Read Online The Two of Swords: Part 9 by K. J. Parker - Free Book Online
Authors: K. J. Parker
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hypocausts could do it. Eventually, she got it figured: raise it a couple of inches and slide the knife in under it to keep it open, then get the other side of it, lie down and gradually lever it up until it slid away and clanged on the floor with a noise they must’ve been able to hear in Choris. She lay perfectly still and counted to a hundred, but she couldn’t hear footsteps on the floor above her. Would the sound carry through the marble slabs? She had no idea.
On the clock, she reminded herself. Oh, and be careful of the drop.
It was just as well she’d slipped off her boots first. Her idea had been to brace herself in the hole with her arms, grab the sides of the hole, dangle, then drop the last few inches, feet, whatever. It didn’t work like that. She slipped and caught herself from falling by her elbows, so that her full weight was supported by muscles that weren’t usually called on to do that sort of work. They objected, and she felt their displeasure; meanwhile, she was stuck. She tried lifting up again, but she wasn’t strong enough. All she could do was tuck her elbows in until she was free to fall.
For a moment or so after she landed, she was terrified that she’d broken something, just as Oida had said she would. But when she dared to wiggle her toes, she could feel them move, and she decided the pain in her ankles was just pain. A surge of relief left her too weak to move for a long time.
She tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs had got very small. But no matter. Onwards, as Oida would say.
The lower hypocaust was secondary and narrower. She could get along on her hands and knees, but she had to squeeze her way past every column of bricks. Remarkably, the fabric of the dress didn’t tear, but her skin did. The floor slabs were almost too hot to bear, would’ve been intolerable without the sweat pouring off her. Twenty-seven hatches; she decided they were evenly spaced, but her progress was irregular, short paddles and long ones. She had to feel up past the bricks to feel for the hatch frames, and was scared stiff she might have missed one.
Twenty-seven, and she was panting like a dog, her heart was the size of a watermelon, she was dizzy and sick and her back was agony. The hatches open inwards, so be careful. Be careful? What the hell was that supposed to mean?
She found out. When opened, the hatch completely filled the hypocaust, airtight, a perfect fit, a gasket. She tried to close it again, because the opening was on the other side. It wouldn’t budge, it was wedged, stuck. She bashed with the heels of her hands, shoulder-bumped it, no use. Only when she squirmed her way round and kicked it with both feet did it budge; then it slammed shut and she couldn’t claw it open again. The tip of the knife levered it free eventually. She crawled past it, then swung it back, maybe a little too hard – it was stuck again, and there was no handle on the inside, and she’d have to come back this way. But, she told herself, I’m not going to survive much more of this, so I won’t be coming back, so it doesn’t matter. Through the hatch. Onwards.
Crawl exactly eighty-seven yards. How can you measure eighty-seven yards, exactly, in the dark on your hand and knees?
The new shaft was smaller still, but there weren’t any piles of bricks. Instead, there was a pipe, dead centre on the floor, wide enough that she couldn’t quite get her knees either side of it. Needless to say, it was scalding. She backed up to the open hatch and somehow managed to squirm out of the dress. It was sodden with sweat, as wet as if she’d been out in the rain. She draped it over the pipe and slid it along with her knees as she went.
The calibration problem turned out not to be a problem after all. Someone – the builders, maybe, or some extremely intelligent Clerk of Works – had cut marks in the brick on the right-hand wall at intervals of eighteen inches. She only realised what they were after she’d come a
On the clock, she reminded herself. Oh, and be careful of the drop.
It was just as well she’d slipped off her boots first. Her idea had been to brace herself in the hole with her arms, grab the sides of the hole, dangle, then drop the last few inches, feet, whatever. It didn’t work like that. She slipped and caught herself from falling by her elbows, so that her full weight was supported by muscles that weren’t usually called on to do that sort of work. They objected, and she felt their displeasure; meanwhile, she was stuck. She tried lifting up again, but she wasn’t strong enough. All she could do was tuck her elbows in until she was free to fall.
For a moment or so after she landed, she was terrified that she’d broken something, just as Oida had said she would. But when she dared to wiggle her toes, she could feel them move, and she decided the pain in her ankles was just pain. A surge of relief left her too weak to move for a long time.
She tried to take a deep breath, but her lungs had got very small. But no matter. Onwards, as Oida would say.
The lower hypocaust was secondary and narrower. She could get along on her hands and knees, but she had to squeeze her way past every column of bricks. Remarkably, the fabric of the dress didn’t tear, but her skin did. The floor slabs were almost too hot to bear, would’ve been intolerable without the sweat pouring off her. Twenty-seven hatches; she decided they were evenly spaced, but her progress was irregular, short paddles and long ones. She had to feel up past the bricks to feel for the hatch frames, and was scared stiff she might have missed one.
Twenty-seven, and she was panting like a dog, her heart was the size of a watermelon, she was dizzy and sick and her back was agony. The hatches open inwards, so be careful. Be careful? What the hell was that supposed to mean?
She found out. When opened, the hatch completely filled the hypocaust, airtight, a perfect fit, a gasket. She tried to close it again, because the opening was on the other side. It wouldn’t budge, it was wedged, stuck. She bashed with the heels of her hands, shoulder-bumped it, no use. Only when she squirmed her way round and kicked it with both feet did it budge; then it slammed shut and she couldn’t claw it open again. The tip of the knife levered it free eventually. She crawled past it, then swung it back, maybe a little too hard – it was stuck again, and there was no handle on the inside, and she’d have to come back this way. But, she told herself, I’m not going to survive much more of this, so I won’t be coming back, so it doesn’t matter. Through the hatch. Onwards.
Crawl exactly eighty-seven yards. How can you measure eighty-seven yards, exactly, in the dark on your hand and knees?
The new shaft was smaller still, but there weren’t any piles of bricks. Instead, there was a pipe, dead centre on the floor, wide enough that she couldn’t quite get her knees either side of it. Needless to say, it was scalding. She backed up to the open hatch and somehow managed to squirm out of the dress. It was sodden with sweat, as wet as if she’d been out in the rain. She draped it over the pipe and slid it along with her knees as she went.
The calibration problem turned out not to be a problem after all. Someone – the builders, maybe, or some extremely intelligent Clerk of Works – had cut marks in the brick on the right-hand wall at intervals of eighteen inches. She only realised what they were after she’d come a
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