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  "Didn't Thornaster just demonstrate that you can't rely on that?" Gibrace pointed out. "Sometimes you don't have a choice."

  "Bah, we can't all be as cold-blooded as you, Gibbers. Stick to your principles, Ash." Frog returned the knife. "But be careful."

  "Advice for us all," Ash said neutrally, hating her inability to be sure, even with these two very likeable boys, whether she was among friends or enemies.

  She returned to Thornaster, who promptly told her she could have the rest of the day free and headed off with Hawkmarten to enjoy the palace bathhouse. Ash frowned at his retreating back, wondering what he was thinking. It had seemed to her that Thornaster, as much as possible, had hidden his strengths since arriving in Montmoth. He'd taken no weapon on the hunt, kept his Estarrel heritage to a trusted few, and chosen not to display his skill with the sword. With so few leads, had he decided to set himself up as a target? Would that really make any difference to their opponents?

  Puzzled and worried, Ash visited Arth and Cloud Cat, and took her mind off conspiracy with a currycomb and plenty of elbow grease. Arth particularly loved being groomed, and fussed in his stall while she worked on Cloud Cat, until a hovering stable hand bribed him with molasses and oats. Heading back, Ash amused herself unjustly comparing master and horse. Really, Thornaster had been behaving a little like Arth today, not quite prancing about with an arched neck, but–

  Ash stopped. Stopped right where she was, staring at nothing, the whole of her body jolted as if with lightning.

  "He was showing off. Showing off."

  "Ash? Why are you standing here grinning?" Cassia, resting an inevitable basket on her hip, nudged her with a foot. "Ash?"

  "Because I think I just received the biggest compliment anyone's ever offered me," Ash replied. "Only took me a decem to notice."

  "Not from Sera Arpesial, I hope," Cassia teased. "Or is this the start of a new and even more exciting rumour?"

  "Who knows?"

  About to change the topic, Ash caught a glimpse of black and gold out of the corner of her eye. Lauren Carlyon, pausing casually by the corner of the Mern, fiddling with his cuff, then moving on. It was out of character for Carlyon to hesitate or fidget so and, intrigued, Ash bid Cassia a good evening and set off to follow Carlyon, wandering along as if she were out for a meander, keeping her stops and starts as inconspicuous as possible.

  Caught between suspecting Lauren Carlyon and feeling thoroughly sorry for him, Ash had made little progress in discovering the truth behind the perfect first seruilis mask. The Rhoi trusted him, and it was true enough that any Carlyon was exceedingly unlikely to be put forward as a candidate for Rhoi, but Ash still struggled to produce any kind of impartial judgment. Eward Carlyon's son. Part of the conspiracy, or victim of it?

  Carlyon hesitated at the entrance of the Gods' Hall, and Ash ducked back, out of sight. What was he doing? Why this of all places? Coincidence? Or had that chance meeting with Eward Carlyon been more significant than she'd ever realised?

  Impossible at this angle to see whether Carlyon had stayed among the glass and metal gods, or gone through the intersecting walls to whatever lay beyond. If this was finally the chance she'd been waiting for, the opportunity to catch a conspirator in a moment of betrayal, Ash needed to get closer without being spotted.

  Unable to approach the building's entrance without crossing the empty space before it, Ash chose to move directly, and then stood with her back to the wall beside the open doors, listening.

  Nothing.

  In such a large room anyone speaking wouldn't necessarily be audible, so all Ash could do was risk a glance inside. And then, seeing no one, she stole across the circular room and repeated her performance at the outer of the two criss-crossing rear walls.

  All seemed quiet, so Ash rounded the wall and discovered a stair to follow down. She descended, quickly at first, and then slowing as she rounded a full curve and reached a lantern fixed to the wall of the stair.

  Dimly, she could hear a noise. Someone shouting. And...splashing? Ash grimaced at the gloom below. If she went further her shadow would be cast down the stair by the light, putting her at a distinct disadvantage. Drawing one of her knives, she used it to snuff the lantern's candle, and then sat on the stair until her eyes had adjusted.

  It was not completely dark ahead, so it was now a question of whether the dousing of the lantern had revealed her presence even as it hid it. And how much the delay had cost. The shouting had stopped. It had only seemed to be one voice, probably Carlyon's, and there was that splashing again, far distant. How deep did the stair descend?

  Pausing on every step, Ash moved forward, and after another almost complete circle a partial explanation came into view. A well. A single circular room, poorly lit by a lantern on the far wall, with a well in the centre, two ornate semi-circular covers opened out like wings, and a pivoting bucket suspender drawn to one side.

  Carlyon could not have come down here and simply fallen in. That didn't make sense. But if he'd been pushed, where was the second person? Hiding flat against the wall to one side of the bottom of the stair? Or on the far side of the well?

  Working for absolute silence, Ash eased herself the last few steps downward, craning her neck to see the blind spots to either side. No-one. The far side of the well, then?

  Shouting again and it was definitely Carlyon's voice, though she couldn't make out much of what he was saying. Ash stepped carefully into the room and, keeping her back to the wall, circled until she could see behind the well's stone casing. No one. There was no one in the room.

  Torn between suspecting there was some kind of ladder down the well, and fantastic possibilities of ghosts or invisible people, Ash hesitated, then approached the wellhead.

  "Carlyon?" she asked, in a too-soft voice, taking a firm grip on the well's rim and looking down. Black. Peering into Luin's depths would tell her nothing, but if he really was down there, she needed to lower the bucket to give him something to hold on to, then go for help.

  Too late. Too slow to react to the flurry of movement behind her. Strong hands grabbed her firmly by the ankles and upended her. Straight down the well.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Few Luinhallers had any use for swimming. The public bathhouses were no more than waist deep, and the Milk was too fast and far too cold. Outside the city there were streams and pools that were more inviting, at least in the middle of summer, but Ash, in both her lives, had had little chance to enjoy them.

  She'd even obligingly announced to half the Landsmeet that she couldn't swim.

  Falling, at least, she'd had plenty of experience with, and she kept herself from flailing, only brushing a flank against stone as she dropped. Then the water, a chill slap, and she gasped and choked as liquid rushed into her mouth. She tried to find some footing, but couldn't even discover which way was up. Black! and cold! and–!

  A hand closed on her collar and hauled. Ash gasped as she found her head out of the water, but could not keep herself from struggling anyway, choking and sputtering, and then trying to keep her mouth above the surface as she coughed.

  "Stop fighting, blast it."

  With an arm beneath her chin, and one around her waist, it took sheer force of will for Ash to obey, and then she found herself crowded into the curving wall, which was a thing she knew how to deal with, immediately searching out the ridges in the stonework, her boots scraping beneath the water, offering a tiny bit of extra support as she clung and shuddered. The hold on her changed to a supporting hand against her back.

  "Carlyon," she said, when she could.

  "Lenthard." He sounded exasperated.

  Less disoriented now she had a wall, Ash managed to look up. The only source of illumination was a grey circle some measureless distance above them. The shadow of a head projected from one side of the circle.

  "Who is it?" she whispered, the sound reflecting from the walls oddly.

  "Frog."

  The shadow disappeared. Then, with a
subdued clang, half of the grey circle did as well. Then the other. Frog had closed the well's cover, leaving them in total blackness.

  "It's like being damned," she whispered. "Trapped and helpless as they throw dirt on top of you."

  Long pause. "Thank you, Lenthard," Carlyon said, eventually. "I couldn't have put it better myself."

  Foot in mouth. Ash hid a mad impulse to make it worse, to correct her statement and point out that, of course, the damned were burned. She dug into the wall, scraping her boots for purchase, and already her fingers were dagger-cold, aching. The well's water didn't seem as icy as the Milk, but that didn't make it comfortable.

  "Are you sure?" she asked, choosing the marginally less awful subject. "That it was Frog, I mean? I didn't see who it was."

  "Quite sure. Unlike you, I didn't lean so handily over the edge of the well for him."

  "How then?" Carlyon was as tall and much better built than Frog.

  "A rock, I think. More fool me to walk into a trap."

  "He hit you?" Ash couldn't quite bring herself to alter her fingertip grip of the wall to try to check on him. "Did you pass out completely?"

  "I woke when I hit the water. I don't think he was counting on that, or you appearing. Were you following me, Lenthard?"

  "You looked so suspicious. Can you show me how to float?"

  Carlyon's voice, after a very long pause, held a note of laughter with the disbelief. "You want me to teach you to swim?"

  "If you pass out again, I'll have to keep you above water."

  "I won't pass out."

  She made an exasperated noise. "You lost consciousness once. Don't be stupid."

  "Did you tell anyone you were coming here?"

  "How could I? I was following you. And you were following Frog, and it's my strong intuition that he won't be mentioning this. How soon before you're missed?"

  "After sunset."

  "And I've the rest of the day free. The Godskeeps come to adjust the position of the gods with every bell, though. We could listen for it, and yell, and..."

  "Could you hear me? Yelling?"

  "Not till I was halfway down the stair," Ash admitted. "And that with the well's cover open. Still, the Godskeeps might use the well for something, and at any rate my fingers are starting to cramp, so let's start with lessons and then try to work something out."

  "Does nothing daunt you, Lenthard?"

  "Yes. This. But I'd rather learn how to swim than cling here terrified 'til my fingers give out. I–" Her voice had gone ragged, and she stopped and made herself breathe, then forced herself back to business. "Just show me."

  It helped a great deal to listen to Carlyon's explanation of how she should move, and to practice while he supported her. After a few false starts, she was able to paddle tentatively about, exploring the narrow circumference of the well, the stones very smooth and cool, with few finger holds worth the name.

  "What are you doing?" she asked Carlyon, who was making the oddest splashing noises.

  "Take off your boots," he said. "And your tabard. You'll find it easier with them gone."

  The tabard was simple enough, but she hesitated over the boots. Retrieving her remaining knife – and wondering what had happened to the one she'd been holding – Ash handed it over to Carlyon, then searched out a narrow handhold in the stonework to clutch while she fiddled with swollen laces.

  She'd just kicked off the second boot when the level of the water in the well surged, and she lost her handhold, bobbing on an unexpected tide of warmth.

  "What–?" As quickly as it had risen, the water dropped, though it was impossible for Ash to tell if the level was now higher, lower or the same. "What was that?!"

  "The outflow from the bathhouse," Carlyon replied. "This is Montmoth's original Well of the Heart. It draws on an offshoot of the Milk, but during the Breaking the rock separating the offshoot from the bathhouse outflow ruptured. Rather than attempt repairs, they consecrated a new Well of the Heart, and built the Gods' Hall here."

  "That's–" Ash fumbled through the implications. "So, this is where Karaelsur's judgments were made, where the old Sun declared Luinsel and Rhoi." And Eward Carlyon had been down here. "No chance of swimming out that way, I suppose. Let me get a better measure of this wall."

  "You're not seriously going to try to climb out?"

  "Try, yes." The well's stonework was tightly constructed, offering only fingertip holds. "Succeeding's another matter. Stay as much as possible to my right – oh, and try to use my knife to prise loose a stone."

  "You don't want it with you?"

  "I'd push myself off the wall trying to use it."

  Ash's skin was already waterlogged, and the lower few feet of stonework slick and slippery, causing two early falls in quick succession. Her third attempt took her to drier stone, and then Ash's true climb began.

  With no certainty of how far she had to go, and no possibility of looking ahead for the best handholds, the ascent had to be a matter of touch and caution. But the cold, while nothing compared to the Milk's, still dulled sensation, competing with the pain of bearing her whole weight on little more than the tips of fingers and toes. Each handhold and foothold, every shift of weight, had to be deliberate, measured, controlled.

  Twin lines of pain opened across her back. The muscle burn she could deal with, at least for a limited period. The other concerned Ash far more. Her wound had progressed satisfactorily, enough to remove the stitches, but it was far from completely healed, and she could only guess how much strain the climb placed on it. Was it only sweat trickling down her back? The ache in her upper arms grew intolerable, while her toes and fingers were passing through fire, and the climb had become an eternity. Ash paused at a larger-than-ordinary toehold, where she could wedge one side of her forefoot in place and lean into the wall to take most of her weight. How much further? Had she made it halfway? More? It had not seemed like a long fall, but not being able to see made everything unreal, and her head was in danger of spinning.

  Below her, Carlyon was completely silent, no longer scraping her knife at one of the stones. For all she knew, he could have passed out, and silently drowned while she inched her way upward. What would she do if she called out, and he didn't answer? What–?

  Ash closed her eyes. She could not fail. To die here, without even beginning a quarter of the things she wanted to do? Without seeing more than Montmoth? To be disposed of by Genevieve's killers, her hunt an abject failure?

  Before finding out whether Thornaster had been showing off just for her?

  Stone by stone. If the climb as a whole had become too overwhelming, then she would step back from that and concentrate only on the next handhold, the next foothold. Other matters she could worry about when there were no more stones.

  Wincing as her fingers protested their return to torture, Ash shifted slowly back into position, and slid her hand up – and over.

  The surprise almost cost her everything. She inhaled sharply, and one foot slipped, but the hand she'd curled between the lip of the well and its cover held firm. Gripping hard, she repositioned her feet, and then used her free hand to explore the metal above her. Two half-circles of what had looked like beaten copper, it would be a solid weight to lift. Wedging herself firmly into place, she heaved. Metal clanged.

  "Lenthard?!" Carlyon's voice, rising to a high point of hope and incredulity. "You made it?!"

  Throat tight, Ash couldn't summon the words. She hung from her one solid handhold, blinking in the dark, until Carlyon shouted again.

  "There's a bolt." Her throat still tried to shut the words away, and Ash forced them out. "He bolted it."

  Utter silence. Ash wouldn't have had a response either. Unwilling to admit defeat, she beat on the metal until her strength finally gave way, and then, calling a warning, fell once again into the dark.

  ooOoo

  "Why were you following Frog?"

  It was the first either of them had spoken since Ash's failure. Initially, all she'd been a
ble to do was float, her hands and feet stinging relentlessly, using one of the handholds Carlyon had prised loose to take some of her weight. But the silence began to press unbearably, and it was never in Ash's nature to do nothing at all.

  "Did you have some idea that he was responsible for Heran's accident?" When only a stirring of water followed, she added irritably: "We're not dead yet. Talk."

  There was a marked difference to Carlyon's voice when he finally responded, the words dragging.

  "I checked all the seruilisi's quivers, to see if they were short any arrows. Frog had one extra. It was hardly conclusive, and, well, it was Frog."

  Ash understood that. Of all the seruilisi, Frog had been the most reasonable. She wanted to track him down and shake him for making her like him.

  "So you didn't tell anyone?"

  "No."

  "Didn't want to smear his good name if you were wrong?"

  "That's correct."

  "Great. Was there anything else to make you suspicious? Why were you following him tonight?"

  "A note. It said 'Meet after Mern: the usual place.' Only Frog could have dropped it, and all I had time to do was follow him to find out what was going on. Straight into this trap."

  "I can hardly believe it of Frog. Does he want to be Veirhoi so much? What can be worth all this death?"

  "Kiri Arpesial."

  Ash held back an indignant little gasp. "If you're expecting me to believe Kiri a scheming murderess...!"

  "No. What Frog wants. So very much."

  "Oh." Becoming Veirhoi would not automatically gain Frog Kiri, but a Montmoth under the influence of Karaelsur was unlikely to increase Kiri's protections. And Ash had no way to warn her.

  Not finding it in themselves to say anything more, Ash and Carlyon floated in the dark. Ash's various hurts faded thanks to the cold, and were replaced by a bone-deep ache. While not inflicting the icy shock of Luinhall's glacial main river, the well was still too cold for health, and the infrequent surge of warmth from the bathhouse became a necessity, a brief revitalisation that Ash began to look forward to with an edge of desperation. She tried to think of Thornaster, displaying himself in the sunlight, but the memory didn't seem real any more. There was only water, and darkness.