17
GATE RUNNING

Tamír the Great’s builders had laid down the sewers of Rhíminee before a single building was constructed, thereby sparing the new capital the unpleasant and often unhealthy filth common to most large cities. So extensive was it, and so often modified and enlarged to accommodate the growth of the city over five centuries, that now only the Scavenger Guild knew the full extent of it. Even among the Scavengers, most knew only the section that they maintained, and they guarded their knowledge jealously.

Alec and Seregil waited until the second watch of the night before making their way to the southern ward of the city. Though armed, they went cautiously, fading silently into alleys or doorways whenever a Watch patrol happened by.

The entrance they’d targeted was located in a small square behind a block of tenements by the south wall of the city. Half-covered by an unkempt clump of mulberry bushes, the low, iron-strapped door was set into the wall itself. The small grate near the top of it reminded Alec uncomfortably of a prison door, but he kept this to himself as they set down the torches and pry bars they’d brought with them.

He stood behind Seregil and held his cloak out with both hands to hide the light of his companion’s lightwand. Kneeling in front of the door, Seregil probed the keyhole with a hooked pick, soon producing a succession of grating clicks. The door swung in on blackness. Gathering their gear again, they slipped inside.

Alec tacked a square of heavy felt over the grate, then looked around the little entrance chamber. In front of them, stone steps led downward through an arched passage and out of sight. The faint stench already permeating the air left no doubt they were in the right place.

“Here, we’d better put these on now.” Seregil pulled vinegar-soaked face rags from a leather pouch and handed one to Alec. Leaving their cumbersome cloaks, they lit their torches with a firechip and started down, Seregil in the lead.

“Why did they build it so big?” Alec whispered; the arched passage was nearly ten feet high.

“For safety. The poisonous humours that can collect down here rise. The theory is that this design lets them collect overhead, with good air below. Keep an eye on the torches, though; if they burn blue or gutter, the air’s bad.”

The stairway led down to a tunnel below. Narrow walkways bordered a central channel, full to the brim now with a swift, evil-smelling stream.

Turning to the right, they followed the tunnel for several hundred feet. The recent rains had swelled the flow, and it had overflowed whole sections of the raised walkway, forcing them to wade ankle deep in the foul, frigid waters.

Suddenly they heard high-pitched growling and squeaking coming from the darkness ahead. Seregil edged forward, torch held high, until they came to an iron grate fixed across the width of the tunnel.

The lower ends of the vertical bars extended down into the channel and the body of a small dog was caught against them, held there by the pressure of the stream as it flowed through. Dozens of fat, snarling rats swarmed over the carcass, tearing at it and each other. Others paddled down the channel toward the feast or perched on the crosspieces of the grate. They paid little attention to the human interlopers as they fed, beady eyes glaring red in the torchlight.

“This one is gated,” whispered Seregil, driving off the closest rats with the burning torch. “It’s locked up, but it’s nothing we can’t manage. Want to do the honors?”

“Go ahead,” Alec rasped, not wanting to have to squeeze past his companion in such a narrow place.

Jiggering the lock, Seregil swung back a narrow section of grate on protesting hinges and stepped through, Alec close on his heels.

There were more rats beyond, rats everywhere. The chuckle of the flowing water and the sounds of the rats echoed in the silence as they paused at a sort of crossroads where another channel flowed into the one they were following. Leaping the four feet to the other side, they continued on to a second hinged grate. Beyond this the way began to slope downhill noticeably.

No other tunnels intersected theirs and finally they came to a fixed grate. The ironwork was new and of the same design Alec had seen at the work site. The broad flanges set at the four corners of the grate rested against stone knees jutting from the walls of the tunnel and were held in place by thick iron pins set in holes drilled into the stone.

“Here we are,” Seregil whispered, setting down his bundle. “Light your torch from mine and go check that side.”

“What are we looking for, exactly?”

“I don’t know, so be thorough. It could be some fault in the iron or the stone.”

Alec jumped across the channel and began his examination of the ironwork, looking first for something as obvious as bars sawn through. They seemed sound enough, however. The sockets for the pins had been sealed with rivets hammered in hot and the lower flanges, which bore the weight of the grate, rested solidly against the stone knees.

“Let’s try moving it,” said Seregil.

Grasping two crosspieces, they braced their shoulders against the bars and lifted. The grate lifted an inch or two.

“Push!” Seregil grunted, shaking his side of it.

But the grate was solidly held in place by the pins. Giving up, they let it fall back into place with a dull clank.

“I thought maybe he’d sawn off the lower pins,” Seregil panted, flexing his arms. “I guess not.”

“It did move, though.” Alec squinted up at the flanges overhead. It was impossible to see anything from this angle, so he climbed the crossbars for a closer inspection, torch in hand.

•  •  •

Across the channel, Seregil was about to do the same, but his torch was burning low. Pulling a fresh one from his belt, he paused to light it from the old one. “See anything?”

“There’s nearly three inches of pin exposed up here,” Alec replied, clinging one-handed to the top of the bars.

“I’m no expert, but that seems like a lot. How does it look?”

“Like a metal pin.” Alec held his torch closer. “No marks or cuts. Hold on. Hey, it’s melting like wax and there’s—”

“Be careful!”

Searing white sparks erupted inches from Alec’s face with an angry spitting sound. With a startled cry, he dropped his torch and threw an arm across his face.

“Alec! Alec, get down,” Seregil yelled.

Alec crouched awkwardly, one leg jammed between the bars. Overhead, sparks still rained down from the sizzling corona of light.

Dark spots danced in front of Seregil’s eyes as he launched himself across the channel. Grabbing Alec, he dragged him to the floor and tried to roll him onto his belly to smother the smoldering patches on his tunic.

“My eyes!” Alec gasped, struggling away in pain and confusion.

“Hold still,” Seregil began, but Alec’s foot found sudden purchase against the wall and, with a final lurch, he toppled Seregil backward into the icy channel.

Fortunately, Seregil had the presence of mind to clamp his mouth shut as he went under. For a horrifying second he tumbled helplessly against the side of the channel, unable to find the bottom with his feet. Fetching up against the grate, he righted himself and used the crossbars to pull himself back onto the walkway.

Sputtering and retching, he grasped Alec by the back of the tunic and hauled him out of range of the sparks, then held him forcibly still while the white light faded slowly to a small orange glow. One torch still burned, and by it he could see the thin pall of smoke curling lazily near the roof.

Alec groaned again, hands pressed over his face. Fearing the worst, Seregil dug the lightwand from his sodden tool roll and pulled the boy’s hands away to inspect the damage.

Alec’s hair and the vinegar mask had protected most of his face from the sparks, but half a dozen tiny blisters were already bubbling up on the backs of his hands. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he turned his head from the light.

“Can you see anything?” Seregil asked anxiously.

“I’m beginning to.” Alec pressed one sleeve across his eyes, then blinked. “Why are you wet?” A look of shocked realization slowly spread across his face. “Oh, no. Oh, Seregil, I’m sorry!”

Seregil managed a tight grin, trying hard not to think about the water dripping down his face toward his mouth.

“What was that light?” Alec asked.

“I don’t know.” Going back to the grate, he climbed up to inspect the damage. “The pin is burned completely away, stonework cracked from the heat, top of the flange warped. And whatever it was, it must work on the other side, too, or you still couldn’t move the grate.”

Jumping the channel, he gripped the handle of the lightwand between his teeth and climbed up to inspect the upper corner.

“Tell me again what you saw.”

Still blinking, Alec came across and picked up the torch. “I held the flame close to the pin, trying to see if it had been cut. It must have been the heat, because the surface of the pin began to melt and run like wax. I think I saw something white underneath, just before it flared up the way it did.”

Craning his neck cautiously, Seregil found several inches of exposed pin between the flange and the stonework above. Using the tip of his dagger, he scraped gently at the surface of the pin. Curls of some black, waxy substance shaved off easily, revealing a white layer below.

“You were right. A band of silvery white metal has been set into the pin.”

The white substance cut easily as lead. Extracting a tiny sliver, he handed it down to Alec on the tip of his blade. “Put it on the floor and light it.”

Alec set the sliver gingerly on the floor and, standing well back, held the torch to it. It burst at once into a brief, sputtering blaze of light that left black burns on the stone.

Alec let out a low whistle. “Bilairy’s Balls, I think we found what we’re looking for.”

“There must be enough iron in the center of the pin to strengthen it, but this stuff burns right through it.”

“Is it magic?”

Seregil cut away another small sample of the white substance. “Maybe. I’ve never seen anything like it, but Nysander might know.”

Seregil placed the shavings carefully in the little ceramic jar he’d carried the firechip in, then handed it down to Alec.

“I sure made a mess of that corner,” Alec said, casting a worried look at the blackened stonework.

“True.” Seregil climbed down to join him. “Our saboteurs are bound to come checking sooner or later and even if they don’t, there are the Scavengers to consider. We’d better get Nysander down here, or Thero.”

Alec’s sight slowly returned to normal as they cleaned up the site as best they could and started back.

“What about the locks?” he asked, reaching the first of the gated barriers.

“Best leave ’em as we found ’em,” Seregil replied. “I’ll scout ahead to the next one. You catch up.”

The lock was rusty; swearing softly under his breath, Alec ground a pick against the wards until something dropped into place.

Seregil was out of sight beyond a bend in the tunnel by then. Anxious to leave the rats and echoing dampness behind, Alec hurried after him.

He’d just caught sight of him ahead near the intersection of channels when Seregil suddenly collapsed sideways into the water with a startled grunt. The torch he’d been carrying hung precariously over the edge and by its light Alec saw two ragged, hooded figures jump out from the side tunnel, cudgels raised as they reached for Seregil’s floating form.

Without stopping to think, Alec let out a yell, drew his sword, and charged.

The gaterunners were caught by surprise, but the one closest to Alec got a long club up in time to block the first downward slash. Alec jumped back a pace and braced, ready to fight.

The narrowness of the walkway kept the fight to a one against one affair, but it also severely restricted the range of Alec’s swings. His opponents were more accustomed to such conditions. The second quickly jumped across the channel to outflank him from behind. Alec did the same, keeping his face toward them. He couldn’t see Seregil anywhere.

The current must have swept him back the way we came, he thought, and for a sickening instant he pictured the dog’s carcass and its attendant rats trapped against the lower bars of a grate. The gaterunners didn’t allow him time to dwell on the image, however. The one on his side of the channel was advancing, cudgel at the ready. From the corner of his eye, Alec saw the other reaching into his tattered tunic for something, presumably a knife or dart. Suddenly, however, the runner slumped against the wall with a high-pitched wail, clutching at a throwing knife protruding from his shoulder.

“Hammil!” the one facing Alec cried out, and he realized it was a woman.

“Let’s not anyone be stupid,” said a familiar voice from the shadows downstream.

Alec and the woman both turned in time to see Seregil step into sight on the far side. He was wetter than ever but held a second dagger at the ready as he walked slowly toward the wounded runner. The boy scuttled weakly back, still clutching his arm.

“We don’t mean any harm here,” Seregil said calmly, motioning for Alec to back slowly away.

The woman pushed her hood back, showing a harsh, deeply lined face. “Get away from my boy,” she growled, shaking her club threateningly in Alec’s direction.

“You started this. What do you want?” asked Seregil, stopping a few paces from the boy, dagger in hand.

“Nothin’,” the woman replied. “You’s just strangers is all, and strangers is getting to be a hazard down here. We’ve lost friends to strangers down here lately.”

Seregil sheathed his knife. Bending over the fallen boy, he examined the wound, then pulled the small throwing blade out. “It’s not too bad a cut,” he told the woman over his shoulder. “You’re lucky my aim was off.”

“I’m alright, Ma,” the young gaterunner gasped, cringing away from Seregil. By the dying light of the torch, Alec saw that he was younger than himself. He could also make out a thin ribbon of blood running down Seregil’s right cheek.

“You all right?” Seregil called over.

“Yes. Are you?”

Seregil nodded, then stepped over the wounded boy and addressed his mother again. “I’ll leave yours if you’ll leave mine,” he told her, holding his hands out palm up.

Without a word, she sprang across, grabbed the boy up, and hurried him away into the shadows.

Alec crossed over and reached to inspect the cut on Seregil’s scalp. “That’s quite a lump she raised.”

“Serves me right,” he muttered through chattering teeth. “Illior’s Fingers! Jumped by a pair of gaterunners. If the cold water hadn’t brought me around I’d have drowned.”

“I’m glad you didn’t kill him. He couldn’t have been more than twelve.”

Seregil braced one arm against the wall and let out a long sigh. “Me, too. It’s strange for them to have attacked in the first place. Runners are usually a pretty elusive lot. They steal and spy, but they generally avoid a fight.”

Frowning, Alec pulled off his face rag and pressed it to the cut on Seregil’s head. “Are you sure you’re all right? You’re looking kind of shaky.”

Seregil closed his eyes for a moment, resting one hand on Alec’s shoulder. Then, taking the cloth from him, he held it himself and continued on down the tunnel. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I’ve had all the swimming I care for tonight.”

They reached the upper entrance behind the mulberry bushes without incident, but the combined effects of cold and the blow were beginning to take their toll on Seregil.

“You go for Nysander,” he said, shivering even with his dry cloak pulled tightly around him. “I’d better stay and make sure no one tumbles to our little adventure in the meantime.”

To his surprise, Alec balked.

“No, you go,” he stated flatly. “Your head is still bleeding and I can hear your teeth chattering from here.”

“I’ll survive,” Seregil retorted. “I don’t want you here alone. What if someone does show up?”

“All the more reason for you to hurry,” Alec said stubbornly. “I’ll stay out of sight—they’ll never know I’m here. You’re the one needs looking after. Go on!”

Seregil could tell by the set of Alec’s jaw that his mind was made up. Cutting a small strip from the hem of his cloak, he handed it to Alec “Hang on to this. Nysander can use it to find you. And keep out of sight no matter what, understand? No heroics.”

“No heroics.”

Seregil let out a defeated sigh. “If I’m not back soon, you get back to the Orëska, understand?”

“All right, yes! Will you just go? I don’t want to be here all night.” Pulling up his hood, Alec melted back into the shadows.

The pounding in Seregil’s head worsened as he dashed through the darkened streets toward the Orëska, but he managed to ignore the pain by worrying about Alec instead. Despite his faith in the boy’s quick wits, he couldn’t seem to shake off visions of Alec being caught unawares by the Watch or stealthy spies returning to check their handiwork.

Arriving at the Orëska filthy, wet, and bloody, he argued his way past the watchman and hurried up the twisting stairs to Nysander’s tower.

Thero opened the door and recoiled, covering his nose with one full sleeve. “By the Four!” he gagged, blocking the doorway. “You smell like you just crawled out of the sewers.”

“Very observant of you. Get out of my way.”

“You’re not coming in here like that. Go down to the baths first.”

“I don’t have time for this, Thero. Now move or I’ll move you.”

The two glared at each other, years of mutual dislike laid open between them without the gloss of banter or social nicety. Either could have done the other considerable harm if it came to open confrontation, and they both knew it.

“Alec’s alone out there, and we need Nysander’s help,” hissed Seregil.

With a last disgusted look, Thero stepped aside and let him through to the workroom. “He’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“Out for his nightly walk, I imagine,” Thero replied stiffly. “Or perhaps you’ve forgotten about those?”

“Then summon him!” Seregil paused, took a deep breath, and said through clenched teeth, “If you please.”

Thero conjured a message sphere with a casual wave of his hand. Balancing the tiny light over his palm, he said to it, “Nysander, Seregil needs you right away. He’s in the workroom.” The light shot away through the floor. He waved Seregil to a wooden bench near one of the tables, but remained standing himself.

The young wizard was immaculate as ever, Seregil noted sourly, his robe spotless beneath his leather apron, his curly black hair and beard neatly trimmed, blunt-fingered hands unsullied. The thought that he’d inhabited that angular frame himself, if briefly, still made him cringe inwardly. That Thero had had the use of his body didn’t bear thinking about.

“You’re bleeding,” Thero said at last, stepping reluctantly toward him. “I’d better have a look.”

Seregil drew back from his touch. “It’s just a scratch.”

“You have a lump the size of an egg over your ear and fresh blood on your cheek,” Thero snapped. “What do you think Nysander would say if I let you sit there like that?”

Wethis, the young servant, brought clean water and dressings and Thero set about cleaning the wound.

Nysander returned just as he was finishing.

“What an unprecedented tableau,” the wizard exclaimed, hurrying in between the stacks of manuscripts. He was dressed in a threadbare surcoat and trousers. Seregil noted with a twinge of pride how kind and unwizardly his old friend looked in comparison to his stiff assistant.

“By the Light, Seregil, what an appalling stench! When you have finished there, Thero, please go and find him a clean robe.”

Folding the bloodied towel next to the basin, Thero disappeared down the back stairway to their quarters.

Nysander smiled, examining his assistant’s handiwork. “He does surprise me sometimes. But where is Alec?”

“Take this.” Seregil pulled out another scrap of cloth he’d cut from his cloak and pressed it into Nysander’s hand. “We found what we were looking for, sabotage in the tunnels, but made one hell of a mess doing it. I need you to fix it up for us. Alec’s waiting by the entrance, so we’d better hurry.”

Nysander shook his head. “Yes, of course, but I see no reason to drag you out again. You are still chilled to the bone, and a translocation would not be the best thing for you after such a knock on the head.”

Seregil rose to protest and was very surprised to feel the floor lurch beneath his feet in a decidedly unpleasant manner.

“There now, you see?” Nysander chided, pressing him back down on the bench. “You go downstairs and sit by the fire. Alec can show me whatever it is I need to see.”

“1 can’t just sit here,” Seregil insisted again, though his head was still spinning. “We ran into one pair of gaterunners down there already tonight. There could be others, or worse.”

Nysander raised a shaggy eyebrow at him. “Are you suggesting that Alec would not be safe in my company?”

Seregil sank his head in his hands as Thero reappeared with clean garments over his arm.

“I leave Seregil in your able care,” Nysander told him. “I suggest a cup of hot wine and, by all or any means necessary, a bath.” Clasping the scrap of woolen cloth Seregil had given him, he traced a series of designs on the air and disappeared into the wide black aperture that opened briefly beside him.

When Nysander opened his eyes again, he was in a small deserted square.

“There you are,” whispered Alec, crawling out from behind a clump of leafless bushes. “Is Seregil all right?”

“Yes, just a bit dizzy. He says you have something to show me.”

“Something we need fixed,” the boy replied with a familiar grin. “Follow me.”

This was the first time he’d actually seen Alec at work, and he was impressed with his quickness and efficiency.

“My, but Seregil has been busy with you!” Nysander remarked as Alec let him through the second gate.

“Ruint me for honest work, he ’as,” Alec replied, making a passable stab at a dockman’s accent. “It’s not far now.”

Reaching the damaged grate, Nysander climbed up to inspect the damaged stone and ironwork, then moved across to see the intact corner.

“I see,” he murmured to himself, peering closely at the remaining pin. “Most ingenious. And ingenious of you to have discovered it. Yes, I am quite satisfied. Well done.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Can I fix it?” Nysander snorted, climbing down again. Grasping the bars with both hands, he closed his eyes and listened to the voice of the cold iron. Letting his own energy pass into it through his hands, he visualized the metal, felt it stir under his hands.

•  •  •

Standing beside him, Alec felt a powerful ripple pass through the rank air. There were no flashes of light or magical signs, just the brief scrape and whine of metal. For a moment it seemed to Alec that the metal came alive, like a plant, growing and moving as it healed.

Looking up, he saw that the damaged corner now looked as it had before. “Illior’s Light!” he gasped, hardly able to believe his eyes.

Nysander laughed. “I hope you did not expect me to come down here with a hammer and anvil.” Opening his hand, he showed Alec a long iron pin. It was scored along its length where it had been driven through the flange and blackened from forging, except where the white metallic substance showed through near one end.

Without a word Alec scaled the left side of the grate to find a solid pin in its place.

“That’s amazing,” he exclaimed, tapping the iron with his knife blade.

Nysander shrugged. “It is only magic.”

Seregil grudgingly accepted the willow bark infusion Thero prepared, then went down to the baths. As soon as he was clean and dressed, however, he returned to the workroom and refused to be moved, despite Thero’s obvious desire that he wait elsewhere.

Anxious and impatient, Seregil prowled the crowded room, fiddling with bits of delicate apparatus.

“Give me that!” Thero snapped, snatching away a cluster of fluid-filled glass spheres. “Drop that and we’ll be up to our eyes in swamp sprites. If you won’t go downstairs then for Illior’s sake, sit down.”

“I know what it is.” Scowling, Seregil climbed the stairway to the catwalk overhead and stared out through the thick glass panes of the dome, watching the movement of lights below.

By the time Nysander and Alec materialized neatly in the center of the room, it would have been difficult to say which of the two looked more relieved.

“There you are!” Seregil exclaimed, bounding down. “Any trouble?”

“No, everything looks as good as new,” Alec told him, grinning.

“Shall I fetch fresh clothing?” Thero inquired, wrinkling his nose again.

“Yes, in a moment,” said Nysander. “First, however, I must congratulate our two able spies on a most valuable find.” He shook the iron pin from his sleeve. “I will keep this for now. Seregil, Alec tells me you took a sample of this curious white material?”

Seregil held up the small container. “Right here. Want to see it work?”

“Yes, but not here, I think. Too many flammable items.” Taking a crucible from a nearby shelf, he ushered them into the casting room.

Placing a few of the white shavings in the crucible, Nysander set it on the floor and touched a candle flame to its contents. A small fountain of white sparks flew up and scattered across the floor.

“Incredible!” murmured Thero, nudging the remaining shavings about with a small glass wand.

Seregil watched him surreptitiously, recognizing the sudden light of enthusiasm in those pale eyes. At such moments he could almost see what maintained Nysander’s hopes for the young man—the keen and wondering mind that underlay Thero’s cold facade.

“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” Thero asked, turning to Nysander.

The older wizard lit another fragment, then sniffed at the smoke left behind. “It’s a sort of incendiary metal, I believe. It’s called Sakor’s Bite or Sakor’s Fire for obvious reasons. Very, very rare but”—Nysander paused to raise one bushy eyebrow at Seregil—“found in greater quantities in certain regions of Plenimar.”

Seregil exchanged knowing grins with Alec. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a decent bit of work at last.”