A Thief in the Night

chapter Fifty-nine

Malden howled in anger and horror. He forgot all about Balint as he twisted on one foot and jumped into the air, trying desperately to catch the vial before it smashed on the flagstones far below. He gave no thought whatsoever as to where he, himself, would land.

The glass vial arced through the air, spinning end over end. His fingers barely touched it as he hit the top of his own parabola, and he nearly flicked it away by being overzealous. He shot out his other hand and just managed to grab it and hold it tight in his fist. He had it! He had the antidote!

Too bad it looked like he was going to die for it.

He had expected to land face-first on the rooftop but hadn’t realized how far he’d jumped to catch the vial. So focused was he on catching it that he had overshot the edge of the roof completely. Now there was nothing beneath him but empty space.

Time seemed to stretch out and an awful sort of peace suddenly came over him, as his brain chose to retreat into pure reason rather than scream in horror. He seemed to have all the time in the world to think as he fell. He looked down and saw the rooftops of a lower building come shooting up toward him, and wondered if he’d just thrown away his own life to save Slag’s.

How unlike me, he considered as he dropped through the dim red light. Normally I put myself first and above all others. For perhaps the first time in my life, I’ve acted nobly and selflessly.

He looked down again.

What a terrible mistake that turned out to be.

When Malden had taught himself to climb on the rooftops of Ness, one of the first things he had to learn was how to fall properly, but now there was no time to put that knowledge into practice. He tried to roll as he struck a rooftop two levels down, but still he took most of the impact in his shoulder. He felt the bones in his arm flex and start to crack, but before anything could shatter he was falling again, bouncing off the one roof to land on the next one down. This time he landed with a crunch that stole all his momentum and left him at rest.

That’s odd, he thought. I don’t appear to be dead. This doesn’t even hurt all that much. He rolled over and tried to sit up.

What he accomplished instead was that he started to scream in agony.

He grunted through the pain, forcing himself to rise to his knees. His left arm felt like a piece of crazed pottery, like it would shatter into a million pieces if he moved it even a fraction of an inch. He had wrenched his shoulder badly, and the ribs down that side of his chest throbbed with agony.

He had to know, though. He forced his hand to open, and saw the vial lying on his palm.

Intact. The cork had worked its way partially out of its collar, but he pressed it back down with his good thumb.

Then he dropped onto his back and just stared up at the red-lit ceiling for a while, trying to not pass out from the pain.

For a long time that was all he could do.

There was no sign of Balint. She wasn’t peering down at him from a rooftop high above. She wasn’t approaching to hit him with her wrench again. Most likely she’d done the wise thing and just run away. He supposed he should be grateful for small favors.

He knew he had to get up. He had to get to his feet and get back down to the street level. He had to take the lift back to the foundry and get the antidote to Slag before it was too late. If he failed, the dwarf would die.

He tried to roll over, and screamed in pain again. He had no control over it—his hurt arm took control of his lungs and made him scream. Sweat poured down his face and his breathing came in hitches and starts. The red light pulsed behind his eyes, keeping time with his pulse.

He felt sick. He knew if he vomited now it would just make him weaker, so he choked down his stomach contents and struggled to get up on his knees. His legs worked just fine. They didn’t hurt. He climbed to his feet—hard to do without using his hands, but he managed. He exhaled deeply, once, twice, three times. Then he walked across the rooftop to its edge, where he looked down and saw a ladder below him. He could climb down a ladder with one good arm, if he had to.

He had to.

He was halfway down the dormitory tower when a new scream ripped through the red-lit air.

Malden froze in place and stared at the wall in front of him for a long time before he realized that the scream had not come out of his own mouth.

Who had made that sound, then? He couldn’t know. It didn’t matter. He climbed down another rung.

“Slurri!” he heard Balint call, from somewhere else in the cavernous dormitory level. “Murin! Where are you?”

No answer came.

Malden took another step down.

The light changed subtly and a long shadow passed across the wall in front of Malden’s face. He ignored it and took another step down the ladder.

“Human!” Balint called. “Human! Answer me!”

Malden ignored her and kept climbing.

“What did you do to Slurri? Where’s Murin?” Balint shouted.

“I’ve done nothing,” Malden said. He didn’t have the strength to make his voice very loud.

“What? Speak up, arsehole. I can’t hear you.”

Malden turned his head to look up at her. She stood on a rooftop across from him, one level up. Her face was lit from below by the red streetlamps, giving her a ghastly aspect.

“Look at me,” he said, with as much force as he could muster. “I’m right here. I did nothing! If your friends are gone, it must have been the revenants that got them!”

“Dead elves? Ha! Your lies stink worse than your moldy bollocks. You must have laid a trap for him. I swear, if they’re dead, I’ll go to Helstrow myself and demand justice of your human king. I’ll make sure they cut you open and draw out your intestines on a windlass!”

Malden shook his head and climbed down another rung. Every time his foot landed it jarred his whole body and his left arm flared into agony again. “I don’t—lay traps. I defeat them. You’re the one who—sets traps.”

Balint said nothing more. She disappeared behind the edge of her rooftop and was gone. Malden was glad for it.

As he was about to place his foot on the flagstones at street level he heard another scream. This time he was sure he wasn’t the one who made it. Perhaps it had been Balint, meeting her first revenant. That had to be it—the dwarves must have fallen afoul of the Vincularium’s guardians. They were dead, then, all of them. Even Balint’s wrench would be no match for their clutching, bony hands.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered but getting the antidote to Slag.