“Where have you taken me now? What are you going to do to me?” In the light of the torches, tears glittered on her long, sooty lashes and down her bruised cheeks.
“We have taken you away from that place, child,” said Neeka. “We will try to find a way to return you to your home.”
“She… that huge, terrible old woman said that… that the only way I ever would leave that… that house of horror was… was dead,” gulped the girl.
“Djoy Skriffen is, herself, now dead,” said Neeka. “This brave man, Iktis, killed her. I saw him do it, child. He also killed one of those men who abused you… and I killed another.” Neeka had felt remorse at the death of Loo Fahlkop and was a little shocked to discover that she could feel no such emotion upon the reflection that she had slain two men this day. Her uncle, who had been a warrior and duelist of note in his youth, had often said that the first kill was the most difficult, both at the time of killing and immediately after, but that all subsequent kills were increasingly easy. Neeka thought that now she could understand.
After a few more minutes, the Ahrmehnee girl, Shireen Mahsohnyuhn, was able to walk with minimal assistance from Neeka, so the three proceeded faster than before. The way went downward, downward, ever downward, then began to slant into a very gradual ascent. They were lighting the last brace of torches when Iktis announced that they were nearing their goal.
“The city of which these ancient, subterranean ways were a part must have been a monster among cities—larger than Kehnooryos Atheenahs, Harzburk and Pitzburk combined— for the ways extend more than a mile inland and, it is said, once ran almost as far seaward. We now are over a half-mile outside the walls and might be safe aboveground, but they might also have mounted patrols out—I would, were I Pahvlos—so I think we’ll go on underground.”
In places they were compelled to bend low, almost to crawl, due to the accumulations of tree roots growing down through the rough, porous stone of the tunnel’s arched ceiling. But at last they came upon an ancient, badly rusted ladder leading up to another of those curious round iron hatches. Handing his torch to Shireen, Iktis climbed up and attempted to dislodge the cover. The two young women could hear his gasps and grunts of exertion, the cracking of his straining sinews, and finally the iron disc shifted with a grating sound that echoed down the long, dark runnel.
They emerged into a stock cellar even larger than Djoy Skriffen’s. Against one wall were ranged massive stationary wine casks larger in diameter than the tunnel below, their staves and bandings darkened with age. Elsewhere were stacked hogsheads and barrels of pickled vegetables and pickled or salted meats, stone crocks of salt or honey, stone jugs of brandy and cordials, kegs of oil and, near the stairs leading to the upper cellar, several ironbound caskets secured with huge padlocks.
It was evident that an earnest attempt had been made to conceal the round iron disc leading to the ways below, and the great difficulty in lifting it was explained by the three inches of packed earth which it had been covered with. Iktis kicked as much dirt as he could back over it, then manhandled a great tun of pickled turnips onto it.
Weaving and bobbing to avoid the apples and pears hung from the ceiling on strings, Iktis, Neeka and Shireen mounted the stairs and entered a lamp-lit upper cellar. With all its compartments included, it was larger than the one below though not so high-ceilinged. On either side of the staircase huge bins of white and sweet potatoes, and elsewhere were bins of turnips, horseradish root, onions, squashes, pumpkins and the like. Garlands of dried fruits and great bunches of garlic hung from the ceiling. Barrels of flour and meal were stacked in the center of the floor.
From behind this stack of barrels came a short, stout man, tally slate and chalk in hand. At sight of the three interlopers—all three filthy with soil and soot, their clothing damp and disheveled, the two women carrying guttering torches and the man grasping a bared hanger, its pierced brass guard crusted over with dried blood—he squeaked, dropped his slate and sprang for the stairs to the ground level—-but Iktis made it there before him.
Leaning his head to one side and regarding the pudgy man closely for a brief moment, Iktis sketched a sign in the air between them with his empty right hand. Neeka recognized the sign, and so too did the strange man. His relaxation was visible and a tentative smile creased his round face as he answered the sign with another. Stepping closer, he and Iktis exchanged a complicated hand grip, then he turned and walked back to pick up his slate and chalk while Iktis sheathed his hanger.
When Lady Rohza Ahnthroheheethees had heard out the stories of all three of her surprise “guests,” she frowned and rapped her short, square-cut nails on the table for a moment before she spoke. “Well, the hue and cry is up for you and Neeka, friend Iktis. Both the hunchbacked barbarian and the old whorekeeper were still alive when the city guard reached them, and they named you two as their murderers and the killers of the other two men.
“The killing of that hunchback is of little real importance since he was being sought anyway for suspected complicity in the assassination of Pehtros. But the deaths of the Skriffen bitch and her two pimps is another kettle of fish. She had recently bribed full citizenship for herself and them out of a crooked city clerk and an even crookeder undermagistrate, none of which would ever have happened had Gahbros not been off at the bidding of that asshole of a barbarian, Hari of Danyuhlz. So now you are wanted for the slaying of two citizens and Neeka for slaying one, which means that, if caught, you’ll be tried by the thoheeks himself, unless Gahbros comes back sooner than anyone expects. And considering the fact that our barbarian lord was a silent partner in the operation of that brothel, I’d not wager a pinch of turkey dung on your chances of staying alive.”
The pock-faced man shrugged. “Well, it is perhaps time that I moved on anyway, Rohza. Perhaps I’ll drift up to Goohm and try a hitch in the Ehleen dragoons.”
Lady Rohza pulled at her full lower lip for a moment, then nodded briskly. “Stay here for a few days. I’ll secure clothing and boots in your size and see about providing you with a trained warhorse. You’ll have enough gold to see you to Goohm and enough left over to outfit you as befits your inherent station—good-grade armor, hallmarked sword and so forth. I’m sure that ee Klirohnohmeea will reimburse me.”
Iktis nodded. “And if the Heritage doesn’t, you know I will. But what of Neeka and Shireen?”
The big noblewoman scratched her mannishly coiffured head. “The Ahrmehnee girl is no problem at all. Apparently no one living is aware she was even in the city. She can stay here until I have word of a westbound Ahrmehnee party— these Ahrmehnee are all thick as thieves and even if they are not of her tribe they’ll surely see her safely home.
“But as regards Neeka, it is not certain that even Gahbros could offer her protection from the thoheeks, so I’ll write a letter to an old friend who is now an intimate of Prince Zenos. Sweet little Neeka will be safe with me until my letter is answered.”
Iktis rode out in the mist and drizzle of a cold, gray dawn seven days later, looking not a bit like the foppish bravo who had for so long befriended Neeka. The garishly billed hanger—chosen weapon of bravos and city ruffians—was gone from his side to be replaced by a heavy saber, old but well-kept. His trousers and overshirt were of plain, practical linen canvas, his thigh-high boots and leather cloak were oiled and wax-impregnated to shed water. The hanger, the stones prized out and the gilt silver wire of the hilt replaced with brass, hung sheathed on one side of his pommel, balanced on the Other side by a light axe. Saddlebags and a bedroll encased in oilskin were lashed behind the high-cantled warkak, along with water bottle, food wallet and a plain, open-faced helm. On the road, mounted on his war-trained piebald mare, he would look like simply another independent Freefighter riding from one contract to the next.
Neeka could not repress a shiver of dread and apprehension as she saw the strong and efficient, but quiet and unassuming man put booted foot to stirrup, swing aboard the mettlesome mare and ride out of the courtyard of Lady Rohza’s hall.