The emperor demands his tribute. His father was the sacrifice, and Ren was the messenger sent to collect him. He had the urge to crumple the scrolls Suten Anu had given to him, but he knew it would be pointless. Message or no message, the Protector would send his soldiers to retrieve the king. There was no stopping this; Ren would have his kingdom and the Soleri would have their sacrifice.
Ren followed the Prior Master through the Waset’s tightly spaced temples and around overturned carriages and dying bodies. His limbs were still weak, his skin burnt from the days he had spent on the Priory roof, but he hurried as best he could. Sounds echoed like thunder around the square as up on the walls, members of the Protector’s Army lobbed clay jars filled with black powder at the people down below, or shot arrows tipped with burning tar at thieves looting from the marketplace. A group of laughing soldiers had backed a few girls into a corner, their intentions clear. Ren started to falter, turning toward the screaming children. To do—what? To save one or two and run away?
“Quit staring.” Thrako pushed him forward. “You’ll have plenty to gawk at where we’re going.”
“Where’s that?” Ren asked.
Oren pointed to an iron gate directly ahead. He pushed Ren toward it and they descended four flights in the dark before coming to a great metal door.
“These are the Hollows.” Oren thrust open the gate and they emerged in an even darker space. The sound of the door clanging behind them, shutting out the sounds of death and bloodshed from the streets above, was like the shutting of a tomb. It echoed in the darkness, giving a sense of great emptiness and space, and as his eyes adjusted Ren began to see the shapes of staircases and landings.
Solus had been built over the site of a great system of caves, natural passages carved by ancient waterways. The Hollows was an underground city of the same immensity and complexity as the world aboveground, a mirror image of the city of light.
So much darkness here. Ren almost felt at home. The spaces were low and wide and the floor was uneven. It was impossible to grasp where they were, what function the cavern held.
“What’s this?” said Ren as they came to a sort of bazaar, with towers of crates, and tent walls.
“The Night Market,” said the young prior, but he gave no further explanation. None was needed. The market was packed with goods Ren guessed were illicit: slaves and strange urns, vessels made from the hollowed out bodies of animals, stitched together with sinew and packed with exotic herbs and bubbling liquids. As they made their way through the stalls, Ren noticed a man in a drab linen cloak dashing behind a stack of crates at the sight of them while a second man ducked through a warren of tents. Ren lost track of them in the lamplight. Who are they? He stopped, glancing quickly around, the hair on the back of his neck prickling in anticipation.
Before he could warn the others, a shield glinted in the torchlight. A dagger flashed in the dark. Oren whirled, his cloak enveloping the long knife. The Prior Master twisted the blade from his attacker’s grip; his foe stumbled backward, disappearing into the darkness.
“A thief,” said the young prior who had come with them.
“No,” Oren replied. “He fought like a soldier.” He sneered at Ren. “Looks like someone wants the heir of Harkana dead.”
“Who?” he asked. Someone wants me dead? Who in the world even cares that I’m alive?
The Prior Master pulled at the neckline of Ren’s tunic until Ren was choking.
Ren hoped Oren would trip, lose his sword. More than anything, he wanted Thrako’s blade. If he had a sword he could defend himself and take vengeance on the man who had sent him to meet the Sun’s Justice. But the Prior Master’s hold was unwavering, and Ren had no weapon.
Thrako’s words haunted him as well. Someone wanted Ren dead.
“This way,” Thrako said. “Into the gooseneck.” He pushed Ren toward another narrow passage, their movements made more urgent by the unexpected attack. The corridor was long, narrow, and winding. It really does feel like a goose’s neck, Ren thought as they ran, beating their soles through the corridor, Ren ahead and Thrako behind, followed by the young prior, each one glancing over his shoulder, searching for the gray cloaks of the men who had attacked them earlier. Ren’s head brushed the ceiling; his shoulder scraped the rough wall. The passage split and he dove right, but found the way was too tight to walk, and he was trapped. Thrako grasped his hand and led him backward, dragging him out of the crevice and pushing him the other way.
“Go, boy!” He urged Ren forward with the tip of his blade while footsteps echoed in the distance. “If they come upon us in the tunnel,” Thrako told the prior, “you will block their path to allow for our escape.” The young man grunted a hesitant reply.
“Faster,” said Oren. “Move.” The light ahead grew brighter until they came to the end of the narrow passage, to a gate of black iron bars. Outside the gate the cavern opened up into a wide chamber filled with men, their faces black as kohl, only the whites of their eyes visible in the dark.
“Who are these people?” Ren asked. The stink was rich and made them gag. Ren saw a legless man dragging rags from the pile; a blind man tripping through the dust.
“They are the untouchables,” the young prior said.
“The thralls who keep the shit flowing. Out of our way!” said Thrako as he shoved the sightless man aside. He raised his sword, motioning toward the distant gate. He no longer needed to push Ren forward. If someone wanted him dead, that was all the motivation Ren needed to quicken his pace. I’ve waited my whole life to find my freedom. It hardly seemed fair that someone was trying to take it from him before he’d even had a chance to taste it.
Ren in front, they pushed through kohl-stained shoulders toward a second gooseneck, even smaller than the first, lit by oil lamp and covered in greasy soot. This corridor led to another cavern, where men huddled in crowds, jostling them. One man tried to steal a dagger from Thrako; another tugged at Ren’s cloak, looking for a purse he did not have. He held the scrolls tightly as hands clawed at the rolled parchment.
“Where are we?” Ren murmured. He felt lost. The hot stink of sweat filled his nose and the light was so dim he could not tell a gray cloak from a black one, a beggar from a murderer. They stumbled over trash and bones. This must be some kind of sewer. They passed through the tunnel and out into a tall chamber, fetid water cascading around them as they dashed toward the next gate. He looked for a moment to turn on Thrako, to seize his weapon, but the Prior Master kept his blade on Ren’s back, his hand gripped tightly on his tunic.