Page 117 of The Only Way Out Is Up

“One of the other levels, then.”

“Below them, even. On the floor of the cavern. We call it the Heap.”

“The… Heap.”

“Where all the junk ends up, after it falls from the”—I almost say Asshole, but I recall Ky’s more polite word—“terminus.”

The knight looks dubious. “People live there? Really?”

“Thousands.”

“Hmm.” He clasps his hands behind his back. “And you worked your way up, is that it?”

It comes to me that this man, this visitor from the surface and beyond, knows nothing about our world. He’s never been beyond this one tiny part of Hod. And his perfunctory tone—the forced manner of someone taking an interest for the sake of being seen to take an interest—makes it clear he doesn’t care, either. Even the Ascent is irrelevant to him, a dull duty he has to perform for reasons far beyond my understanding.

So what is he doing here? And why summon me for a chat?

“In… a manner of speaking,” I tell him.

“Excellent. Initiative. Drive. All valuable.”

“Thank you.”

“And your runic.” His tone sharpens. “You told me you built it yourself?”

I nod.

“From… scraps.”

“For the most part.”

For some reason this earns me a chuckle. The knight leans forward, his narrow face taking on a conspiratorial air.

“And these weapons you’ve demonstrated in the last two rounds. The bombs, and the force blast that defeated the tiger. Did you find the sigils for those in your Heap?”

Alzimyth’s deep-set eyes bore into me. He knows, I realize. Somehow, he already knows.

“No,” I admit.

“And you didn’t buy them.”

“No. I drew them myself.”

“Ahhhhh.” The knight lets out a breath, and his smile widens. I should be excited at this visitor from Above taking an interest in me, but right now all I can feel is danger. His grin has something predatory in it.

“Half of Malkuth makes a living scribing sigils in the workhouses,” I venture. “I just thought I would try my hand, that’s all.”

“But you’d never seen the sigils you used in those weapons,” he says with complete confidence. “And yet you were able to draw them on your own.”

I swallow. “I suppose I got lucky.”

“Lucky.” He shakes his head slightly. “A flower growing in a dung heap.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t.” He reaches out to pat my shoulder awkwardly, giving the impression that he’s seen this gesture before but never had the chance to try it himself. “Let me offer you a deal, Taj Fara. There’s no need for the risk of a final round against that brute. Leave him his petty prize, and I will take you with me when I leave.”

“Take me with you?” My head swims with the aftereffects of the liquor. “To where?”