A Thief in the Night

chapter Sixty-one

Malden hurried forward through the red-shadowed streets of the dormitory floor, retracing his steps toward the lift. Every footstep made his arm bounce and throb, but it wasn’t as bad as when he’d been on the ladder. Every rung had been a new chapter in a book of agony. Now he just ached abominably.

It didn’t matter. He had to keep moving. He heard the sound of the knocker desperately tapping its way across the floor, moving fast, its rhythm even more broken than usual. It had nothing to do with him.

The lift cage waited for him in its chamber. The lift shaft was mostly in darkness—the red light from the main shaft didn’t reach that far, and the streetlamps had stopped at the edge of the dormitory. Yet there was enough light for Malden to crouch into the cage and close its door and start to pull on the loop of chain inside.

As the cage began to climb up the shaft, toward the foundry level above, he heard one last shriek of surprise from Balint. “Don’t you touch me,” he heard her screaming, “Or I’ll cut off your prick and use it as a paperweight!”

Something had her. The revenants, or, who knew, Mörget’s demon, or—

It didn’t matter.

It had nothing to do with him. He kept pulling, and pulling, and pulling on the chain before him. The mechanism was so simple anyone could use it, not just a dwarf with a brilliant insight into engines and devices. You pulled on one side of the chain to make the lift go down. If you pulled on the other side the lift went up.

Inch by inch the cage rose through the shaft. Soon Malden was thrust into inky darkness again. He still had Slag’s makeshift lantern, and the flint to light it with, but he kept pulling on the chain, pulling and pulling and pulling until his good arm felt numb. Better, he thought, to balance the searing pain in his bad one.

Even in the dark he could sense when the cage had reached the foundry level. He stopped pulling and let the chain go, so that it rattled in the dark. He pushed the door of the cage open and stepped out. He fumbled with his pack, intending to strike a light. Just getting the knapsack off his back was a trial. He clamped it between his knees and reached inside with his good hand until he found the flint. He drew it out of the pack.

Then, in the dark just behind him, he heard a clink of metal.

The lift chain started to rattle and move and he knew someone was pulling the cage down through the shaft.

The revenants must have finished off the Redweir dwarves. Now they were coming for him.

Panic gripped Malden’s brains as he listened to the lift chain rattle. He wanted to sit down and just gibber in fear. He wanted to run away.

He forced himself to stay calm. To stop himself from following his natural instinct—which was to find the darkest place he could and hide there until all the bad things and nightmarish enemies went away.

In a place like the Vincularium, that meant hiding forever.

Malden cast about him in the foundry and quickly discovered what he sought—a long rod of iron, thin but strong enough so it wouldn’t snap. He set his lantern down and hefted the rod like a javelin. He watched the lift chain ascend for a moment, then shoved the rod forward as fast as he could, trying to thread it through one of the links. The first time he missed, and the rod was deflected to the side, jangling in his hand. The second time he drove the rod home perfectly, tangling it in the lift chain.

The chain continued to rise through the shaft. As it rose it took the rod with it until the rod hit the ceiling with a sharp crack of noise. It held against the ceiling, obstructing the hole there and keeping the chain from climbing any farther.

Instantly the lift chain froze in place. Malden peered down the shaft and saw the cage stuck down there, well below the foundry level.

The chain jumped and the rod nearly came free. It jumped again, and again, as whoever—whatever—was in the lift cage tried to unjam the mechanism. It was to no avail. The rod wedged the lift in place.

He had bought himself a little time.

It was the most precious commodity he could imagine. One thing mattered, still, and only one thing. He had to get the antidote to Slag. He lit his tin lantern and then hurried through the foundry level, careful not to trip on the red strings that hung loose now from the walls. Ahead of him lay the door of the Hall of Masterpieces. He could hide in there with Cythera and Slag, he thought. They could barricade the massive stone door and—and—

—and wait for Croy to come rescue them. Croy, who was probably dead, and who anyway wouldn’t be able to fight his way through a legion of revenants, even with Mörget’s help.

It wasn’t a wonderful plan, but there were no options. Malden hurried up to the door and was only a little surprised to find it closed. Cythera was no fool. She lacked any weapon better than a belt knife, and if anyone but he came by, her best defense lay in keeping that door closed. Malden thumped on it with his good fist, then found a piece of iron and started prying it open once more. He expected Cythera to come and help him from the other side once she realized he had returned, but he had to fight with the door unaided, just as he had the last time. A little annoyed, he heaved and shoved at the bar. It took far too long—his pursuers could arrive at any moment!—and it made his damaged arm ache fiercely—but he kept at it, grunting and cursing and pulling until the door opened just wide enough to let him slip inside.

Beyond the door, the hall lay in perfect darkness.

Malden frowned. That seemed odd. Cythera had a good store of candles—there was no reason for her to conserve them, and surely she would not want to sit in the dark in this place if she didn’t have to.

He called her name, softly at first—then louder. There was no response. Malden slipped into the hall and held his lantern high.

Gold, gems, glass, and polished stone all threw back bright and cheery reflections at him. Of Cythera, or Slag, there was no sign.

They must have left, he thought. Cythera must have decided to move Slag somewhere else—somewhere safer. Maybe she’d heard something of the screaming down on the residential level. Though that seemed unlikely—there was far too much stone between here and there. But perhaps Cythera had another reason to flee. Maybe the revenants had come here first.

It was just possible that Slag had thought of some way for the two of them to escape the Vincularium, and they seized the opportunity. But surely they would have left some message for him, some words traced in the dust, or, or . . . something.

He could find no clue at all to their disappearance.

There was no sign of a struggle. No blood on the floor. Nothing knocked over or moved out of place. Malden frowned. He very much wished he knew what was going on. Or what to do next.

He slipped back out of the hall, intent on finding his friends. Yet when he looked across the foundry level toward the lift shaft, a new terror crossed his soul.

He could see light there. It wasn’t the flicker of candlelight but the great guttering flare of torchlight, and there was a lot of it. He could hear footsteps, and thought there might be as many as a score of revenants coming for him, from elsewhere on the foundry level. He imagined they must have followed him up from the dormitory level, using a flight of stairs he had not seen. They didn’t need the lift after all, and jamming it had only slowed them down.

Wherever they came from, though, didn’t matter at all—what did was that they were coming closer. Coming right for him.

Malden had a magic sword on his belt, and one good arm to swing it with. He had never trained as a swordsman, though, and lacked any manner of killer instinct. He knew he would be no match for even one persistent revenant, much less twenty of them. He had trained as a thief—and so he did what a thief would do in that circumstance.

He hid.