A Discourse in Steel Read Free Page B

sorrow or hopelessness.”
    “Ergo, the tallow sticks of regret,” Egil said.
    “Aye. And that’s why I think it shows up in the Warrens more than anywhere else.”
    Egil glanced around. “Hopelessness and regret aplenty. Nasty bit of business, this Blackalley.”
    “That it is.”
    Egil tested the weight of his hammers in each hand. “Any idea what we’ll find inside?”
    “None. But when has that ever stopped us?”
    Egil ran his hand over the tattoo of Ebenor. “Never.”
    “Right. Besides, my concern isn’t getting in or what we’ll find inside, but getting out.”
    “You said you had a theory about that, though.”
    “I do.” Nix shrugged. “But it’s just a theory.”
    “A theory’s more than we usually have.”
    “Truth.” Nix looked askance at the sky. “The threat of rain bothers, though. The lines, once lit, are to show our way back. I don’t want the rain putting them out.”
    Egil looked up at the sky. “I think the worst of it’s already fallen.”
    “So you say,” Nix said. “We could wait a night, I suppose.”
    “We could, but how long can the professor survive in there?”
    Nix shrugged. “No one has ever come out. He could already be dead. We don’t even know that there’s a
there
there. We could just…die the moment we cross.”
    “But you don’t think so.”
    “No, I don’t think so. I think it’s a portal.”
    “Then so do I.”
    Nix hoped his friend’s faith was not misplaced. “You light those two alleys and I’ll light those. Light the left line at its top, the right line at its bottom. Got it?”
    “Got it.”
    Nix shifted on his feet. “You know, the more we talk about this, the more ill-advised it seems.”
    “Aye,” Egil said.
    Ool’s clock started to chime three bells, the gong of the great timepiece booming over the city.
    “Remember,” Nix said. “Left line at the top. Right line at the bottom. And don’t hit the sigils with your body.”
    “Fakkin’ gewgaws!” Egil called over his shoulder, as he stalked toward the nearest alley.
    Nix did the same, and struck his matchstick with his thumb; it flared to life, a green flame dancing on its end. He put the magical flame to the lines in the manner he’d described. The line did not catch fire all at once. Instead only a small flame burned on the end of each line, emitting a steady column of stinking black smoke that trailed back down the alley.
    As Nix watched, the flame moved incrementally down the left line and up the right, just a blade width, as if the lines were a pyrotechnic fuse. Satisfied, he ran to the next alleyway and repeated the process. Soon all eight lines were lit and the chime of Ool’s clock was nothing more than an echo in the heavy air.
    The two comrades retreated to the center of the intersection.
    “Those lines will burn for about an hour at that rate,” Egil said.
    “Aye,” Nix agreed.
    They’d have to be in and out of Blackalley by then.
    Nix ran his forefinger over the etching on the shining eye he held in his hand. He took out Drugal’s small journal, given him by Enora, and sprinkled a compound of enspelled pyrite on it. He spoke a word of power and the powder flared and was consumed. He tucked the book back into his tunic, close to his chest.
    “Nothing to do now but watch and wait.”
    The two men stood back to back in the eldritch glow of green magefire and sorcerous sigils and the mage’s moon, eyeing the alleys, waiting to walk through a sorcerous door that everyone else tried to avoid.
    Nix watched the green flames move along the tallow lines, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed that Blackalley hadn’t yet appeared.
    The rain picked up. The magefire sizzled and danced in the drops as it burned its way through the tallow.
    “Fakking rain,” Nix said.
    “Nix,” Egil said.
    “What?”
    “Look.”
    Egil’s tone pulled him around and there it was: Blackalley. It looked much as Nix remembered it. Darkness as thick as spilled ink filled one of