“Questions later,” he said, catching his sword when one of his men lobbed it his way. He gestured with it, at the fog. “Right now, we need to disappear.”
Wentha took Cathan’s hand. Her dark eyes pleaded with him, through the holes in her mask. “Come on,” she said. “If the Hammer finds us, we’re all dead.”
What in the gods have you gotten into? Cathan asked, aiming the question at both his sister and himself. But he got no answer-only a wrenching pain as Wentha yanked him toward her, then began to run.
Mist and shadow flowed past them, and then the towering shapes of the ziggurats. They turned a corner, then another, and soon he had no idea which way he was pointed any more. He lost sight of the others-the ruffians’ injured leader, his nephews, everyone but Wentha, who held his wrist tightly, her slipper-shod feet making no sound against the cobbles. He clomped along behind in his hard boots, feeling like an ox in a Micahi glassblower’s shop.
Suddenly there was something in front of them, and he stumbled to a stop just in time to avoid barreling into Wentha. Ahead, half masked by the fog, was the Vanished Walclass="underline" ancient, huge stone blocks rising anywhere from waist-high to ten feet, the top crumbling and crusted with mortar. The swordsman was here already, along with Rath and several of the crossbowmen. Tancred and the others hurried up behind, making no sound.
The leader of the band was studying a statue, set in a recess in the wall. It was headless and armless, clad in segmented armor no man had worn in seven centuries. The plinth at its feet simply proclaimed KELOSTIS, a name Cathan didn’t recognize. There were relics like it all over Chidell, remnants of times forgotten to all but sages. But the ruffian paid the plinth close attention, his good hand resting on one of the statue’s sandaled feet as his men watched behind, crossbows ready.
‘“Who-” Cathan began.
Wentha put a hand over his mouth. “Later.”
The ruffian studied the statue a moment longer, then reached up, as high as he could, and touched the buckle of the forgotten warrior’s belt. It moved inward, a quarter-inch maybe, with a faint click. Then, with a low rumble, statue and pedestal alike rose up from the ground and swung outward. The ruffians’ leader stepped aside, then leaned forward when it was done.
There was a hole in the ground where the plinth had stood, wide enough for a man to fit through. Cathan leaned forward, seeing iron rungs, dark with rust, descending into the gloom. Then, suddenly, a grotesque face appeared: hook-nosed and ruddy-cheeked, with a shiny pate and a long, braided beard the color of granite. It wore a white mask, too, and regarded the ruffians’ leader critically, then looked past him.
“You’re back early,” the creature in the hole noted. “Did something go-Reorx’s hairless cheeks! Is that who I think it is?”
Cathan looked away, but it was too late: The strange man had recognized his eyes. Wentha tightened her grip on his wrist-whether to comfort him or to make sure he didn’t run away, he wasn’t sure.
“Not now, Gabbro,” said the swordsman. “Let us down before the Hammer sees us.” The ugly face turned white, looked around. “The Hammer? Here?”
“Gabbro. Let us down.”
The creature hesitated a moment longer, then nodded and clambered out of the hole. He was stunted, perhaps four feet tall, and nearly as broad, with stout legs and bare, well-muscled arms. He held a war axe large enough to cut a man in two.
Cathan gaped. He knew of dwarves, but had never seen one before. The church had driven them out of Istar in the time of the first Kingpriests. The dwarf-Gabbro-turned narrowed eyes on him, daring him to say a word.
“You’ll see stranger things soon enough,” Wentha whispered.
The crossbowmen were descending the iron ladder, moving with swift assurance down the rungs. Rath and Tancred went after them, more slowly.
“Bringing the Twice-Born down into the Puridas with me,” said the swordsman, shaking his head. “I must have lost my mind.”
“It will be all right, Idar, you’ll see,” Wentha said, and nodded toward the hole. “All right, Cathan. It’s your turn.”
Cathan blinked, overwhelmed. How deep did the hole go? What was at the bottom? Or who? Gabbro swung out his arm, a mocking gesture of invitation. Idar gave him a steely look. Wentha pushed him forward slightly.
Swallowing, Cathan started down the rungs, leaving Chidell behind.
“There are tunnels like this all over the empire,” Wentha whispered to Cathan as they waited at the bottom for Idar and Gabbro. A distant rumble shook the walls, bringing down tiny showers of dust-the statue, far above, grinding back into place. “Under every city, and a lot of the countryside, too. They say you can walk most of the way across the empire without ever seeing the sky.”
“Not quite,” said the dwarf, jumping down the last few feet to land with a grunt beside them. “But we’ll get there someday, the way things are going.”
Cathan glanced around, amazed. The passage was cramped, with a ceiling low enough that he had to stoop down to keep from cracking his head on the shoring timbers. A muffled thud, and a louder oath, told him Rath had missed one.
“What kind of place is this?” he asked. “Why have I never heard of it before?”
“Because you’re the enemy,” said Idar, climbing down from above him. His injured arm kept him moving slowly. “If the Hammer knew about the Puridas, there’d be none of us left. Which only makes having you down here with us that much more insane.”
Cathan threw up his hands. “Down where? Will someone tell me where we are?”
“The Puridas?” Idar said again. “The Forgotten Places. The only shelter left from the holy church.” The last two words dripped venom.
“All of us who’d be hunted down by your bloody Hammer if we showed our faces in the open,” added Gabbro, even more viciously. “Dwarves, gnomes, men who follow heathen gods … short of the High Sorcerers, anyone the Kingpriest or the ones before him declared enemies of the empire. Idar here and his family were worshippers of Zivilyn-till the thrice-damned Hammer came for ‘em. Now there’s just him left.”
“Enough, Gabbro,” said Idar, his face grim. The bloody mark on his mask had bloomed huge, but had finally stopped getting bigger. Idar turned to Cathan, studying him intently. “We only wanted to pray to the Tree of Life. We weren’t evil … but your knights didn’t care. We were still heathens, fuel for stake and flame.”
Cathan bowed his head. Zivilyn was one of the gray gods, neither dark nor light. The church had begun to hunt down those faiths just before the war against the mages. He could only imagine what had happened since; if Beldinas said the war against darkness was all but over, it couldn’t be good.
“They aren’t my knights any more,” he said heavily, then looked at Wentha. “And what about you?”
“Not everyone above loves the church,” Idar replied. “Though it seems that way these days. Your sister has been good enough to help us before, in Lattakay. She’s given us gold, helped people escape into the Puridas… whatever she could. She’s one of the best friends we have.”
Cathan’s eyes widened. Wentha looked back, calm and composed. “You?” he asked. “Why?”
She looked at her sons, then at Idar, who sighed and nodded. “Come with me,” she said. “I’ll show you.”
The wine had filled Tithian’s head with bees: not angry bees-no, that would come in the morning-but summer bees, fat and slow, humming pleasantly as they flew about his mind. He sat back against the cushioned wall of Lord Dejal’s hall, watching the performers through blurred eyes. They were acrobats now, lithe women who could leap and twist and tumble in ways that made him regret his vow of chastity. Judging by the smiles on his men’s faces-big, dreamy grins that matched his own-they were thinking the same. A few of them would probably break that vow tonight, forcing him to reprimand them in the morning. A few always did, on nights like tonight.