crimes and the punishments he had earned. Darkness closed till he hung in a single point. The roll was almost at its end, the creak of the executioner's lever eagerly waiting to finish the litany.
A woman's voice, cracked with age but holding a gentleness uncommon to Pinch's ears, carried through this darkness. 'Janol,' was all it said, over and over, unearthly hollow and never growing closer. It wasn't Maeve, the only woman Pinch had ever felt close to, although his dream-self half-expected it. It was a cry of anguished poignancy, yet one that offered safety in the darkness. Pinch strained against the noose, the logic of his dream creating ground beneath his dangling feet. The noose cut tighter, cold blood ran into his collar, but the cries grew no nearer. The rope creaked and a black-gloved hand came into view, ready to pull the trapdoor lever.
The hand pulled the lever. There was a rattling thunk. The rope swished. Pinch was falling.
'Janol.'
The rogue jerked forward, hands clawing to pull loose the rope around his neck. It actually took moments, during which he ripped at his collar, before Pinch realized the noose was not there. He was sitting up in a mess of bed linens, still dressed in his day clothes, and gulping air like a fish. His mouth was dry and his jaw rigid with fright.
'Janol.'
The regulator whirled about. He heard the voice. He was certain it was here somewhere and not just in his dream. It came from somewhere, anywhere in the room-but there was no one. He froze and waited expectantly for it to repeat.
Nothing happened; no cry came.
It had been only the residue of his dream, his nightmare. Sliding out of bed, he rubbed his temples until the echoes and the fog fled away.
Nightmares and dreams. Pinch didn't like either. There were priests who said dreams were the work of the gods, omens to be studied for their insight into the future. Perhaps because of this, Pinch had made a point of banishing dreams. He slept, he woke, and he never remembered what the gods might have foretold for him.
This nightmare was all the more galling because it would not go away. If it was a message from the gods, then his future was grim indeed.
Still, there was no point in brooding over what he couldn't control.
The small light though the windows, such as they were, suggested the best of an honest man's day was gone. It was time then for him to get to work. The regulator shrugged out of his tired clothes and into a doublet and hose of dark crepe that the servants had provided. He disdained the fine lace and silver buckles-too visible in shadows-and chose instead his worn hanger and well-used sword. Working clothes for a working man, he mocked as he admired himself in the mirror.
Ready, he cracked open the door to the hall slightly, although there was no reason for such caution. It was just old habit. Cleedis would have his guards outside, but there was no reason to conceal his goings from them.
The view outside reminded him that old habits existed for reasons. Cleedis's guards were there all right, their backs to him in an indifferent slouch, but beyond them were two more men equally bored, but wearing the livery of Prince Vargo.
'Damn!' the regulator breathed as he closed the door. Vargo's men complicated everything. They'd report to the prince and he'd be followed. If Vargo learned what he was up to, it would scotch all the plans. It was not likely the prince would allow Pinch to make off with the Cup and Knife.
In a few moments, Pinch reviewed his options. He could do nothing. He could hope that Cleedis came and provided a rescue or that the guards grew weary and slept. These were unpalatable and unlikely. He could try to create a distraction, but that would seem too obvious.
Still, there was another way out of the suite, though Pinch was loath to use it. His first and only experience in the tunnels had not been uplifting. He could only assume the tunnels went somewhere, but he had no idea how to find that somewhere. Then, there were things down there, including Manferic. He had little doubt the tunnels reached the necropolis because he was certain the late king had been spying on him before.
Thieves and fools were never far apart, though, so now was as good a time as any to learn his way through the underground maze. This time, though, he was forewarned and had every intention of being forearmed.
By the time he opened the door, he carried an oil lamp and a piece of charcoal in one hand and his sword in the other. His pockets were stuffed with candles, and a glowing coal was carefully hung in a little pot from his side. The ember heated the clay until it threatened to scorch his hip, but Pinch was not going to be without some way of rekindling his light.
The dust still lay in a thick gloom on the floor and, although Pinch was no tracker, he could see footprints other than his own in the churn. 'Manferic,' he muttered, interpreting the marks as best he could. This was a confirmation of his suspicions-and also a guide out. He'd follow the trail back until it certainly led to some escape to the surface. He'd just have to hope Manferic didn't have a direct path to the necropolis.
The plan stood him well at the bottom of the stairs. His own trail, which he could recognize by comparing to his prints now, went left, the other went right. He followed the latter.
The underground was a honeycomb of more passages than he imagined. The trail passed first one branch, then another, and finally so many that he gave up count. At any point of doubt, he marked the wall with a streak of chalk, showing that 'I came this way or took this turn.' He didn't intend to come back by the tunnels, since he cared not who saw him coming into the palace, but prudence was a virtue, and he with so few virtues needed all the ones he could garner.
He'd traveled so for twenty minutes without a guess where he was under the palace-if he was under the palace at all-when the plan went awry. The trail did something it wasn't supposed to do-it split. There were two sets of tracks where he'd been following only one. One was a thin trail in the dust, and it threatened to melt into uniform gray around the next double-backed corner. The other trail was solid and profound, clearing a route of constant traffic.
He tried to interpret the thick marks in the powder. The lesser trail was probably no more than the scuttles of rats; if he followed it, he'd end up in the palace kitchens.
The larger trail was more a puzzle. It smeared across the ground the way a wench mopped a table, in ragged swipes that blotted out what had come before. Here and there were traces of a boot or a shoe, showing some human progress. Tattered drapes of old cobwebs confirmed the passage. What slope-footed thing had shambled through the hall?
Pinch chose the latter route. Of course it was the worse choice. It was like a verser's play in a game of sant, where the obvious card was always the wrong card. Looking at it, though, there really wasn't any other choice. He was a thief and a confidence man, not some wild woodsman. The signs he could read were the marks of greed, gullibility, and the law. If he lost the trail-and the one looked damned slight-he'd be forced to come back here anyway.
It was with a profoundly greater sense of caution, though, that Pinch advanced. If there was something ahead, he was in no hurry to meet it unprepared.
The dry dust of the broken webs tickled his nose. The air was a dark sweetness of rotted spider strands and forgotten time. No breeze except for the unknown strangers rustled through the stygian corridor. There were no clicking insects in the darkness and none of the sinister squeaks of rats that he was accustomed to as a prowler. He'd crept down secret ways before, but the silence of this one was unsettling.
Remembering the pits and falls of his previous visit, the rogue felt the floor carefully with each step, reassuring himself that the stone was solid beneath his feet. At the same time, he strained his ears, wondering if he'd hear the same inexplicable lamentations he'd heard before.
He went a long way in this fashion, creeping and listening, and perhaps the strain of the effort dulled his keenness. He almost missed a sound that, had he been more alert, would have saved him from harm.
As it was, it was only just too late. He heard a snorting grunt and before he could assess it, anticipate its source, and shift the knowledge to his favor, it was too late.
A form, thick and furred, sprang from an as yet unexamined niche just at the edge of Pinch's probings. The creature stood like a man, half again as tall as the smallish rogue. It lunged forward in a burst of fury, its fur gleaming dirty white in the flickering light. Pinch jabbed at it with his long dirk, but the thing smashed his hand against the wall with a casual backhand blow. The biting stone shredded the skin over his knuckles and ground at the tendons until Pinch, unwilled, screamed at the fire that jabbed through his fingers.
