Not fond of small, enclosed spaces at the best of times, which this most assuredly was not, he held a picture of Olina in his mind's eye, his hands crushing the ivory column of her perfect throat. The image pulled him forward, teeth gritted, muscles tight. She'd pay for what she'd done to him, and to Gerek, and to Ohrid.
The Ducal sword scraped along the stone as he crawled through a puddle less foul than the rest and smelling faintly of lye. He'd long since lost his bearings in the darkness and the stench but he was sure he'd passed the kitchens, so the laundry had to be close.
Had to be.
A strand of hair stuck to his cheek and he fought the urge to yank free his dagger and hack it off short rather than consider what agent plastered it to his skin.
Up ahead he could see the graying that meant another opening into the drain. Eyes streaming, he scuttled for the circle of dim light and thankfully sat back on his heels trying to work the painful kinks out of his back. The stone was damp and cold under his bruised and filthy legs, but that was all. When he stretched up his arm, he could touch the grate over the opening.
The laundry. The drain ended just beyond it at the cisterns. Moving as quietly as he could, Pjerin unbuckled his swordbelt and rehung the weapon around his waist. Up on one knee, he paused, head cocked to one side, straining to hear any sound from above. Nothing. Not that there would be if Olina waited, bow drawn, for his head to crest the stone.
Rising to a crouch, the steel grid pressed against his shoulders, he straightened bent legs.
Tried to straighten bent legs.
As far as he could remember, there were no bolts. The skin between his shoulder blades crawling with the thought of arrows trained on his back, he shifted position slightly and tried again.
The instant age and rust finally released their hold, he threw up his good arm, toppled the grate, and vaulted stiffly out of the drain. If this began the moment when Olina made her move, he'd have less than a heartbeat's grace to defend himself.
The laundry was empty, cool, and clean. A shuttered window laid only broken bands of light against the smooth stone floor, but he'd been in darkness so long the room seemed brilliant. Water dripped from a loose tap into the massive copper kettle, but no fire burned beneath it and the two huge cedar tubs standing beside it on the platform against the cistern wall were dry.
His sigh of relief nearly choked him with his own stink.
What good secrecy when they could smell him coming in Marienka? Climbing into one of the tubs, he stripped off his shirt and opened the cistern spout, ducking down under the gush of cold water,
"What are you doing?"
Heart pounding, feeling like an idiot, he stood in the laundry tub flourishing the Ducal sword, water slamming against his back and rapidly rising up around his feet. "What am I doing?" he snarled. "What are you doing here?"
Annice clutched at the wooden rim and glared up at him. "This is not the time to be…" Then she gagged and turned away, hand clamped over her mouth. "You're covered in shit."
Somehow he resisted the urge to scream at her. Grabbing up a boarbristle brush, he scrubbed violently at skin, clothes, and hair until he felt flayed and blood dribbled from the edge of the purple scar in the hollow of his shoulder. With as much of the encrusted filth removed as quickly as possible, he slammed the spout closed and clambered out onto the floor.
"All right," he growled, water streaming from breeches and boots and hair and running for the open drain, "let's try this again. What are you doing here? I told you to go back to Bohdan's…"
Her stomach still twisting, Annice sank down on the platform. He hadn't told her to do anything. She'd decided not to attempt the drains. "Stasya needs me."
Stasya. He might have known. "I told you I'd get her out."
"I know. But…"
"But you couldn't wait. Didn't trust me."
"It's not that…"
"What did you do? Just dance in through the gates?" When she nodded, Pjerin's eyes narrowed. "I'm crawling through shit and you just danced in through the gates!?"
"Well, they're not going to recognize me, are they? Not like this! You're the one who had to stay hidden."
"Really? Did you even once think that with you as a hostage Olina can dictate her own terms with the king?"
"Hostage?" Annice looked startled. "What are you talking about?"
"You're a princess, Annice. Even if you, and His Majesty, and the whole unenclosed country have pretended otherwise for the last ten years."
"I'm a bard!" Or was. She tried to swallow, but her throat was too tight.
"And you're the king's sister. And you're carrying my child. Think what Olina could do with that, Annice, think."
It started with her lower lip and then her whole body began to shake. She couldn't stop it. He was right and she was so tired. "I wanted to be there for Stasya."
"She's been down there for six days!" He closed his hands on her shoulders, too angry to hold back. "How long does it take to die of thirst?"
Annice stared up at him, every muscle suddenly rigid. "Shut up."
"No, I wo…"
"SHUT UP!" The words ripped past the constriction in her throat, force of will making up for the ruined delivery. "She's not dead. I know she's not dead. She has her pack. Gerek said she has her pack. Without you, I can't free her. I can't even find her." Tears streaming down her face, she closed her eyes and broke the Command. "You just get her out like you promised, and then you leave us alone."
Cursing his temper, Pjerin reached out and lightly touched her cheek. When she slapped his hand aside, he walked a few steps away and tried to find an apology. If someone he loved were down in that pit, he'd have done the same thing, taken the same stupid risks, refused to believe the worst.
"Annice? I'm sorry."
She shrugged and wiped her nose on her wrist. "I don't care."
He wanted to hold her. He didn't know where the desire came from, but he knew better than to give in to it. "Come on. Let's go rescue Stasya."
Sobbing in frustration, Gerek fought to free his quiver from a tangle of thornbush, his struggles dumping the arrows out onto the ground where they slid further down the steep slope. A deep bleeding scratch across one cheek and several smaller ones up both arms were a painful testimony to the battle, but he refused to give up. His papa would never give up.
Sarline ground her teeth and kicked at an uneven edge of cobblestone in the outer court of the keep. Lukas hadn't been in his chamber, or the kitchens, or the stables and she didn't know where to look next in this great, echoing pile of stone. None of the servers hurrying about their early morning duties had seen him and she trusted none of them enough for a message. The servers in the keep had a personal loyalty to the due that would overcome common sense about the kigh.
Rozyte would have missed her by now, the kids would be up, the cow would be bawling. In another minute, he's on his own with this.
Then she saw him, coming around the corner by the stable yard, hitching up his breeches. Her clogs ringing against the stone, she ran toward him.
"Where have you been?"
Lukas gaped at his cousin in astonishment. Partnered as she was to the old steward's daughter, he hadn't even thought of approaching her with the Lady Olina's plan. "I was having a shit. Why?"
"Pjerin a'Stasiek was in my house last night."
"The due?" Lukas traced the sign of the Circle on his breast. "His spirit came to you?"
"Not his spirit, you idiot, he's alive!" Sarlote grabbed up two handfuls of tunic and shook him, hard. "And he's with a bard! And they're both in the keep right now! If you want the kigh out of Ohrid, you've got to stop them!"