Incarceron Part 50

Then he said, "Why not flee, Master? Why waste your life?"

"My life is Sapphique's," Gildas snapped. "His fate is mine."

The captain shook his head. "Suit yourself. But no one else has ever come back."

He jerked his head at the Cave entrance. "There it is."

There was a moment of tense silence. The guards gripped their axes tightly; Finn knew that this was the moment they expected him to make some sort of break for freedom, now that he had a sword in his hand and his back to unknown terrors.

How many of those brought as Tribute had screamed and fought in panic here?

Not him. He was Finn. Reckless, he turned and looked down at the crack. It was very thin, and utterly black. Its edges were burned and scorched, as if the metal of the Prison's structure had been superheated and melted countless times into grotesque twistings and taperings. As if whatever crawled out of these metal lips could melt steel like toffee.

He glanced at Gildas. "I'll go first."

Before the Sapient could object, he turned and lowered himself into the slash of darkness, taking one last rapid look into the distance. But the scarred plain was empty, the City a remote fortress.

He slithered his boots over the edge, found a foothold, squeezed his body in. Once he was below ground level, the darkness closed over him. By feeling with hands and feet he realized that the crack was a horizontal s.p.a.ce between tilted strata, and it sloped down into the ground.

He had to spread-eagle himself to fit in it, inching forward over a dark slab-like surface littered with debris that seemed to be stones and smooth b.a.l.l.s of melted steel that rolled painfully under him. His fingers groped in dust and a lump of rubble that crumbled away like bone. He dropped it hastily. The roof was low; twice it grazed his back and he began to fear being stuck.

As soon as the thought touched him with cold terror he stopped.

Sweating, he gulped a deep breath. "Where are you?"

"Right behind." Gildas sounded strained.

His voice echoed; a small shower of dust fell from above into Finn's hair and eyes.

A hand grabbed his boot. "Move on."

"Why?" He tried to roll his head to look back.

"Why not wait here till Lightsout, then crawl back. Don't tell me those men will wait out there until dark. They've probably gone already. What's to stop us ...?"

"Fireglobes are to stop us, fool boy. Acres of them. One wrong step and your foot's blown off. And you didn't see what I saw last night, how they patrol the City walls, how vast searchlights sweep the plain all night. We'd be easily seen."

He laughed, a grim bark in the darkness.

"I meant what I said to the blind women. You are a Sta.r.s.eer. If Sapphique came here, so must we. Though I fear my theory that the way out leads upward seems doomed to be proved wrong."

Finn shook his head in disbelief. Even in this mess the old man cared more about his theories than anything else.

He scrabbled on, digging the toes of his boots in and heaving himself forward. For the next few minutes he was sure that the roof was dipping so low that it would meet the floor and trap him; then, to his relief, the gap began to widen and at the same time tip leftward and slope more steeply. Finally he could rise to his knees without banging his head on the roof.

"It opens ahead." His voice was hollow.

"Wait there." Gildas fumbled.

There was a loud crack and light hissed; one of the crude, smoking flares the Comitatus had used to signal distress. It showed Finn the Sapient lying flat on his stomach dragging a candle from the pack. He lit it from the flare; as the spitting red light died, the small flames flickered, guttering in a draft from somewhere ahead.

"I didn't know you'd brought those."

"Some of us," Gildas said, "thought to bring more than garish clothes and useless rings."

He cupped his hand around the flame.

"Go quietly. Though whatever it is it will have already smelled and heard us coming."

As if in answer, something rumbled ahead. A low grinding sound, sensed like a vibration under their splayed hands.

Finn tugged the sword out and gripped it tight. He could see nothing in the blackness. He moved on, and the tunnel opened, became a s.p.a.ce around him. In the flicker of the tiny candle flame he saw the ridged sides of the metal strata, outcrops of crystal quartzes, strange furrings of oxides that gleamed in turquoises and orange as the light edged past them. He pulled himself to hands and knees.

Ahead, something moved. He sensed it rather than heard it, felt a draft of foul air that caught in the back of his throat. Very still, he listened, every sense straining.

Behind him, Gildas grunted. "Keep still!" The Sapient cursed.

"Is it here?"

"I think so."

He was becoming aware of the s.p.a.ce. As he grew accustomed to the darkness, edges and facades of sloping rock began to separate from shadows; he saw a pinnacle of scorched stone and realized with sudden shock that it was immense, and a long way off, and that the draft was a wind now, blowing in his face, a warm stench like the breathing of a great creature, a terrible acrid stink.

And then in an instant of clarity he knew it was curled all around him, that the black, faceted rock face was its scabbed skin, the vast spurs of stone its fossilized claws, that he was in a cave formed by the ancient, scaly hide of some smoldering beast.

He turned to yell a warning.

But slowly, with a terrible creaking weight, an eye opened.

A red eye, heavily lidded, bigger than he was.

ALL THE way through the streets the noise was deafening. Flowers were flung constantly; after a while Claudia found herself flinching at the repeated thud and slither of the impact on the carriage roof and the scent of the crushed stems grew sweet and cloying. The climb was steep and she was tossed uncomfortably in the seat; beside her Jared looked pale.

She took his arm. "Are you all right?"

He smiled wanly. "I wish we could get out. Throwing up on the Palace steps won't make much of an impression."