It thumped rather than splashed. That was fine with me. I took a deep breath, slid feet-first into the hole, and prayed again, that the horizontal run crossing below was large enough for me to continue. Otherwise I’d spend the very short balance of my life cowering under this house while it burned down over my head.
Halfway down I got stuck. The blessed thing narrowed. I almost cried, then cursed, then raged in fear. Wriggled. Moaned. Cursed again. Sucked my gut in, pressed my already-burning arms against the walls, and lifted, before I dropped a handspan or two. Something slipped. Something else caught. My pants?
Another heavy breath out, another sucking in, another lift and drop. The baby didn’t appreciate it, I could tell. “You won’t enjoy being rump roast, either,” I whispered.
I pushed again, feeling my hips scrape even through the canvas trousers, and my belly crushed. Panic closed in on me, darkening my shadowed vision and pimpling my skin. I was going to die here.
Then I slid the rest of the way down in one ragged slump, nearly turning my ankle on the mattock and landing on my ass in the circle of light from above. Everything hurt. I’d slowed down too much, and my exhaustion was catching up to me. My gut was aching, my throat burned with the need to throw up.
Instead I grabbed the mattock and stumbled in the direction of the street, under an arch so low I had to either bend over or duckwalk. Two stout iron grates later, broken open with my trusty mattock, I was Below, safely beneath Richard Avenue, and away from that damned fire.
Operating only on faint hope and dim instinct, I headed toward the docks. I left the mattock behind. Still I carried some poor bastard of a guard’s bloodied sword.
I emerged beneath the Mendicant’s Well in the Dockmarket. A narrow tunnel opened into the shaft just above the water level of the cistern that supplied the well. A roof overhead blocked the night, but the wind howled just fine.
Up, into the cold. My entire body cramped at the thought. I was so tired I wanted to vomit. Every part of me felt bruised, some bits broken, and I was leaving a bloody trail as I walked. I didn’t know why something large and hurtful hadn’t already climbed out of Below and claimed me.
Up, up.
What was I chasing?
Up!
I don’t know who spoke, but I could hear her voice.
The climb was so difficult, I almost didn’t make it. My hands shivered on each rung, my arms stretched like clay. It’s only water below me, I thought, and envisioned falling into that cool embrace.
Then I thought of Ilona, and kept climbing.
Over the lip of the well and into the little shelter where it stood. This close to the harborfront, the wind was biting, toothy and vile. I’d lost my furniture covers somewhere, and had no idea what had become of my comfortable stolen robe.