It was time to return to the late-night meeting with Quercus. The Harvest Festival was only six days away and the King wanted every boring detail gone over, as if it hadn’t been the same for year upon year. It really was time the ineffectual sap was cut down to size so those with ambition could rise up in his place. That was one part of the celebration plans that Grasp would keep secret. His Majesty’s sudden and inexplicable death.

Ark had only a split second to take in the astounded look on the guard’s face before he was sliding straight down a pipe that was more used to effluent than half-size Dendrans.

I really am in the squit now! How long before Grasp’s men found him? Mucum wouldn’t stand a chance. And then what? Falling through emptiness was turning into a dangerous habit. His feet scrabbled to get purchase on the smooth, near vertical walls, but there was nothing to hold on to. He was sliding faster and faster, with no choice but to point his toes and keep his arms up together above his head like an arrow, say his prayers, and go with the flow. He remembered a book his mother used to read to him when he was little, about a girl who fell down a hollow trunk into a magical otherworld: Alice in Underland. He thought it was stuff and nonsense. Now he wasn’t so sure.

He reached out his fingers to try and get purchase on the sides of the soil pipe but it was impossible. The pipe suddenly zigzagged, tumbling him around until he had no idea which way was up, though the wind whistling past his ears told him that he was moving way too fast.

The soil pipe suddenly widened and before he could even think, there was a splash, his fall cushioned in a way he could hardly bear to think about. This was no comforting cradle of straw. Nor did his head fill with the scent of incense. His head briefly went under. With a push of desperation, he surfaced again, wiping a film of indescribable liquid from his face and eyes, just glad to be alive. The river of so-called royal muck he flailed about in had just saved his life. The Holly Woodsmen said that the Goddess moved in mysterious ways. This really had to be one of them.

He let the current take him, doing the loggy paddle that every sewer worker learned for their Basic Safety Certificate. Any second, he expected to hear the scraping back of an inspection hatch and the pounding of boots. The guards might be reluctant to get their hands dirty, but he was a bobbing target. An arrow would save them the bother and then Ark would end up as another bit of compost, his bones fertilizing the scaffields.

“There are better places to take up swimming!”