Pinned to a wall, just slightly hidden by the gray brick archway between this hall and a broad room beyond, Indirk pressed her hand to her chest and concentrated on breathing silently. She concentrated on not being heard. The firelight came from the room beyond, where there was movement and voices. The Writhewife stood nearby, still back in the dark aways, her eyes flicking with yellow candlelight as she stood naturally so silent, joined with Indirk for a moment of eavesdropping.
In the next room, a man was saying, “I won’t tolerate it, and I shouldn’t be asked to. I’m a spymaster of the Nor Sator intelligence office, and if you don’t think that trumps your fucking Code Six access, I’ve got a knife that’ll argue otherwise.” This man Indirk had briefly glimpsed with a peek around the wall, a man in steel-studded black leather, an eyepatch on a face half-ruined with grievous scars. There was now a flick of reflected light from something being swung, probably a dagger to gesture with.
His words caused an uncomfortable shuffling in the room – it was full of green-jacketed naval officers and burly anthrals in armor – but a steady voice answered, “Not that making demands will get you what you want. We’re governed by laws, sir. You’ll have to apply for access, as I’ve told you.”
“And as I’ve applied five times! And never heard back. I’ll not have incompetent bureaucracy used against me like some unwanted merchant.”
“That’s neither our fault nor our responsibility. We’ve given you all the access we can. Our projects are far too sensitive to-”
“Quiet!” the one-eyed man snapped with a sudden hiss. “Is the Writhe here?”
Indirk held her breath and looked to the Writhewife, who seemed unfazed, still just standing in the dark, staring forward, listening.
“You don’t hear that?” the one-eyed man said, eliciting a silence throughout the room. Indirk listened, too, and in the quiet there was so much to hear. First there came the overhead rattling, and though Indirk looked up she still couldn’t see the source of that stoney shifting. The thing making the sound must be above the ceiling somewhere, its sound filtering through iron-grated vents like the few she could see from here. There was also, in a distance beyond that, a strange breathy groan, like a furnace with unreliable valves coughing the occasional breath.
But there was also the hum of magic that wrapped the Writhewife, the low static song that would accompany her everywhere. It was quieter even than all the silence, but it was there.
Someone in the next room said, “That rattling sound is normal. Hear it all the time down here.”
“Not that,” the one-eyed man snapped. “The Writhe is here, and you don’t even know it!” And then his heavy-booted footsteps came toward them.
Sure she was about to get spotted, Indirk couldn’t help but reach for the gun inside her coat, already trying to think of some lie to explain why she was lurking in the corner. Amo would have been able to lie their way out of this. What lie would Amo tell? Indirk couldn’t imagine. She was a good liar, but never a match for Amo in deception.
The Writhewife stepped past Indirk, moving into the light before the one-eyed man could approach. The Writhewife moved with the simple, perfunctory step of an unaccountable being without fear, full of the knowledge that no one here could truly hurt her. She went just far enough to move into the light, standing now directly beside where Indirk hid such that her shadow further blocked Indirk from view. And Indirk was suddenly very aware that the Writhewife was deliberately helping her hide.
The one-eyed man stopped immediately, huffing, “There, see? A Writhewife. Where did you come from?”
“Why would that matter?” The Writhewife answered with mild annoyance. The Writhe, by its nature, robbed its taken anthrals of most of their distinguishing features, leaving them bald, their skin a pallor of white or gray or ashy black, irises white, pupils flicking with yellow light. But now, in the light, Indirk was surprised to see signs of the person behind the avatar: a sweeping brow, distinguished lips with an unhappy pout, eyelids narrow, neck long and shoulders thin.
“Why, indeed,” grumbled the one-eyed man. “What are you doing here?”
“The same thing you are,” the Writhewife replied. “Gray Watch is keeping secrets from me, and that will not continue. I will know what magic it is that is being concealed here.”
“Magic?” The one-eyed man pivoted back to the room. “You’re hiding magic here?”
The bureaucrat from earlier replied flatly, “I’m not at liberty to discuss what might or might not be contained in this facility.”
“There is magic.” The Writhewife spoke with accusation, growing disgust in her tone. “A powerful song, but held deep inside the walls. Squelched by iron. Hidden very well. I can’t hear it from outside. But from here, it’s a whisper, a pained whisper. Pain, so much of it, such that I think I hate the sound. I need to know why it’s here.”
“That’s enough!” The bureaucrat’s voice hardened. “It’s time for you to leave, the both of you. Or you’ll be removed. Or you’ll be held.”
“How dare you!” The one eyed man snapped. “Threatening me is one thing, but to threaten the Writhe? Are you insane?”
The Writhewife smiled in cruel amusement. “You can be such a fickle partner some days, my Gray love.”
And at that, Indirk decided it was time to retreat back the way she’d come. It was difficult for her to tear her gaze away from the Writhewife, to move out from the strangely protective air of the woman’s stance near her, but Indirk forced herself to spin back to the darkness and take her first step away. One step, and then she stopped, because there was an immensity of scales in her way, filling the dark hall from wall to wall and blocking the path out of the tunnel. It had emerged so silently, so swiftly, that Indirk hadn’t heard or seen it at all until it was right there in front of her face.
It was a serpent, its narrow head double the size of any anthral’s, ridged with scaled plates that took on the color of the darkness and the firelight, a spider-like panoply of black eyes that did not reflect the light that touched it. The thing’s mouth hung open, its fangs like swords. The rattling sound came again, emitted by a churning of large, scaled plates that ran down the sides of the serpent’s body.
Indirk made eye contact with the serpent. She had no time to think, but her animal instinct understood this predator perfectly. She tore her pistol from its holster and lifted it as the serpent snapped forward.
