“Of course it does.”
It happened in a rush: She yanked her right hand away from a particularly cruel bit of rock, just as one foot slipped in scree. Cursing, she grabbed at the wall, but her crippled hand was already cramping and her right had nothing to hold. Her stomach flipped as she skidded faster. Khelsea shouted her name.
By the wildly flickering light, she saw Spider reach for her. But undead strength was no use without a good grip. Her sleeve snagged and tore on his claws, an instant’s jolt that did nothing to slow her slide.
The witchlight only dizzied her; Isyllt let it die, wrapping her arms around her head. Spilling her brains down a tunnel was all she needed-
The ground beneath her vanished. She flailed through the air with an undignified yelp, getting her feet below her in time for an awkward landing. Her knees buckled and she fell sideways, bruising her shoulder and knocking the wind from her lungs. She rolled down wet stone toward the sound of water.
She woke with a groan. Her head throbbed and red spots swam across the blackness. Someone was calling her name, echoes scattering queerly. For a moment she couldn’t tell who it was or why they wanted her so badly. Returning memory only made the pain worse. She couldn’t feel her legs, and had an instant’s terror of a broken spine. Then she realized that from the waist down she lay sprawled in frigid water.
“I’m here,” she finally shouted, only to hiss in pain at the echoes. “I’m all right.” That was likely a gross exaggeration, but at least her legs moved. And, she realized a moment later, she hadn’t fallen in a sewer. The air around her smelled of stone and clean water, the bitter metallic scent of the Dis, and a subtle floral sweetness. She hadn’t realized the river flowed underground….
Something brushed her leg, cold and slick and curious. She jerked leaden limbs out of the water’s reach; the movement brought tears to her eyes. Her stomach churned, and she fell limp again.
“I told you to be careful,” Spider chided, crouching beside her. Cold hands eased beneath her arms, pulling her out of the water. “Are you hurt?”
“Only my pride,” she said. “And my head.”
“How badly? The latter, I mean.” His fingers were soft and careful as he touched the back of her head, but she jerked away when he found the injury. “Oh, hold still.”
She did, with an effort, clenching her teeth as he examined the back of her skull. “Barely bleeding,” he said at last, “but swelling. I don’t remember much of mortal injuries-is your vision blurred?”
“That implies I could see in the dark to begin with.” Even sitting still on solid stone dizzied her, and her ears rang worse than ever-she doubted her vision would be any better. It took much too long to call a light.
The witchlight sparked and shivered, sending mad shadows capering across the walls. Isyllt hissed at the brightness, squeezing her eyes tightly shut. Sure enough, when she opened them again, Spider was a bone-colored blur watching her with three sulfurous eyes.
He frowned. “You can’t go on like this.”
“Of course I can-” She broke off as she looked past him at the cavern they’d fallen into.
The cave was wide and cylindrical, stretching into shadow on either side. Black water filled the bottom, still save for scattered ripples. The walls glistened and sparked-not carved, for all their perfect arch, but oddly ridged; they seemed to ripple, like a giant sphincter contracting. Isyllt’s stomach lurched at the image. Columns rose from pool to ceiling, thick and gnarled as tree trunks. The light turned rough stone into leering faces, winking eyes and gaping mouths.
She dragged her gaze away from the pillars, and froze again as she saw the floor by the water’s edge. Coins, gems, and scraps of cloth lined the shore, beside carvings of wood and stone and bone. Flowers too-some brown and rotted, others almost fresh-and bowls of incense, sweet and cloying in the damp air.
Offerings.
“Isyllt!” Spider’s hand fell on her shoulder and she flinched. From the concern on his face, she guessed he’d called her name more than once already. The sound skipped across the water like a stone.
“Who are they worshipping?” she murmured. Spirit worship was illegal-one of the few Assari traditions the founders of Selafai had kept when they broke away five hundred years ago. Mortal saints could be venerated, or abstracts, but turning little spirits into gods was dangerous.
The answer came to her as she stared at the columns and arch of stone overhead. What was this place, after all, but the river’s own cathedral?
She had visited another river’s temple once-the Mir, for which the city of Symir across the sea was named. A gentler river than the Dis, and a kinder one. A young woman Isyllt had known had sacrificed herself to the Mir to save the city, and the river had answered. She heard lately that the girl had been sainted.
She hadn’t thought that anyone worshipped the Dis, but of course they did. The river carved through the very heart of Erisin, swift and black and implacable, rich with lifeblood of the dozens of corpses that fetched up against the gates each decad. Flowers and trinkets were more pleasant offerings.
She wondered which the river preferred.
“Perhaps,” Spider whispered, “we shouldn’t stay and find out.”
In the depths of the pool the water bulged and rippled, and Isyllt remembered the cold touch in the dark. “No. Let’s not.”
She stood, and Spider’s hand on her elbow kept her from collapsing again. They didn’t run-mostly because she couldn’t-but their exit was too hasty for any dignity. Clinging to Spider’s neck like a child while he climbed back into the tunnel didn’t help either. At least she didn’t vomit, though she gave it serious thought. In the darkness below them, something heavy moved in the water and fell silent again.
Spider carried her back to the fork in the tunnel, where Khelsea and Azarne crouched. Khelsea had lit her lantern; the light hurt Isyllt’s eyes, and the heat and smoke choked the narrow space. Her soaking clothes warmed from frigid to merely clammy.
“What happened?” the inspector asked.
“Only a detour.”
“She struck her head,” Spider said. “And probably needs to rest.”
Shadows turned Khelsea’s frown into an exaggerated snarl as she held the lamp closer to peer at Isyllt’s eyes. “A concussion?”
“I’m fine,” Isyllt snapped, raising a hand against the glare. At least she could count her fingers. “We can hardly turn back now.”
“You’re clumsy and slow,” Azarne said softly, “weak. The others will smell your blood.” She leaned forward as she spoke, eyes burning.
Isyllt grinned, though it made her skull ache all the more. “Then I’ll be excellent bait, won’t I?”
CHAPTER 6
Savedra had hoped that the weather might impede the scheduled party, but Polyhymnis dawned grey and dry with only a light breeze. So evening found her bathed and oiled and dressed-yards of blue velvet over a tight-bound corset, her hair ironed flat and curled again and piled high, dripping feathers and strands of bronze and ivory pearls-and picking her way carefully down the crushed gravel walk that led to the palace quay. Pale rock shone in the dying light; streetlamps hissed to life on distant hills, gold against the slate and violet dusk. The chill was only a nip now, but promised to bite deep by midnight. This would be the last outdoor party of the season.
When Mathiros returned Savedra might not enjoy her present position near the head of the procession, just behind Ashlin and Nikos. It pushed the limits of propriety and taste to bring one’s mistress and one’s wife to the same parties, and Nikos had already stood up to his father enough where she was concerned that she tried to avoid further confrontation. Tonight it was Ashlin who’d insisted that Savedra attend her-
