But the rat… that air from below. Warm, not cool. Warm, smelling of sunlight.
'Cuttle!'
The sapper halted. 'What?'
'We've got to get past this! That pit – its edges, they've been cut.
That shaft, Cuttle, it's been mined, cut through – someone's dug into the side of the tel – there's no other possibility!'
The children's cries had ceased with Bottle's words. He went on, 'That explains this, don't you see? We ain't the first ones to use this tunnel – people have been mining the ruins, looking for loot-'
He could hear Cuttle moving about.
'What are you doing?'
'I'm gonna kick this block out of the way-'
'No, wait! You said-'
'I can't dig through the damned floor! I'm gonna kick this bastard outa the way!'
'Cuttle, wait!'
A bellow, then a heavy thump, dust and gravel streaming from above. A second thump, then thunder shook the floor, and the ceiling was raining down. Screams of terror through the dust-clouds. Ducking, covering his head as stones and sherds descended on him, Bottle squeezed his eyes shut – the dust, so brightBright.
But he couldn't breathe – he could barely move beneath the weight of rubble atop him.
Muted yells from behind, but the terrible hiss of rubble had ceased.
Bottle lifted his head, gasping, coughing.
To see a white shaft of sunlight, dust-filled, cutting its way down.
Bathing Cuttle's splayed legs, the huge foundation stone between them.
'Cuttle?'
A cough, then, 'Gods below, that damned thing – it came down between my legs – just missed my… oh Hood take me, I feel sick-'
'Never mind that! There's light, coming down. Sunlight!'
'Call your rat back – I can't see… how far up. I think it narrows.
Narrows bad, Bottle.'
The rat was clambering over the children, and he could feel its racing heart.
'I see it – your rat-'
'Take her in your hands, help her into the shaft over you. Yes, there' s daylight – oh, it's too narrow – I might make it, or Smiles maybe, but most of the others…'
'You just dig when you're up there, make it wider, Bottle. We're too close, now.'
'Can the children get back here? Past the block?'
'Uh, I think so. Tight, but yes.'
Bottle twisted round. 'Roll call! And listen, we're almost there! Dig your way free! We're almost there!'
The rat climbed, closer and closer to that patch of daylight.
Bottle scrambled free of the gravel. 'All right,' he gasped as he moved over Cuttle.
'Watch where you step!' the sapper said. 'My face is ugly enough without a damned heel print on it.'
Bottle pulled himself into the uneven shaft, then halted. 'I got to pull stuff away, Cuttle. Move from directly below…'
'Aye.'
Names were being called out… hard to tell how many… maybe most of them. Bottle could not afford to think about it now. He began tugging at outcrops, bricks and rocks, widening the shaft. 'Stuff coming down!'
As each piece thumped down or bounced off the foundation stone, Cuttle collected it and passed it back.
'Bottle!'
'What?'
'One of the urchins – she fell into the pit – she ain't making any sound – I think we lost her.'
Shit. 'Pass that rope ahead – can Smiles get over to them?'
'I'm not sure. Keep going, soldier – we'll see what we can do down here.'
Bottle worked his way upward. A sudden widening, then narrowing once more – almost within reach of that tiny opening – too small, he realized, for even so much as his hand. He pulled a large chunk of stone from the wall, dragged himself as close as he could to the hole.
On a slight ledge near his left shoulder crouched the rat. He wanted to kiss the damned thing.
But not yet. Things looked badly jammed up around that hole. Big stones. Panic whispered through him.
With the rock in his hand, Bottle struck at the stone. A spurt of blood from one fingertip, crushed by the impact – he barely felt it.
Hammering, hammering away. Chips raining down every now and then. His arm tiring – he was running out of reserves, he didn't have the strength, the endurance for this. Yet he kept swinging.
Each impact weaker than the one before.
No, damn you! No!
He swung again.
Blood spattered his eyes.
Captain Faradan Sort reined in on the ridge, just north of the dead city. Normally, a city that had fallen to siege soon acquired its scavengers, old women and children scrambling about, picking through the ruins. But not here, not yet, anyway. Maybe not for a long time.
Like a cracked pot, the steep sides of Y'Ghatan's tel had bled out – melted lead, copper, silver and gold, veins and pools filled with accreted stone chips, dust and potsherds.
Offering an arm, Sort helped Sinn slip down from the saddle behind her – she'd been squirming, whimpering and clutching at her, growing more agitated the closer the day's end came, the light failing. The Fourteenth Army had left the night before. The captain and her charge had walked their lone horse round the tel, not once, but twice, since the sun's rise.
And the captain had begun to doubt her own reading of the child Sinn, her own sense that this half-mad, now seemingly mute creature had known something, sensed something – Sinn had tried and tried to get back into the ruins before her arrest. There had to be a reason for that.
Or, perhaps not. Perhaps nothing more than an insane grief – for her lost brother.
Scanning the rubble-strewn base below the tel's north wall one more time, she noted that one scavenger at least had arrived. A child, smeared in white dust, her hair a matted snarl, was wandering perhaps thirty paces from the rough wall.
Sinn saw her as well, then began picking her way down the slope, making strange mewling sounds.
The captain unstrapped her helm and lifted it clear to settle it on the saddle horn. She wiped grimy sweat from her brow. Desertion. Well, it wasn't the first time, now, was it? If not for Sinn's magic, the Wickans would have found them. And likely executed them. She'd take a few with her, of course, no matter what Sinn did. People learned that you had to pay to deal with her. Pay in every way. A lesson she never tired of teaching.
She watched as Sinn ran to the city's cliff-side, ignoring the scavenger, and began climbing it.
Now what?
Replacing the helm, the sodden leather inside-rim momentarily cool against her brow, the strap feeling stretched as she fixed the clasp beneath her jaw, Faradan Sort collected the reins and guided her horse into a slow descent down the scree.
The scavenger was crying, grubby hands pressed against her eyes. All that dust on her, the webs in her hair – this was the true face of war, the captain knew. That child's face would haunt her memories, joining the many other faces, for as long as she lived.
Sinn was clinging to the rough wall, perhaps two man-heights up, motionless.
Too much, Sort decided. The child was mad. She glanced again at the scavenger, who did not seem aware that they had arrived. Hands still pressed against eyes. Red scrapes through the dust, a trickle of blood down one shin. Had she fallen? From where?
