"Trifled with things man was not meant to know?" Alaeron said, rolling over and wiping at his mouth. His head pounded like it had been used as a drum. "I always hated that expression. There's nothing man was not meant to know. Only what he knows, or doesn't know yet. But I may be willing to grant there are things man is better off not knowing."

  He tried to stand up, failed, slumped down. "That artifact is more powerful than I'd imagined. It really could make Kho fly again, if the place weren't shattered into a thousand pieces. This engine ...I won't say it makes its user into a god. Nowhere near that. But perhaps gods have creatures who do their washing-up, who mend their broken pots or fix their shattered wheels? Laborers who carry out great works under their direction, like the slaves in Osirion who built those pyramids? This engine might give you the power of a god's slave. But it's no good to me. A man like me using it is like a child trying to wield a giant's battle-axe. I can't even lift it. At best I'd kill myself trying. I might be able to use the engine to fly, that much might be safe, but there are easier ways to take flight." He wiped at his nostrils, leaving a red smear across the back of his hand. "Ones that are less bloody."

  "Maybe stick with those," Skiver said. "Being a god's a shit job anyway, and being a god's handyman sounds worse. Not worth bleeding out your eyeballs over anyway."

  "The pursuit of truth is nothing if not perilous," Alaeron croaked. He tried to sit up, groaning and holding his head. "Funny. I thought just understanding the devices—the device—would be enough for me, that truth was its own reward. But I find myself entirely outraged that I can't use the thing properly, now that I've figured it out. I could feel the machine trying to force my body and my mind into the right shape to use it, but it just didn't work. Like a kraken trying to put on a pair of pants. Too many limbs and not enough fabric."

  "So," Skiver said after a moment, looking up toward the surface. "Ropes, then?"

  "Ropes," Alaeron rasped. And then he vomited again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Aeromancer

  After they lay around the edge of the Pit panting for a while following their climb, Skiver sat up. "Back to the village for a bite to eat, then a derhii ride to the Vulture's Roost? We didn't quite fill our sacks with loot, but the things I snatched from that pisspot of a throne room will make Vadim happy enough, I think. And I know the way to get here now, so I can draw him a map, and he can send an army if he wants the rest."

  "I'm going to the domes," Jaya said, standing up and shouldering her supplies. "You heard the noble. He says the sacrifices are being ‘seasoned.' My people may yet live."

  "Seasoned with disease," Skiver pointed out. "So they're likely as good as dead anyway, right?"

  "Diseases can be healed," she said, scowling. "My people are great healers. And even if they die, better they die free, than in some cage lorded over by creatures from the Outer Planes."

  "Or you could take back a plague that wipes out your whole village," Skiver said, then sighed. "Fine, all right, suit yourself. But you know, strictly speaking, I don't need you anymore, and neither does Vadim."

  She shrugged. "See that he frees my brother when you return. I wish you safe travels."

  Alaeron struggled to his feet. The climb had been harder on him than on either of the others—Skiver was an experienced second-story man, after all, and Jaya could probably climb ropes all day for fun, but alchemists weren't built for that kind of exertion. "Jaya, wait—I'll go with you. I might be able to help."

  "I won't turn you down," she said, smiling. "Your assistance is most welcome."

  "Damn it," Skiver said. "Why did you lot have to come rescue me anyway? Why not leave me to die? Now I feel obligated to return the favor." He kicked at the ground, then looked up, a gleam in his eye. "Daemons, though. I can stab them all I like and nobody will try to arrest me, right? And are they very rich, do you think?"

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  As they walked back to the Domes, Alaeron filled Skiver in on what he'd missed, chiefly the reappearance of Kormak, though the armored rats also rated a mention, as did their wererat leader. "Probably not a real leader," Skiver opined. "Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against wererats—worked with one once, wonderful smuggler—but they aren't usually good for anything above sergeant or so. I imagine the wererats are just to keep the little rats in line, and someone's pulling their strings, likely those daemons of yours."

  "They're not mine," Alaeron said. "We'd better hope stealth works for us. I don't like our chances facing off against astradaemons. I don't know much about them, just what I've read in books, but from what I understand ...I wouldn't recommend stabbing them, Skiver. They can rip the soul out of any creature that possesses one."

  "Huh. And what happens if you lose your soul?"

  "You die," Jaya said. "No soul, no life."

  "Huh," Skiver said. "And here I am alive and well. Just goes to show all those people who said I had no soul were talking nonsense. Fine, we'll be dainty and stealthy, see if we can find the prisoners and slip out unnoticed. First, though, let's stop by and see this tower you dropped on our Kellid friend. I made myself a little promise that I'd piss on his grave if I got the opportunity."

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  "Raise your hand if you're surprised." Skiver nudged the heap of rubble while Alaeron and Jaya groaned. "I knew he wouldn't stay buried."

  "There's a broken pickaxe here," Alaeron said, pointing. "Someone dug him out. Who? Why?" He knelt to examine the rubble.

  "Alaeron," Jaya said from behind him.

  "It's not as if he has allies here," Alaeron muttered.

  "Alaeron," Skiver said.

  "The man's luck is ridiculous, it's like—ha, I wonder if he does have an artifact that tilts probability in his favor, that would make a certain amount of sense, I—"

  "Alaeron!" his companions shouted, and he finally turned around.

  "The rats heard me shouting," Kormak said mildly. He had Jaya by the hair, a knife held to her throat. His was no ordinary knife: the blade was glass, a shade of blue unseen in nature, and looking at the weapon made Alaeron's eyes tear up. The Kellid had a boot on the back of Skiver's neck, and when Skiver tried to move, Kormak shifted his weight slightly, and Skiver squawked and went still, sprawled on the ground.

  Alaeron stared at him. The Kellid's hair—what bits hadn't been burned off—were gray with rock dust, his ruined eye now an empty black socket, his clothes so shredded that he wore little but rags and boots beneath his impeccable coat. He bled from dozens of abrasions. How far would this pursuit go? How far would Alaeron let it go?

  "Fine!" the alchemist said. "You've pursued me to the ends of the world, or at least one of the darkest corners. I bow to your invincibility! Take the relics. Take me, if you must. But spare my companions. They have nothing to do with our problem."

  "This one shot arrows at me," Kormak said. "This one tried to stab me in the kidneys, and would have done worse, given the opportunity. No, you'll all share the same fate. They wanted me to bring you back to Starfall, so that you could face the justice of the Technic League. But they will be content with the end I have authored for you."

  "And what end is that?" Alaeron was suddenly bone-weary. This had been the longest day in a journey full of long days. He just wanted some ending. It didn't have to be a happy one. It just needed to be an end.

  "Despite all the rock you dropped on me, the rats still heard my cries," Kormak said. Apart from his mouth moving, he might have been a statue, and Jaya and Skiver were just as still, she to avoid having her throat cut, him to avoid having his neck broken. "You know I can be very loud when need be. The rats came and dug me out, and dragged me before their masters. That's where they would have taken you, fools, if you hadn't attacked them and run away."

  "Their masters," Alaeron said. "The astradaemons."

  Kormak shrugged. "There are those in the domes, too, I'm told, somewhere up above. But I was below the domes. I spoke to the leukodaemons."

  Alaeron frowned. "They are daemons of ...what, disease?"

  "They are devoted to Apollyon, the Horseman of Pestilence, from the daemon realm of Abaddon," Kormak said. "Quite reasonable creatures. They will make any deal at all as long as it helps to spread disease. They're archers, too." He tightened his grip on Jaya. "Their arrows are poisoned with noxious plagues, and their quivers are inexhaustible. They could march forth and destroy the world—but they prefer a slower course. Time for their infections to simmer and spread. Perhaps they eat suffering. I do not know. They've poisoned this whole place, you know. Treasure hunters." Kormak spat. "Here the only treasure is death. The leukodaemons are like your employers. Like your Vadim, and your Chuma. They are traders in relics. The rats, and perhaps even the ape-men, they trade relics looted from Kho, pretending they come from some other ruin in the Mwangi Expanse, and every relic is tainted, spreading strange fevers far and wide, their true source impossible to trace." He chuckled harshly. "I could have let you take your treasures. Followed and watched you succumb to sickness. But you, alchemist, I fear you might have a healer's touch."

  Alaeron had never made a particularly deep study of healing potions, though he had some basic ones, but decided it wasn't prudent to argue the point. He was happy with the outcome, after all. This information from Kormak had very likely saved their lives and kept them from falling victim to horrible plagues. Of course, now Kormak was probably going to kill them anyway.

  Kormak went on. "So I made an agreement with the leukodaemons. They will spare me. And they will put you and your friends in the cages below the domes, along with the humans stolen from and sacrificed by the savages in these valleys. They will test their new plagues on you, and your suffering will be long, and as you approach death ..." He snapped his teeth savagely, like a wild dog. "Then the astradaemons will descend from their place high in the domes and eat your souls, preventing you from finding rest or peace in the hereafter." He grinned. "This is your reward for leading me such a fine chase."

  "What ...what do they get out of this?" Alaeron managed. "The daemons. How do you know they aren't tricking you?"

  "There are many interesting things in the Silver Mount, boy," Kormak said. "You know of the strange fluids that give men visions—you made bombs from them, and drove the crew of my ship mad, you may remember. But there are other substances. Bizarre molds and fungi. Spores from beyond the stars. Exotic poisons. Slimes that crawl, and ichors that make limbs turn green, and stink, and burst, revealing bones covered in alien growths. The leukodaemons are very interested in these things. I will take some of their rats back with me to Numeria, and send them home with samples. Everyone is happy. Except for those of you who will suffer and die, of course."

  A crowd of rats emerged from behind tumbled ruins, creeping forward with weapons clutched in their forelimbs. Jaya stared at Alaeron, and her eyes were not pleading: it seemed to Alaeron that they were urging him to run. Or was that just some streak of cowardice and wishful thinking?

  "Time to stop running," Kormak said, as if reading his mind. Alaeron hoped he didn't have that power.

  Suddenly, darkness descended, as if a black curtain had been drawn over the sun. Alaeron stumbled back, thinking he'd been struck blind, but Kormak roared, "No more tricks! Darkness cannot hide you. Rats love the dark!"

  Whatever the cause of the unnatural darkness, Alaeron could use it to escape and try to plan a rescue attempt later ...if he could figure out where to run to. He chose a direction at random, took three steps, and slammed into someone who wrapped him in an embrace.

  "Arcanist," the mad Shory noble whispered in his ear. "I have come to save you." He tittered, and Alaeron was lifted off his feet and squeezed by arms that were wiry but impossibly strong.

  Kormak roared and bellowed, doubtless trying to find Alaeron, but he had to cope with the magical darkness the noble had conjured while also trying to maintain control of Skiver and Jaya. The noble began to run, carrying Alaeron as easily as the alchemist himself might carry a sack of grain, and the darkness moved with them. The Kellid's roar grew fainter, lost behind them. Alaeron tried to speak, to say, Wait, my friends, I can't leave my friends, but the noble's grip was so tight he couldn't draw breath. Ribbons of deeper black seemed to flicker in his vision, and then points of light burst like exploding stars. Can't breathe. Suffocating. Going to—

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Something prodded Alaeron in the cheek, and he groaned and rolled over. Then he remembered his circumstances, and bolted upright.

  The Shory noble stopped poking him with his gnarled wooden staff and leaned back in his throne. Alaeron was on the floor, unbound—not that it mattered. His coat was gone, and his belt with the loops for his vials, and his pack with its weapons and treasures ...and Ernst's stolen wand.

  "Squeezed you too hard, I see, squeezed you right to sleep, ha, but sleep is wonderful, yes? I had not slept since my chamber was breached," the noble said. "It had been months. I think I was afraid to sleep, truly, after so long, afraid I wouldn't wake up again. I should thank you, many thanks, yes, I am so rested, of course. I think I was going mad, a bit mad, yes yes. But I am not mad now. Also not angry. Never never angry."

  Alaeron tried to take a personal inventory. His head didn't ache, which suggested the Shory hadn't hit him on the skull to knock him out, but his tongue felt thick and his brain was not moving as swiftly as it might have. "My friends," he said.

  "Yes!" the noble said, nodding. "Friends! I remember friends. Mine are dust, all dust. I looked for other chambers, other safe rooms, but they were all cracked, full of mold and ooze and monsters, no life. Perhaps their children's children's children are in my army now? But I remember. I threatened your friends. That is why you put me to sleep, yes? To save them?"

  "That's right," Alaeron said carefully. At least he wasn't actually being murdered. Talk was much better than violence, anyway.

  "Yes. But you saved them. Good saving! Until the big man took them. Oh well. Big men do that, don't they, they take. He was mighty, he gave chase, he wielded a burning light that cut through my darkness and nearly singed my flesh." The Shory grinned. "I made clouds of darkness cling to his face, ha, like leeches feeding on his eyes, and we escaped. You! And I! Now. You will do what you said. You will lift me up high. You will make my city fly. You will do this thing."

  "Ah. But ...my friends? Did they escape Kormak—the big man—as well? Are they in a cage here somewhere?"

  "Alas! They are with the rats. The big man chased me, but the rats know better, they chased your friends instead, much safer, ha. They must be down below the domes now, in the cages. To be tested. There is one plague, I saw, it makes black spots on your skin, and the black spots grow wider and wider, and split open, and inside: little mouths! With little teeth! They bite at others who come near and spread the infection through those bites! Ha. So clever, yes. Not a plague, they said. A parasite? But like a plague. Good. Good for enemies."

  "But not good for my friends." Alaeron stood up, only wobbling a little. "And I need them, they're my apprentices, my associates, I need them to help me make your city fly—"

  "Proof," the Shory noble said, shrugging. "I can bring your friends back. Not by bargains—I stole you from the daemons, they will not like that, we are enemies now, but I do not fear them. I have an army, bigger than theirs, and I am a noble, disease does not touch me, and my soul is protected, wrapped up in wards. But it will cost me many of my people to bring back your friends. I will not pay that price without proof that you can do what you say."

  "Fine," Alaeron said. "I can't start with the whole city anyway. But ...is there a safe place on the surface, where we can work?"

  "I am safe everywhere," the noble said blithely. "And when you are with me, so are you. Yes. Safe from everything except me. So. Show me. Make my heart glad."

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Alaeron had no idea what the arcane engine's lifting capacity was, but when he'd felt his senses expand with the disc in his mouth, he'd been confident that he could move mountains if the need arose. So a ruined chunk of masonry should, logically, provide no difficulty. He was still worried as he looped the golden chain around the twisted metal bars protruding from the floor of the chunk of stone the Shory noble had named his "flying throne room." The throne room was in fact a relatively intact balcony, fallen long ago from some tower, but it had the advantage of actually possessing a railing on one side, which would be a great comfort to Alaeron if they actually managed to get airborne ...even if the other side of the balcony, which had once been attached to a tower, had no such safety measures in place.

  The noble had insisted on dragging his ridiculous chair to the surface, too—or, rather, having his followers do it, hauling it to the surface on ropes. They'd hauled Alaeron up that way, too. The Shory noble couldn't fly, but he climbed walls like a spider, and he'd clambered up from the Pit of Endless Night and shouted encouragement at the workers below. The members of the noble's army were hunched and twisted from a lifetime underground, but they still seemed human, and apparently had a few words of the genuine Shory language mixed in with their patois—or so the noble proudly claimed. They stared at Alaeron with open fascination, though whether it was because he was an outsider or because the noble had decided he was their savior was unclear.

  "This is just to show you what I can do," Alaeron said, putting together the pieces of the engine. "I'll need my assistants to do anything on a larger scale." He hadn't figured out how exactly he would follow through on the claim that he could restore Kho to its old magnificence—or, more accurately, how he would wriggle out of the responsibility. But getting Jaya—and even Skiver—back safely was the first priority.

  "Yes, yes, let's fly!" The noble sat down in his throne, which his followers had fixed to the ten-foot-wide stone platform by the simple expedient of driving huge spikes through the legs; the antique-lover in Alaeron cried out in silent anguish. "Up, pilot! You shall have a great place in the new empire, yes, great for a commoner. You shall be, hmm ... helmsman. No, aeromancer! That's it, that's better, yes."