Something was wrong with Whitley. Lapis wanted to ask him about it, but he gave her an envelope from Faelan with an official mission to retrieve the khentauree head, and headed out. He needed to travel to Lord Adrastos’s estate and give Armarandos a correspondence, and it was late. His sullenness, the flash of resentment and loathing when Patch mentioned the meetings at the workstation, worried her.
At least worrying about him kept her from pondering her dark surroundings and the screaming match between four workers over an open crate on the dock. She hated being so close to anyone paid by Diros, though she would rather listen to bit shanks than the boss himself.
The alcove Patch led them to sat above the canal’s landing platform, reached by a circling ramp with water-worn images of a procession lining the way. Gouges in the walls and floor indicated that something once sat there, likely a religious altar, ripped it from its place long ago by greedy hands.
Her partner pointed to the stoutest shack built against the left-hand wall, which had a hefty padlock keeping the door closed. It had thick poles, no windows, and a flat-topped roof, and looked far stouter than the other rickety structures that littered that side of the canal. “That’s where Diros stores the most important stuff. If the head is still here, that’s where it will be. My patch isn’t picking up anyone but these shanks, so once they leave, we can sneak in.”
“Shouldn’t there be more of them?” Lapis whispered. She peered out the opening, at the fallen columns and collapsed wall to the right; other than the obvious, she did not see much damage from the explosions Faelan caused. The docks and hoists looked in good repair, the shacks and tarps standing.
Patch snorted. “After the explosion, how many snagged what they could carry and ran away? After losing so many illicit goods, I doubt Diros had enough funds to hire new help.”
Nolin nodded. “Word at the community centers is the Ram Syndicate kicked the Beryl out of the northwestern tunnels, and since they provided Diros with shanks, he doesn’t have a ready supply of workers anymore. Double Catch hates him with a passion, so he isn’t going to contract his people out.” He scratched at his cheek. “I guess that makes sense if he thinks Diros hooked up with Lady Mesaalle.”
Diz made it clear Double Catch despised Kez. Lapis doubted he would work with any of her associates, especially one so closely linked to the Beryl.
“If we wait long, others might come.” Tuft swiveled his head to the fight, then to Patch.
He pressed his fingers into his patch, and the lights changed pattern, every other one blinking in a fast swirl. “We need to make certain they don’t set off the alarms. They’re linked to speakers in the tunnels, so if there’s trouble, patrols will come running.”
“We’ll need time to sift through the boxes,” Lapis said. “Unless you can tell which one holds the head.”
“No,” the khentauree admitted. Path patted his arm and leaned forward.
“Tuft can ice them.”
Patch raised an eyebrow at her eagerness. Four pointy ice cones shot into the air, cutting off the argument mid-shout.
Anxiety prickled across Lapis’s arms and neck as she hung from the edge, dropped to the ground, and scampered after Patch. It did not matter that all three of them who could detect humans said no one else was nearby, she expected something to go wrong. According to her partner, the early morning hours were not the busiest for the smuggling operation, but that did not mean shanks would remain absent while they nosed around.
The lock froze and crumpled into pieces before her partner reached the door, giving them immediate access to the interior.
The khentauree slid the stout crates and boxes off the stacks and opened the nailed tops, and she, Patch and Nolin shuffled through the contents, searching for the head. A couple crates had cradle crystals, their violet sheen pretty in the cyan light the khentauree produced. Three more contained eggs, and Lapis cracked open one from each to check the insides. Just like the ones that Orinder hid in his storage shed, they lacked the arming wires.
Had Diros supplied the merchant with the eggs? Why?
“What are those?” Tuft asked, eyeing the explosives as he heaved a crate from the top of a stack.
“They’re called eggs. They were initially designed by Dentheria for their dullest soldier to use on the battlefield, but they mis-triggered all the time. Because they killed more Dentherions than enemies, the army stopped using them, but the leftovers made it into the illicit weapons trade. These are fake, though. They’re missing their arming wires. That’s good for us.”
“Not so good for Diros,” Nolin said as he shuffled through a keltaitheerdaal crate. “Selling fake explosives is a quick way to end up tied to the underside of a dock.”
Lapis eyed the yellow mineral; how much of the stuff did Diros smuggle? Who would purchase it? Despite promises, it proved ineffective in replacing aquatheerdaal as a power source. Only so many shanks could have their shitty but expensive tech burst into flames before the average buyer steered clear of it.
“Shit.”
Lapis hurried over to Patch. In the crate, cushioned by hay, sat a khentauree head—and another and another. Path buzzed in rage as they tipped it over and exposed a dozen heads along with bits and pieces of mechanical body parts. More than one Ambercaast raider had brought Diros the goods.
She left them to tear through the remaining crates as she hunted for bags. They expected to carry one head, not a dozen plus extra parts, and they could not flee carting a huge crate with them. She found a pile of canvas sacks near a stack of boxes reeking with a strong smoke odor and grabbed the lot. Her arms prickled as a roar echoed from the canal entrance. She scurried back, heart pounding in near-panic; how would they remain undiscovered? She kicked the lock into the shed, dumped the sacks onto the floor, and closed the door.
They had run out of time.
She shoved the parts into five sacks while the others tipped over the remaining crates to expose their contents. The roar grew loud, louder, then cut off. Yells and screams took its place, and an alarm shrieked. She winced as she knotted the tops to create a handle, her ears throbbing with the shrill sound.
“Just four,” Path said, stilling as her torso swiveled to the door.
“More will come,” Patch said. “That’s the last crate. We’re good.”
Lapis grabbed a sack, hunkered down, and cracked the door open. The new arrivals shouted and flung their arms around as they viewed their unlucky compatriots, then joined them in an ice cage. She pushed out of the shack as more roaring noises came from the canal.
Patch ran past her, clutching a sack to his chest, and headed for a narrow doorless way carved below the alcove they had sat in. Path bent down and squeezed through, Nolin behind her. Tuft pushed Lapis inside before he followed.
Ice bloomed across the opening, sending them into darkness. Khentauree cyan beams switched on, lighting the way.
They hit a larger, torch-lit corridor and sped past a group of shanks lugging crates between them. They halted, stared, but did nothing to stop them. The tunnel curved and ended at a narrow metal bridge that spanned the canal. It had parted in the middle and edged up with mind-numbing slowness. The shank at the crank idly glanced at them, screamed and ran, slamming into the nearest rock face and flipping around, arms rising to protect his head. Patch threw the sack over the gap, backed up, and jumped over. Path soared across, Nolin had no problem.
Damn beings with long legs.
Bright lights from arriving boats illuminated the canal. Tuft caught her by the waist and leapt with her pressed into his side; good enough. She did not have to fall into the water and splutter as she swam to the embankment, embarrassment raging. He set her down and with breathless thanks, she raced after the others heading into an unlit tunnel.
She did not dare fumble for her tech light, and hoped the cyan glow produced by Patch and the two khentauree provided enough illumination. The beams bounced around, and nausea welled. She stared at the ground and willed her body to stop reacting to the unsteady lighting.
They entered a room with broken benches carved from the walls, high-relief images with scratched paint facing the center. Patch hissed and Path buzzed; yells, metal ringing, and explosions echoed to them.
“They have some big tech, too,” her partner muttered. “They’re as liable to bring the tunnel down as end their enemy.” He looked at Tuft, then pointed at an iron gate blocking the way to stone stairs going down into a gaping hole. “We need to get past that. It’ll be safer to bypass whatever’s going on.”
The lock was rusted shut, but burst apart under icy pressure. Patch opened it; it creaked loudly and left black gunk on his gloves. They bustled through and he closed it with a clang; ice replaced the shattered lock.
“What is at the bottom of the stairs?” Path asked as she took the lead.
“A tunnel that no one uses. I discovered it as a kid. It’s a winding, longer route through some expansive rooms, but it will get us to a grate in the Reeds near the river.”
“There is tech down there,” she said, hurrying her step.
Nolin fumbled about, clicked on his tech light, and hopped after the khentauree, his sack thrown over his shoulder and banging against his back. Lapis clutched her burden so hard against her chest the edges of metal dug into her. The light could not eliminate the silent darkness surrounding her in the narrow stairwell, a stifling companion pounding against her courage. Cursing her fears of the dark, it took all her mental strength to force her feet to move.
The stairs went down two flights before ending. Chips and cracks marred the edges, but the stone was free of dust and dirt and did not wobble or creak in protest of their weight. Path’s light turned on, adding to Nolin’s, and Tuft’s forehead whirled in cyan brightness once he hit the landing. They illuminated a corridor with carvings reminiscent of the religious artwork she had seen in the tunnels above during her previous visit.
Robed individuals with hats of various heights, some of sticks and feathers, some of fabric, walked in a procession headed away from the stairs. They carried woven baskets filled with fruits and breads and items she could not identify. Birds circled trees, pets played at their feet, and deer hid behind bushes. Fish peeked from small pools, ducks and geese made nuisances of themselves, and between tree branches, farmland spanned to distant mountains.
The preservation astounded her. Nothing seemed worn by time or water, and the bright colors of the plants, the robes, the jewelry, overwhelmed through saturation. Perhaps the cold kept it pristine? The other tunnels, while chilly, did not have the frozen touch of this one. She could see her breath swirl into a thick haze.
“There are other tunnels that have murals like this one,” Nolin said, touching a man holding a basket of fruit. “But I don’t think they’ve held up as well.”
“No one’s been in here to destroy them,” Patch murmured. “No shanks battling for territory to rip them apart, no thieves wanting chunks to sell to out-country collectors.”
“Caitria wants to return here and take pictures of the murals. She thinks it’s important to preserve their history.” Lapis understood, to an extent, the need to regain what Taangis, and then Dentheria, stole, but she would just as soon let religious iconography decay. Who needed the reminder that the priesthood took advantage of followers through fake deities? The Cloister proved the subsequent pain lasted centuries.
“I always wondered why the carvings were even down here,” Nolin said, trailing his light over the figures.
“Temples dedicated to the old gods were built in caves like these, with the only public access through a canal. At least that’s what Faelan said.” Lapis set down her sack and dug for her light to add to the ambiance, but it did not help her state of mind. What lurked in the shadows, that would jump out and harm her?
“I have read histories.” Path touched a figure, her tips sliding over the gleaming gold and glittery jewels. “They speak of the western Theyndora tribes building religious centers in the earth. They wanted to be in the womb of the creators. When Taangis invaded, they became shelters cut off from the outside world.”
“Or they wanted to hide their corruption from those who would stop them,” Tuft buzzed.
Lapis supposed that described Maphezet Kez’s intent when he created the Cloister. Why else would a wealthy man from Taangis try to hide his religious preferences? He had the backing of powerful people from his homeland, yet chose another continent to house his religious empire.
“Do you think that’s what the white hazy lights are that we see down here? Something to do with religion?” Nolin asked. “Shanks think they’re ghosts, but I always wondered.”
“Light is an easy way to manipulate followers,” Tuft said. “Maphezet Kez used brightness to pretend he glowed in Stars’ holiness. Many people thought divine hands touched him because of it.”
It was all propaganda with Kez, was it not? How well had his descendant learned from his lead?
The light Lapis held flickered, and prickly anxiety ran up her arms and into her chest. She studied the walls, the floor, the black pipes running the length of the ceiling, the fear of dark, concealing shadows choking her. Patch slipped his arm around her and she buried her face in his shoulder, unable to keep the tears at bay. Her rock, her solid base, who knew when she struggled even when she tried to hide it. He kissed the side of her head, then his lips strayed to her ear.
“We’ll get out of here as quick as we can. I promise.”
She pressed into him, and he hugged her before gently pushing her after Path as she continued down the tunnel. Tuft planted himself in the back, and her relief that she did not have to guard the rear embarrassed her.
The tunnel’s carvings accompanied them down the way. The offering bowls gave way to individuals holding out one arm and cutting their wrists so their blood fell to the earth, then transitioned to nude figures facing the viewer while robed priests painted designs in red, green and brown on them. Fully decorated people formed a line between apple trees, hands and faces raised, knees bent.
What was the significance of it all? Just religious rites?
The tunnel opened into a room with stained stone apple trees lining a cracked brick pathway. A gust ruffled Lapis’s hair, and she glanced around but could not figure out where the icy breeze came from. They proceeded with caution, the crunching of hooves and boots the only sounds in the still place. Path stopped, her head swiveling upwards.
The cyan beam highlighted the humongous faces of two painted statues. The man had shoulder-length, straight brown hair, sparkly green eyes, and a golden crown that towered above him. Blue satin robes swathed his body, wispy gold cloth wrapped around his waist like a sash. The woman’s red locks flowed free, decorated by pink apple blossoms rather than a crown. Her white, one-sleeved silken tunic fell to her knees, and a blue skirt that matched her eyes pooled at her shoeless feet. They held hands over the walkway, rope binding them and trailing down to the ground.
Did the statues represent Omerdewrane in his feudal lord guise, and Chewraineve, his love? How had they survived the centuries without falling apart? And what of the spotless clothing, undamaged by time? Someone must have replaced them recently. But who?
Probably the same someone who kept the stairs and walkway clean of dust and debris.
“We need to head left—”
The squealing of heavy metal rotating interrupted Patch. Path’s head swiveled down and illuminated a metal doorway beyond the statues. The left panel held a high relief sculpture of Omerdewrane in his wilder, tusked form, apple trees flanking him, while the right depicted Chewraineve in a tunic draped over one shoulder and a skirt with a train that trailed to the mountains behind her. They parted, and a bright white light blazed through the center slit. Lapis squinted, readying her gauntlets. She had donned her chaser pair and wished she had the better ones.
“I don’t want you to damage the doors trying to get through.”
Lapis frowned. That sounded like a snarly old man with a Coriy accent.
“So get in here. Hustle up. These doors take forever to close again, and we don’t want stand here all day while they do.”
