“You’re risking a plaguing lot,” the alchemist said, stalking back and forth behind him with her mismatched gait. “Everyone else’s life on top of your own, for starters.”

“Everyone heard what she had to say. Everyone agreed.”

“They all look to Yora. And Yora looks to you, more fool her. Never trust a man just because he dampens your knickers.” The old woman made a noise like she wanted to spit but didn’t have the phlegm. “I don’t like it.”

Gyre let out a long breath and tried to concentrate on his task.

They were in the alchemist’s library, and he was copying maps. In addition to shelf after shelf of musings on alchemical studies by long-dead scholars, Lynnia had acquired a surprisingly broad collection of maps of tunnels under Deepfire over the years. More recently Gyre had added his share, purchased from the delvers by his agents.

Kit had given them only a vague idea of where the tunnel they were looking for lay, although she swore that she would be able to find it when they got closer. Gyre had dug out every map from every scavenger who’d explored in that region, which made a substantial pile. Since Lynnia forbade any of her maps to leave the premises, he was using the alchemical paper sometimes called “lazy scribe” to copy them. Pressed against ink and paper, the stuff turned itself into a mirror-image copy; painting another reagent across it and pressing it on a virgin sheet would transfer the text or image back to it right way round.

It was tedious work, and the pot of alchemical goo smelled like rank liquor and piss. But he wasn’t going to leave anything to chance if he could help it.

“This Kit won’t explain to you how she knows where to look?” Lynnia said.

“She’s entitled to her secrets,” Gyre said, carefully peeling the sticky paper away from some explorer’s hasty sketch.

“Which only wiggles her hooks in deeper, as far as you’re concerned,” Lynnia said. “You want to believe she knows things nobody else does, because that means she’s who you hope she is.”

“Lynnia …”

She glared at him. “What?”

“Get me another page of this, will you?”

Grumbling, Lynnia retrieved more lazy scribe and handed it over. Gyre shuffled to the next map and started laying it down.

“It’s not as dangerous as you’re making it out to be, anyway,” he said. “Plenty of scavenger crews go into the deep tunnels.”

“Should I point out you’re not scavengers? You’re thieves with a gift for inspiring the tunnelborn.”

“We’ll have Ibb with us. And Harrow.”

“A mercenary fashion plate and a lovesick puppy. Wonderful. Rounds out the group.” She shook her head. “Don’t come crying to me when you end up lining some plaguespawn’s nest.”

“I imagine that would be difficult, yes,” Gyre said. “Careful, Lynnia. Next you’ll have me thinking you actually care about my well-being.”

“Don’t be a plaguefired fool,” she snapped. “I’m just hoping to hang on to a profitable client.”