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They stopped in an atrium that branched off into multiple hallways, chandeliers sparkling overhead, points of light against the shadows cast by the lone lit sconce. Gabe eyed the hallways, seemingly at a loss. “You know how to get to the vaults, right?”
“You mean you don’t?”
“Not everyone gets to go to the vaults, Lore.” The slight irritation in his voice had an edge that was almost anger. “Only the wealthiest, the most privileged.”
“Or those of us conscripted into necromancy.” She didn’t like it when he talked to her like she was part of the things he hated. When he seemed to forget that she wasn’t here of her own will any more than he was.
He glanced at her, sighed.
“Thankfully for your poor, privilege-deprived ass,” Lore said, stepping in front of him, “I have an excellent memory.”
Lore led him through hallways that felt more like warrens, the gilt and opulence that lit them in the daytime grown ominous in shadows. They encountered no one, though they heard voices occasionally, laughter and shouting made shivery and spectral.
At least, they encountered no one until they rounded the last corner. There, right in front of the door to the tiny corridor with the vaults at its end, a bloodcoat stood leaning against the wall, bayonet sharp and shining. He yawned, the sound echoing in so much empty space.
With a muttered curse, Lore backtracked, pressing her spine against an oil painting of some very drunk-looking shepherds. “I thought there was just the Sacred Guard in the tunnel, not one out here.”
“A tactical mind for the ages,” Gabe muttered.
“Make fun of me after you take care of it.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the muscle and I’m the brains.”
Gabe shot her a look that said he might debate that point, but then peeled off the wall, started soundlessly forward. For such a large man, he moved like fog, keeping to the shadows.
He was nice to watch, she couldn’t deny that. Lore tilted her head for a better angle as Gabe came up behind the bloodcoat. If they taught this kind of stealth up at the Northreach monastery, she could think of a few folks in Val’s crew who might benefit from a stint there.
Gods. She had to stop thinking of Val.
The bloodcoat didn’t notice Gabe until he was on him. One hand over the guard’s mouth, another pressing at a specific spot on the back of his neck. Gabe lowered the guard slowly to the floor, propping him against the wall, careful not to catch anything on the sharp end of his bayonet. “He’ll think he fell asleep,” he murmured. “We have maybe half an hour. Will that be enough?”
“Let’s hope.” Lore tiptoed around the sleeping guard and pushed open the door into the narrow hallway beyond, Gabe following swift and silent.
The hall was lit only by candlelight; darkness lay deep in the corners. A taper burned in every alcove, slashing harsh light across Apollius’s face, making the garnets in His hands glitter.
Briefly, Lore worried that the door to the tunnel would be locked, but it opened soundlessly when she pushed it—she guessed a lock was moot when you had guards. And if Gabe was any indication, only a few people knew how to get to the vaults, anyway.
The short stairs into the tunnel were black as pitch. Lore hesitated on the threshold, remembering the hallway, the Sacred Guard standing at the end. She looked back over her shoulder at Gabe. “The guard… the way this is set up, I don’t think there’s a way to sneak up on him.”
“You’re underestimating my sneaking.”
“Really, Gabe, maybe I should just try to get back here in the morning. I don’t want you to get hurt—”
“Oh, yes, spare all of us that,” a voice said from behind them.
Lore and Gabe froze, eyes wide. The moment right before the trap’s teeth closed on the rabbit’s leg.
“Thank the gods I’m here.” Bastian stepped out of the shadows with a lazy smile on his face. “Otherwise, you’d be shit out of luck.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Children, strive to be above reproach, for forgiveness is not easily earned.
—The Book of Mortal Law, Tract 403
Lore’s tongue felt thick and clumsy in her mouth, her thoughts packed in wool. She couldn’t untangle an excuse from them.
