“But by all Gilean’s musty scrolls, let whatever be done be done quickly!”
If any of the others had been fuddled in their wits, Pirvan’s words seemed to prod them into movement. Silgor took command, and a sharp look from the old man silenced Yanitzia’s protest before it left her lips.
“This way, Pirvan,” Silgor said. “For common hurts we have common remedies enough. If anyone needs digging out, however, it is most likely to be along this tunnel. I would swear that some of this stonework is dwarven, old when Huma was born.”
What magic might linger in such stones, Pirvan neither knew nor cared to waste his strength trying to guess. He could only hope that his supple leanness and his skill in worming himself through confined passages would be enough.
If they were, his comrades might consider whether he deserved a lighter penalty than returning the jewels (plainly enough what they had in mind), or at least a fuller explanation of their reasons. Returning the fruits of night work was a demand seldom made of a thief who was not under some other sentence for dishonorable or even unlawful conduct, which so far did not seem to be true in Pirvan’s case.
Quite a company of thieves and those sworn to secrecy about thieves’ lairs were now emerging from the lingering clouds of dust. Pirvan counted at least a dozen men and two women before Silgor started asking who was hurt and who if anyone was missing.
“Chishun’s down,” one man said, “but Mara’s with him.”
“She is not-” Yanitzia began.
Both Silgor and the man made rude suggestions as to what the woman could do with her fears. “They’re in the uppermost chamber, which looks like a wine cellar until you see the secret door, which she hasn’t,” the man said irritably. “She rolled the barrel off him and is doing nice work on his leg. Neither he nor our secrets are in any danger.”
“Excellent,” the old man said. “Who else?”
One of the women shrugged. “Ghilbur, but only Mishakal herself can help him now. A crossbeam smashed his head like an eggshell. And Grimsoar One-Eye’s missing.”
Pirvan felt as if he’d been struck hard in the stomach with the pommel of his own dagger. For a moment it was more than the dust that had him fighting for breath.
“Grimsoar-”
“Missing, I said,” the woman repeated. “He was going down to the weapons-practice chamber when the-when everything shook. We think it fell in, either the chamber or the hallway to it.”
“At least we know where to start looking,” Silgor said. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, which succeeded only in transferring dust from fingers to cheeks. He spat, which raised a puff of dust where it hit.
“Everybody able-bodied follow me and Pirvan. Everybody who needs help, up to the wine chamber and see Mara.”
“Our secrets-” Yanitzia began.
The second woman made a rude gesture. “Sister, right now your tongue’s the most useless part of your body. If the dust doesn’t choke you-”
Silgor stepped between the two women before they could fly at each other. When he saw that peace would survive, he joined Pirvan.
“Did this feel like an earthquake to you?” he whispered.
“I’m not wagering. A quake, magic, maybe the years catching up with some fault in the construction.”
“Or a spell, intended to feign some fault giving way?”
“That, too. But I’ll be more apt for this sort of argument when we’ve found Grimsoar.” Or his body.
* * * * *
Nobody else seemed concerned about the earthquake’s being unnatural. They were worried more about what might have happened elsewhere in Istar. Were kinfolk and friends lying dead under rubble or trapped in the path of fires? Was the watch out and about, vigilant for looters and likely to see things the thieves would prefer to remain unseen?
One woman offered to take a look outdoors, and vanished up a debris-littered stairway. The rest of the able-bodied fell in behind Silgor and Pirvan.
They’d found Grimsoar by the time the woman returned, to report that the city was almost quiet. “A few chimneys down and some windows in the streets,” she said. “People looking over their shoulders, but not our way.”
Or rather, they found where Grimsoar was most likely to be, given the blood smears on the stone. It was not under a pile of rubble that must have crushed out his life, and for that everyone gave thanks, wherever they felt the thanks ought to go.
Grimsoar was at the bottom of a new hole in the floor, which had opened to swallow the big thief and then closed again. Or at least closed again, until it seemed that hardly anything larger than a dog would be able to crawl down and clear a path to bring Grimsoar out.
“If he’s still alive,” Yanitzia said.
“Alive or dead, we bring him-” Silgor began.
Pirvan had been crouching with his head thrust as far into the hole as he dared without a light. Now he stood, brushing gravel and splinters from his hair.
“I hear him breathing. He’s alive.”
“He or something,” a man said. Silgor and Pirvan both glared; the man flinched.
“Whether it’s Grimsoar or a dragon, the sooner we learn, the better,” Pirvan said. He began uncoiling the rope from around his waist.
“Ah, I think I should go down,” Yanitzia said. “I’m the smallest and-”
“I’m the next smallest,” Pirvan said. “I’m also stronger and much more practiced in this sort of work. No offense, Sister, for you would doubtless look better unclad than I, but our brother needs to see help and not just a fine figure coming down to him.”
The woman blushed under the dust, as Pirvan tossed the rope on the floor, unbuckled his belt, and began pulling off his clothes. The woman seemed to regard him with approval.
It occurred to Pirvan that if it hadn’t been for his comrades, he might even now have been getting such approving looks from Reida, as he undressed in her bedchamber. The thought did not sweeten his temper.
“Grease,” Pirvan said, when he was down to his loinguard and gloves.
“Cooking fat?” Silgor asked.
“Better than nothing.”
Yanitzia darted off, apparently determined to redeem herself. Pirvan faced the old man.
“You need not answer, but a brother’s life may depend on it. Can you heal from a distance? Or perhaps levitate stones?”
“Neither,” the old man said. “I have no true magic. What prayers I can utter, I will, and they may serve.”
They may also be a waste of your breath, Pirvan mused.
The woman returned with the fat, somebody brought a leather pouch with a flask of some healing draft and bandages, and several men pulled out more ropes. By the time Pirvan had greased himself from crown to soles, the ropes had been tied into two longer ones. He nodded silent approval as he knotted one around his waist.
“Don’t touch this unless I signal.”
“The common signals?” Silgor asked.
“No, a new kind, in the tongue of the minotaurs,” Pirvan snapped. “Your pardon, Brother.”
“If you bring up Grimsoar, Pirvan, it will be us pardoning you, and for more than a sharp tongue,” Yanitzia said.
Pirvan looked at the other faces around him and saw an encouraging lack of dissent. Perhaps this night will not be wasted after all, he thought, but losing a friend is too high a price to pay for regaining their trust.
* * * * *
Before he’d been ten minutes in the hole, Pirvan thought that he had never anticipated such a situation. He could die here, as finally as one cut down by the watch, savaged by griffons, or impaled on spikes. He could die here as slowly and perhaps more painfully, with friends above and perhaps below, no more than a spear’s-length away but as unreachable as if they’d been on Nuitari.
Had anyone ever said he would be in such a situation, Pirvan would have immediately subdued and bound the speaker. Then he would have summoned a wizard or cleric, for healing a person too terribly astray in their wits to be at large on the streets without it.