The discovery gave them new heart. They organized themselves quickly, abandoning the now-useless basket and taking only the candle, tinderbox, and the bottle with their dwindling supply of water. The crevice was so narrow that Zanna was forced to turn sideways to squeeze through at all, and according to her father the drain beyond was narrower still. Though she did not want to, Vannor insisted that she go first, and she knew, with a sinking feeling of dread, that he was afraid of getting stuck and blocking the way out for her. “Look, lass, be sensible,” he told her when she tried to argue. “If worst comes to worst, at least you’ll be able to go and fetch help.”
Zanna could only look at him helplessly, lost for words. If he should be trapped, how would she find her way out through the sewers—and for that matter, whom did she know in the city who could, or would, come back and help her father—even supposing she’d be able to find him again? Vannor, however, would brook no refusal, so she had no choice but to force herself through the narrow crack, holding her breath as much as possible against the stench that drifted up from the drain beyond.
The journey through the sloping conduit proved a nightmare beyond Zanna’s worst imaginings. It was such a tight fit that only the nameless slime that coated the inside of the pipe helped her to squeeze through, and she could only manage to make any headway at all by inching herself along by her fingernails and pushing with her toes. To make matters worse, it was pitch-black inside, for it was far too damp and drafty to keep a candle alight. When the narrow pipe bent to the side at an angle, Zanna simply wanted to lay her head down on her aching, outstretched arms and howl with frustration—but she gritted her teeth and reminded herself that when her dad had been hiding out there with the rebels, Parric the cavalrymaster had used this route regularly. Well, if he could do it, so could she. She gritted her teeth, bent her tortured spine until she thought it would snap—and pushed…
Suddenly she felt herself sliding, faster and faster, and shot out of the drain mouth, skinning her elbows and scraping her shins on the edge of the pipe. Zanna lay for a moment, breathless, then burst into sobs of relief—that ended just as quickly as they had begun when she remembered her father. Only now, after she had made the terrible journey herself, did she truly realize what a trial it would be for her dad. Only the fact that the stocky Vannor had lost a good deal of flesh during his imprisonment with the Magefolk might even give him the slightest chance of squeezing through, but he had only the one good hand to pull himself along… He would never do it! Her heart beating fast with fear, Zanna found the mouth of the drain by dint of feverish groping in the darkness. She put her ear to it and listened. Echoing hollowly down the pipe came the sound of muffled grunts and curses. For a time Zanna listened in wretched silence, understanding the difficulties her father was experiencing and not wanting to distract him. Eventually, though, she could bear the waiting no longer. He should be out by now. Something must have gone wrong. When even the cursing stopped, she could bear it no longer. “Dad?” she ventured hesitantly, her voice quavering with impending panic. “Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m bloody not!” Then Vannor seemed to collect himself. “Sorry, lass. I’m having a bit of a problem here, where the pipe bends…”
Though he was trying to sound optimistic, Zanna could hear the harshness of strain in his voice. Nonetheless, she found his response not entirely discouraging. As long as he still had the energy to curse, all was not lost. “Listen,” she told him. “You’ve reached the hardest part now. After that it’s easy. If you can just angle yourself round that corner—”
“If wishes were diamonds,” Vannor snapped, “you’d be the richest heiress in Nexis now. I just can’t seem to get any kind of a purchase on this blasted slime.”
Not all the diamonds in Nexis—in fact, nothing in the whole of creation would have induced Zanna to go back into that drain. Nothing—save her love for her father. “Hold on, Dad—I’m coming…” Without hesitation, Zanna wriggled back into the pipe.
“Don’t you dare, girl! Damn it—don’t be so bloody stupid! You get out of here. Save yourself!”
Zanna let him bellow. In truth, she had no breath for a reply. Getting back up the sloping part of the drain was far more difficult than sliding down it. Again and again she lost her hold through pure weariness, and slid back to the bottom. Again and again she picked herself up, swore heartily, and started the climb again. And at last the miracle happened. Her groping fingers touched the cold, clammy flesh of an outstretched hand that twitched weakly in her grasp.
Vannor’s protests had long since ceased. Zanna had been praying that he was all right, but had little breath to spare for talk. “When I say the word,” she gasped, “try to bend yourself around that corner.”
“What… what the…”
“Now!” Zanna cried. Grabbing her dad’s wrists in both hands, she deliberately relaxed the bracing pressure of her legs and feet and let herself dangle, with all her weight hanging from her father’s arm. There was a startled yell from Vannor—and suddenly Zanna found herself sliding, faster and faster, hurtling down the pipe at a far greater speed than she had previously managed. She shot out of the drain like a cork from a bottle with her father on top of her, flailing his arms and legs, yelling fit to wake the dead, and knocking all the breath from her body with his weight. Though it was still pitch-dark in the tunnels, exploding lights shot across Zanna’s vision, and for a moment she knew no more.
“Seven bloody demons, girl—don’t you ever try a trick like that again! You might have broken your neck!” These were the first words that penetrated Zanna’s inner darkness. Vannor was cradling her in his arms.
“But I didn’t, did I?” she rallied pertly, wanting nothing more than to erase that ragged note of fear from her father’s voice.
“No,” Vannor muttered, “but the next time you scare me like that, you little wretch, I’ll break it for you.” Then he laughed, and hugged her. “Are you all right, lass? By the gods, but Dulsina was right when she kept saying how much you take after me. Your methods might be a bit extreme, but you saved my life then and no mistake! I thought I would be stuck in that pipe for good…”
After a time they collected themselves, and managed to find the candle again. It was much battered and cracked from having been fallen on, but the wick was holding it together, and it was still quite usable. In the light of the burgeoning flame Vannor and his daughter scarcely recognized one another, so begrimed were they from the slimy innards of the pipe. The candle also lit up the rusting stubs of the inspection ladder that would be their next challenge. They looked at one another, sighed, and climbed painfully to their feet to start again.
Though Vannor had to climb one-handed, which presented several dangerous moments, the ladder proved far less difficult than the pipe had been. Soon they squeezed up through another drain—mercifully, a very short one this time—and found themselves in the sewers at last. The very familiarity of his old haunts seemed to restore Vannor’s energy and spirits, though, like his daughter, he was staggering with fatigue. He stood on the narrow, slippery ledge that overlooked the noisome channel, and took a deep breath—Zanna wondered how he could, the smell was so bad—looking around the dank, squalid, and rat-infested tunnel with the proprietary air of a landowner surveying his domain. For the first time during the whole of their escape, he looked genuinely cheerful. “At last,” he sighed. “A home away from home. Now we’ll be all right.”
Zanna was glad that one of them felt confident.
“What in blazes do you mean, he’s gone?” the Archmage thundered. “How did this happen?” He crashed his fists down on the table, and the gems that were his eyes flared with a fiery crimson light. The very air of the chamber seemed to ignite and throb beneath the burden of his rage. The Captain of the Academy Guard, big man and experienced campaigner though he was, blanched and trembled, and the wretched little scar-faced man who’d been guarding Vannor’s chamber the night before looked nothing like a killer now. Cringing in terror, he was trying unsuccessfully to edge himself behind the impassive figure of the Weather-Mage.