I hurried off down the latter and rounded a corner.
A guard in a grey uniform startled, started to salute, then gaped. Her hand dropped to a pistol at her belt.
I slammed my poker into her arm and smashed it immediately back up, at the side of her head. She stumbled, letting out a grunt of pain, and fumbled to draw her sidesword.
I kicked her knee. She went down with a crack of skull against stone and gave a pitiable, drawn-out moan.
I divested her of her weapons—pistol, sword, and shot. Now properly armed, I continued on my way.
Searching the catacombs that night was one of the most distressing experiences of my life, and if luck is with me it will remain unsurpassed. Plagued by worry for Lewis, anxiety over my waning sorcery, and a sickening anger at the situation at large, I wandered. I hid from guards, lost my way and retraced my steps, and engaged in an exceptionally brief but lively duel with a strange gentleman who I kicked into an unoccupied office and trussed behind a desk.
In the midst of this, the ground began to rumble. I disregarded it at first, thinking the quaver the aftereffects of sedation. But the next rumble was more distinct, and dust rained from the ceiling.
I stumbled into a wall and heard, from far up ahead, a chorus of screams and shouts.
I rounded a corner, panting. There, to the sides of a large, circular chamber, were a series of massive cells.
They were packed with men and women from every class, from barefoot beggars to a society lady with a wilting hat perched stubbornly atop her head.
They were crowded against the bars, reaching for and calling to another group of figures dressed as guards. I say dressed as, because they most certainly were not guards. They were attempting to pick the locks, and Emrys Harden was in the thick of them.
“Artha Fucking Thera!” someone roared. A prisoner’sfinger stabbed through the bars towards me, its red-faced wielder practically foaming at the mouth. “That’s her!”
Separatists rushed me.
“I am not—I am not her!” I protested. I brought up my sword and levelled my pistol, backing into the mouth of the corridor. A bullet chipped at the wall next to me and I threw up an arm, barely keeping stone dust from my eyes.
“Mr. Harden!” I shouted. “Mr. Harden!”
Harden’s voice overrode the mayhem, though I could not make out his words. He shouldered through the crowd and pushed someone’s rifle down impatiently.
“Miss Fleet,” he said. “Thought I might see you here.”
The sight of him sent a scurry of ill-fitting feelings through me, but the most prominent one was relief.
“I have the keys,” I said, weapons still raised. I continued to the crowd at large, “I am not your enemy. Mr. Harden, use the keys, but I do need them back.”
Weapons lowered and I tossed the keys to Harden. He briefly left me, unlocking the remaining doors, then returned to me as his people began to organize into small groups and disperse down the passageways. Several brushed past us, offering apologies which I waved at with forced nonchalance.
“You were captured, and have escaped?” Harden observed, looking me over. “Or are you on a rescue mission?”
“Both, I fear. Have you seen Lewis?”
“No, I’ll help you find him.” He glanced over his shoulder at his people and called, “Maggie! I’m off!”
The familiar older woman saluted him.
Gratitude momentarily over whelmed me. I did not resist as Harden gathered me to him with a light touch on the back and we started down the corridor through which I’d come.
“Lead the way,” he prompted. His presence beside me was both steel in my spine and a new ease in my step, a natural consolation that I could not look at too closely.
I smiled at him, a tight but genuine thing. “Thank you.”
He drew his pistol and we set off at a run.
We found the corridor with Lewis’s and my cell by pure happenstance. Running footsteps heralded the approach of guards and we diverted down a narrow staircase, winding down half a dozen steps and twisting into an awkward junction between new walls and old.
I recognized the familiar pattern of grey and red stones and started to run down a fresh corridor. More barred doors. More cells. I glanced into each, resisting the urge to call Lewis’s name.
