Geran looked again at the charred bones of his wrist, and fainted.
TWENTY-FOUR
Mirya hurried through the lamplit, rain-streaked streets, fleeing the Council Hall and the awful knowledge of what she’d done. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and for once she didn’t care who might see them. Near the corner of Plank and Cart Streets, she ducked into a doorway, wrestling with her despair. Oh, Mirya, she thought over and over again. You’ve killed the man you love. Rhovann’ll flay him alive, and he’ll die thinking that you were the one that gave him up to his enemies. She shuddered in pure horror, and a stifled sob escaped her. For a long time she covered her face and gave herself up completely to her tears.
The whole episode had been a strange, dark dream in which she saw herself saying and doing things she never meant to, a spectator inside her own head. She’d fought furiously to awaken as she saw herself leading Geran directly to the spot where she meant to turn him over to his enemies … but Geran had taken her silent struggle for simple fear, not understanding that it was Rhovann’s dark magic that forced her steps onward. The runehelms ignored her, and the Council Guards allowed her to go after Rhovann instructed them to release her-no doubt believing that she was still under his influence. But she’d emerged from Rhovann’s enchantment shortly on the steps of the Council Hall, the terrible understanding of her betrayal crashing down on her waking mind with the force of an avalanche.
Finally she gave herself a small shake. “What’s done is done, Mirya,” she told herself. “Stop this nonsense, and
It didn’t seem likely that Rhovann would kill Geran out of hand, or he could have done it already. The wizard had imprisoned Geran instead. Perhaps he thought that Geran knew something of value about the Hulmaster attack, or perhaps he was keeping Geran alive to serve as a hostage in case the fight for Hulburg went against him. Or maybe it was as she feared, and Rhovann meant to do Geran to death in some truly slow and horrific manner … but in any of those cases, he’d keep Geran alive at least for a little while. And that meant it might be possible to plead for mercy, to find someone to intercede, or to rescue Geran somehow.
“Marstel and Rhovann have no mercy to speak of, and I can’t imagine who might be able to intervene,” she murmured. Perhaps one of the merchant companies, or a temple? The Sokols might help, but she’d seen over the last few months that Nimessa’s voice didn’t carry much weight in the council. It would have to be a rescue. Somehow she’d have to get into the Council Hall dungeon, free Geran in spite of the guards and runehelms (and likely Rhovann himself), and get him away again.
“It can’t be done,” she told herself, and scowled in the shadows of the alleyway. Even if she gathered her loyalist cell together, it would be suicide. Perhaps with some sort of magic … “Sarth!” she breathed. The sorcerer was supposed to meet Geran at the Burned Bridge, and Hamil too. If they couldn’t help her, no one could. Perhaps Geran’s friends could undo her treachery before any lasting harm came of it.
Of course, there was the thorny question of whether she could even
It would have to be the buried streets, she decided. They’d get her close enough. With a new determination fixed in her mind, Mirya slipped out of her shadowed doorway and hurried for Erstenwold’s. The store wasn’t far off, only a half block or so, and she hurried around the side of the building to let herself in the back-somehow the idea of unlocking the store’s front door while so many ruffians and thieves were about didn’t seem wise. She paused to throw the bolt at the back door and hurried to the cellars. Beneath a large square of canvas waited the crossbow and lantern she kept ready for venturing into the old passages beneath the streets. She didn’t like the idea of wandering about in the buried streets by night, but it wasn’t as if it would be any darker than it was during daylight. She lit the lantern, hoisted the crossbow on her hip, and clambered into the underground maze.
She hurried through the dark and dusty passages, following her usual route to the place she and her band usually met-an old wine cellar beneath the ruins of a wealthy merchant’s house in old Hulburg. She paused to consider her way in the shadows of the great, dusty tuns, searching her memory for the right combination of passages and cellars to take her toward the Burned Bridge.
Something moved in the darkness behind her. It wasn’t much, only the rattle of a small pebble kicked over the old flagstones by a careless foot, but Mirya’s heart leaped into her mouth. Instantly she dimmed her lantern and wedged herself into the darkest, narrowest space she could find, backing between two of the old storage shelves and bringing her crossbow up before her. For a moment, she heard nothing more-then the soft rustle of footsteps reached her ears, and a gleam of light played across the old vault. She released the safety catch of the crossbow. A large, hooded figure entered the room, a lantern held high in one hand and a wicked hatchet bared in the other.
Mirya heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m here, Brun,” she called softly, and came out of the shadows.
The young tavernkeeper jumped, startled by the sound of her voice. “Mirya?” he asked. “I didn’t expect to find you here-I was just on my way back to the Troll and Tankard.”
“Nor I you, but I’m glad to see you. I need your help. Geran Hulmaster’s been captured; Rhovann’s holding him in the prison beneath the Council Hall.”
“The Lord Hulmaster’s in the city?” Brun breathed. “We’ve got to help him! How in the Nine Hells did Marstel’s wizard catch him, anyway?”
“Through me,” Mirya answered. “Rhovann used his magic to spy on me, keeping watch for Geran.” That was as near the truth as Mirya could bring herself. She paused, thinking for a moment about what exactly she wanted him to do. She didn’t know if Hamil and Sarth could free Geran by themselves, but even if they could, she simply didn’t know if they’d be where Geran expected to meet them, or if they’d be able to divert themselves to the task when they likely had other important things to see to-in which case, it might come down to Mirya and whatever help she could muster from her neighbors. With a small nod to herself, she made her decision.
“Brun, I want you to gather the rest of our cell, or as many as you can find in half an hour’s time,” she told the big brewer. “Bring them to the cellar under Wennart’s storeroom, and wait for me there. It’s just behind the Council Hall; it’s the nearest safe place to meet up I can think of. I’m going to see if I can find Geran’s friends.”
Brun thought for a moment-making a list of who he could gather quickly, Mirya guessed. “Aye, I think I can find you at least a few fighters in that time. Nothing else we mean to do tonight would be as important as snatching Lord Geran out of Marstel’s talons!”
“Good luck. I’ll see you under Wennart’s.” Mirya took Brun’s arm for a moment before she hurried off northward again. Behind her, the brewer wheeled and ran back the way he’d come.
Mirya followed the buried streets as far as she could, and eventually climbed back up to the surface through a rubble-choked cellar near North Street that was bare to the sky. The rain was cold on her face after the underground passages, and she shivered. The neighborhood was one of the old razed portions of Hulburg that had never been entirely rebuilt. A few cheaply built rowhouses clustered close by Keldon Way here, home to more of the poor foreign folk who’d come to Hulburg in recent years; it was generally not a neighborhood that Mirya would have chosen to cross at night. But the troubles and disorders elsewhere in the city seemed to have everyone’s attention now, and no one was about in the ruined districts.
She reached the small square at the west end of the Burned Bridge, and hesitated in the shadows. The Burned Bridge wasn’t ruined, of course-it was a perfectly serviceable wooden structure built atop the stone piers of the bridge that
