Chapter 279: The First Touch
The First Touch
Walking through the sewers instead of fleeing or sneaking through the streets of Morcaster, Martel had time to consider what a disaster the whole night had turned out to be. He kicked himself for being greedy, letting the promise of coin blind him to such dangers. At the same time, neither Flora nor Marcus had voiced any reservations about taking this task.
It made Martel wonder who exactly had been the target. His first instinct would be that this was all part of the constant skirmishes between the Nine Lords, striking at each other through mercenaries or city guards, since they could not attack directly. That seemed the most obvious answer.
Yet it did not satisfy Martel. The promised payment of three and a half crowns had seemed too good to be true. It struck him as the kind of large sum you would promise someone knowing they would never collect on it.
Furthermore, Flora had seemed insistent on bringing Martel along. Two mages, not just one for this outing. Whoever had set this in motion had gone to some lengths to ensure Martel's presence.
Martel had no proof, but he could think of one man with the wealth and motivation. The pieces began to fall into place. If the duke of Cheval had found out that Martel worked with the Night Knives, it would not be difficult to arrange another job and manoeuvre everything to ensure Martel got hired.
The task itself had been well suited for a trap. Make the mercenaries remain in the same spot and alert the inquisitors about renegade mages ready to fight the city guard. It had only failed because they had spotted the ambush and immediately taken to flight.
It did seem like a ploy favoured by the duke, given what Martel knew of him, using others to keep his own hand hidden. And what better vengeance against a mage than leading the Inquisition to him? If Martel had been caught using magic against the city guards, nothing would have saved him from being branded a maleficar.
What a fool he had been. Thinking that petty affairs like the trouble with the Apothecary Guild had been the duke's actual plan. Nothing but distractions, keeping him busy or perhaps giving him more incentive for earning coin; more bait for this trap. And it might not be over. Even if he had avoided capture tonight, they might find ways to connect him with the fight in the docks.
And how much had the duke already shared with the inquisitors? Did they know the full extent of Martel's activities, most pertinently his identity? Or had the vengeful nobleman simply pointed the mage hunters in the direction of the docks, leaving out the specifics?
If the duke had any actual evidence against Martel, he would have handed it over as well, and the acolyte would be in chains by now. So instead, the duke had tried to create the evidence through this trap.
Of course, it was entirely possible someone else had planned all of this, and either Martel or the Night Knives had another, unknown enemy… Regardless, Martel would have to watch every step, consider his every move.
Which brought him to another issue. Flora on death's door. Martel knew he had a duty to help her; they would not have escaped tonight without her spells blocking pursuit. But he had to do it without being discovered or leading the inquisitors to her. The acolyte took a deep breath. The coming hours or even days would be difficult.
***
Walking underground confused Martel's sense of direction, yet he still had the distinct feeling they walked north rather than east. "You know where the Lyceum is, right?"
His summoned flame floating in front of Weasel cast a strange glow, illuminating the top of the boy's head. "Of course."
"We just seem to be following a rather circumventive route."
"Fancy word. I can tell you're going to school."
"I simply mean, we've come very far north."
"The parts of the sewers underneath the market are prone to flooding. With all the snow recently, it seemed smart to avoid them. Any other criticism of my pathfinding?"
"I'm just worried." Even as he said it, Martel was unsure why. It was simply a feeling of unease that kept increasing, though he could not explain its root. Nothing about this part of the sewers distinguished it from any other. Except, of course, that northeast lay the entrance to… "The catacombs."
"That schooling is really paying off for you."
"Quiet!" Martel whispered, placing one hand on the boy's shoulder, which Weasel immediately wrested away from.
Looking down one of the branching tunnels, Martel saw only darkness. They could not accidentally have strayed into the catacombs; he would have noticed. Nor did he think Weasel would steer them that wrong. But he could not shake the feeling creeping down his spine, which reminded him of his encounter with the undead creature in the crypts of Morcaster.
He let his magical senses sweep down the tunnel, even as it felt foolish. If a walking skeleton had somehow escaped, it would not exhibit any heat for him to feel. But it was the only thing he could think of doing.
As expected, no trace of warmth. Not even a rat. Yet something met Martel's magic. It made him feel uncomfortable, like digging his hands through filthy sludge. His unease grew, troubling his breathing. He could not describe the feeling exactly; it was worse than nausea or when he had suffered from consumption. The sensation, fed to him through his magic, surpassed any physical illbeing.
He could only describe or understand it as being touched by evil.
Martel broke off the connection. "Run!"
***
Once they had passed through several stretches of tunnelling, Weasel stopped. "Nothing is after us," he claimed. "What spooked you?"
Martel did not know how to explain it. Nor did he trust that they were safe, simply because nothing behind them made any sound or movement. As much as he dreaded the prospect, he let his magic sweep out to find a connection other than vermin. Nothing. Perhaps it had not been a creature of any kind, but simply the place itself, cursed by evil magic.
"You hear me? What are we running from?"
"Nothing. I felt something, but I can't explain it. But when you go back tonight, don't go the same route."
Weasel gave him a strange look in the flickering light of Martel's summoned flame. "At least we ran in the right direction. Your school is not far from here."
***
Martel sighed with relief as the grate door came into sight. Deftly, Weasel reached his small hands through the gaps between the bars and picked the padlock. Once they were both through, the urchin placed it back on the door. "I'll leave through other means," he said in reply to Martel's questioning look. "Sewers ain't the only hidden way in and out of this place."
Together, they ascended up into the workshops of the Lyceum, where they parted ways. Martel had no idea what secret route Weasel knew to enter and leave the castle, nor did he care at this point. At least for now, he finally felt safe.
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