maps. Networks of passageways as old as civilization itself were already committed to memory and the two rumel had discussed the best access routes, the best exits. There was one way out for those refugees who were being brought into the tunnels. Two if you included death.
Jeryd finally checked the crossbow hidden under his cloak, checked the knives tucked in his boots, the small sword that hung at his side.
Now, off to work.
*
Down here the passages were so narrow in places that you had to walk sideways. Jeryd wondered what kind of people were of this slender girth a thousand years ago. Where there was no light, you relied on touch to get you through until you reached the next shaft of light illuminating the path. The walls were damp and cold, with lichen and mould proliferating wherever light struck the stone. Their companions were the usual rats, which was only to be expected. Still, at least there were no damn spiders – he shuddered to think how he'd react to spiders in such a tight space as this, and in front of so many other men from the Inquisition. Above them, Villjamur was experiencing another day, just like any other, unaware of the thousands of people whose lives were now under threat.
For half an hour they travelled underground until it was too deep to expect any external light. Fulcrom carried a torch ahead of Jeryd to guide the way, while boots shuffled reassuringly behind.
Into Villjamur's heart of darkness.
According to intelligence reports, refugees would be brought here in small numbers and disposed of over a long period of time. The first and unluckiest refugees were going to be, or already were, confined in one of three escape tunnels leading over to the west. As to how the refugees were to be killed, no one yet knew. Perhaps it would be a simple, brutal execution by the sword, but, on this scale, who would have the nerve to do that to the Empire's citizens? There would be so much panic probably, so maybe the methods would be more discreet, more subtle.
Fulcrom paused, held out a warning hand that Jeryd saw only when he had walked into it. Everyone else stopped.
'What's up?' Jeryd whispered.
Fulcrom held a finger to his lips, tilting his head as if to better hear some sound. Jeryd listened too. Faintly, they could hear voices through walls. How far away, he could not decide.
'I'd say they're a level below us,' Fulcrom ventured. 'We're not far off.'
Jeryd replied, 'Where will the city guard be?'
'Probably at the entrance to that same level. There are three access routes, and we're following one of them. They, however, will most likely approach from the direction of the Council Atrium, so we're fine here.'
'Press on?' Jeryd suggested.
'Hold this a moment.' Fulcrom handed Jeryd the torch, then he took off his cloak and let it drop to the floor. Everyone followed suit till their metal weaponry glittered openly in the torchlight.
Jeryd handed back the torch and began loading his crossbow.
*
The small band of investigators approached the next stairwell leading down. No guards were in evidence, but Jeryd's heart still thumped in expectation. He leaned over to Fulcrom, whispered, 'Put the torch out now?'
'Sure. Then give it a few minutes to let our eyes adjust.'
They stood there in darkness and listened to the groans and whispers of people massed below them. This pitiful sound at least meant they were still alive. Jeryd felt spurred on by pity and determination. If there was any good left in this world, he would have them saved.
Water dripped all around them and the slightest breeze came from some concealed opening further along.
'Let's go,' Fulcrom hissed.
They shuffled forwards as one, Jeryd opening one of the pockets containing his crossbow bolts. His nerves vibrated, surprising himself that an old rumel could still feel intensely.
A single torch was fixed to the wall at the far end of the passage. Rat-shadows moved constantly, distracting the eye. Further along sounded voices, footsteps.
Jeryd and Fulcrom both held their crossbows up, ready to discharge. The investigators around them drew their short swords.
A soldier suddenly turned a corner, spotted them, reached for his sword, and just as he was about to open his mouth to raise the alarm, Jeryd loosed his crossbow. The man's head snapped back as the bolt struck him full in the face; he collapsed under the light of his own torch.
Jeryd reloaded, advanced to check upon the guard. The splattered blood on stone told him all. He nodded to Fulcrom, gesturing him forwards. At this point, the corridor angled to the right, leading into darkness.
In their silent progress another guard was dispatched before he could react. After compacting his body into a dark corner, they continued on towards the sound of voices.
Around another turning, there were two further guards, and the noise was increasing. Two shots: one soldier dead, the other merely wounded. Immediately the younger investigators rushed forward, swords out ready, while Jeryd and Fulcrom reloaded. The sound of clashing metal. When Jeryd arrived at the corner he saw his colleagues engaged in combat with three more city guards. Jeryd prepared to fire again, but it was unnecessary. All three of the soldiers were soon dead, blood pooling around them.
We're close now, Jeryd thought.
Again they hauled the corpses to dark corners. 'Good work, lads,' Jeryd commended them.
Forwards, again with weapons ready, to a well-used corridor. They passed an arm detached from its body, dried blood arcing up the walls in a manner suggesting an execution.
Another soldier was posted outside a closed door, and the look on his face said he didn't want to be there.
Fulcrom's distant shot wasn't clean, so Jeryd was obliged to fire his at closer range, his bolt catching the man in the throat and throwing him back against the stone. Jeryd searched the body for a key to the door till Fulcrom pointed out that it wasn't locked, merely bolted shut from the outside.
Into the room beyond.
Tryst looked up from the table, two guards hovering behind him. 'What the-?'
'I might've known you'd be involved, you bastard,' Jeryd spat at him.
The younger investigators came swarming past him and the guards backed off, outnumbered. They dropped their swords with a clang and held up their hands. One of the investigators looked back to Jeryd questioningly.
'We can't take any prisoners,' he sighed.
Swords were thrust below the breast plate of each soldier, and they fell to the floor in disbelief like drunks at the end of a long night out.
Jeryd stepped towards Tryst, who had now backed against the wall.
'So you're an Ovinist, too,' Jeryd said sadly.
Tryst managed an uncomfortable nod.
Jeryd grunted a laugh. So his own subordinate was really working for Urtica. Somehow that didn't surprise him. The depths this man had already gone to were ridiculous.
'How can you be here? You can't. I mean-'
Jeryd thumped him repeatedly in the stomach. 'What exactly do you mean? Don't think I won't rip out your fucking tongue if you don't.'
Tryst eventually stammered something of a response. 'I… set cultist devices to work on your house. They should have killed you.'
Jeryd glared at him. 'You mean my home is rigged to do what exactly?'
'To explode… I didn't want to. I was forced to.'
Jeryd thought immediately of Marysa sitting at home with Tuya.
'Why should I believe you?' Jeryd said. 'After all your damn lies.'
'Jeryd, I really think you should go back home to see everything is fine. Forget about these refugees – they mean nothing to the likes of us. Just go and we can forget all about this. Come on, Jeryd, I know we've had our ups and downs.'
'Ups and downs? You bastard. You've betrayed me. You've betrayed yourself.' Jeryd lowered the crossbow, and Tryst relaxed. In one fluid movement, Jeryd swiped the weapon across his assistant's face, knocking his head back
