Scorio rubbed at his chin and looked around once more. There, hanging beside the door from a hook, was an iron key. Could it be this easy? Then again, where would be safer to keep a spare key than inside the very room it was meant to open? He took it and examined the head, glanced at the keyhole, then back. It looked like it would fit.
Placing one hand against the door he closed his eyes and pushed forth his aura. Would it work through a door? He’d no idea.
LEAVE, he commanded, the word powerful and undeniable in his mind.
He felt Gold mana burn away within his Heart.
After a moment, the murmur stopped.
Heart pounding, Scorio slipped the key in the lock and twisted. It didn’t turn. He withdrew it, took a steadying breath, then tried again.
KL-THONK.
The hidden bolt slid home. Scorio pulled the door open and slipped into the hallway. It was lit by a familiar burning lantern, the same kind he’d seen throughout the Fiery Shoals.
The hallway was empty.
Scorio quickly relocked the door, then blew out the lantern. He padded down the left and peered around the corner. A long hall led past a number of doorways, half of them open. The sound of industry echoed in the hall, the clink of hammers on metal, voices in low conversation.
Grimacing, Scorio hurried to the other corner and saw that it led straight to a rising stairwell. He hurried up, listening intently, the sound of his pulse roaring in his ears near deafening him.
The stairwell was narrow, the steps tall, and it revolved twice before opening into a new hallway. To continue going up or step out here? For that matter, how was he even getting out of the Shoals?
One step at a time.
He emerged into the hall. It opened up into a large room where two guards were being dressed down by a commander, the rest of a squad watching with surprised amusement.
Scorio didn’t want to go in there, so he backed into the stairwell and climbed around once more.
Only to emerge into familiar territory. Or, more accurately, a familiar smelclass="underline" that mineral, humid tang of the hot baths. He had to be on the third floor down now, the lowest he and his friends had been allowed to visit.
There’d be more people here, but he’d be less likely to be noticed for being where he didn’t belong. Confidence. He emerged from the stairwell, strode past a few open doors, and then stepped out into a broad hallway that he recalled. It bifurcated the floor, with the baths and changing rooms to one side, and storage rooms, offices, and servant quarters on the other.
People were walking to and fro. Some were obviously guests or people of import, voices raised and at ease as they made their way to the bath’s entrance, while others strode with the quick and self-effacing purpose of servants.
Scorio moved down the hallway with his head bowed, heart still pounding, and for a moment he thought the Curse was upon him; he felt dizzy, overwhelmed, the sight of faces making him feel nauseous, furious, dazed.
His shoulder rubbed against one wall. Voices seemed to echo. He needed a plan, a goal, he needed to find a way to board a whale ship or discover how people left on foot.
Moreover, he needed to learn how much time had passed and what had changed in Hell.
Lingering in this hallway would only get him in trouble, however; already he was drawing curious stares from other servants as they bustled by.
Scorio pushed off the wall and strode blindly forward. As long as he looked purposeful, nobody would stop him. He climbed a set of stairs, took a few turns, and found himself within a network of corridors that led past guest quarters. Similar to those he’d stayed in with his friends when they’d first arrived.
One of the suite doors stood open.
Scorio peered within. No personal effects remained, just the remnants of someone’s visit.
Scorio stepped inside, searched the three rooms, and finding nothing of interest, took up a tray of dirty dishes and set back out to find the kitchens.
It was odd, speaking to people. To not growl at them, to force himself to sound polite and reserved. He felt like a raging beast trapped within a paper-thin mask of servility. Mostly. The other servant of whom he asked directions looked almost terrified of him by the end of their brief exchange.
Scorio made his way down to the servants’ quarters. Entered the kitchens, and found them to be a large and steamy domain, filled with cooks, assistants, huge pots, spits of meat, and all manner of industry.
He set the dirty dishes on a broadside table laden with the same, and was promptly ordered to begin scrubbing pots by an iron-haired older lady. Unsure of himself he set to work, unbothered by the searing hot water.
But he soon realized he’d found an ideal location.
By simply tackling the endless pile of dirty silverware, pots, pans, and plates, he was able to overhear endless snippets of fascinating conversation.
And then a harried servant charged into the room, a person of import in the kitchen kingdom, for half the staff turned to regard her expectantly.
“All right everyone, listen up. We’ve another meeting taking place in the council chambers. Davelos is going to be hosting an unexpected embassy from the Virulent Warren this evening, and you know they’ve not eaten decent food in a year’s time.”
She went on to detail what everyone needed to do, and the kitchen sprang into action, people racing to and fro as they sought to obey her commands.
Scorio stood as if in a dream. Casually, he reached out and took a young man by the arm as the youth hurried by.
“She said Davelos. Davelos is hosting?”
The young cook glared at Scorio. “Are you touched? Davelos? Yes? The Overseer? Did you fall and hit your head?”
Scorio rounded on the man and something in his expression made the other’s face go white. “Davelos of Manticore? He’s in charge of the Fiery Shoals?”
“I… yes, he…” The youth glanced desperately from side to side as if seeking help. “It’s been over a year now, he was promoted after House Hydra cycled a few Great Souls through the position, but now it’s permanent, or would be, but… excuse me, excuse me.”
And the man tore himself free and practically ran away.
Scorio pulled his apron off and dropped it. Strode away before anyone could stop him.
Davelos was in charge of the Fiery Shoals?
He quit the kitchens and climbed a few floors. With great effort, he schooled his expression and paused a cleaner as they trundled by with their mop and bucket.
“Excuse me, which way to Pyre Lady Moira’s suite?”
The man looked him up and down. “You got business with the Pyre Lady?”
“She asked me to let her know if something took place. It has.”
“I see.” The man relaxed a fraction. No doubt Moira had a reputation for manipulating a web of informants. “Second floor, off the Hall of Refulgence.”
So Moira was still here.
“And do you know if any other members of Manticore have arrived?”
“Manticore?” The man stared blankly at him for a moment. “Oh, no, not for a week or so yet.”
“Ah, right, of course. They’re all coming here, though?”
Again the man stared at him strangely. Scorio could feel his objection rising, so he summoned his aura of command. ANSWER.
The man tensed, his nostrils flared, and he practically fell over himself in responding. “Yes, yes, all of them are coming, it’s the end of Overseer Davelos’s term, he and Dameon and the other Dread Blazes are heading into the Iron Weald, or so I’ve been told, along with their entire school—”
“School?”
“Their—their school?” The man sounded almost plaintive. “Dread Blaze Dameon started a Manticore training center on the island of Azurith? It was his reward for helping Autocrator Praximar ascend to controlling the Consortium?”