The Inquisition (Summoner, #2)(105)

‘Looks like he got a large dose, being first into the room and all,’ Fletcher said, lifting the incapacitated demon’s paw. He let go and it flopped to the floor. ‘I wonder if Captain Lovett can even hear us.’

The demon remained unresponsive. In fact, Fletcher could barely hear a pulse as he laid his head against the demon’s side. He hunted for more darts in the fur and feathers, but found nothing.

‘So what are we going to do about her?’ Othello murmured, floating his wyrdlight over to Lady Cavendish. She was still huddled in the corner, madly rocking back and forth. A corona of blood lay around her son’s body, and Fletcher shuddered at the sight.

‘I’m going to get her out of that corner,’ Fletcher said. He walked unsteadily, avoiding Rufus’s forlorn corpse. He lifted her from where she sat, and was surprised when the woman stopped rocking and placed her arms around his neck. He lay her beside Cress and collapsed back in his place.

‘You’re a state,’ Cress said, seeing Lady Cavendish’s filthy exterior for the first time. She sloshed some water from her hip flask on to her sleeve and dabbed at the woman’s face. Lady Cavendish closed her eyes, accepting the dwarf’s ministrations wordlessly.

‘We’re screwed, aren’t we?’ Othello whispered, nodding at the exit. There was a rumble as the rocks shifted, and a goblin screeched in pain. Then a thud from the other side, and dust cascaded from the ceiling as the room shook. The orcs were blasting the rubble apart.

‘When they break through, we kill as many of them as we can,’ Fletcher said, closing his eyes. ‘We should have some more mana by then – I’ve already recovered enough for a few fireballs.’

‘Aye, and there’s the last vial of elixir. One gulp each,’ Othello said, flexing his numbed fingers. ‘Let’s hope the demons are recovered by then too.’

Fletcher nodded in agreement, too tired to answer. He let his fingertips trail through the dust on the ground. It was smooth to the touch, but a strange indent curved beneath the fine powder. He swept the area with his sleeve and created a wyrdlight to see.

They were sitting on the edge of a pentacle, just like on the platform in the centre of the corridor. It was smaller, barely larger than a carriage wheel, but serviceable nonetheless. The black residue of centuries-old blood remained within, and the orc keys were stamped on each corner of the star.

‘Would you look at that,’ Othello said, peering at it. He glanced up to see a short black pipe embedded in the ceiling above, and shuffled nervously aside.

‘If we were orcs, we could go into the ether,’ Fletcher said wistfully. ‘Not that it would be much better than here.’

‘I never thought I’d hear you wishing you were an orc,’ Othello chuckled. ‘But you have a point. Better than dying here, or being captured.’

‘Maybe the air in their part of the ether isn’t poisonous,’ Cress suggested, looking up from her work. ‘Maybe they’re not immune after all.’

Lady Cavendish’s face was pretty beneath the dirt, though gaunt and malnourished. She looked about Arcturus’s age, in her mid-thirties, with the beginnings of crow’s feet at the edges of her eyes. How old was she supposed to be again? There was definitely something familiar about her, as if he had seen her not long ago. Were those Rufus’s eyes that stared back at him?

Cress clicked her fingers.

‘Hello? I said maybe their ether isn’t poisonous at all,’ she repeated.

‘You’re welcome to test it out,’ Othello said drily. ‘If you want to be our guinea pig, be my guest. Personally, I’d rather take a few orcs with me.’

Cress shrugged and turned back to Lady Cavendish, teasing the knots in her hair with a comb.

Another boom shook the cavern, and a loose boulder tumbled from the pile of rubble blocking the passageway.

‘They’re impatient,’ Fletcher said.

‘I wonder if they’ll tie us to that manchineel tree,’ Othello wondered morbidly. ‘Worse than burning, isn’t that what Jeffrey said?’

‘Who can trust what that traitor said,’ Sylva’s voice cut through the darkness.

Fletcher was glad to hear her voice. She was sitting up now, her face cold and furious. Sylva had turned her anger on the right person.

‘Maybe we can chew on some of these, to numb the pain,’ Cress said, picking up one of the scattered petals and brushing off the dust.

She popped it in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

‘You know, it’s not too bad,’ she mumbled. ‘Makes my mouth tingle.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ Othello asked, picking up a petal himself and giving it a sniff. He wrinkled his nose and tossed it away.

‘If I’m gonna die anyway,’ Cress said, shrugging. She paused and raised her eyebrows.

‘Hmmm,’ she mused, shaking her head slightly. ‘It’s doing something. No idea what, though.’

Fletcher frowned. He had heard someone say that before. Electra.

‘Wait,’ he said, looking at the petals. They were yellow, just like the vials Electra had shown him. In his mind, something clicked.

‘These petals are from the ether,’ Fletcher continued, holding a petal up to the light. ‘I bet you a hundred sovereigns this is what goes into those yellow vials Electra showed us. The ones which seemed to have no effect.’