The Drowned Woods (33)

Something dark flashed across the man’s face, but before he replied, his gaze settled on Fane. Fane had not said a word nor made any movement, but he still made quite the figure. Mer was almost glad to have him along, if only because he looked far more intimidating than she did.

The man said, “All righ’. Hold on, hold on.” With one last look over his shoulder, he ducked behind a musty curtain and into the back of the shop.

Mer watched him go, unease knotting at the base of her spine. She rolled her shoulders, resisting the urge to pace the length of the small room. She contented herself with studying some of the shop’s wares.

“What is this place?” asked Fane quietly. “And why would that man have the key we need to enter the sewers?”

Mer touched the old saddle. The leather was buttery soft with age, but it needed a good cleaning. “This shop is a front. The man here—he sells stolen goods for a price. Does deals between the guild and other criminals. If you have need of a certain illegal tool or forged papers or even information, you would come here or someplace like it.”

Fane shifted on his feet. She sensed more than saw his disapproval.

“For someone who fought in illegal fighting rings,” she said, “you’re skittish about crime.”

“For someone who was serving drinks in a tavern a week ago,” he replied, “you’re not.”

She allowed herself the smallest of smiles—his comment had earned that much. “It’s rather like riding a horse, as it turns out. You remember how.”

Fane opened his mouth, then tilted his head. Like a dog hearing a distant whistle.

“What?” said Mer.

Fane’s eyes closed for the briefest moment, then they flashed open. “Iron,” he said. “In the door. Some mechanism just moved.”

Mer went to the door, reached for the handle, and tugged at it. It was immovable as stone. Mer gave it a good yank, but to no avail. “Fallen kings,” she snarled. “You try.”

Fane did. His forearms were corded with lean muscle, and his scarred hands pulled at the door with more force than she’d managed. “It’s locked, somehow,” he said, grimacing. He touched a hand to the wooden panel. “Reinforced with metal.”

“There must be a way to lock it from outside,” said Mer. Her heartbeat was rising in her chest, but she wasn’t afraid—not yet. “It’s a trap. He must’ve figured the guard could pay him more than we could. Or—or the guild. It’s a toss-up which one might want me dead more.”

Fane threw her an exasperated look. “You just seem to have that effect on people?”

“It’s my charm,” she said grimly, reaching for her belt. A knife came free easily, resting in her fingers like a familiar friend. “Come on—there’s more than one way out of here.” She made for the back of the shop, knife held at the ready. If that shopkeeper had a crossbow, this would all be for naught. But she was hoping the man had simply fled once he’d activated that trap. He didn’t seem the fighting sort.

Pushing aside the cloth curtain, she found herself in a small storage room. The shelves were laden with broken bits of metal and wood, half-rotted cabinets with hinges rusting and a few tools meant for breaking locks. There was no sign of the man. Mer saw a door that must have led outside. She pulled on the latch, but it didn’t budge.

A loud thump made her jump. There was someone pounding on the front door.

Her heartbeat quickened. “You need a weapon?”

Fane shook his head. “No.”

“If they’re guards, they’ll be armed,” said Mer.

Fane’s gaze was steady on hers, his face implacable. “I won’t fight them.”

For a moment, she was sure she hadn’t heard him. “What?”

“I won’t fight them,” said Fane.

“What kind of hired muscle are you?” said Mer.

“The kind hired to fight a boar, not people with families and lives,” he said, his voice sharper than she’d ever heard it.

There was another loud crash. It sounded like someone was kicking at the door. Mer whirled on the spot, trying to find another way out. There were no windows, no places to hide. Just junk, waiting to be sold, and a moldy old rug. The man must have tripped over it in his haste to leave, because one of its edges was rolled up.

Or maybe…

Mer pushed back the rug, revealing a small trapdoor.

“He must have gotten out this way.” She pulled the door open. Damp, cold air wafted upward; it smelled of wet stone and something foul. Mer wrinkled her nose. She turned, angling herself down into the opening. There was a ladder that looked like it should hold her weight, but she couldn’t see where it went.

“Do you know where that goes?” asked Fane.

“Away,” said Mer, and began descending into the damp dark. She’d never been all that fond of ladders or heights, but she didn’t hesitate. She’d much rather deal with a dank tunnel than the city guards. Overhead, she heard Fane exhale, then he was above her, pulling the trapdoor shut.

They plunged into darkness.

Mer just breathed for a moment, trying to get her bearings, then continued her descent. She counted thirty rungs before her foot hit something solid. She stumbled, then stepped back. There was a thump as Fane followed.