Neisha had stopped crying by the time they reached the exit, settling for the occasional sniffle from where she sat nestled in the safety of Yleine’s arms. No one was more grateful for this than Ravelin. Children confused him. He’d never taken one along in a meat wagon before and it was clearly clouding his judgment.

Like that woman Tirce, for instance. On any other day of the week he would have put her down permanent, without hesitation. The road ahead was perilous enough without him having to worry about the dangers lurking behind him.

And Tirce was a dangerous one. He had to admit her swordplay was markedly superior to his own. Ravelin had never received any formal instruction, but even he could recognize a trained dagger-dancer when he saw one. There were plenty of forest devils in his line of work, and though Tirce didn’t carry herself like a shaemish chancer, she certainly fought with just as much skill. Which begged the question: who had trained her, and why? A puzzle, this one.

Enigmatic. That was the word he was looking for.

What you don’t know will probably hurt you, Spade had always maintained. Better to resolve that enigma here and now before it came back to nip him in the nethers. If only he’d shown greater resolve earlier. Modlin wouldn’t have posed much of a challenge with Tirce out of the way.

But it hadn’t seemed proper then, not with the little girl carrying on. To think after all that he’d seen and suffered in this life, that something so trivial as a child’s weeping could still give him pause. It was a weakness he didn’t know he still possessed.

It will prove your undoing. Kill it before it grows.

Ravelin looked back to the meat wagon following after him. All but one of their lanterns had been lost during their headlong flight from the wriggoth, so now they all huddled within the feeble radius of its light. Tirce was holding it up for them, caked from head to toe in filth and walking on the balls of her feet, alert for any danger. Even the way she moved aroused Ravelin’s suspicions, her every movement as lithe as that of a panther coiling up the boughs of a tree. Tirce caught him staring and jutted her chin up at him in challenge, strange yellows eyes narrowing in distaste.

“We’re getting close,” he said quickly, the empty words an attempt to mask his thoughts. Inwardly, Ravelin cursed at himself for being so obvious.

“Excellent!” Kyber puffed out his cheeks, “I was starting to think these floodways went on forever.”

Ravelin smiled a bit at that. If only he knew…

“It’s a fascinating place from an archaeological perspective, of course, but hardly a secure in-situ site,” Kyber went on excitedly. He had overcome his terror with astonishing quickness and was now taking in all the sights with great enthusiasm. Ravelin was beginning to suspect that the little clerk was a bit cracked in the head, “To think that the denizens of the Nameless City were living beneath our very feet all this time! Imagine the knowledge that could be gleaned if we had the means to converse with these natives.”

“Try conversing with the next one we meet,” Ravelin suggested, “See what happens.”

Just then his nose caught the whiff of a nearby updraft, which told him that they had arrived. Gradually the updraft grew in strength and soon cold gusts of air were billowing around their ankles and up their fluttering trouser legs, carrying with it a salt-sea tang and the roar of crashing currents. Through a fissure in the rock high above them a grey pillar of water plummeted into a chasm below, bejeweled drops scattering into the air in fine rainy mists. Warm spears of sunlight fell from the same crack and crowned them with a thousand wavering rainbows.

“Mummy,” Neisha whispered, “What is that?”

“It’s called a waterfall…I think,” said Yleine in hushed tones. Ravelin knew exactly how they felt, these city folk who had only ever conceive of such things in their imaginations. It had taken his breath away the first time he’d seen it, and never mind the torrent of raw sewage merging into the flow and flying up into their faces.

“Now, I’m no expert or nuffin,” Modlin commented, “But aren’t those s’pose to be falling down?”

It took a moment for their eyes to accept what seemed like a trick of the light, and then everyone but Ravelin gasped: the waterfall was surging upwards and out of chasm, flying square in the face of a fundamental law of reality to ascend to the lip of the rock and spill out onto the surface.

“The chronicles spoke true,” said Kybar, so giddy with excitement that he had to sag against the wall to steady himself, “Hypocycloidal tunnels emerging at the far side of the continent, slowly draining away the oceans over the centuries. The flow has now reversed, of course, given that the weight of the water on the opposite end exceeds that of the Idelas. Such tremendous effort! But to what purpose, who can say?”

“Don’t talk rubbish,” Modlin refused to wrap his head around the concept, “No one kin dig that deep.”

“The evidence clearly indicates otherwise.”

“Listen here, boy. I scraped me way clear of the Clink wiv a soup ladle. So don’t you go lecturing me about—”

Modlin made the mistake of peeking over the edge and the words died on his lips. His wooden chompers slipped out of his slack jawed mouth and tumbled into a bottomless void that curved away into depths unseen. The convict snatched his teeth out of the air and leapt back.

“Oh my sweet petunias,” he moaned, clutching at his heart.

Lining the walls of the chasm they saw narrow wooden piles driven deep into the stone at regular intervals, forming a crude ladder that spiraled up to the surface. Iron hoops were hammered in at roughly shoulder height. Through them ran a chain which served as the only handhold. The spray from the upside-down waterfall crashed upwards into the flimsy structure, its continual force having torn out the piles in some places, lichen-covered holes marking their absence.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“There must be some other way out of this place,” said Tirce, risking a quick peek over the edge with a grimace.

“Why, of course there is,” Ravelin said dryly, “I just thought you might like to take the scenic route.”

“You expect us to make a climb like that with our child in tow?” Yleine said.

Ravelin opened his rucksack and unspooled a coil of rope, saying: “I don’t. Your girl can cling to my back. Help me tie her down and see she doesn’t slip off.”

“Mummy?” Neisha’s voice was tight with panic. Yleina held her close, murmuring words of comfort which sounded far from convincing. Her doughy face softened for the briefest of moments before she stiffened her upper lip and said firmly:

“I’m sorry, dear. But we can’t turn back now. The heritage laws are clear. They’d imprison me for harbouring a blood traitor and make you a ward of the state. If you’re lucky they’ll conscript you into the Labor Battalions where you’ll serve for life. If you aren’t…well, I don’t even want to consider that. You must be brave for Mummy now. There’s no other way.”

Neisha hopped onto Ravelin’s back after much coaxing from her parents and together they helped tie her arms together, looping the rope under Ravelin’s shoulders and around his waist so that she was strapped onto him like an extra rucksack.

Ravelin tugged on the knots to test their firmness before gingerly stepping out onto the ledge. This part never got any easier. A cold wind trickled up his pants leg and made his testicles up shrivel and crawl back into his belly. Ravelin decided to start immediately before his courage failed completely and placed a questing toe onto the first wooden step. Transferring his weight onto it, the rotted timbers letting out a heart-stopping groan. Neisha tightened her grip on his back but didn’t dare squirm.

“Uhm, mister Ravelin?” she said, her tiny voice slightly muffled by his collar.

“What?”

“It’s an awfully long way down from here,” Neisha said.

“I noticed.”

“Aren’t you frightened?”

“Terrified,” Ravelin settled into an easy rhythm once he had a firm grip on the chain, “You could build a house with all the bricks I’m laying in my trousers.”

“You’re quite fond of foul words, aren’t you?”

“Sorry,” Ravelin apologized, bashful for the second time that day, “Us chancers never had much use for manners, but there’s no call for me to be running my mouth like that.”

“It’s alright,” Neisha said graciously, “You can’t help it. You’re what Mummy calls a potty mouth.”

“That’s probably the nicest thing she’d call me,” Ravelin chuckled.

“Yes. She’d just settle for calling you a liar,” Neisha added without the slightest trace of malice.

“Hoy!” said Ravelin, pretended to be offended, “What makes you think I deserve that?”

“I know you aren’t really afraid,” Neisha took a deep, shuddering breath, “Not like I am.”

“Maybe not,” he confessed, “It just wouldn’t be convenient at the moment. Might change my mind in another minute, though.”

His forearms burned from the strain of hanging on. He clung on with one hand and briskly rotated the wrist of the other, alternating until the blood flow returned to his sinews.

“But how can you just choose when to be afraid?” Neisha wondered aloud.

“I’ve had practice. Besides, fear has its uses. There’s nothing like a good case of the nerves to keep your wits sharp. Best to save it for when you really need it.”

Neisha nodded along as if she’d somehow found comfort in those words. To his surprise Ravelin felt cheered by this and the fact that he could actually feel his fingertips again.

What he could not feel, however, was the taut chain he’d been clinging to right up until this very moment, when it decided to snap, rust-eaten links bursting apart in his grip. Ravelin flung himself at the nearest handhold and missed by a foot, clawing at the empty air as he and Neisha plummeted towards their doom.

Their screams were interrupted by the wooden pile which smashed into Ravelin’s chest and drove the all breath out of his lungs. He threw his arms up over it and clung on like grim death, legs flailing in the nothingness below.

“What about now?” Neisha whimpered.

“Now would be good,” Ravelin choked. The rope bindings had gotten snarled around his neck and were now sawing into his windpipe, drawing tighter with each passing moment as Neisha’s weight dragged him down.

Yleine was beside herself with worry, and cried:

“Oh my stars—Neisha! You there, chancer! Don’t you dare let go!” she screamed to Ravelin.

“Brilliant suggestion. I’ll have to take that under advisement,” Ravelin clapped back. Or he would have, if the noose hadn’t cut him off.

“Don’t just hang there, young man. Climb up, gain a foothold!” Kyber urged.

Ravelin tried heaving himself onto the pile but froze when it gave an alarming wobble and slid several inches out of its groove.

“On second thought, do exactly the opposite of that! Hold on, we’re coming to help!”

Modlin and Kyber clambered up the treacherous steps as quickly as they dared, but Ravelin doubted they would make it in time. Judging from the spiderweb of cracks spreading across the moldering stone he had only seconds until the pile gave way completely, and even less time before the rope throttled him unconscious. Perhaps it was the asphyxiation talking, but Ravelin couldn’t think of a way out of this one.

Oh, but I think you can. It’s really quite simple.

The knife was still sitting in its shoulder strap within easy reach. It would be but the work of a moment to reach across and cut himself free of the dead weight hanging on his shoulders.

“Papa, we’re slipping!” Neisha was saying, “Come quick!”

What’s it going to be then, skipper?

#

Tirce saw the disaster unfolding before her eyes and heaved a sigh. So much for keeping it subtle. She took out the pouch and tipped the powdered witchbrew onto her waiting tongue.

Saliva flooded her mouth as the toxic essence of henbane clashed with sweet arrowroot and agoncilla seeds. She guided the wyrdroot, felt it break down the poison into a powerful stimulant that stretched and knotted the fibers of her muscles till they were as supple as steel cabling. Her heightened senses could feel the slightest shift in her weight. She was a feather balanced on the head of a pin—the slightest breeze would send her floating up and away. All she had to do was step out into the waiting void and then…

She was free.

To the others it was like watching a dream in motion: Tirce hung in the air, poised in a perfect swan-dive into oblivion. Just as it seemed as though the space would swallow her up, out came her sickles, their forward-swept blades latching onto the rungs like climbing picks. She swung up the ladder from one anchor-point to the next, building momentum with every succeeding leap before finally culminated in a graceful backflip. She alighted on the rung adjacent to Ravelin, balancing impeccably on one leg.

Show-off, Ravelin thought, even as his consciousness dimmed.

“I’m cutting you loose,” Tirce told Neisha, “I need you to grab ahold me as soon as that happens. Can you manage that?”

Neisha nodded. Tirce sliced through the bonds at a stroke and Neisha latched onto her arm, hanging on for dear life as she was lifted to safety. The pressure on Ravelin’s airways disappeared and he took in a grateful gulp of air.

“That was sheer wickedry,” Neisha said in awe, “How’d you do that?”

“We’re shaemish, you and I,” Tirce winked, “Forest devils. Wickedry is in our blood.”

“Something like magic, is it?”

“Right. Summat like that,” Tirce ruffled the little girl’s hair.

“Hey, here’s an idea,” Ravelin cut in, “How’s about you magic me off this precipice, why don’t you?”

Tirce turned to him, hesitating. Ravelin realized he was gripping the pommel of his dagger. He released it with a guilty start and hoped like hell that Tirce hadn’t seen it. But she lent him a helping hand after all, and he knew he was in the clear.

#