Page 122 of To Kill a King
She set the oversized disc aside and sprinted across the alley to hide behind a discarded barrel. When her feet began to tingle with numbness and no one came to investigate the commotion, she approached the gaping hole. A hidden weight in her chest suddenly lifted at the liberty of standing up to Malkov instead of running away. With a deep breath, she jumped into the passage.
Her feet splashed foul-smelling liquid over her trousers. She pulled the neckline of her tunic over her nose. The damp air raised goosebumps on her exposed skin.
Hopefully any prisoners she rescued wouldn’t mind a short jaunt through the city’s bowels.
A few more steps, and she maneuvered herself to the side of the tunnel, where the putrid liquid was shallower. Holding some flames in one hand to provide light, she edged forward. As she approached the palace, the stink bothered her less. Maybe she was getting used to it.
Ugh. She’d need to find a bath tonight before she set foot in the cantina. Otherwise, her reek alone would keep customers away for weeks. Poor Pat. At least it would work on the looters, too.
The sewer ended at a garbage chute large enough to dispose of dead prisoners. Aliya shuddered. She sent the fireball up to scorch the sides clean, careful to keep the light from the far end, in case someone was watching. The edges had been smooth at one time. However, centuries of use left scars that would make climbing the pipe, if distasteful, not impossible.
Pulling the ball of fire back behind her, she pulled a knee over the lip and heaved. Her pants soaked through with whatever slime last graced the stones with its presence.
Yuck. Yuck-yuck-yuck.
Closing her eyes, she pressed forward. She’d need a completely new set of clothes after the bath, too.
As she reached the top of the incline, she extinguished her fire.
Apparently, she needn’t have worried. The room beyond was pitch black. No one was around to raise the alarm. Lifting the lid, she emerged into the dungeon’s guard room. A table with an abandoned deck of cards and a few stools stood off to one side. A few sets of manacles hung from random pegs set in between the masonry.
The guards were nowhere to be seen. Not that she was complaining.
She shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth and waste the golden opportunity. But she’d keep the cover for the chute open for a quicker exit, just in case.
The hallway outside consisted of shallow stairs circling around, down to the lower level on the right, and up to the left. No doubt, less important prisoners would be above, with the more dangerous ones below.
The air smelled of mold, rot, and unwashed bodies with a faint undertone of old blood. The smooth grey stones that lined the walls were stained with lichens and soot from countless torches that had passed by over the centuries. The weight of the castle above pressed down on her shoulders as she fought the urge to curl in on herself in response.
She lit another fireball in one palm, giving the room a quick once-over. The guards wouldn’t be careless enough to leave the keys to the cells lying about, but it never hurt to double-check. Several minutes later, she sighed. Nothing. Time to quit stalling and move, before someone found her here.
A cold draft flew up from below. It smelled of mildew and human excrement. She shuddered. To the top level first.
The torches along the stairwell and hallway beyond were barely burnt. Someone had been through less than an hour ago. Which made no difference, because she had no idea when the dungeon guards’ rotations were.
Footsteps echoed as she approached the first cell, but the cobbled walls made it impossible to tell if they were coming from in front or behind her. The first stall’s door was unlocked. It swung open without complaint.
Thank goodness for sufficient pig fat to lubricate the hinges.
She pressed herself flat against the wall on the other side of the door and waited as the two guards strolled past. The straw on the ground smelled fresh. She poked at it with her toe, revealing a dark black stain coating the floor. Dipping her head, she muttered a quick prayer for the cell’s former occupant.
“Lunch time, you dogs.” Clangs of tin plates or bowls scraping across the stone interrupted the oppressive atmosphere. A few curses, more creative than any she’d heard before, followed the guards. Someone was still alive down here.
She gave the departing wardens a count to one hundred before she slipped back into the passage. The first cell housed a woman. Someone in the working class, judging from the color of her skin and the wrinkles on her hands and face.
The prisoner peered at her with dead eyes. White manacles clanked around her ankles.
“Why are you here?” Aliya asked.
The woman shrugged, turning away. “Practicing magic,” she mumbled. The handcuffs clinked.
Aliya bit her lower lip. She hadn’t realized mages might be in the dungeon. But the king would have to store them somewhere if he didn’t kill them right away.
Aliya studied the lock. It seemed standard, a metal of some sort, but not that cursed white stuff, antimonite. She should be able to heat the mechanism enough to melt. Getting those bindings off the prisoner was going to be a problem, though. She’d need the keys.
“Stay here,” she said. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
The next door held a familiar face. “Psst! Hey, Torsen. Torsen!”