He almost felt like whistling as he sauntered to the murderer’s pen. No Faust, not yet, but Larochette was ready. Wide-eyed, watching him as always. “You’re late.”

  “I’m early,” he countered. “Your nervousness sped up the clock.”

  “The stars shifted⁠—”

  “Let’s not, love,” he said. “Soon enough we’ll banter about my habits often enough we’ll both be sick of it. Until then.” He bent to the lock and went to work with his wire again.

  Faust appeared as if by sorcery. “What news?”

  Amir eyed him. “I saw you coming. Not so quiet this time, no?”

  “I didn’t want to get knifed in the dark. It was intentional.”

  Amir growled, bending to his task. In moments, the lock sprang open, the cage creaking wide. Larochette made ready to bound free, but Amir held up a hand. “Do you hear that?”

  “I hear nothing.” She froze, eyes everywhere.

  “My point exactly.” He offered her the daggers, now knowing their purpose. She took them. He pointed at the prisoners asleep in her cage. “Those clowns should have woken with the ruckus.”

  “Fuck,” she said.

  “We must run,” Faust urged.

  “Allo,” called a man from the cage. “Where you fancy cunts off to, then?”

  This was when the prisoners sharing Larochette’s prison sprang into life. They were miserable creatures but motivated by a gaoler’s promise. Freedom, or a half extra ration of food, it didn’t matter.

  ‘Sprang’ is a tall word, Amir. This is like watching a rickety table right itself.

  Faust offered his hand to Larochette, who ignored him as she left the cage under her own impressive speed. She landed, cat-light, next to Amir, and pointed behind him. Amir still hadn’t looked at the guards no doubt coming to murder them, his eyes on the murderers in the cage. He shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “The guard will kill us,” Faust rumbled.

  Amir felt an explanation would only weigh them down, so he stepped into the cell, and ran a prisoner through. The man was unarmed, full of spite and anger, and all that left him, his body deflating like a wineskin suckled by a thirsty man. Larochette hissed, perhaps alarmed at Amir’s casual approach to murder. It took but a moment to kill the rest, Amir’s blade black with hate and blood without Cophine’s pale face to guide him.

  Then he was out, the unpleasant business done, and on cue, there were the guards.

  “We should have run,” Faust said.

  “Murder so casual, aye?” Larochette asked.

  “If we had fought guards with evil behind, we’d have fallen.” Amir didn’t understand why they couldn’t see it. “Now we have a chance.”

  “A chance?” Faust barked a laugh, hefting his mattock. A guard surged forward, then learned what a mattock wielded by a large man felt like. Faust’s blow knocked the guard clear from his feet, as it knocked the teeth from his skull, and the skull from his neck.

  There was no time for congratulations on a job well done. Amir’s blade thirsted, and who was he to deny it? He stepped two paces ahead of Faust, ducked low, and cut a man’s shin in half. He rose, blade coming in a black, eager line, and took another man’s arm off at the shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Larochette, dirty, matted hair wild, daggers plunging in and out of a man’s chest who was, by that point, well past caring.

  Faust’s hand on his arm, and a yank, pulling him from the path of a broadsword. Amir shoulded-checked the giant, pushing him from the path of an arrow. Larochette, throwing a knife at the bowman. Amir, kicking a fallen sword into her waiting hand. Faust, throwing a man into the villain looking to run Larochette through.

  Larochette, her blade at the commander’s throat.

  Quiet.

  Then the thud as the commander’s head hit the ground, and the easing sigh of his body joining it a moment later. The trickle and spurt of blood. Panting.

  Then, again, quiet.

  “What have we done?” Amir looked at the fallen.

  “We should run.” Faust looked more grim than usual, but it could have been the play of blood on his face that lent him a rougher air.

  Amir turned and pointed past Larochette’s old quarters. The cage was full of the lifeless. “That way.”

  “The same way we were going?” Larochette’s eyes were wide and bright.

  “Trust me.”

  “Not fucking likely, you⁠—”

  “Later.” Faust started in that direction, and they followed.

  Amir took the lead. He didn’t want it, because in his view being on point was the job most likely to get you killed by arrow, trap, or bear, but he was also the one who knew where they were going. Oh, sure, Faust thought he did, and Larochette knew of the place. Both were almost as good as a firm destination.

  But I have a plan.

  They scampered along the rutted road until Amir saw a boulder taller than Faust. “This way.”

  “What’s here?” Larochette’s suspicion hung in the air.

  Amir weighed the cost of a delay versus the cost of not delaying now and having this every three steps. No contest. He turned on her. “What’s here is a giant rock. And⁠—”

  “I can see that⁠—”

  “And what’s beyond that are trees filled with guards waiting to kill you. They’ve been sharpening blades all night.”

  He watched as the words made it past her filter. “What?”

  “Of course, it could also be a clearing, with three horses, supplies, and clean clothes for you.” Amir glanced at the sky. “Could go either way at this point. You’ve got to ask yourself why I’d let you out of the cage, mark myself as a wanted man by killing my fellow soldiers, abscond into the night with a fugitive from justice, all without a plan.”

  “I’m not a fugitive. I was wrongly imprisoned.”

  “I meant him.” Amir jerked a thumb at Faust without looking. “He is no simple guard, and you’re no simple slave.” Amir tried not to tense, because now was when Faust could strike him down easy as you please. Amir’s back, Faust’s mattock, and an unhappy end to ‘friend Amir’ out here in the wilds.

  “I am not a fugitive. I hunt,” Faust offered.

  “Whatever.” Amir’s shoulder blades were still tense, because the way Faust said hunt made it sound a more purposeful affair than simple maiming, murder, or vengeance. “The point? We three all have secrets. I am not the man to ask after them. We are now three friends, seeking the new school in Imshir. Or, we are vigilantes who don’t trust one another. Which is it?

  A shout came up from the camp behind them, and Amir wished he’d had the kind of stomach it took to murder men in their beds. But he waited, watching Larochette.

  She nodded, slow and steady. “We are now three friends.”

  “Seeking the new school in Imshir,” Faust finished.

  “Then let’s be about it.” Amir slipped off the trail, his friends behind him, and the night close.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Umm,” Tarragon said.

  “Quite.” Amir’s gaze was hooded.

  He wants me to say something. To give him something. Tarragon flailed around the vaults of her mind. She wasn’t good at fixing reactors, and no Manifest said anything about what went on in people’s heads. “So… you killed a caravan of slavers, and are fugitives from justice?” Tarragon heard the words come out one after the other but couldn’t stop them.

  Vertiline, ghost pale, stepped toward them. “Knight Adept, you should not have said this.”

  “I apologise.” Amir bowed. “I meant⁠—”

  “You should not have said this, because we all have a past. We have a future, too.” The Justiciar’s eyes found Evanne for a moment, before sliding back to her Knight. “But I wager the story’s not done.”

  “I, uh,” Amir said. “I didn’t leave anything out. I even told you the parts where I murdered my comrades.”

  “The story’s not done, because you left out the why.” Vertiline turned from Amir, gazing at the wall capsules as if they fascinated her. “Many who seek the Three’s Light do so because they think it will make them pure. As if the radiance of the divine will wash their souls clean.” She turned back to Amir. “I will give you a free lesson: more wrong has been done in the Three’s name than anything else I know of. Many who carried the Light were righteous, and yet we almost ruined our best salvation.” Her eyes found the lordling this time. “All of us are drenched in blood. All that remains is the time left to you, and what you do with it.”

  “Tilly.” Meri raised his hand as if objecting the point. “What’s done is past and buried.”

  “What the sinner means is that I near killed him.”

  Said sinner tried for levity. “Couple times, sure, but you didn’t mean it.”

  “Is that true?” Tarragon blurted. And then everyone was looking at her, with her magic sword and giant Big body, and she just wanted the world to swallow her up. “I mean, about the past. That it doesn’t matter.”

  “The past matters,” Hitch said. “The past reminds us of all the things we shouldn’t do again.”

  “It reminds us of what we should do twice as much of,” Evanne countered. “Sure, there are those moments you cringe from a memory, wishing it wasn’t you who’d said that stupid thing. But there are many others where you’ve but to take the recollection out, shine it up, and see it for the marvel it is. That you were there and made wonders.”

  “I didn’t make wonders,” Tarragon said. “I got captured. I got my commander killed. I can’t fix a plasma torch. I’ve got some rude skill with a sword, and⁠—”

  “She was talking about me,” Hitch said. “I made the wonders.”

  “Don’t be a dick,” Evanne chided. “Now’s not the time.”

  “It’s true. What Tilly said.” Meri toyed with a small stone, then tossed it to the ground. “Also true what Evanne said. We have time ahead of us. There are great works behind. But there’s a secret to it all.”

  “Three’s mercy, here we go.” The Justiciar rolled her eyes.

  “You’re only being like this because you don’t know the secret.” Meriwether nodded to Evanne. “I think she gets it.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you are good with a sword,” Evanne said. “It matters if you are good enough to stand by the people you’re with.”

  “But the sword thing helps,” Hitch said.

  “Hitch.”

  “What? All I’m saying is, it’s useful. If you had someone to stand with, would you want them to be good with a⁠—”

  “What I mean to say is, not all of us are sorcerers of the high arts, Justiciars, great warriors, or even warriors trying to be great.” Evanne shrugged. “Some of us are making it up as we go along. Doing our best. But we’re doing something.”

  Tarragon hunched. “Let’s just keep moving.”

  The corridor was cool, but not unpleasantly so. Meriwether walked beside her, examining another small stone. “Odd.”

  Tarragon eyed him. “That we’re in a dangerous ancient ruin filled with horrors that will eat us?”

  “I don’t think they want to eat us. Not all of them, anyway.” Meri handed her the stone. “What do you make of that?”

  “It’s a river stone.”

  “Exactly.”

  Tarragon gave him her full attention. “Are you trying to get punched?”

  “Not really.” He tossed the stone aside, then picked up another. “Here.”

  “Another river stone. What of it?”

  “Do you, and this is an important question, see any rivers here?”

  “Are you saying this is a causeway that will flood and drown us?” Tarragon gritted her teeth. “I don’t think it’s a causeway.”

  “I’m saying there are river stones here, and in my experience the ancients were impeccably clean. Not a stray pebble.”

  Tarragon coughed. “I’m one of your ancients.”

  “It’s nothing personal. You don’t look haggard or anything.”

  “Haggard?” Tarragon heard her voice go up an octave mid word.

  “I mean⁠—”

  “It’s not a causeway,” Tarragon said. “I’m from around this time, remember? This is a standard-issue corridor. It just connects parts of the base.”

  “You’d think they’d build those parts closer together.”

  She gave him a hard stare. “What if there was a research wing that needed to be near a geothermal power plant, and another area that needed to be clear of fumes, but they needed to still be connected?”

  “What?”

  “Exactly.” She hmm’d. “Still. There should be … more. There are the sarcophagi holding horrible liquid metal guardians, that feels standard, but⁠—”

  “Standard?” Meri’s voice also went up an octave. “What were you people? How is it standard to have murder metal in your hallway?”

  “Hallway, that’s it!” She slapped fist into palm. “This is a big hallway, and there should be more rooms. They’re probably hidden, like with Pakhet.”

  “Was invisibility a casual thing back in your day?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Careful. You’re getting back into the same lost lands of misery words like ‘haggard’ took you to.”

  “Fair.” He sucked air through his teeth. “Okay. So there should be rooms, or at least doors, but there aren’t any.” He held up a hasty hand. “That we can see.”

  “Right.”

  “I can fix that.” He smiled, then frowned. “It would be helpful if I knew where a door was.”

  “Over there.” Hitch pointed at a patch of wall laden with glowing sarcophagi. “It’s plain as day once you see it from the other side.”

  Meri walked to the wall and peered up at the glowing cylinders. “How can you tell?”

  “If you’re going to call me a liar, at least have the decency to walk through the wall and do it from the other side.”

  “A good rejoinder. I’m regretting making you visible to everyone.”

  Tarragon joined him, placing a hand against a cylinder. The illusion was perfect. The cylinder was slightly warm, a small hum vibrating through her hand. “It’s this one.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “If this was made by Builders, it wouldn’t have had any transformer inefficiency leading to wasted noise or heat.”

  Meri just stared at her. “What was in these exams you missed out on?”

  “The secrets of the universe.”

  “I never studied either,” he admitted. “Behold.”

  They stared at the wall. Evanne joined them. “Is something happening? Because if Hitch made you all stare at a blank wall, that would be fun.”

  The lordling cleared his throat. “Apologies.” He threw his hands wide. “I said, behold!”

  The illusion of the cylinder-covered wall flickered like a struggling candle flame then vanished. It was replaced with a plain if serviceable wall, with a wide door set into it. At the base of the door was a scattering of pebbles. Tarragon bent, picking one up. It was cool and smooth, just how a river stone would be. Tossing it aside, she said, “I don’t think we should open it.”

  “What if it’s a path to the surface?”

  “My people would never have built a system that let stray stones fall about.” She pointed at them. “If there are stones, either we didn’t do it and it’s a lowest-bidder venture, or something behind the door is badly broken.”

  //LIKE THE HOLE IN THE GROUND THAT OPENED UP AND LET THE CURATORS OUT?// The dragon took an interest from a safe enough distance.

  “Exactly. Wait! No.” Tarragon shook her head. “You’re thinking that if one thing broke, and created an opening to the surface back there,” she pointed back the way they’d come, “it stands to reason something breaking here will do the same thing. What if behind here is a river, full of angry piranhas?”

  “What’s a piranha?” Armitage had his arms crossed.

  “It’s an omnivorous fish, but it’s the part of them that likes meat that’s the problem. A school can strip a cow carcass to the bone like that.” She snapped her fingers.

  “I’m not afraid of fish,” Armitage said. “They should be afraid of me.”

  “There’s no river behind there,” Hitch said. “There’s a small lake. Might once have been fed by a river. Not really my area. I was more of a fighting man. I think.”

  “Can we open it?” Vertiline joined what Tarragon charitably thought of as the circus outside the door.

  “Is no one listening to me about the danger?” Tarragon felt her face flush. “I used to, hic, I used to live in this time!” Evanne put a hand on her arm, but she shrugged it off. “Hic. There are things we made. Horrible things. Hic. Then we killed the world.”

  Silence gathered for a moment. Vertiline pushed through it, her voice strangely gentle. “I do not discount your counsel. It is because of it I would like to open this door. Hear me out,” she raised a hand as Tarragon started to boil over. “In battle, the thing worse than the foe you face is the one at your back. The one you can’t see. I would rather flush out an enemy now than have it join against us later. I see in your face the fear you have for us, because the people of your time made marvels we can only dream of. But they were just people. They were just us.”

  Tarragon sighed. “You’re right. They were just people. But people are dumb.”

  “Can you open it?”

  “It’s easy.” Tarragon pushed past Meri and placed her palm against a blank piece of wall. “Here.”

  “Nothing’s happening,” the lordling said.

  “Give it a minute. It’s been a thousand years.” As Tarragon spoke, the door cracked open, then shuddered wide. Cool air flowed out, laden with the smell of the grave.

  Requiem was in Tarragon’s hand. The blade shone, a crackling length of blue-white fire that pushed the darkness back. Details in the new room came as her eyes adjusted.

  The room looked to have been a fabrication facility before some forgotten cataclysm cracked it down the middle. To the north and south, vertical rents split the walls floor to ceiling, and dripped with melancholy rivulets. The northern one had a spew of stones about it, and Tarragon pieced it together: the room broke, an underground river bifurcating it, and stopped the fabrication. The machines in here were lost, all hunched and rusted metal. The room and its sombre, broken machinery stretched on for a couple klicks to the west.