Brin looked around. “What in the Hells is this place?”
“Internment camp,” Dahl said. “He’s collecting people with divine powers, and-” He stopped himself. “And we’re in a bit of a rush.”
Vescaras peered around the corner. “Infiltration?”
“Rescue,” Dahl said. “Forty or fifty. No idea about their state. No idea about guards.”
“No time for reconnaissance,” Vescaras said.
“I’ll get the first door unlocked. After we have. .” He glanced at Phalar. “Resources.”
Brin and Vescaras seemed to notice Phalar for the first time, and for a moment, Dahl was sure they were going to flee.
“Don’t provoke them,” Dahl said to Phalar.
The drow spread his hands. “Haven’t I been good?”
Vescaras recovered and looked very deliberately over at Dahl. “Well, Goodman Peredur, I suppose you have the lead.”
“Oota,” Dahl started, intending to acquaint her with the Harpers. But the guards had reached their farthest stations.
“Now,” Oota ordered, as she shoved Dahl forward along the reaching shadow of the building they’d crouched behind. Without stopping, Dahl sprinted up and pressed himself flat against the great door, where a passing guard would have a difficult time spotting him. He slipped the components into a pile beside him and flipped the book open to the ritual he needed.
He worked quickly, his hands remembering the passes and actions-the streak of powdered silver worked into the grain of the wood, the line of bright blue salts along the base of the door, the charcoal-marked keyhole he added to the center. The stream of words that finished the ritual seemed to collect great fistfuls of the Weave and pull them close like a cloth over a conjurer’s table. When it released, the door swung open a crack, its bar dangling on the ground.
At the next opportunity, the others darted across and into the passageway. Dahl hurried to the fore. The tunnel was unguarded, as was the open courtyard. The smell of blood still tainted the cold air.
“What happened here?” Brin breathed. Dahl didn’t answer. He could imagine Farideh standing on the ledge above, being made to watch the slaughter below and realizing how far Rhand was willing to go.
“Our hand was forced,” Tharra answered after a moment of quiet.
Dahl turned to retort, but the expression of grief on Tharra’s face stopped him. He might not count her as his fellow, but she counted the dead prisoners among hers. The living ones too, he thought.
“Here,” he said, interlacing his fingers. “You don’t have long.”
“Good thing I’m quick,” she said, her voice too light.
“Go out over the wall,” he advised. “Just past the veserab stables.”
Tharra nodded and stepped onto his hands, reaching high to grasp the sharp, polished edge of the black stone above. She peered back down once she’d pulled herself up. “Best of luck, Harper.”
Before Dahl could reply, she was gone, slipping alone into the forbidding fortress.
“Come on.” Oota went to the smaller door and forced the lock-another narrow hallway, empty and lightless. She edged inside, followed by the rest.
At the end was a second door-a portcullis, and this one guarded. Dahl gestured for the others to stop and crept forward, near enough to see what lay beyond.
Two guards waited by the door, distracted by at least three wizards-two younger-looking fellows and Rhand-considering a young elf man in a cage, whose skin radiated soft light. One of the novices prodded at him with a thin, sharp-looking rod. The man made no noise.
Rhand sighed heavily. “We haven’t time for the hot irons,” he said. “Make them ready to depart. If that little witch thinks I’m leaving behind such resources, we will have to disabuse her of such fancies.” He turned to two of the wizards. “Come along. We haven’t much time to prepare before-”
Another guard, a shadar-kai woman with pierced cheeks, came in through the far door and called out to Rhand. “Your devil is a liar, master.”
Rhand spun on her. “What?”
Dahl gripped his sword. The room was larger than the stables outside, and lined with cells and cages-holding more prisoners, fifty at least, many with the glitter of strange magic worked on them. And more guards-another four. As he reached the edge of the light, he nearly stumbled, and leaned heavily against the tunnel wall. His eyes crossed, the lids almost too heavy to lift.
“I’ll return in an hour,” he heard Rhand say as he started to drift off. “I expect everything to be prepared. The same goes for you two-get upstairs and work quickly. I need to deal with something out. .”
Someone grabbed hold of Dahl and pulled him sharply back into the tunnel. “All right?” Vescaras whispered.
“Yes,” Dahl said, extricating himself. “There’s. . There’s something magic happening in there.” He peered back through the portcullis. None of the wizards seemed to feel the strange sleepiness, and all six of the guards he’d spotted stood around the space, lazy and unconcerned.
“Six guards,” he said. “Two wizards. A lot of bystanders.” He shook his head. “The Chosen aren’t affecting the wizards, either, I don’t think. And there’s-”
“They’re sleeping too,” Armas said. “There’s something about halfway across the room giving off a magical field. I’ll wager that’s it.”
“How are the guards awake?” Vescaras asked.
“Amulets,” Armas supplied. “The gold ones are making some sort of dispelling field. Weak, but enough to keep them on their feet.”
“So without those amulets we fall asleep, too,” Brin said.
“Well we shouldn’t wait,” Vescaras said. “Shadar-kai can’t take that kind of thing draining on them long. I would suspect they cycle through the guards regularly. Better we take on someone who’s been on their feet a while than someone fresh.”
“Why are they keeping them sleeping?” the elf asked.
“It probably keeps their powers from affecting everyone else,” Dahl said. “Otherwise, you’d have to worry about. .” He stopped. “Oh. Oh, that is perfect. What’s your name?”
“Sheera,” she said, sounding puzzled.
“Well met, Sheera.” He nodded at her crossbow. “How accurately can you shoot?”
Farideh pulled the dancing eldritch light into her hands and shook it out again as she waited at a crossroads for Tharra and the others to return. It didn’t rid her of the feeling that the Nine Hells themselves were about to boil out of her. She did it again, not daring to cast fully, but needing to expend that power.
Lorcan’s words kept coming back to her: Asmodeus only knows what will trigger it, after all. What if all this worrying just brought on worse powers? What if it made their rescue plan unworkable? What if it made Asmodeus notice what was happening in the prison camp?
She rolled the rod between her fingers, all too aware of the flags of shadow smoke that had started curling around her again, and tried to slow her pulse. If there were anything to make people more nervous about her, leaking shadows like some Shar-blessed creature was probably it. She looked down at her bone-white finger and shivered. She pulled her sleeve down over it again and scanned the crossroads once more. Still no guards, and that worried her-hopefully they weren’t out among the stragglers, keeping people from reaching the shelters. Hopefully they weren’t all defending the wizard’s workshop. Hopefully they wouldn’t stop Tharra from reaching the study and meeting Farideh back here.
Movement-the flames leaped to Farideh’s fingers again. A little boy-the same towheaded boy she’d spared in the courtyard the day before-marched across the crossroads, not seeming to care that Farideh stood guard.
“Well met?” she called, shaking the flames out.
The little boy looked up. “Well met.” And he started off again. Farideh hurried after him. “Wait. You have to go back into the shelters.
It’s not safe.”
“I know,” he said. “They don’t say why, but I know. That’s why I have to get Samayan.” He stopped at the next alleyway, studying the muddy ground. “He got nervous-he doesn’t like being underground. So he ran away.” He gave Farideh a very serious look. “I don’t think he knows how dangerous it is.”