Jay Lake - Endurance

“Out the window,” I ordered. “It’s a goodly fall to the terrace.”

“Archers?” asked the Rectifier.

I nodded. “With more fire. We must move fast.”

“Not me,” said Mother Vajpai.

By the Wheel!

Pointing at the big pardine, I snapped, “You first. I’ll drop her into your arms. Samma third. I’ll be last. If we are forced apart, look for Mother Argai out front and meet back at the Tavernkeep’s.”

“We are not splitting,” Mother Vajpai ordered.

I snarled, “This isn’t your handle.”

The Rectifier grabbed a chair from the dressing table, yanked down one of the burning curtains, wrapped it around the chair legs, then hurled the mess through the window. Arrows flitted and buzzed outside. He followed his own missile right after that with a yell that ended in an unpleasant crunch.

Trust, I thought, and cannoned into Mother Vajpai to shove her out the window. She fell backwards with a yelp, tumbling away from me. “Now, Samma,” I shouted, and gave the girl a boost with my hands. “Tuck and roll!” I called after her.

Another flight of arrows came. Two more flamers sailed through the gaping window to embed in the far wall. I poised to jump, then paused.

Corinthia Anastasia. I could not leave yet.

I turned and looked back at the door. It was shoving inward. A large closet loomed behind me. Pondering for a brief moment the principles of Stone Coast architecture, I darted into the closet. At the back, viewed by the ruddy firelight from the room behind me, one set of panels was darker and less well-fitted than the rest. I aimed a kick.

It was a door, passing into what would have been intended as a small servants’ chamber. Thank the Lily Goddess for ladies’ maids. Stepping through, I saw a storeroom, now filled with chairs stacked high and a number of large white furniture covers folded away while the rented house was in use.

Grabbing up several of the furniture covers, I wrapped myself as a crude form of armor. I regretted my sneering at the officer in his silks. Once I heard the crash of the dresser toppling, along with shouts of triumph, I darted out the storeroom door into the hall and ran like crazy back toward the central stairs, borrowed sword in hand.

Corinthia Anastasia was up, either on the third floor or in the attic. I wasn’t sure precisely where, but I knew she was up.

To my amazement no arrows found me from behind. In the central stairs, I met two more local servants. They cowered from my bloody blade. Whose blood? I wondered irrelevantly. “Is the hostage still upstairs?” I shouted. “The Petraean girl?”

“Yes,” said one. “Gone,” said the other.

They might both have been telling the truth.

I sprinted up the stairs again, slipped once more, and sprawled facedown for a moment on the marble. This time I held on to my sword. Gods, that hurt. And my gut… the baby!

Pulling myself to my feet under the frankly amazed stares of the servants, I walked more slowly to the top.

Lower ceilings up here, and less ornate decor. As I’d thought, this was a section of the house intended for minor relatives, or senior servants perhaps. Not for the quality intended to be lodged below.

I could see all the way down the hall in both directions. No guards. That wasn’t good. Carefully I trotted to my right, passing above the scene of the recent fight. She had been above, right? Above.

This was a nightmare. I went door to door, opening them-after the first two I stopped kicking. My foot hurt too much. And I was definitely slowing down.

Surali and the Prince of the City had already moved their people out. Despite my hopes, we’d caught the tail end of the evacuation. It was cold up here, no fires in the hearths. The smoke from downstairs was growing thicker. The air bore the heavy odor of burning house-carpets and paint and the varnish from furniture all burn differently from firewood. I wondered how fast the fire was spreading below, but I had to keep checking.

Leaving Ilona’s daughter here to burn would have been even more hideous than allowing her to be borne away by Surali.

I wondered if my Blades had gotten out. I wondered if they would make it to the Tavernkeep’s. I wondered how Mother Argai was doing. I wondered how I was doing.

Finally reaching the end of the entire floor, I admitted defeat. I had failed. Corinthia Anastasia was not here. Long gone, to the docks, to sea, to wherever that bitch Surali had taken her. Tears welled in my eyes.

No, not just tears. Irritation. The smoke was even thicker, and I realized that I’d heard no shouts for a while. Firelight flickered in the stairwell behind me. This wasn’t looking well for me.

Then I remembered the laundry chute. The one I had climbed was on the other wing of the house, but it might well have a mate down here. I’d seen a linen room already. I ducked back in there and found, yes, a trapdoor for the chute. Wrapping myself more tightly in the furniture covers and holding the borrowed sword close so it wouldn’t bang against me, I slid feet-first into the hot darkness. I rattled downward with increasing speed, bumping against the laths that held the panels of the chute in place, until I belatedly wondered if I would smash into an iron door deep within the bowels of the mansion.

I landed with a hard jar to my ankles and shins. Nothing worse, thank the Lily Goddess. After rubbing my legs a moment, and soothing the baby, who had not liked the sudden descent, I checked my surroundings. This chute ended much as the other had, in a hallway. The laundry room was back to my right. Given that Surali had stationed archers on the grounds, emerging into the backyard alone without the Rectifier for a shield seemed dubious at best. The plumbing was a far better bet.

Sewers ran beneath the Velviere District. In most houses you’d have to be the size of a rat to climb up and down the pipes, but in a building this large, anything was possible. Perhaps there was even a cistern to draw from.

I cast about the stone-floored basement. The smell was just as bad down here, but the smoke not nearly so thick yet. Fire preferred to climb. I found laundry tubs, filled from a pump. They drained into a trough, then through a grate in the floor too small for me. So there was a sewer. I just wasn’t getting in that way.

Ovens, too, fires banked now. No evidence of cooks or scullions. No handy open sewer pits in the bakery.

Pantries. Tool rooms. Maids’ dormitory. Guards’ dormitory. Room after room, none of them filled with what I needed.

Finally I took a mattock, rather too heavy for me, and dragged it back to the laundry room. The ceiling was getting hot, and I could hear the fire roaring. At this point I might not be able to depart by any other route.

The edge of the tool allowed me to lever the grate off. I stared doubtfully into the darkness. How far down did this reach? Did it branch or split, or drop straight into a sewerway? There had to be a tunnel to the street, at least, as the mains didn’t run directly under most buildings.

Below was complex enough from within. I’d earlier deliberately avoided using that as a path. Guessing a route from above…

Outside held fire, archers, killing cold, and by now, a dearth of my allies. I’d been too long within the house. Taking a deep breath, I uttered a formless prayer and began to hack at the stonework edge supporting the grate.

The flags came up with quite a bit of strain on my part, peeling away to reveal a somewhat fatter pipe than the grate had implied. Straight down about six feet from the look, then opening into a horizontal run.

And wide enough to send a boy down to clear the drains as needed.

Plumbers’ boys did not usually work pregnant. Unfortunately, I did.