He clambered with surprising agility down the diagonal of lashed ladders. Finn followed more slowly, the rope's friction warm through his gloves.
Escape.
It was a word that stung him like a wasp, a sharpness that pierced his mind, a longing that promised everything and meant nothing. The Sapienti taught that Sapphique had once found a way out, that he had Escaped. Finn wasn't sure if he believed that. The stories about Sapphique grew in the telling; every itinerant storyteller and poet had a new one. If a single man could have had all those adventures, tricked all those Winglord's, made that epic journey through the Thousand Wings of Incarceron, he must have lived for generations. The Prison was said to be vast and unknowable, a labyrinth of halls and stairs and chambers and towers beyond number. Or so the Sapienti taught.
His feet hit the ground. Glimpsing the snake-green iridescence of Gildas's robe as the old man hurried out of the Den, Finn ran after him, making sure that his foil was in its sheath and that he had both daggers in his belt.
The Maestra's crystal was what concerned him now.
And getting it was not going to be easy.
The Chasm of Ransom was only three halls away, and he crossed the dark empty spaces quickly, alert for spiders or the inbred shadowhawks that swooped high in the rafters.
Everyone else seemed to be there already. He heard the Comitatus before he came through the last archway; they were shouting and howling Insults across the abyss, their scorn ringing back from the smooth unclimbable slabs.
On the far side the Civicry waited, a line of shadows.
The Chasm was a jagged crack across the floor, a sheer face of black obsidian. If a stone was dropped down it, no sound ever came up. The Comitatus considered it bottomless; some even said that if you fell into its depths, you fell right through Incarceron into the molten heart of the earth, and certainly heat rose from it, a miasma that made the air shimmer. In the center, split off by whatever Prisonquake had formed the abyss, rose a needle-thin rock called the Spike, its flat platform cracked and worn. From each side a bridge of scorched metal rusted and dark with pig-grease led there. It was a neutral place that belonged to no one, a place for truces and parleys, of hesitant exchange among the hostile tribes of the Wing.
At the unfenced edge, from which he often had troublesome slaves thrown screaming down, Jormanric lounged on his throne, the Comitatus around him, the small dog-slave crouched at the end of its chain.
'Look at him,' Keiro's voice whispered in Finn's ear. 'Big and thick.'
'And as vain as you.'
His oathbrother snorted. 'At least I've got something to be vain about.'
But Finn was watching the Maestra. As they led her in, her eyes glanced quickly at the crowd, the rickety bridges, her people waiting in the shimmering air beyond. Over there, just for a moment a man cried out, and at the sound her face lost its composure; she tugged away from her guards and screamed, 'Sim!'
Finn wondered if that was her husband. 'Come on,' he said to Keiro, and pushed forward.
Seeing them, the crowd moved back. It's in the way they look at you, Finn thought bitterly. Knowing that the old man was right made him angry. He came up behind the
Maestra and grabbed her arm. 'Remember what I said. No harm will come to you. But are you sure they'll bring this thing?'
She glared at him. 'They won't hold anything back. Some people know about love.'
The jibe stung him. 'Maybe I did once.'
Jormanric was watching them, his dull eyes barely focused. He jabbed a ringed finger at the bridge and yelled, 'Get her ready!'
Keiro pulled the woman's hands behind her and shackled them. Watching, Finn muttered, 'Look. I'm sorry.'
She held his gaze. 'Not as sorry as I am for you.'
Keiro smiled archly. Then he looked to Jormanric.
The Winglord heaved himself up and strode to the Chasm edge, glaring out at the Civicry.
The greasy chainmesh creaked as he folded his great arms across his chest. 'Listen, over there!' he thundered. 'You get her back for her weight in treasure. No more, no less.
And that means no alloy and no junk.'
His words rang in the steaming heat.
'First, your word there'll be no treachery.' The reply was cold with fury.
Jormanric grinned. Ket-juice glistened on his teeth. 'You want my word! I haven't kept my word since I was ten and knifed my own brother. You're welcome to it.'
The Comitatus sniggered. Behind them, half in shadow, Finn saw Gildas, his face sour.
Silence.
Then, from deep in the shimmering heat haze came a clang and a thud. The Civicry were hauling their treasure across to the Spike. Finn wondered what they had—ore certainly, but
Jormanric would be hoping for gold and platinum and most precious of all, micro-circuitry.
After all, the Civicry were one of the richest groups in the Wing. That had been the reason for the ambush.
The bridge shuddered. The Maestra grasped the rail to steady herself.
Finn said quietly, 'Let's go.' He glanced behind himself. Keiro had drawn his sword.
'I'm here, brother.'
'Don't let the bitch go till you get every last ounce,' Jormanric rasped.
Finn scowled. Pushing the Maestra in front, he began the crossing.
The bridge was a web of woven chainwork; it swung with every step. Twice he slipped, once so hard that the whole structure swayed crazily and nearly tipped the three of them into the abyss. Keiro swore; the Maestra's fingers gripping the metal links were white-knuckled.
Finn did not look down. He knew what was below nothing bur blackness and heat that rose and scorched your face, bringing strange drowsy fumes it was unwise to breathe.
As she inched forward, the Maestra's voice came back to him, hard and cold. 'If they don't bring ... the crystal? What then?'
'What crystal?' Keiro asked slyly.
Finn said, 'Shut up.' Ahead in the dimness he could see the Civicry—three men, as agreed, waiting by the weighing platform. He edged up close behind the Maestra. 'Don't even try to make a run for it. Jormanric will have twenty weapons trained on you.'
'I'm not a fool,' she snapped. Then she stepped onto the Spike.
Finn followed, taking a deep breath of relief. It was a mistake. The fumes of the heat haze choked his throat; he coughed.
Keiro pushed past him, sword drawn, and grabbed the woman's arm. 'On this.'
He shoved her onto the weighing platform. It was a vast aluminum construction, dragged here in pieces and reassembled with immense difficulty for occasions like this, though in all Finn's time with the Comitatus he had never seen it used. Jormanric didn't usually bother with ransoms.
'Look hard at the marker, friend.' Keiro turned silkily to the Civic leader. 'Not such a lightweight, is she?' He grinned.
'Perhaps you should have kept her on a stricter diet.'
The man was stocky, muffled in a striped coat, bulky with concealed weapons. Ignoring
Keiro's taunt he came and glanced at the needle on the rusting dial, exchanging a swift, snatched look with the Maestra. Finn recognized him from the ambush. The one she'd called Sim.
The man gave Finn a filthy glare. Taking no chances, Keiro pulled the Maestra back and held his dagger to her neck. 'Now pile it on. And don't try anything.'
In the moment before the treasure began to be poured, Finn wiped sweat from his eyes.
He swallowed again, trying not to breathe too hard, wishing desperately he had tied something over his mouth and nose. Faint, horribly familiar, the spots of redness began to swim before his eyes. Not now, he thought frantically. Please.
