nor did he see anything coloring the air. Thinking he heard something, he leaned closer, ear tilted toward the vent. Yes, it sounded like air blowing out. Not out, he realized when he placed his hand on the grate and felt suction drawing at his fingers. In.
“Are those doors airtight?” Maldynado hopped down.
“What?” Yara asked. “What kind of castle is airtight? They’re drafty by nature. That’s why nobody lives in them anymore.”
Basilard left her side to check the door they’d entered. After probing with his fingers, he turned back and signed, Possibly. There are no obvious gaps. If they’re not airtight by design, a Science practitioner could make them so.
For the third time, Maldynado moaned. This night was getting worse by the minute. “I was afraid they wanted to trap us. It seems they just want to kill us.”
“By removing all the air in the room?” Yara scowled. “That’s a cowardly way to kill someone.”
“We’ll be sure to register a complaint with the city tourism board.” Maldynado jogged to the other door, checked it for air cracks, and, when he didn’t find any, tried ramming it open. Unfortunately, the oak proved stouter than his shoulder. He tried the latch again, just to be sure, but it still wasn’t budging. On a whim, he knocked.
Yara snorted.
“You never know,” Maldynado said. “Maybe some towel boy who isn’t in on the ensnare-the-newcomers plan will hear me and open it out of curiosity.”
Alas, no towel boys poked their heads into the room.
“Let’s try the window,” Maldynado said. “That’s glass, right? Nice, breakable glass?”
The tiny panes were too small for anyone to climb out, but a hole would solve the air problem. Maldynado and Basilard grabbed a heavy earth-filled pot with a moss garden fuzzing the top. They dragged it toward the window.
“That seems too obvious,” Yara said.
“Maybe they overlooked the window. I don’t think my sister-in-law is that practiced at planning murders.”
Maldynado gave Basilard a nod to indicate he was ready. As one, they lifted the planter and hurled it into the glass. The heavy pot clunked off the window and dropped to the bench and then the floor, dirt and moss spilling onto the stones.
“Come to think of it,” Maldynado said, “it’s been a while since I’ve been to a family get-together. Maybe Mari’s new hobby is planning murders.”
“Your relatives sound delightful.”
“Any ideas, Bas?” Maldynado spun in a slow circle, seeking inspiration. “Maybe if we ram the door with one of the stone benches… ”
Basilard shrugged-not exactly a glowing endorsement of the idea-and followed Maldynado to a seating area near the door. Even with two people, lifting the granite bench seemed like a Sicarius-inspired exercise. They manhandled it to the door and were panting by the fifth thump against the oak. None of their thumps resulted in more than dents in the sturdy wood.
“You two are wasting our air with all that panting,” Yara said.
“So sorry, my lady. I thought it worth the risk if it might mean escaping.” Maldynado touched the oak planks. The wood hadn’t seemed that thick. “Magic?” Maldynado sat on the bench, not bothering to shove it away from the doorway. “Some sort of enhancement?”
Basilard merely shrugged again. You should have recruited Akstyr to tote your trunk.
“I doubt he would have agreed.”
I didn’t agree either.
“No, but you’re a more amenable sort, and I knew you’d play along without entertaining thoughts of killing me later.”
“How about more ideas and less pointless banter?” Yara snapped. She stood in a crouch by the fountain, her knife clenched in her hand, as if she hoped people would come in and attack her.
“You’re welcome to share your ideas,” Maldynado said, refraining from snapping back. He figured she hadn’t faced death as often as he had-not that he’d learned to relish the notion-and fear spurred her short temper.
The knife in Yara’s hand drooped. “I’m sorry. I’m just… concerned.”
“Me too.” Maldynado knocked on the door again. “Hello, we’re not finding the Relaxation Grotto very relaxing. Mind if we try another room in the spa?”
Basilard signed, Are you actually expecting an answer?
“A maniacal cackle, perhaps.”
Maldynado noticed himself drawing in longer breaths, as if he were tramping about on top of a mountain. Yara stalked to the window and tried smashing the tip of her knife into one of the panes. Whatever that clear stuff was, it wasn’t glass, for her blade didn’t leave so much as a scratch. All that happened was that her knife flew out of her hand.
She picked it up, the movement not as smooth as usual, thanks to the confines of her garment. “I can’t believe this idiotic dress is going to be what I die in.”
“You could always take it off.” Despite the thin air, Maldynado managed a convincing leer. “I’ll strip, too, and we can die entangled in each other’s arms, thrashing about on the floor like deer in the rutting season.”
“You make sex sound so appealing.”
“I’m open to gentle, unhurried methods as well.”
“Does he ever think about anything else?” Yara asked Basilard.
Rarely.
Maldynado sank down onto the cold stone bench. In truth, he’d have a hard time working up the energy for good rut. Already his limbs had grown weak. His lungs inflated deeply, but couldn’t find sustenance in the air.
Basilard placed a dagger between his teeth and scaled the vines to one of the vents. He tried to pry the grate open.
“In case I don’t get another chance to say this,” Maldynado said, pausing to inhale between words, “I apologize for dragging you two up here. I should have known my family wouldn’t truly be interested in exonerating me. If I hadn’t been thinking to fool them myself, I would have realized this was a trap.” He slumped. “Cursed ancestors, I hope we didn’t set the others up to get caught too. Or worse.”
The scrapes on the wall ceased. Basilard hadn’t managed to pry the grate open, not that it would have done any good anyway. That duct was too small to crawl through. Basilard hung now from one hand, his eyes half-closed, his chest rising and falling in deep, strained breaths.
“You better come down before you fall down,” Maldynado said.
Without any of his usual agility, Basilard climbed down the wall, his grip slipping several times. He landed hard and sank straight to the floor. He leaned his head and shoulder against the bench and stared at Maldynado with defeat in his bleary eyes.
Sorry, Maldynado signed.
I forgive you.
Thank you.
Maldynado wished he could get something similar from Yara, but she appeared too irked to consider tender parting words. He lifted a hand, inviting her to come sit on the bench beside him. Jaw set, she remained standing, her arms crossed over her chest.
Maldynado sighed and closed his eyes.
In the dark confines of the crate, after a long, gruesome day of torture, Amaranthe allowed tears to roll down her cheeks. She wouldn’t show those tears to Pike, but there, in utter solitude, she saw little reason to maintain a facade. In the beginning, she’d thought she could somehow rescue herself by talking someone over to her side, but she’d made little progress on that front. Perhaps if she had a month, she might find a way to chisel through Retta’s barriers, but her body told her she didn’t have that month. Healing salves or not, she couldn’t imagine surviving three more days of Pike’s torture, much less thirty. A hundred times, she’d fantasized about Sicarius appearing behind Pike, slashing his throat, freeing her from that terrible table, and carrying her off to safety. But, in her heart, she knew he’d gone with Sespian. Even if he hadn’t, if Retta was to be believed, the Behemoth had landed days
