The cold air in the cistern gallery carried the sharp, earthy smell of wet lime and iron-rich spring water. Tessa Dene did not step back from the masonry seam. Her forehead remained pressed against the chill stone, her breath misting across the blue-tinted fissure where Noll Vey’s consciousness hummed in the deep rock.
“You really believe you are paying an honest price, don’t you?” she asked, her voice dropping into a rough, jagged register. She pushed herself upright, wiping the back of her wrist across her eyes before turning to face the corridor.
From the shadow of the vaulted archway, Sella Rusk walked forward, her boots sounding heavy and deliberate against the flagstones. Beside her scurried Prit, his sharp claws clutching a clean slate, his long grey tail tucked tightly behind his heels. And leaning against the damp limestone jamb, her arms crossed over a threadbare maroon waistcoat, stood Hesta Quill.
The former traveling actress looked at the wall with an arched eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching with a mixture of amusement and deep, weary irritation.
“I have seen this act before, Noll,” Hesta said, her melodious theater voice echoing off the cistern roof. “Three years running in the river towns. Every time the provincial bailiff came knocking on the tavern door with an unpaid ale bill, you would strike a grand pose by the candle, tilt your chin toward the ceiling, and declare that you would take the blame upon your own noble shoulders. You would tell…
