'Revenue, and a proving ground for those who wish to join her. If she really does seek to take over her brother's seat, she won't just hire any good-for-nothing off the street.' The Fourth recalled the way she had looked at him, seeing not a man, but a weapon she could add to her arsenal. He could not fault her for trying to outbid the Mahapravin; some things simply weren't for sale.

What have we gotten ourselves into?

Down the tunnel, something snuffed out the light. There was a clatter, a click. The sound reminded the Fourth of rusted valves being turned, gas being loosed to flush dangerous prey from hiding. 'You might want to cover your nose,' replied the mercenary, freeing his arm as a new odour coloured the air, stinging his throat and lungs, and causing his eyes to water.

'That's... tha...'

'Yeah,' he replied, covering his mouth and nose, and drawing in a deep breath before he no longer could.

Anira stumbled, going limp as the gas did its work. The mercenary caught her before she hit the ground, cradling her head as he hoisted her up and away. Tears blurred his vision as he wandered through the darkness. Anira slumbered in his arms, unconscious, her breathing shallow. Had she not hyperventilated beforehand, she might have been able to make the journey under her own steam.

Fortunately, the Fourth had borne heavier burdens. Surprisingly, he found himself relieved not to be carrying dead weight for a change.

Beautiful women are going to be the death of me, he mused, as the tunnel ahead brightened, hinting at a way out.

Of course, it proved too good to be true.

Saltwater lapped at the mercenary's boots as he stared through the iron grate blocking his path. The harbour lay just beyond. Gulls circled the skies whilst alley cats fought each other for fish left to rot in the daytime heat. Shafts of moonlight poked between the bars, mocking him, bathing them both in silver light.

'Well, there goes that idea,' he sighed aloud, turning back. Moonlight shifted. Seagulls screeched.

A new path appeared in the stone, leading back towards the Cradle. A door reinforced with iron studs awaited them at the end. Carved with runes, it promised mystery as well as salvation. No doubt Anira would have leapt at the chance to open it.

Stirring, the bardess mewed softly as she came around.

'Morning, sleepyhead,' said the Fourth, deadpan as ever. 'Rest well?'
 
The world returned to Anira slowly. First in sounds. Sharp cries from seagulls, cutting through the air like knives. The gentle lapping of weaves, heavy with sea foam and kelp. The ringing of a ship's bell. Then the smells. Salt. Fish. All in the sour breath of the harbor.

Her lashes fluttered before her eyes finally opened. The world swam in misty silver light and shadow, the edges soft and untrustworthy. For a moment she didn’t remember The Cradle. Or the gas. Or Slim dying on the spikes. All she knew was strong arms around her. Carrying her.

Anira blinked up at the Fourth, her head heavy against his shoulder. Her fogged mind decided this was exactly what a heroic rescue should look like. “You carried me out.” the bardess murmured.

“I can hear the sea...” she whispered. That must mean they got out! Her gaze lingered on his face for a moment longer, warm and hazy. “You look very heroic from this angle.” Her eyes drifted past his shoulder and landed on the fact that the sea, so close, was very much on the other side of a grate thick enough to stop a charging ox.

Then, with sudden determination, she wriggled free of his arms and dropped to the ground. Her legs immediately betrayed her. The world tilted unpleasantly. Anira stumbled forward anyway, catching herself against the slick stone wall before staggering the last few steps toward the grate. Her hands wrapped around the iron and she gave the bars an experimental shake. They did not move.

Freedom was close enough to taste.

Anira leaned her forehead against the metal. Breathing slowly until the spinning settled enough for her to straighten and turn toward The Fourth. Her gaze drifted past him. Toward the door. The heavy one set into the stone further down the passage, its surface carved with similar black glyphs that had been on the door to Lady Selani's room. Then she glanced back at him. Fourth had already proven he knew how to shroudweave. The bard did a tired gesture toward the iron grates.

“Any chance you can do something about this?” Melt it. Twist it. Bend it. Warp it.
 
'Heroic? Hardly. I simply did not want your father coming after me for leaving you behind,' he said, shrugging off her praise like one might a sodden coat. Slipping from his arms to stand on her own two feet, Anira staggered towards the iron grate as if seeking to pry it apart by willpower alone. The Fourth watched as she tried to give the bars a shake. He did not have it in him to tell her any efforts she made to escape would prove futile.

There was only one way out: back through the Cradle.

Trapped like rats in a barrel, he shook his head, expression blank, eyes pitying. 'Would that I could, Little Lark,' he replied, stepping up alongside her. A hand reached out to test the metal. Damn thing didn't even rattle.

'Had I the requisite tools and time, I might've been able to get us through. As is, we're shit out of luck.' Drinking in the sight of the harbour, the mercenary shook his head once more, thoughts turning to what lay ahead. He had some inkling of what to expect when they went through that door. Bloodsport. Cheers and jeers. The death of a legend, he huffed, amused by his own fatalism.

One day he would meet his match; it went without saying. Everyone died, sooner or late. Even those with monikers claiming the opposite.

'With my connection to the shroud severed, I reckon things are like to get real dicey indeed,' he said, glancing over his shoulder at the door. 'I'll take my chances, of course, but you... you will have to come up with some other plan.' The Fourth looked to Anira, his gaze softening slightly.

She was no fighter. He could see that plain as day.

No. No, her talents lie elsewhere. 'Perhaps it's time one of us changed sides,' he suggested, turning the idea over in his mind. 'You have valuable knowledge that might prove useful to her, after all. For starters, the Mahapravin entrusted us to find her rather than his own people. That says something, wouldn't you agree?'

Water lapped at the mercenary's boots as he stared out into the harbour. No doubt he appeared quite the ghoul, standing there in the moonlight. 'Distance yourself from me. Divulge information she might not otherwise know. Survive, any way you can.' Hells. The bard was not without a reputation herself. And someone would have to tell the tale of Selani's rise to power.

Amibitious people had egos, too.

Silence settled over the pair as the sea shivered and stilled. A cardinal swept down into the outlet, alighting on a nearby rock. It chirped, staring at them. The Fourth recalled having seen one just like it back at the palace. Odd, he thought.
 
“Would that I could, Little Lark.”

She gave the bars another half-hearted shake anyway, if only to satisfy her stubbornness.

Dicey indeed.

When he said you will have to come up with some other plan, one of her brows lifted faintly. Of course she would. Anira listened to him without interrupting, her fingers idly tracing the cold iron bar beside her.

His plan unfolded in careful pieces, distance herself, betray a little knowledge, survive by stepping into Selani’s shadow rather than opposing it. Change sides. Her lips twitched faintly. It was not a foolish thought, exactly. Anira turned slowly from the grate, leaning her back against the iron while she studied him in the pale spill of moonlight.

She had spent enough years around courts to recognize the shape of such a plan. It's biggest flaw was that sort of plan required patience. Trust. Time. Anira’s fingers tapped softly against the iron. When Lady Selani had looked at Anira… it had not been curiosity. Not opportunity. Not even contempt. It had been nothing at all. Half a glance. A breath of attention. Then the lever had been pulled and the floor had vanished beneath her feet. Spike pit diplomacy.

Yes, she thought wryly. A promising foundation for a long and trusting partnership.

But she did not quite have the heart to dismantle his idea out loud. “I’ll do my best,” she said quietly. It wasn’t entirely a lie. Bards survived by doing their best in situations that were already doomed.

“Right,” she muttered.

That settled that.

With a slow breath she pushed herself away from the bars and turned back toward the tunnel. Anira stopped a short distance from the door and folded her arms loosely, studying the thing like a house mouse studying a mouse trap. Big. Thick. Iron-studded. Runes carved deep into the wood like old scars. The sort of door that didn’t open onto pleasant surprises.

“You know,” she said lightly, “they’re definitely standing on the other side of that door.”

Anira glanced back over her shoulder at the Fourth.

“Blades out, I expect.”

She rubbed absently at the side of her temple, chasing away the last of the dizziness.

“So... Are you ready for the welcoming committee?”
 
He kept staring out to sea as the bard squared her shoulders and put on her warface. "I'll do my best," she had said, and he believed her. Now, I'd best play my part, he mused, taking one last deep breath before pushing off after her.

The door loomed at the end of the tunnel. A big black slab of glyph-cut wood and iron. The Fourth's enhanced senses could not reach beyond it; the anti-magicks woven into the door were old and powerful. The barrier had existed long before Selani had set foot in the Cradle. Perhaps, there was more to the city's underground than he'd first thought. It wasn't uncommon for civilisations to build atop the ruins of the old. Happened all the time.

'Must be after your autograph,' he grunted, 'or mine.'

The long knife slid free of its sheathe. Reaching behind his back, the Fourth drew its twin from beneath the confines of his shirt and jerkin, tested its weight. The blades were paired, and bound to him by blood and magic. The scars on his palms proof of oaths sworn and upheld.

Glancing sidelong at Anira, the mercenary nodded. 'Always!' He replied. 'Question is: are they ready for us?'

Stepping closer to the door, the Fourth dispelled his shroudsight with a gesture, a shiver coursing through his body the moment he laid a hand on the latch. A breath. Two. He looked back. 'Been a pleasure working with you, Anira,' he winked, before pushing through to the waiting cells. Hinges squealed. Shadows shifted nervously.

A huge thug wearing a sweat-stained gambeson and wielding a spiked cudgel pounced as soon as he stepped foot inside. Opposite, a fellah with a leery look in his eye swept from the darkness, cleaver raised, face full of fear.

Perhaps they had planned to rush him all at once. Strength in numbers and all that. Perhaps it would have worked, too.

But their timing was off, their technique full of holes.

Warm blood splashed cold stone.

Steel glimmered in the torchlight.

Screams mingled with shouts and battlecries as the shadows birthed new threats. One, two, six. Flanged maces, axes, spears. Seven, eight, ten. Swords and mail shirts. Skullcaps and simple brigandines. Southern scale and gladiator masks. An eclectic bunch.

They died all the same.
 
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