Taking the steps three at a time, she reached the office, rushed inside, and grabbed the padlock. It was still open. She had no idea where the key was, but that didn’t matter. She wasn’t the one who was going to have to unlock it.
She lunged back through the doorway and spun toward the steps, but halted and, acting on instincts, cut out her lantern.
Blackness swallowed the factory.
She struggled to still her breathing so that its noise wouldn’t keep her from hearing what was happening around her-and also so that its noise didn’t lead someone straight to her. The light had already betrayed her, but she set the lantern down and backed away. He’d expect her to go down the stairs. She tiptoed in the other direction, into the maze of catwalks overlooking the factory floor.
Again, she wasn’t certain her imagination wasn’t playing tricks on her, but she thought she’d caught a shadow moving down there, near the wall with all the rucksacks and bedrolls. It had been out of the corner of her eye, and when she’d turned her head to look full-on, it was gone. That was more of a warning than most people got when dealing with Sicarius though, and she’d be a fool to ignore it.
Thankful for the railing, she groped her way along the catwalk, choosing a route that would take her toward that grate. Wind gusted through the broken window, and the night sky and the dark silhouette of the building next door were visible through it. She didn’t think the wan illumination would be enough to make her outline visible to someone on the floor below, but she couldn’t be certain.
Once she reached the last section of railing, the closest she could get to the grate via the catwalks, she paused to listen. She doubted she could drop down without making a noise. If he didn’t know where she was already, he would soon. Did he know yet that it was she and not Starcrest? Did it matter? Did he have that soulless black knife out, ready to cut the first throat he came across?
Amaranthe climbed over the railing and crouched on the other side, her toes balanced on the edge of the catwalk, her arm hooked around the lower bar. Eyes straining, she tried to see into the inky darkness below. She should have put out that lantern far earlier so her vision would have had more time to adjust.
If he was down there, he’d have no trouble jumping up and grabbing her if she didn’t let go. With that encouraging thought, she lowered herself until only her fingers gripped the edge of the catwalk, then dropped the six or eight feet left to the floor.
She landed on hard cement. Without hesitating, she ran the last few meters to the drain hole, skirted the square blob on the floor-the hole was darker than the surrounding cement so she could make out that at least, and patted in the air by the wall. She frowned when her fingers didn’t brush against anything. The grate should have been leaning against the wall where she’d left it.
An ominous sinking sensation came over her. Swallowing, she crouched and patted the top of the hole. Cold wrought iron met her probing fingers.
She hadn’t shut it, and it hadn’t fallen shut-there was no way the window drafts were enough to cause that, nor could it have happened without her hearing a resounding clang. If she’d wanted proof that her mind wasn’t tricking her and that she wasn’t alone… she had it.
Amaranthe eased the hatch open again, high enough that she would be able to slip through the gap. She clenched the padlock between her teeth, the metallic taste against her tongue reminding her unpleasantly of blood.
The plan was to secure herself inside the pit, forcing Sicarius to pick the lock from an awkward angle-she even imagined herself being audacious and knocking the picks out of his hand from beneath the safety of the grate-or find another way past the iron bars. If she was lucky, he might not have his lock picking set with him.
Poised to slip over the edge, she paused. What if he’d somehow guessed her intent and waited down there right now? Her death would be swift if she flung herself into his grip.
No, how could he have guessed such a suicidal plan? Who would lock themselves into a tiny space with an assassin stalking about? Anyone else would flee the building. Except she couldn’t do that. She had to keep him busy.
Hoping her logic proved sound, she slipped over the edge, letting the grate fall most of the way shut. Her feet didn’t come anywhere close to touching the bottom, so she hung there by her fingers, the weight of the iron on top of them. She shifted her grip until she hung from a bar and the grate was completely shut.
Letting go with one hand, Amaranthe pulled the padlock out of her mouth. With all of her weight dangling from those fingers, her shoulder cried out for her to hurry. She reached up, trying to hook the shackle into the latch hole, but it was a hard target to find from her awkward position. She tried to find purchase on the wall with her feet, but her boots slipped. There were no footholds. Whatever sludge came down this drain, it’d long since dried up, and the grimy residue was slick and frozen. Her fingers, still wrapped around the grating, slipped a few millimeters. A few more millimeters, and she’d drop, just like her coin.
The light level changed above, and her already rapid heartbeat jumped into triple-time. It wasn’t bright enough to suggest a lantern, but some faint variation had occurred up there, beyond the grate.
Struggling for the calm precision she needed, Amaranthe stretched up again. Her fingers gave way in the same second that the shank threaded the hole.
An involuntary gasp escaped her lips as her top arm dropped, leaving all the weight hanging from her other hand, from the precarious grip she had on the lock. Fearing that noise had betrayed her position, she gave up on caution. Shoulders burning, she gritted her teeth and flung her free arm up, catching the grate. From there, she was able to find the leverage to push the shank into the lock. A soft click sounded as it caught.
Overhead, a boot came to rest an inch from her fingers.
She’d known he was up there, but it startled her nonetheless, and she let go, as if he might stab down with his dagger should she move too slowly. Her other hand slipped off the lock at the same time. She skidded down the wall and, unable to judge the distance in the inky blackness, hit hard on her heels. Pain lanced up both ankles, but she’d barely registered it before they were sliding out from beneath her. Her butt struck next, followed by her back and shoulders. Not only was the ground icy and slick, but it sloped downward. She skidded several feet before coming to a stop on her backside with her knees scrunched up to her chin.
High above, a second boot had joined the first. He must not fear that she had a weapon with which to shoot him. Or did he know it was she and that she wouldn’t hurt him, no matter what the wizard commanded him to do?
Of course he knows it’s you, she snarled to herself, he can identify you from thirty paces by the shampoo you use.
The boots shifted. For some reason, she could see well enough to know he had gone from standing to crouching. The light was so faint as to be barely distinguishable, but it was more than the pitch darkness that had surrounded the factory earlier. Or was it that she’d simply gone into a deeper level of darkness and it seemed light up there in comparison?
That sounded logical, and she might have believed it, but his face came into view with the crouch. He wore a black knit cap, but a faint glow seeped through the fabric at his temple.
Oh. Right. The stone.
“You are alive,” Sicarius said.
His tone was flat and emotionless-that lack of any sort of feeling shouldn’t have surprised her, but it dug into her heart like a dagger nonetheless. He knelt at the edge, most of his body out of sight, but his hands slipped through the grate to check the latch.