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And failed.

Behind him another blood-curdling noise reached through, that of the bloodflies, breaking through the wooden nets, coming ever closer, only moments from clashing with Icarium's deadly anger – the Jhag will awaken then. No other choice – and our deaths will be the least of it. The Azath, the maze and all its prisoners . . . oh, be very thorough in your rage, Icarium, for the sake of this world and every other—Advertisement

Stabbing pain lanced the back of Fiddler's hand – Bloodflies! – but there was a weight behind it. Not stings, but the grip of small claws. The sapper cocked his head and found himself staring into Moby's fanged grin.

The familiar made its way down the length of his arm, claws puncturing skin. The creature seemed to be shifting in and out of focus before Fiddler's eyes, and with each blur the weight on his arm was suddenly immense. He realized he was screaming.

Moby clambered beyond the sapper's hand onto the door itself, reached out a tiny, wrinkled hand to the latch, touched it.

Fiddler tumbled onto damp, warm flagstones. He heard shouts behind him, the scrabbling of boots, while the House groaned on all sides. He rolled onto his back, and in the process came down on something that snapped and crackled beneath his weight, lifting to him a bitter smell of dust.

Then Icarium's deathly keening was among them.

Tremorlor shook.

Fiddler twisted into a sitting position.

They were in a hallway, the limestone walls shedding a dull yellow, throbbing light. Mappo still held Icarium and as the sapper watched, the Trell struggled to retain his embrace. A moment later the Jhag subsided, slumping once again in the Trell's arms. The golden light steadied, the walls themselves stilled. Icarium's rage was gone.

Mappo sagged to the floor, head hanging over the insensate body of his friend.

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Fiddler slowly looked around to see if they'd lost anyone. Apsalar crouched beside her father, their backs to the now shut door. Crokus had dragged a cowering Iskaral Pust in with him, and the High Priest looked up, blinking as if in disbelief.

Fiddler's voice was a croak. 'The Hounds, Iskaral Pust?'

'Escaped! And yet, even in the midst of betrayal, they threw their power against the D'ivers!' He paused, sniffed the dank air. 'Can you smell it? Tremorlor's satisfaction – the D'ivers has been taken.'

'That betrayal might have been instinctive, High Priest,' Apsalar said. 'Five Ascendants in the House's yard – the vast risk to Tremorlor itself, given Shadow's own penchant for treachery—'

'Lies! We played true!'

'A first time for everything,' Crokus muttered. He looked across to Fiddler. 'Glad it opened to you, Fid.'

The sapper started, searched the hallway. 'It didn't. Moby opened the door and ripped my arm to shreds in the process – where is that damned runt? It's in here somewhere—'

'You're sitting on a corpse,' Apsalar's father observed.

Fiddler glanced down to find himself on a nest of bones and rotted clothing. He clambered clear, cursing.

'I don't see him,' Crokus said. 'You sure he made it inside, Fid?'

'Aye, I'm sure.'

'He must have gone deeper into the House—'

'He seeks the gate!' Pust squealed. 'The Path of Hands!'

'Moby's a famil—'

'More lies! That disgusting bhok'aral is a Soletaken, you fool!'

'Relax. There is no gate in here that offers a shapeshifter anything,' Apsalar said, slowly rising, her eyes on the withered corpse behind Fiddler. 'That would have been the Keeper – each Azath has a guardian. I'd always assumed they were immortal ...' She stepped forward, kicked at the bones. She grunted. 'Not human – those limbs are too long, and look at the joints – too many of them. This thing could bend every which way.'

Mappo lifted his head. 'Forkrul Assail.'

'The least known of the Elder Races, then. Not even hinted of in any Seven Cities legend I've heard.' She swung her attention to the hallway.

Five paces from the door the passage opened on a T-intersection, with double doors directly opposite the entrance.

'The layout's almost identical,' Apsalar whispered.

'To what?' Crokus asked.

'Deadhouse, Malaz City.'

Pattering feet approached the intersection, and a moment later Moby scampered into view. The creature flapped up and into the Daru's arms.

'He's shaking,' Crokus said, hugging the familiar.

'Oh, great,' Fiddler muttered. pqdm.com