Kit shrugged out of her pack and went through her own routine, chewing steadily on the tough rations. She set the glowstone down between them and watched Gyre as he swallowed another spare mouthful of water.
“I don’t remember the way much past this,” Kit said. She kept her voice down. Loud sounds echoed strangely in the long, circular tunnels. “I’d been out a long time before I found this place, and after a while I got a little … frantic.”
“I’m amazed you remember this much,” Gyre said.
She shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
“Well. We just need to keep heading down, and we’ll get there eventually, right?”
“Right!” Kit said brightly. “Or we’ll reach a dead end, or get stuck in a loop, and get lost and eventually die.”
“Very cheery.”
“You know me.” She set her canteen down and raised her eyebrows. “Well?”
“Well what?” Gyre read her smirk and blinked. “Here?”
She rolled onto her hands and knees and crawled toward him. “You’ve got something else to keep you busy?”
“There might be plaguespawn,” Gyre muttered.
“That’s all right,” Kit said. “Adds to the thrill.”
*
When they were finished, they both slept for a couple of hours. Gyre found the rest fitful and full of strange, half-mad dreams. If Kit had the same problem, she didn’t say, but the third time he woke up he found her dressed and sitting against the wall, staring into the darkness. Gyre shook a glowstone to life, and their eyes met in the half-light. By unspoken consensus, they rose and continued onward.
Now Kit’s steps were less sure, and more often than not she seemed to just choose whichever branch tended downward. Before long, the character of the tunnels changed, the simple circular pattern giving way to broader, less regular caverns. It had a less constructed feel, though the floor was still smooth and level, as though they were natural caves that the ghouls had repurposed to their own ends. Gyre guessed some crevices must reach the surface, since some of the chambers were dense with bats, the creatures nesting upside down on the ceiling; the floor was thick with guano and skeletons.
Even here there were plaguespawn, though fortunately they were all small, mad little things, like a dozen bats rolled into an awkward ball the size of a melon. Kit split one in half with her saber, and Gyre pinned another with his long knife and crushed it with his boot. They glanced at one another and continued on in silence. They’d barely spoken for hours.
Beyond the bats, another long, twisting corridor turned down, running in a descending spiral like a giant corkscrew. Gyre gave Kit a questioning look, and she only shrugged. They followed it anyway, walking for at least an hour, as the temperature rose and Gyre’s ears popped.
It finally ended in another natural-looking cave. Directly across from where they came in, another tunnel entrance gaped, descending into darkness. The center of the cavern, though, was broken by a ragged-edged crevasse, like the Pit in miniature. Gyre and Kit stood by the edge of it in silence. Kit kicked a stone in, and they listened to it rattle and ping as it descended, long after it had passed out of sight.
“I take it you don’t remember this?” Gyre asked.
Kit shook her head, eying the gap speculatively. “We have to backtrack.”
“All the way up that ramp?”
“Unless you have a bridge handy.”
Gyre considered for a moment. “I may have … something. Give me a minute.”
He shrugged off his pack and rooted around in it, opening the leather case at the bottom where he kept Lynnia’s alchemicals. There was a bottle of thick black sludge, a tiny thing only the size of the end of Gyre’s pinky. With some effort, he undid the stopper, and recoiled at the acrid smell.
“Yuck,” Kit said.
“Pretty sure she makes this by boiling lizards.” Gyre tried not to breathe as he tipped a fat drop of the black stuff into the center of his palm. Working quickly, he restoppered the bottle, stowed it, then pressed his hands together, spreading the black goo around. After a few moments, he tried pulling them apart, and found them stuck fast. “Perfect.”
“You glued your hands together?” Kit said. “I’m overcome by your brilliance, Halfmask.”
“Just watch.” Gently, he opened his palms, applying force from the side, and the black goo separated reluctantly. Both hands were covered in the stuff. “Scuttlerskin, she calls it. After the little lizards. Sticks hard in one direction but not the other.”
“That’s strange,” Kit said. “How does it know which is which?”
“Don’t ask me.” Gyre shrugged. “Tie that rope around my waist.”
Kit retrieved the coil of alchemical line, light and strong, and expertly knotted one end around Gyre. She looked at the rest of it dubiously. “If you fall, I’m not heavy enough to hold you up.”
“Hopefully that won’t be a problem.” Gyre backed up to the bottom of the ramp, careful to keep his hands from touching his clothes. “Here goes.”
He’d been half hoping Kit would try to talk him out of it, but she only stepped out of the way, with a look that seemed almost admiring. Gyre focused on the opposite side of the crevasse and started to run. Halfway across the room, the pit loomed wider with every step, and his plan suddenly looked very bad indeed. By then it was too late, though, and there was nothing he could do but keep running and try not to miss the jump. He planted his boot on the lip of the rock and put everything he had into a horizontal leap, arms stretching ahead of him, reaching for the other side.
For a moment, he thought he would make it. Then gravity caught up to him, and he was falling into the darkness.
A second later, he impacted the opposite wall of the crevice, hard enough to take his breath away. His boots scrabbled at the rock, desperate for purchase, but his scuttlerskin-coated hands stuck fast. The sudden weight nearly jerked his shoulders out of their sockets, but it kept him clinging to the wall long enough to find a foothold with one toe. He hung there, chest aching where it had struck the wall, sharp pains shooting out from his shoulders. Why did I think this was a good idea?
“You still alive?” Kit called from out of sight.
“Ow,” Gyre called back.
“Oh good.”
He started to climb, slowly and carefully. Fortunately, he’d practiced with scuttlerskin a few times back in Deepfire. The trick was to be very aware of the direction of the weight on your hands. Straight backward, or toward the ground, and it was strong enough that you could hang from your fingertips. Pull sideways, and it gave way, with unpleasant consequences if you weren’t expecting it. Move carefully, though, and you could climb anything.
The edge of the cliff seemed a very long way above. Gyre resolved not to look at it, and pulled himself up, hand over hand. Peel one palm away, lift himself on the one that was still stuck, attach the other, repeat. Sweat dripped into his eyes, and he fought the urge to scratch his scar. Bad enough to fall to my death without also having my hand glued to my face.
Eventually, his groping palm found empty air, and he had a moment of panic before he managed to slap it down on the floor, past the top of the crevice. Another heave got him over the edge, and he rolled over, hands held out and away from his body. From the other side of the gap, he could hear Kit’s polite applause.