Skite admires Holestar’s courage. Holestar admires Skite’s optimism.
The iron stair was not made for such large men. It creaks and pulls at the arches in the dome. They get into position on the ladder, Skite holding the candle against the pole. Holestar checks the trapdoor. It doesn’t give. Something heavy blocks it. Then it slides aside with heavy footsteps and the door loosens.
Skite gives Holestar the wide eye. Holestar gives the signal. Skite pushes the trapdoor and rams the pole through. Holestar and his hatchet follow. Three whistles, a snap of wood, a snap of bone, and the top of the pole falls through the door, followed by Holestar’s hand with the hatchet. They thunk onto the catwalk. Holestar hisses and tries to slide down the ladder. Skite, frozen, blocks him. Holestar looks up and ducks his head.
Not far enough. Skite hears three whistles again and sees what looks like a great gray shark head dive through the trapdoor to clamp Holestar’s head, twisting it as he screams, then wrenches it off.
Holestar’s other hand releases the ladder. His body drops on Skite, who holds it above him like a shield as he drops to the catwalk. The head lashes out and grabs Holestar’s body. It smashes him against the sides of the trapdoor repeatedly until enough bones are shattered for him to fold in half and squeeze through. Between smashes, Skite dives backward. He drops the candle through the grate. He watches the flame get very small before puffing out.
The trapdoor, this high up, lets a touch of dawn glitter on the falling plaster. Like snow, Skite thinks. He hears an awful screech. At first he thinks the creature made it, then he realizes it’s a female voice, terror, agony, and confusion compressed into a single withering note. The light vanishes as the creature pushes through the trapdoor again. The screech is damped.
Skite puts one knee forward. He has to move. He slides his hand along the iron. He moves his knee. The creature snaps at him, and its snout knocks him half off. He hangs in the darkness, swinging his legs, trying to find the catwalk with his foot.
The creature watches him.
Skite’s foot catches the catwalk. He pulls himself back up. He crawls halfway to the stairs. Somehow he can see in the dark. He’s almost there.
The creature hammers its head against the ladder. The shock cascades through the iron to the catwalk, dislodging Skite’s hand. The creature’s breath sounds like a chuckle. It hammers the ladder and bounces Skite off again. He dangles, twisting, by one hand. He reaches for the catwalk. His fingertips graze the iron. It’s always rougher than it looks, he thinks. The creature hammers one more time. The iron buzzes, his fingers leap off it as if stung, and he falls.
CHAPTER TEN
The Tower
1
* * *
The city gates open at six hours. Farmers from the garden villages with wagons full of produce, caravans from other cities, and traders on foot and horseback start to line up before sunrise, hoping to get a jump on the competition. They’re usually met by carts selling okono and coffee, and a squad of Hanoshi Town guards who keep the peace and a portion of everyone’s wares.
Workers normally appear just before the gates open, but today they’ve already formed a column of their own, five shoulders wide, longer than usual and so unruly that several platoons from the camp march along either side with tower shields to contain them. Many want to attack Ayden, and they cheer as soldiers drag away those who say they don’t. When some of the silent are also taken away, the rest become more vocal supporters as a matter of disguise.
The traders bet on who will be pulled out of line next while others laugh that they might as well be betting on raindrops wandering down a window. When one decides this might not be the best day to trade in the city and turns out of the line, the soldiers descend on him, yank him from his horse as a possible spy, and arrest him. Before the town guards can confiscate his bags and mount, the soldiers take that as well. From that point on the traders express their hope for a speedy victory.
A quarter hour before six Rego emerges from an interior tower with a Sergeant Pashing and two soldiers, who carry a blue chest between them. In the gate plaza they link up with the other ten men in Pashing’s squad. Like the two bearers, they wear brass helms, plain cuirasses, bracers and greaves, and their tower shields create a wall around a horse-drawn cart. Two turn their shields like a double door, and the chest is put in the bed of the cart. Rego checks the lock again and tries not to touch the pocket where he put the key.
Then he confers with the gate sergeant, who’s inspecting his own squads. The sergeant says his men have noted who should be let in and who should not. Rego doesn’t want any trouble he doesn’t expect.
Birming runs up. The sergeant is in uniform now, that of a supply master, but it’s as rumpled as his ashen face. He looks more exhausted than Rego. Pashing is disgusted, but Rego sees no point in chewing him out.