"Quiet. Wait." Arvid had told them their main danger would be haste. Make a noise, he had said, clatter around like a horse fair, and our quarry will be ready for us. Paks waited, trying to see into the darkness by force of will. Spots danced before her eyes. Gradually she found she could see a little better. The room ahead was clearly a room—all shades of darkness, but smaller than the banquet hall above them. She tried to see if anything lurked in it. It seemed as if something—a pile of something—obscured the floor, but without light she could not tell.

"Go now," said Arvid, in Paks's ear. Together they moved under the lintel, separating at once on the inside to flatten against the inner wall. The others waited outside.

In here the smell was stronger. Paks wrinkled her nose, trying to decide what it was. It smelled—meatier, she decided. Rotting straw, bones, meat, and something like the inside of a dirty boot. She shook her head, trying to clear it, but the smell seemed stronger every second. Arvid sniffed, a tiny sound she could hear clearly.

"That smell—" she heard from outside. She thought it was Mal.

"Quiet," said Ambros. Paks stood still, trying to hear anything past the pulse in her ears.

"We'll go forward five paces," said Arvid quietly, "and then if nothing happens, we'll try a light."

Paks heard the scrape of his boot on the stone flags as he took the first step, and moved with him. One step. Two, three—and she stumbled over something, staggering on soft, springy, uneven footing. A yelp got out before she closed her throat; Ambros behind her scraped flint on steel at once. As the spark caught, that little light showed that she'd caught her foot on the edge of a pile of garbage. Dirty straw, old clothes, bones chewed not-quite-clean, a broken pot—she started to laugh with relief. Ambros's candle seemed brighter than she'd expected. She turned to Arvid; his eyes were wide with surprise.

"Just trash," she said, waving her sword at the heap. It was half her height, and easily three times her length. "They must have—"

Part of the pile heaved up—and up—a vast hairy shoulder topped by an equally vast hairy face. A rheumy eye glared at her from under shaggy brows. Then the mouth opened on a double row of very sharp teeth. By reflex, Paks struck at the arm that swiped down from the darkness. Her sword bit into it, slicing deep, but the arm's strength nearly cost her the grip. A deep bellow split the air, and the entire pile shuddered. Paks nearly lost her footing as the creature trampled its bed and attacked.