The Ram squinted at the badge with bloodshot brown eyes, unimpressed. He looked to have drank a bit too much the night before, and regretted getting out of bed. “You one of Adrastos’s?” he asked, suspicious, eyes drifting to Tuft.

Lapis withheld a sigh. Why be grumpy at them for his sleeping failure? “No. One of Faelan’s.”

His expression changed to surprise while his partner shook her head, exasperated. She lounged on a chair with overlapped bed pillows padding her butt, legs crossed, elbow on a tilted table, side of her head in her palm, uninterested in popping up and hassling them. “You should know that,” she said, her boot bouncing up and down in annoyance. “The khentauree are with the rebels.”

“Khentuaree?” he asked, frowning, before his eyes traveled over Tuft. The khentauree folded his arms and lowered his chin enough, he stared directly into the man’s eyes. Flustered, he cleared his throat and looked away.

The woman laughed and swept her arm to the barrier gate, which led the way into the broad tunnel lit by a multitude of fruit oil lamps. The barred doors twice Lapis’s height stood open, a wire hooked over their top and attached to wavy metal panels to keep them that way. The gate was wide enough for two farm wagons, and she wondered what moved through there, to warrant the gap.

The man handed the badge back, worming his mouth around as if he wished to snap at his partner, but did not have the guts to voice a nasty opinion. The woman eyed him, as if she knew his thoughts and they amused her.

“Take care, though,” she cautioned as they headed for the gate. “Drakeways shanks keep testing us guards, and you don’t want to get caught in the middle.”

“Thanks for the warning. Any incursions into the Fourth Line tunnels?”

“No. You should be good.”

“Thank you.”

They walked in the center of the tunnel, crunching on frozen soil and breathing clouds into the air. Lapis wished the tunnels did not hold such a freezing bite, but at least no Ram and Beryl territory clash interfered. That she even thought about that proved how drastically her life had changed since Faelan re-entered it. Cautious chaser Lapis had disappeared, leaving behind a woman swimming in the unfamiliar and with no idea how to describe the murky waters. How far would she have to drift before she saw land? Would it save her from drowning, or provide an even darker danger?

So far, the darker danger was winning.

They heard talking; a group pulling handcarts with empty sacks in them exited a tunnel and headed towards the barrier gate, the wheels bumping about on the hardened dirt. By their dress, she guessed them farmers from out Blossom way, using the tunnels to bypass Gall’s taxes on all foodstuffs brought into the city proper.

One nodded to them as the rest stared at Tuft with humongous eyes. Lapis returned it with a smile, glad they encountered farmers rather than shanks.

They proceeded on, the emptiness slowly closing in, and she sternly reminded herself that she walked in company rather than alone, and it was not dark; the fruit oil lamps burned brightly despite the lack of people to enjoy the illumination. She did not run away from an enemy, and nothing nasty awaited her at the end of the journey.

“It is this tunnel,” Tuft said, pointing to an entrance with a grungy metal sign that had the number four stamped into it. He took the lead while she followed, the rats trailing silently, though both radiating excitement for being on a mission with her despite the boring nature of it. A decent, gentle courier mission, as she said, nothing inherently dangerous, and it got Lyet out of the Eaves without having to deal with the janks. A win, in that.

The Fourth Line tunnel resembled many of the other tunnels east of the river; dirt floor covering what remained of the metal tracks, a raised sidewalk of cracked cement, rusty pipes and black tubes running the length of the ceiling. Glowing white tiles still sat in the walls, and Lyet gaped at them, though Rin’s lack of interest meant he had traversed passages with the same type of illumination. Tuft studied them and swiveled his head to regard her.

“These are gymsim tiles,” he said. “The Cloister used them in human bathing rooms.”

“Gymsim?” Lapis asked. “I don’t know what that is, other than it glows. The underground is fastidious about keeping the tiles from breaking or being stolen because no one knows how to replace them. There aren’t that many left down here.”

“So you don’t know how they’re glowing?” Lyet asked, touching the clean surface with her forefinger.

“Nope. Patch says they never dim, as long as they remain in place and don’t break.”

“They would not,” Tuft said. “Gymsim glows. It is easy to mine, because of it. There are Shivers khentauree who did so, before they joined our mine. The dust is toxic to humans, but of no consequence to khentauree as long as it does not get inside the chassis.”

“Ambercaast khentauree worked in dangerous mining conditions because what they were doing could kill humans.” Lapis sighed. “That makes sense from a mine owner’s point of view, but it’s still the Pit for khentauree.”

“It was not so bad. Because the dust harmed humans, the khentauree who mined it were free of in-person supervisors. A boon.”

“Woah.”

Lapis glanced at Rin, then at a door sunken into a niche to the right. A tree etched into the center wooden panel gleamed with shiny golden stain, its thick or thin lines adding or de-emphasizing weight, detail paid to the minutest leaf, the smallest rough of bark, the tiniest blade of grass.

“I’ve never seen anything this beautiful,” Lyet said, awed. “And I went to the Ascercott Museum many times as a kid.”

Lapis smiled. The museum was an upper-class brag on how out-of-reach fine art was to the masses. She found the pieces displayed uninspiring in their vapidness, too many created with skill but not heart. She raised a hand and knocked.

The near immediate opening meant someone was waiting for them. She recognized the bent old man, Darl Keter, and nodded.

“It’s good to see you again.”

“And you and Tuft,” he said, waving them in. “I didn’t expect a response so soon. Faelan, is it? He’s quick to get things moving.”

“When you prick his curiosity, he is,” she agreed. “Darl, I’d like you to meet Rin and Lyet. They’re my chaser apprentices. Guys, this is Darl Keter, a historian of the Jils.”

Darl nodded at them. “Good that those Dentherion agents didn’t stop you.”

“We took tunnels, so we didn’t encounter any janks.”

“All the better. They’ve been nosing around here.” He muttered a few words Lapis did not catch and closed the door, sliding two tech bolts into place. They glowed an ominous blue, tinging everything in a subdued, cold light. “They’re worse than Diros’s lot and the Drakeways put together. Those shanks, you can scare them with a few lights and banging noises. The janks? Not so much, though, considering who they are, I’m surprised at the lack of professionalism they display. More than once we’ve been saved from infiltration because their arguments have ended in both sides storming away.”

“Stars’ luck it continues,” Lapis said. He seemed the type to appreciate that sentiment.

“Aye.” He led them to a hallway lit by flat-paneled, dim ceiling lights. The walls on both sides held high relief scenes that did not depict religious reverence, but everyday activities. People climbed ladders to pick apples, used an ox-pulled contraption to harvest grains, made pottery, cooked food, sewed clothing, and couriered letters, all in sweeping landscapes with oddly proportioned houses, sheds and barns. The everyday continued through different classes; merchants sold merchandise, smiths worked forges, glassblowers blew glass, and artists painted, while wealthier people rode horses on hunts, attended temple services, and leaned over desks to write in books. They reached a man and woman sitting at a square table inside a room small enough, their tall, rectangular hats nearly broke the ceiling—the corva and his spouse? They towered over the smaller people around them who cleaned, cooked, and did various things a royal household needed, so probably, but even they had something common to do. They embroidered a flag with a boar-centered crest, the woman working on the piggy while the man stitched the decorative border. A cat stood on the flag, batting at the woman’s hands.

“These are amazing,” Lyet said, her step slow enough she had to trot to catch them.

“The carvings?” Darl asked. “Ah, yes. The Jils loved their wood and stonework. They saw manipulating flat, uninspired surfaces as the ultimate expression of the divine, because they made something extraordinary out of the ordinary, just as their gods made them.”

“Is that not all crafts?” Tuft asked.

“It is, but the Jils were particular about sculpture. Other western Theyndora tribes had different artistic focuses; for instance, the Rams were grand painters. Peoples from all over the continent hired them to paint temples and other majestic buildings. There’s a legend about a pottery painter named Toshovo who heard about the eastern Belari people’s trouble with ancestor ghosts terrorizing the living. He traveled to their lands and decorated the tall vases they buried the ashes of their dead in, painting mesmerizing landscapes with picturesque skies. So happy were the ghosts with the beautiful displays that they spent their eternity staring in rapt awe at the wondrous pictures rather than bothering the living. That tradition continues, by the way. They’re called Tosho Pictures, in honor of that long-ago painter.”

“I would like to know more about this art.”

Darl smiled at the khentauree. “It’s my duty and honor to keep the history of the Jils and the wider tribal cultures alive until they’re needed. And that time, I think, has arrived. If you want to speak about it, I’d be happy to indulge your curiosity. It’s a fascinating subject, and it’s too bad, that’s not why you’re here today.” He set the back of his hand to the side of his mouth and leaned towards Tuft, as if intimating the grandest secret. “As a fountain of knowledge, I could go on all day, you know.”

“That is too bad,” Lapis agreed, secretly relieved she would not have to sit through such a long lecture. “But Faelan said you had something for us.” At least, that’s what his note claimed.

“I do. As you know from your last visit, we monitor what happens in the tunnels—self-preservation and all that. We’ve caught a few things that I think Faelan and the coalition forming at the workstation will find interesting. We’ve film and stills, all bundled up in an inconspicuous brown leather bag. Of course, if you take the tunnels back, discovery shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Planning to.” Tuft was not exactly a being they could hide beneath a cloak.

“Good, good. Come this way. The bag’s in our observation lounge.”

Observation lounge?

Expecting an intimate space like the comms room at the House, Lapis took in the expansive area, surprised. The Jils had modified a stone-cut mini-amphitheater, stuck up a half-circle metal wall around the back of the wooden stage, and hung oversized screens that all seemed to display different colors, even when focusing on the same thing. Padded easy chairs and loungers filled the seating area, and at the bottom, lines of tables with tech filled the orchestra pit. The stage itself held a jumble of wires and metal boxes and flashy lights she could not make sense of. Jhor probably could, and she wished he were with them.

Or maybe Tuft? She looked up at the khentauree, who silently observed everything. She would ask, on their way back.

Darl hobbled down the center aisle, past a bored man pointing a rectangular object at the screens. Every time he clicked a sunken button on the top, the view on the screens rotated. Most of them were tunnel-related, but one remained fixed on a small black dot in the sky, the thin tip of some metal rod jutting up on the right. Did they monitor the incoming skyshroud? Interesting. He glanced at them and returned to his job, though he sat up when Tuft passed him.

“Here it is,” Darl said, taking a ratty bag from its comfy seat and holding it up by a barely attached strap. Lyet hopped to him and took it, beaming at the thought she got to carry the important stuff. Her reaction made Lapis wonder about Jandra, and whether she, too, wanted to join the chasers but knew she and Lykas needed her jewelry income to help pay for their room. His begging and thievery did not quite cover it.

Maybe Faelan could use her apprentices for errands. It was only a few bits, but . . .

The woman sitting at one of the tables rose and waved to catch Darl’s attention. Lapis recognized her; Yvere, the woman who led Patch, Path and Nolin through the tunnels to the palace. She pointed at a screen that flickered and fuzzed before displaying a group of shanks clustered around each other, yelling. “Darl! Listen to this!”

Fuzzy noise on par with a furious khentauree filled the room, but not quite enough to cover the words the people spoke. They stood in front of a carved wall with people carrying baskets, but Lapis did not know exactly where that might be, other than somewhere in the Jils tunnels.

“They expect US to go?” A man broke from the group and flung his arms into the air. “I’m not going to die on a Rams’ knife—”

“Won’t be no knife,” another drawled. “Them Drakeways’ thinkin’ they’s gonna use fancy tech ‘n win. Told ‘m them Rams’re full up on the stuff.”

Darl sighed. “Fancy tech? I suppose that explains those supply crates we saw earlier.”

“They said they were going to push through the Undercamp Gate,” Yvere said.

“We can tell them Ram guards on our way back,” Rin offered. “Did they say when?”

The conversation drifted out of her consciousness as Lapis stared at the screen. Had she heard them right?

“Why they’s thinkin’ this Beltin’s with them? He disappeared after Ruddy’s got shot up by them Denthie stubs. Ain’t no hard guess what happened to ‘m.”

“Drakes’re sayin’ he’s important. Some contact ‘r other fer this Moorlight.”

“Ain’t dyin’ fer some Denthie shank’s lost hound. Don’t care how rich he is.”

Beltin. Drakeways knew Beltin? Cold fury shot from her stomach, into her chest, and spread across her emotions like freezing slush. Hopefully he was still among the living. Hopefully he felt the full thrust of guilt over his betrayal at Nicodem and Faelan could squeeze answers from him.

If not, she would talk to him, and guilt would be the least of his concerns.