As far as live inhabitants went, they saw only distant glimmers, torches or glowstones that vanished as soon as they came into sight. A single scuttling plaguespawn, not much bigger than a rat, skittered down a side corridor as they passed through an intersection. It threw itself at Yora, tiny bone-jaws clicking; disdaining her spear, she simply brought her boot down on the thing, crushing its fragile body to a sticky pulp.
“Sometimes,” Ibb said, looking with distaste at the mashed remnants, “I think the only reason Deepfire hasn’t been overrun is because even the plaguespawn can’t get enough to eat.”
“I thought the Legions cleaned these tunnels out,” Harrow said, frowning at the mess.
“Nothing stays clean for four hundred years,” Kit said. “There’s hidden entrances all over the mountains. Plaguespawn can find their way into anything, given long enough.”
“The Auxies are supposed to sweep down here periodically,” Yora said, scraping her boot against a rock. “Not that Raskos can be bothered.”
Beggar’s Rest was visible long before they reached it, the flickering yellow-orange light of its fires gradually painting the walls of the tunnel as they approached and drowning out the fainter blue of the glowstones. A slight upslope led to a large, round chamber, with a dozen tunnels projecting in all directions like spokes from a wheel. There was a single large fire at the center of the room, with a crowd of hunched, shadowy shapes clustered around it, and a few other campfires and makeshift tents scattered about. A pair of big men with long staffs gave them a cursory look as they came in, and Ibb gave them a friendly nod.
“Last bit of warmth before the deeps,” Ibb said. “Take this chance to get your coats on. Stay close. I want to ask some questions.”
Harrow walked behind Yora as they picked their way through the crowd. People turned to stare as they passed, and Harrow glared at anyone who got too near. Most of the people clustered by the bonfire seemed to be beggars in truth, skinny, ragged men and women, dressed in scraps, with a few children drawn in close. Their skin was a uniform gray with dust and grime, and filthy hair hung in sticky clumps. Nearly all were maimed somehow—missing arms and legs, hands and feet, gaping eye sockets that made Gyre’s own scar itch, big patches of scabby, diseased flesh.
Besides the crippled and the diseased, though, there were the changed. A woman curled in the fetal position on a scrap of blanket, her legs trailing off into a dozen slim black tentacles, dripping a clear fluid. A young boy was missing most of his lower jaw, and his grotesquely elongated tongue twisted and curled underneath it, agile as a third hand. An emaciated man with the compound eyes of a fly, shrouded in translucent gauze.
Gyre hadn’t been aware he’d been staring until he felt a nudge in his ribs. Kit, standing close at his side, nodded quietly at a hairless woman whose skin glistened with mucus.
“You know what happened to them, don’t you?” she said under her breath.
“Dhaka,” Gyre said. “Ghoul magic. Either they fell in with a dhakim cult, or else they—”
“Went someplace they shouldn’t have gone, and messed with something they shouldn’t have.”
“Like the Tomb,” Gyre said flatly. “Is that what you mean?”
She gave a small shrug. “I just don’t want you to say I didn’t warn you. It’s not too late to renegotiate.”
Gyre shook his head and kept his eyes on the ground.
“Your business.” Kit shrugged. “Your friends are attracting some attention.”
“Everyone knows Yora. Even down here.”
“Your crew has quite a reputation.”
“It’s not that. At least not just that.” Gyre shrugged. “Yora’s father was Kaidan Hiddenedge.”
“He was a bandit, right?”
“That’s what the Republic would like you to think. But it doesn’t explain why they went to such lengths to destroy him.” Gyre gestured at the beggars. “If you ask these people, they’ll tell you he was a hero who fought for the freedom of the tunnelborn against the corruption of the dux. Yora’s spent her life living with that legacy.”
“That’s a hard road to follow.” Kit eyed him sidelong. “You respect her, don’t you?”
“She pushes back against the Republic and the Order. That’s more than I can say for almost anyone else.”
“But you still want to find the Tomb,” Kit said.
Gyre pressed his lips together and didn’t reply.
On the other side of the fire, Ibb had found what he was looking for. Two women, Gyre’s age and nearly identical, sat side by side, wearing slightly better garb than was typical. Ibb squatted opposite them, and Gyre saw a couple of coins change hands. Ibb gestured him over, and the pair looked at one another. One of them closed her eyes with a sigh, while the other spoke.
“That’s a bad road to be taking right now,” she said. “New gang moved in from down-tunnel, and they’re hungry. Got a flesh-twister boss, maybe. Couple of scav packs went down and didn’t come back.”
“How many?”
The woman shrugged. “Enough. If you’re looking for a score, you’d be better going to the Roaring Well to try your luck. I heard Rodrig Axebite broke open a new tunnel there, and there’s been some scuffles over it. Plenty of old loot and new loot lying about, I should think.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Ibb said. He glanced at Kit. “But we’ve got a client. Is there a path that’ll get us around this new gang?”
“’S possible.” The woman, pale-skinned and so thin her face seemed half a skull, gave a shiver and a nod at Ibb’s purse. “If you’ve got a map and another decithaler.”
“Halfmask?” Ibb said.
Gyre pulled the roll of copied maps out of his pack and handed them over, along with another coin. Ibb flipped through until he found the one he wanted, and both women bent over it. The silent twin pointed while the other kept up a running commentary, and Ibb took notes in pencil.
Kit, bored, had wandered away, and Gyre found Yora by his side, with Harrow standing protectively behind her. Yora had her arms crossed tight, gripping her elbows, and her face was uncharacteristically pained. Gyre shifted toward her.
“Something wrong?” he said.
“These people,” Yora said. Her voice was tight. “The Republic built gates over the tunnels to keep us underground, and we tunnelborn turned around and did the same thing to the people we’d rather not see. Half of them won’t make it through the winter.”
Probably not. Gyre looked over the crowd of beggars. And another lot of luckless wretches will move in to replace them in the spring. That was an old argument between them, but here and now he found it hard to voice it. Instead, he said, “You’re doing the best you can. Like Kit said, fifty thousand thalers buys a lot of food and firewood.”
“Not enough,” Yora muttered.
“It’ll be a start.”
“It’s getting cold,” Harrow said, coming up behind them. He gave Gyre a glare, then offered Yora a fur-lined coat. “Here.”
“Thank you, Harrow.”
Gyre took the opportunity to dig his own warm coat out of his pack. The air was definitely turning cold, and it would only get colder.