A Thief in the Night

chapter Ninety-seven

Prestwicke came at him again, and Malden barely managed to dance away from the flashing knife. He tried bringing Acidtongue around for a slashing cut, but the knife gleamed in the air between them and Malden had to jump back again. Prestwicke drove him toward the gallery, as if he intended to push him over the edge and into the waters below.

Malden had no illusion that he would get off that lightly.

He tried a thrust with Acidtongue, not aimed at Prestwicke’s chest or face, but at his knife hand. The priest darted away more quickly than Malden would have deemed possible. Had Sadu given the little man supernatural powers? The knife came swinging toward him again, and Malden had to jump out of the way.

He was up against the railing of the gallery when thunder cracked over his head.

Despite his peril, Malden glanced upward, and saw a cloud of brown dust flash across the top level of the Vincularium. It obscured the red sun and for a moment darkness descended, making Malden blind.

Then a single stray ray of light illuminated Prestwicke’s knife, not inches from Malden’s throat. He dodged sideways and it missed.

More thunder came from above. Thunder, and a sound of rocks tumbling down the shaft. They fell in the water with tremendous splashes, water surging so high Malden felt its spray on his back. The roar of the water nearly concealed the sound of massive chains creaking and snapping high above.

And then, for the first time since it was put in place, the red sun of the dwarves moved in its artificial heaven.

Malden knew that he needed to drag his eyes away, that he had to watch Prestwicke and keep the assassin at bay—but he found it impossible to not look at the spectacle above. He had never seen destruction on such a massive scale before, and he was dumbstruck, awed by what he beheld.

One of the three chains holding up the red sun had been severed by the explosion. The other two could not hold it in place. It tore loose from its pipes in a great gout of fire that rushed down the central shaft, tongues of flame licking down around Malden and then dissipating so fast he wasn’t even scorched. He looked up and saw the pipes sheared off where they had once entered the crystal sphere. Flames jetted from the loose ends of those pipes, casting a furious dancing light.

Then he saw the sphere itself, dull and empty, fall to smash upon the side of the central shaft. It collided with the wall at high speed, and shattered into a million shards of crystal.

Directly overhead.

“In Sadu’s name,” Prestwicke said, “I shed this blood, for—”

Malden jumped. He had no choice but to leap right toward the priest’s knife—there was no time for anything else. He twisted in midair and the blade passed his jugular by a hairbreadth. He hit the flagstones hard, his own blood flecking the air all around him as he rolled and jumped to his feet. He didn’t stop running.

“Malden,” Prestwicke called, “you cannot escape me.”

The priest didn’t move to follow. He stood still by the railing of the gallery, as if he could simply wait there and Malden would have to return to him.

When a thousand spears of broken crystal fell on him, his eyes went wide. When they pierced his flesh and thudded into the flagstones like frozen lightning bolts, he opened his mouth as if to speak. But then a shard of crystal sliced off the front of his head, obliterating his face, and he moved no more.

Elves were screaming. Cythera called Malden’s name. He heard Croy groaning under a pile of struggling elves, and Slag shouting for him to get away from the gallery, that it wasn’t over.

“No,” Malden said. No, not yet—not like this—not before he could demand to know who’d sent Prestwicke after him. “No. No!”

Prestwicke was dead. There could be no doubt about that. He was impaled in place, still standing on his feet, his arms and his chest transfixed by long shards of crystal. Malden rushed forward and grabbed the priest’s woolen robe. It was wet with blood.

“Who sent you after me?” Malden demanded, frenzied by being cheated this way. “Who was your employer?”

Prestwicke could not answer, of course. But as Malden pulled at the priest’s garment he heard a rattling little sound, like a tiny snare drum. He tore open Prestwicke’s habit and saw a piece of parchment folded neatly against the dead man’s breast. He plucked it free.

Then he ran like every demon in the pit was after him, for he could hear the entire Vincularium shaking itself to pieces above him.