“On the way back,” he whispered to himself, and continued on with his escort.
He could sense the excitement of the soldiers. It was as if they’d been reinvigorated by the idea of catching je Tura, and they bit their lips and fingered their weapons. Occasionally one of them would joke about what they’d do to je Tura when they caught him.
They entered a new chamber – one narrower but significantly longer than the others, with walls lined with alcoves and carved tables. The momentum of his escort was suddenly seized by something that Michel caught sight of just a few moments later.
One of the alcoves had a bedroll in it. Michel approached cautiously, lantern held high, peering into the darkness. His heart suddenly hammered in his chest, and he imagined je Tura himself popping out from the very stone to stick a sword through Michel’s belly. Beside the alcove he found a small seaman’s chest, a lantern, several tins of spare oil, and a long, round leather tube that he immediately recognized as a map carrier.
He swallowed as he poked at the bedroll, his fingers uncovering the shine of steel.
“Can we be certain this is his hiding spot?” Tenik asked him quietly.
“Search down the hall,” Michel ordered the soldiers. “Check the side passages. Don’t go so far that you can’t see the light of each other’s lanterns, and stay in pairs.”
Tenik drew his pistol. “You think he’s here now?”
Michel lifted the bedroll to reveal, tucked to the back of the alcove, an old broadsword. It looked like something out of a museum, with two red gemstones fitted into a silver-etched hilt. The weapon was almost as long as Michel was tall. “Rumors have it that je Tura carries this damn thing everywhere. Rumors aren’t necessarily true, but he might be nearby.” He stopped, noticing that Tenik was peering at something in the darkness. “What is it?”
“Are any of our escort behind us?”
“I don’t think so, why?”
“Because I swear I just saw a light in …” Tenik trailed off, and Michel heard a very distinctive noise that he’d heard on more than one occasion: the hiss of a quick-burning fuse, zipping through the darkness toward him.
“Everyone down!” Michel bellowed, shoving Tenik farther into the chamber and leaping toward the fuse, dropping his lantern as he attempted to stamp out the fiery little worm. It shot between his legs, and Michel whirled, jumped forward with foot extended, and slammed his head directly into the rock wall. He teetered and then tripped just as a blast erupted from the ceiling of the chamber.
Michel lay on the floor, ears ringing, a white flash of light embedded in his vision no matter how much he tried to blink it away. He moved one arm, then the other, hoping that nothing was broken and not entirely certain that he wasn’t half-buried in a thousand tons of rock. “Tenik!” he called, his own voice seemingly small and far away.
Something stirred in the darkness. He felt it more than he heard or saw it, and he searched blindly for either his pistol or his lantern. There was a sound – again, as if from a great distance – and then a lantern flared to light. He blinked, trying to discern the light of the lantern from the light etched into his vision. It took him a moment to get his bearings; he lay against the wall of the tunnel, half-behind a stone table that seemed to have at least somewhat protected him from the blast. To his right was the string that led back the way he’d come. To his left was a pile of rubble from the collapsed ceiling of the chamber.
Michel finally looked up into the light, still half-dazed, only to realize that the lantern wasn’t being held by either Tenik or one of the soldiers. The face behind it was old and grizzled, a Kressian face with black hair streaked with gray, pockmarked cheeks, and high-arched eyebrows that looked like they were locked in permanent surprise. The man grinned down at Michel, lips moving, and a voice from a mile away said, “My, my, aren’t you a surprise.”
“Val je Tura?” Michel asked, suppressing a groan. His recent gunshot wound hurt badly. He wondered if he’d torn open the stitches.
Je Tura walked over to the alcove and retrieved his sword. He drew it from the scabbard and lay it across his shoulder. The tip scraped the wall behind him. He sat down on one of the stone tables, head tilted to the side. “You’ve sussed me out. Are you that traitor spy, or just an unlucky Kressian conscript who just happens to have his very own escort of soldiers?”
“Would you believe me if I told you it was the second?” Michel still attempted to blink away the light of the explosion. He continued to feel through the rubble, looking for his own lantern, or his pistol, or some damned thing to defend himself with.
“I would not,” je Tura answered. “I got a pretty good description of you from Hendres, and you about match the bill.”
“How is Hendres?”
“Doing very well. Disappointed that you’re still alive.”
“I imagine she is.”
“She won’t be disappointed for long.” Je Tura swung his sword off his shoulder. He was leaner than Michel would have guessed from the stories, though he was remarkably short for someone with his kind of presence. Michel thought he heard a groan from somewhere in the rubble, and je Tura squinted toward his handiwork. “The second charge didn’t go off,” he said. “Not sure if I got any of your friends. But it’ll take ’em a while to dig through, and by that time I’ll be long gone.”
Michel’s hand wrapped around a rock about the size of his fist. As je Tura stepped toward him, he hurled the rock with all his strength. It soared over je Tura’s shoulder, bounced off the wall, and rolled into the dark.
Je Tura laughed. “Is that the best you’ve got, turncoat?”
Michel reached for another rock, but his hand touched smooth, polished wood. “No,” he said, pulling his pistol out of the rubble. “This is.”
The blast took je Tura full in the chest. Je Tura jerked back, staring down at Michel in disgust, then stumbling to one side. He dropped his sword with a clatter, then fell beside it.
It took Michel over a minute to get to his feet, ears still ringing. Nothing seemed broken, but his whole damned body hurt. It took him well over a minute more to reload the pistol with trembling hands and step over to je Tura. He claimed the other’s lantern and kicked the sword away from his hand.
Je Tura looked up at him balefully, clutching his chest, jaw clenched, not making a sound. Michel raised his pistol and aimed it at je Tura’s head.
“Why’d you betray us?” je Tura demanded.
“You say that like I was ever one of you,” Michel responded, his voice quiet lest someone on the other side of that pile of rubble overhear. “Don’t get high and mighty with me, je Tura. You’ve been bombing public spaces for a month now. Killing children. Civilians. You’re a piece of shit.”
“You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.”
Michel considered pulling the trigger, not giving je Tura the satisfaction of a few last words. But his interest was piqued. “What have you seen?”
“You know about the godstone?”
“What of it?”
“You know what they’re doing to try to get it working?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, civilians isn’t even the start of it.” Je Tura shifted, and Michel watched carefully to be sure he wasn’t reaching for a weapon. He continued. “Blood sacrifices, turncoat. They’re marching prisoners and orphans and every damn person they think won’t be missed over to that great big obelisk and slitting their throats. They hang them like pigs to bleed every drop onto the surface and their Privileged and bone-eyes stand around. They chant and they wave their hands and they rub the blood all over the stone.”
The hair on the back of Michel’s neck stood on end. “Why should I believe you?”