Thomas rose, bar in hand, and crept closer to Asmodeus. Oswald’s blue eyes shifted toward him, wide with disbelief. When Thomas was just inches away, Asmodeus turned, his face blanching at the bar raised over his head. He brought it down on the torturer’s skull with his full force. The Theurgeon crumpled to the floor. Thomas knelt, searching his robes until he found a set of keys tied around his waist. He untied the knot and scrambled up.
Rage burned through Thomas at the sight of Oswald. Bruises covered the young philosopher’s body. One eye was swollen shut, and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. His collarbone jutted out, its jagged edge piercing the skin near his shoulder. And across his chest, seared into his skin, was the word RAGMAN, the last three letters crammed together. Oswald’s lungs heaved, and he winced, his eyes closed, as though waiting for another burn.
“Oswald,” Thomas whispered, trying to jam a key into the lock. It didn’t fit.
Oswald’s body twitched at the sound. He hadn’t believed that Thomas was real.
“Oswald. It’s me. Thomas.” He tried another key. Relief flooded him as it slid into the keyhole. He unlocked the shackles with a clink.
The Ragman’s blue eyes opened, locking on Thomas’s in shock. The corner of his lip twitched in something like a smile, and his eyes glistened. “You’re real…”
Thomas shifted to unlock Oswald’s ankles, and then stuffed the keys into his trousers. They might come in useful later. “I found a way out of my cell. Eirenaeus left a code. There were seven—” He shook his head. His throat tightened when he looked at the young man. How many bones had been broken? “It doesn’t matter. I can get us into an abandoned stairwell. Can you move?”
Oswald closed his eyes and swallowed. With effort, he rolled onto an elbow, the shackles clanking to the floor as he shifted. He wavered, unable to sit up on his own until Thomas supported his back. Oswald shifted his legs so his feet rested on the floor, and stared at the crumpled body of his tormentor. “Dead?”
“I don’t know. But definitely unconscious.”
“Check,” he croaked. He swayed against the edge of the table, his right arm tucked up by his chest.
Thomas crouched, rolling Asmodeus’s body so it faced the ceiling. The Theurgeon’s jaw hung open. Thomas placed two fingers on the man’s neck, finding a pulse. “Still alive.”
“Fix that,” Oswald croaked.
“Why?”
“Erelong he wakens and sends wardens usward.”
“Right.” Oswald had reverted to his dialect, but Thomas got the meaning. Asmodeus risked sounding the alarm if they left him alive. Thomas picked up the knife that lay on the floor, the blade still hot from the branding. Swallowing hard, he held it next to the Theurgeon’s neck, watching the blood pulse through a purple vein beneath translucent skin.
Oswald cradled his shattered arm. “Go on!”
Thomas’s heart raced. “Do I just—” He pulled back his hand. “I just jam it in to his neck?”
Oswald released a deep sigh. Wincing, he lowered himself to the ground.
Thomas ran a hand over his forehead. “I’m a boxer, not an assassin.”
Oswald grimaced as he reached the ground. “Give it here.” Using his good arm, he grabbed the knife. He brought his arm back before thrusting it under Asmodeus’s ribs. He must have killed him almost instantly, because when he yanked it out again, the blood pooled instead of sprayed. Thomas’s stomach twisted.
Oswald wiped the knife on his trousers. “We can use this for attack spells if ever the wardens follow.” He reached up, gripping the edge of the table. He hoisted himself up with a grunt. He wasn’t putting any weight on one of his legs—probably broken, too. “Let’s not straggle.”
“Right.” Thomas rose, his head swimming. He crossed to Oswald. “Lean on me. It’ll be faster.”
Grunting, Oswald draped his good arm over Thomas’s shoulder, and they staggered toward the stairwell.
Thomas closed the heavy wooden door behind them and groped around in the darkness until Oswald called up a sphere of foxfire.
He wasn’t sure how Oswald would react to his plan, but it wasn’t as though the young Ragman had many options.
Oswald had to hop down each step, and Thomas faltered, struggling to keep upright. “We need to get to Celia.”
Oswald froze on the steps. “What?” he spat out. “You trust that loathsome pearl-licker?”
“We don’t exactly have a wealth of options. If we don’t leave Maremount, we’ll be murdered as soon as we get into Lullaby Square.”
“We can slip through the sewers,” he managed. “They join the under dungeons.”
“A, I don’t know how to get to the under dungeons. And B, the sewers will come out within the city walls. There will be guards all over, and you can’t even walk.”
“Thou ’ad better left me with Asmodeus.”
Thomas tried to swallow, but his throat was like sandpaper. “Look, Celia sent me a note saying she could get us out of Maremount if we can get to her in the Gold Tower. You said yourself, she’s a prisoner too. She’s convinced her family that she’s mentally deranged—an imbecile. She’s obviously feigning idiocy out of fear and wants out of here as much as we do.”