Not that it matters. Gyre had no illusions that he would be able to fight his way out of the Tomb, if it came to that. Elariel had escorted him out of the room he’d awoken in, and just on the short trip to where she’d stored his gear he’d seen a dozen constructs. They weren’t the spiked, stone-lined guardians from up above, but many of them were large and powerful-looking, and presumably more martial versions weren’t far away.
Not all the constructs were humanoid, either. Smaller things trotted on four legs or hopped like rabbits, and even tinier varieties hummed through the air on delicate, multicolored wings. They all had a similar look, their bodies built of striated black muscle laid over metallic bones that poked through at the joints, like anatomy models no one had bothered providing with skin. Some had specialized limbs, sporting knives or hammers or more complicated tools whose function Gyre couldn’t begin to guess.
The complex they were in seemed to be mostly small rooms set off of long, winding corridors. The floor was covered in gray-green stuff that he initially thought was carpet but on closer inspection turned out to be some kind of plant, sprouting myriad fine, hairlike stalks that were soft on his bare feet. The walls were smooth, polished stone, and every so often light-patches gleamed on the ceiling, bright to his adjusted eyes but probably invisible to a normal human.
Doors were oval metal slabs, and they opened themselves at a tap from Elariel. Gyre nearly jumped the first time this happened, but when they went inside the room, he saw the door itself was a construct, with hinges of black muscle.
The Tomb. It was overwhelming, and Gyre tried to discipline his thoughts. Call it Refuge. He wondered how far underground they were. The air felt fresh, not too warm or cold. No wonder the ghouls don’t bother with clothes.
“How many of your people live here?” Gyre said as they walked.
“Oh, hundreds,” Elariel said. “Hardly a city by your human standards, I know. But we live longer than you do.”
“And—”
“We had a conversation once before, didn’t we, about how the less you knew the safer you’d be? Perhaps you should keep your questions to yourself.”
“Just this one, then,” Gyre said, hurrying a little to keep up. “What does Naumoriel want with me? It can’t be coincidence that the only two ghouls Kit and I know are the two that found us here.”
“No coincidence,” Elariel said. “My master is”—her lips worked briefly as she translated—“Sovereign of the Exterior, you would say? King of the Outside, maybe. His assigned area of responsibility is everything that lies beyond the boundaries of Refuge.”
“That sounds like an important job.”
“Most of the Geraia would rather tear out their own fur than go near it. It carries very low … mmm, you might say ‘social standing,’ but it’s more complicated than that.” Elariel’s ears twitched in a manner that Gyre was starting to recognize as something like a chuckle. “My master is considered strange, by our standards. Possibly insane.”
“Wonderful,” Gyre muttered.
“Monitoring the boundaries of the city is among his tasks, naturally. So he was the one who noticed your approach.”
“Along with … whatever you were doing before?”
Elariel blinked, and her ears drooped. “Yes. Of course.” She tapped another door. “In here.”
The door, swinging open of its own accord, revealed only a very small room shaped a bit like an egg, big enough for three or four people to stand uncomfortably close together. Gyre looked at Elariel curiously, and she gave him a mischievous grin.
“Just get in.” Her ears twitched again.
Gyre stepped over the threshold, cautiously. Elariel followed, then turned around to face the way they’d come, tapping the door to close it and then stroking a complicated gesture on its surface. A moment later, the bottom dropped out of Gyre’s gut as the whole tiny room began to rise.
“It’s a—” Elariel said something in the ghoul language, ears twitching wildly. “A lifter. It’s just taking us to the top of the tower.”
“You might have warned me,” Gyre said.
“I might.” Elariel’s lip quirked.
A few moments passed in silence, and the feeling of acceleration faded. The door opened again, now facing a small antechamber, blocked off from the lifter by a spray of what looked like the fronds of ferns, stretching from floor to ceiling.
Elariel said something in her own language, then added, “I have brought the human Gyre.”
Naumoriel’s rumbling voice came from beyond the ferns. “Leave him. Attend to the other until I summon you.”
Elariel answered with a liquid warble, then stepped back into the lifter. Her ears were drooping again, but she managed a half-hearted smile.
“Good luck,” she whispered, before the door closed.
“Gyre,” Naumoriel said. “Come here.”
Gyre hesitated, but there didn’t seem to be anything to be gained by refusing. He found a gap in the ferns and pushed his way through, into a larger room beyond.
It was a big, circular space, floored with the same carpet-like plant. One wall was taken up by what looked at first like panels of pure darkness. Even with the nighteye, it took Gyre a moment to realize he was looking at windows, and even longer for any details to resolve. He got the sense of vast shapes, tall and slender, marching back into the darkness in irregular ranks. Here and there, tiny pinpricks of light gleamed, barely bright enough to throw shadows. There was a sense of motion, though it was too dark and distant to make out details, like looking into the teeming mass of an anthill.
“So, boy,” Naumoriel said. “You have found your ‘Tomb.’ What do you think of it?”
The old ghoul sat in a chair by the window. Or not a chair, Gyre realized as he turned, but a chair-shaped construct, moving precisely on eight jointed, spindly legs. It rotated to face him and glided forward, keeping absolutely level, so that its occupant was not disturbed. The room around him was full of odd structures, tables with multiple levels and complicated armatures, standing columns of crystal-strewn stone that could have been art projects or unknown arcana. The cluttered space put him in mind of Lynnia’s workshop.
“It’s not what I expected,” Gyre said honestly.
Naumoriel’s chair stalked closer. The old ghoul’s gray fur was patchy, but his huge eyes were disconcertingly intense in person. The plate that covered part of his chest shifted as he breathed, the tendrils connecting it to his flesh pulsing in unison.
“You expected a ruin you could loot,” Naumoriel said. “It’s all your kind have ever been good for, picking at the leavings of your betters.”
Gyre inclined his head in acknowledgment. Naumoriel snorted.
“And yet you knew better,” he said. “Kit must have warned you what would happen if you found us.”
“She did,” Gyre said. “But she came here and was allowed to return alive.”
“Under unique circumstances.”
“I thought I would take the risk.”
“Why?” Naumoriel gestured upward. “Going through the sun-lovers’ trash wasn’t enough for you?”
Gyre hesitated under the gaze of those dark eyes. Whatever he said, it would be a gamble. But just being here is a gamble, and everything’s already on the table. Might as well raise the stakes.