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"Come on!"

We hurried into the old service passage beneath the kitchens.

The floor sloped toward the river, and the farther we went, the wetter it became. Water collected between the stones, sometimes reaching halfway up my boots. The walls were slick with moisture, and the air smelled of mud and stagnant water.

I'd learned about this passage from a former castle laundress whose knees had finally given out after years of climbing stairs.

She'd been an excellent source of information.

Guy was having trouble keeping up.

At first, I heard the change in his breathing. Then I noticed how carefully he was moving, keeping one arm close to his injured side.

When the passage widened, I raised the lamp and looked at him.

"Don't," he said.

"I haven't said anything."

"You were about to."

"I was about to say you've gone the color of a fish, and if you collapse in this water, I'm not strong enough to carry you."

"Then I'll make certain I don't."

"See that you do."

Behind us, soldiers were searching the upper corridors.

Fortunately, they were checking the routes their officers knew best.

The drainage tunnel branched off to our right, narrowing enough that we had to stoop. At the far end stood an iron grate opening onto the River Leen beneath the curtain wall.

I'd managed to open it once before, during my second year as the Ghost of Sherwood.

It had taken a wrench, considerable effort, and language my grandmother would've been ashamed to hear.

I raised the lamp, and then I swore.

"That's new."

Guy crouched beside me.

"Fitzwalter's been making improvements."

"Well, he has terrible taste."

A heavy chain had been threaded through the bars and secured to a ring bolt in the wall. The lock was a good Flemish one, much better than anything normally used around the castle.

Someone had gone to considerable trouble to make sure this grate stayed shut.

"Can you open it?" Guy asked.

"Give me a moment."

"We may not have a moment."

"Then stop talking and let me work."