Saints, Rian Rainey. The thought of not seeing her again made Jerinne’s heart almost stop.
No, she’d get on her feet, she’d go down this tunnel and fight every blasted beast and man she had to and save Maresh and Lin. She would find Dayne and Hemmit, they would rescue the missing kids, get back up to the sunlight, and by every damn saint she would kiss Rian Rainey the next time she saw her.
The worst that would happen there is Satrine would smack her. She could live with that.
She left the lamps in the bag. Her eyes had adjusted to the near dark, and now she could see the soft glow on the tunnel walls. A luminescent moss of some sort, probably. She strapped the bag tightly onto her back, coiled the rope on her belt, and checked her shield and sword.
One last touch. She checked the dead beasts—they truly were misshapen horrors. How was that possible? Were they born that way, was it done to them? After a bit of a search, she determined which robe was the least bloody and put that on. She was going to have to be stealthy right now, figure out what she was up against before she just charged in.
Fight smarter.
Satisfied that she was sufficiently disguised, she went off down the tunnel.
She didn’t have to follow down it very long before it opened up to an enormous cavern, larger than she even thought possible. At least the width of four or five city blocks.
It was filled with tents and huts and buildings. Saints, it was a village.
A village filled with the robed figures. All of them going about their own business, like it was any other part of the city.
Who were these people? How did they live down here? What did they do, why were they here?
None of them had taken note of her. It was good she hadn’t lit the lamp; she would have been announcing her presence to all of them. She cautiously walked around the encampment, eyes and ears open. Looked for signs of Maresh and Lin. Where had they been taken? A few of the buildings were rather sizable. Was one of them their Constabulary House where they would take prisoners?
Saints, what if these poor wretches were just innocents who saw Jerinne and the rest of them as invaders?
No, they were taking children. They may be a lot of things, but innocent couldn’t be one of them.
There were no children in this village, not that Jerinne saw.
Nor was anyone talking.
She passed by one tent where a pair of the robed figures were cooking. Again, no talking, and the smells coming out were atrocious. Jerinne held back her urge to retch. There was one notable thing about the cooks: from what she could see of their hands and faces, they were not the same sort of misshapen creatures that she had fought.
But others in the village were.
What was going on?
Bells rang in the distance, from the tallest building in the center of the encampment. That building was dark, foreboding and even . . . unholy. A twisted set of tall, thorny spires. Like something out of a nightmare. As soon as the bells started, every person around Jerinne—human and beast alike—stopped what they were doing and made for that building.
A church? Or whatever the opposite of one was.
Jerinne wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, answers were probably within. And more than likely Maresh and Lin. It certainly was worth investigating.
Jerinne kept her head down and followed along.
The Hard Whistle Pig was the exact sort of place where someone who wanted to avoid notice would want to stay. No one would ever walk in here unless they had to. It was a pit of a pub, in absolute shambles on the outside. The door was hanging loose on one hinge and couldn’t even close. Stepping inside was like being punched in the nose: the rank stench of rot and human waste was overpowering. A few patrons slumped in the taproom. When Amaya entered, some didn’t react at all, others winced at the sunlight streaming onto their sallow faces.
“What ye want?” a barman asked. This fellow looked like everything but his hair had died a month ago, and his beard had taken on a life of its own.
“Looking for a tenant of yours,” she said.
“Ye the law?” he asked.
“No,” she said.
“I ain’t telling nothing to the law.”
“I’m not the law.”
“You can’t just shove in here. Ye got writs on us?” This fellow seemed daft.
“Just here to talk to a friend,” she told him. “I’m not a constable or a marshal.”
“Yer armed. What are ye, bounty hunter?”
She had grown weary of this conversation, having had too many like it over the course of the day. There was no need to belabor it.
“Room seven,” she said firmly. “I presume that’s up the stairs.”
“You can’t go up without a writ!” he yelled at her as she ascended.
“Stop me.”
The scent was no better upstairs. The reason why was clear, as right at the top of the steps there was a broken water closet with no door. Amaya held down the bile that surged up her throat.
Nothing short of fire could cleanse this place.
She held her breath as she made her way down the hall to room seven. The door was open, and for a moment she assumed that it was yet another door in such disrepair it couldn’t close properly.
Then she noticed the cracked wood. The splinters looked fresh. The door had been kicked open.
Cautiously, she pushed the door and went in, hand on the hilt of her sword. The room was a mess. Papers strewn everywhere. The bed flipped over. Drops of blood on the ground.
And no Kemmer.
Clearly there had been a fight—and of course no one downstairs had even noticed. Would that barman or any other employee even care if a tenant was abducted? Or killed? It wasn’t like the scent would stand out.
She looked through the papers—there were quite a
