I
I
“Parric, it’s me—Sangra! Gods forgive us, they said you were dead! Put that stupid knife away, so I can hug you.”
The emotion in her voice was too intense to be feigned, and Parric felt a surge of joy. Sangra was an old, old friend—a big, rowdy, rawboned girl with assets that no fighting vest could contain. Ah, the tumbles they had had in happier days! Grinning, Parric lowered the knife, and managed to get in a quick grope before she turned to face him.
“Now I bloody know it’s you!” There were tears and laughter in her voice as her arms went around him with a force that made his ribs creak as they hugged, oblivious to the filth that coated them both.
“Sangra, what’s going on?” Parric disengaged himself reluctantly.
“The baker’s son betrayed you—or Vannor, at least. We had no idea that you were down here. Parric, are any of the others with you?”
“Yes. Quite a few.”
“Gods! I’ve got to warn our folk! We won’t fight our own!”
“That’s my girl! Come on—quick!”
The troops from the Garrison had Vannor’s little force penned into a cul-de-sac, and the fighting was fierce. The soldiers had brought torches, but most had been extinguished in the battle, and in the half darkness it was difficult to tell friend from foe. Sangra knew, however. She and Parric joined the melee from the rear and plunged into the fray. Parric, with his small stature, found itrcasy to worm his way through the press of fighters. His methods were straightforward. Anyone he recognized, he spared. Any stranger felt the bite of his knife. Sangra, in the meantime, was circulating, pausing to whisper to any of Forral’s old troops that she came across. The change in them was immediate. Relief and joy shining on their faces, they turned their weapons on Angos’s vicious mercenaries.
It was over very quickly. Vannor’s rebels, freed from the pressure of the fight, were able to take the offensive, and the mercenaries found themselves under attack from both sides. Parric managed to break through to the merchant, to explain what had happened, and before very long, joyous reunions were taking place between the members of Forral’s old band, over the bodies of the mercenary dead.
If Vannor looked bewildered to discover that his little force had doubled to some fifty-odd troops, he took it in stride, and when Parric introduced Sangra, he greeted her with the utmost courtesy, manfully ignoring the fact that she and the Cavalrymaster were in an appalling state after their immersion in the sewer.
“If we’d known you were all down here,” Sangra apologized, “we would have joined you. We’ve had an awful time up there since Angos brought his mercenaries in to augment our forces. But we felt we had to stay. We thought Forral would expect it, because of our Oath of Loyalty to the city, and because we wanted to protect the people from the worst deprada-tions of Angos and the Magefolk.” She looked at Parric. “What do we do now? Angos is waiting with more soldiers at the mouth of the drain, and now he knows you’re here, we daren’t stay.”
“Go north,” a decisive voice broke in. “It shouldn’t be difficult to get out of the city—Angos can’t be watching all the drains. The Nightrunners will take us in.”
Vannor grimaced. “Dulsina, will you never stop organizing?”
The tall, dark-haired woman grinned at him. “Not while there’s breath in my body,” she said cheerfully. “Besides, Zanna has been missing you, despite the messages we managed to send. It’s about time you saw your daughter again.”
“Wait a minute!” Parric interrupted. “You know the Nightrunners? Enough to leave your daughter with them?” The Cavalrymaster raised his eyes imploringly. “May the Gods give me strength . . . Those bloody smugglers were a constant thorn in Forral’s side. He drove us all to distraction trying to discover where they were hiding, and you knew all the time!”
Vannor winked. “How do you think I managed to make my fortune?”
Parric burst out laughing. “You villain! You were using them to trade with the Southerners, for gems and silks and stuff, weren’t you?”
“A man has to get ahead somehow.” The merchant shrugged. “Besides, my criminal past is proving useful now. Come on, let’s get going.”
There were few casualties among the rebels. But as they left the storm drains, Parric discovered the body of Tori, floating facedown in the sewer with a knife in his back. He sighed. Miserable as the old man had been, he’d been a good friend to the rebels. Still, it was better this way. At least he would never know that his own son had betrayed him. Or would he? On closer inspection, Parric saw that the knife was not a soldier’s dagger, but a long, saw-edged domestic blade—the sort that a baker might use.
The rebels decided to use the sewers to make their way across the city, then travel downriver to Norberth, following Aurian’s route. Once there, they could contact one of Yanis’s agents, who would arrange a ship to take them to the smugglers’ hideout. It was a nightmare journey. Vannor’s band were used to negotiating the slick walkways, but the new additions had a difficult time of it. Every few minutes, there would be a splash followed by curses, as someone fell into the channel, and had to be rescued. Though the troopers made light of it, Parric was concerned. He knew all too well the chances of losing some of their band to the diseases that proliferated in this place.
As they passed the drain that connected with the Academy catacombs, Parric heaved a sigh of relief. Not much farther now to the outfall and blessed fresh air. He was getting twitchy, bringing up the rear as he was. His instincts, developed over many years, were telling him that he was being followed. Nonsense, he told himself. Angos couldn’t track us through that maze of tunnels! But it was no good. Unable to stand it any longer, he dropped back.
“Got you!” The cloaked figure, though tall, was slimly built, and no warrior. Parric had no trouble subduing him, and at least the fellow seemed to be alone. Then to his astonishment, a series of shrieks came from the muffled figure. Without a doubt, his captive was a woman! He was about to rip the hood aside when he heard the sound of footsteps hurrying too fast for safety on the slimy walkway, and Elewin appeared, carrying a lantern. His face broke into a smile of pure relief at the sight of Parric’s captive.
“Thank the Gods you’ve found her!” Elewin exclaimed.
“Found who?” In the light of the lantern, Parric removed the woman’s hood—and gasped. “Lady Meiriel!”
The Magewoman spat in his face. “Take your hands off me!”
“What’s going on?” Vannor, accompanied by Sangra and Dulsina, came hurrying up. “Parric! We thought we’d lost you—” His eyes widened at the sight of Meiriel. “What’s she doing here?”
“Mind your own business, Mortal!”
“She escaped from the Academy.” The Mage and Elewin spoke simultaneously, then turned to glare at one another.
“You say she escaped?” Vannor’s eyes flicked from Elewin to Meiriel. “Would someone care to explain?”
“It’s simple,” the Healer said coldly. “I couldn’t Heal Miathan’s eyes, so that bitch Eliseth locked me up—”
Parric pounced on her words. “Couldn’t—or wouldn’t?”
Meiriel spared him a haughty glance. “His eyes were utterly destroyed. But even if I could have Healed him, I would not have done it. Not after his creatures murdered my Finbarr!” Her voice was thick with hate. “Anyway, I managed to escape tonight. I followed Elewin, and heard what he told you, about Aurian being alive. I must find her—”
“She’s alive? Why the blazes didn’t you tell me?” Vannor turned on Parric.
“There wasn’t time,” he protested, “with the fight—”
“Fight?” Now it was Elewin’s turn to interrupt.
Vannor nodded. “We’ve been betrayed,” he explained.
“You two must come with us,” Parric put in. “You can’t stay here now, Elewin, and it isn’t safe to leave her behind.”