Brenner jackknifed against his ropes. “Can’t youdosomething?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know, something paladin-y!”
Caliban smiled sourly. “Sure, I can take your confession and grant you absolution so you die with a clean conscience.”
“Very funny.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
Step…step…step…lurch…step…
“I’m not confessing anything toyou.”
“Suit yourself.” He wasn’t entirely sure he could have done it anyway—the Dreaming God had broad definitions of what constituted confession, but Caliban really didn’t want to die listening to a recitation of the assassin’s sins.
The door to the earthlodge opened.
Rune filed in behind the rats. Foreshortened as his view was, Caliban could only see their faces and the heavy antlers of the males, rising like winter trees above their brows. Firelight painted lurid orange across their green cheekbones.
After a moment, he realized that they were moving in time to the music as well. They were not as awkward as the rats—theyfroze, ears upswept, at the missed beats, instead of stumbling—but it was the same dance.
Whatever’s got the rats has them, too.
“Brenner?”
“Yeah?”
“If you’ve got a knife stashed anywhere, this might be a good time.”
“I don’t. If I did, I’d have used it by now.”
“Sorry.”
“Might even have cut you loose, too.”
“You’re too kind.”
One of the rune, a stag-man taller than Caliban, stepped down into the circle. The rats parted before him then danced back together to fill the space.
The rune lifted a knife. His antlers were wrapped with beads. Black and white feathers and bits of bone swung as he knelt down behind the knight.
Dreaming God, I commend my soul into your hands, assuming you still want it—
The ropes between his feet were cut. Caliban sagged, partially from relief and partially from the scream of blood back into tormented muscles.
A surprised grunt next to him indicated that Brenner was receiving the same treatment. Then a heavy hand was lifting him up, and Caliban found himself on his knees, the assassin beside him. Their hands were still tied behind them, but just to sit up was an excruciating relief.
The stag-man stood behind them, the knife still in his hand. Caliban looked over his shoulder and saw that alone among therune, the knife-bearer was not moving in time to the music.
A dark figure appeared behind the circle of rats. It walked forward with excruciating slowness, approaching the edge of the circle.
Shaman. Has to be.
The music stopped. The rats dropped simultaneously, as if dead, which many of them already were. A wave of tiny bodies fell at the figure’s feet, a sweeping rodent obeisance. Their bones crunched under the shaman’s hooves.
“NGGHAAAA—!”Caliban’s demon clawed at him, screaming so loudly that the knight bit his tongue to keep from yelling aloud. Blood welled up under his teeth and filled his mouth with salt.
