Skipping down stairs three at a time, Bifalt hoped that most of his men would rejoin him. Hells, he hoped for all of them. But he did not expect that they would be so fortunate.

“I can do it, Majesty,” said Jaspid, not for the first time. He could have matched the King’s pace for hours. And he hungered for grand gestures. He believed that only he could do what was necessary and live. “I am faster than you.”

King Bifalt did not waste his breath answering.

He may have heard shots. He could not be sure. The slap of moccasins on stone obscured more distant sounds.

Three riflemen caught up with him. Then another five. He wished for more. But he had left the balcony while most of them were still spreading through the Fist. It was too soon to fear for them.

He and his companions slowed as they reached the only entrance into the Fist’s foundations: an archway like a maw near the ceiling of the vaults. Two steps beyond the arch, the stairs clung to one wall, a hard turn to the left. Anyone foolish enough to rush through the opening would miss the turn and fall twenty feet to the floor.

Jeck and two riflemen hurried downward. King Bifalt paused with Elgart and Prince Jaspid to scan the forest of pillars that supported the whole of Belleger’s Fist.

From the archway, those pillars prevented Bifalt from seeing his workmen and the mouth of the tunnel, but he knew where Set Ungabwey would be. The caravan-master had been placed half-reclining behind a column directly below the entrance and perhaps forty paces away. Alive or dead, he would be invisible to Rile’s men when they reached the entrance and looked out at the vaults.

Alerted by footsteps and panting on the stair, Boy and Spliner stood beside Master Ungabwey to greet the King. They had the Magisters of earthquake with them. One had been lost when the wall of the old city fell. Now the remaining seven men and women waited anxiously, unsure of what to expect—or of what they might be asked to do. An earthquake here would kill them all.

Satisfied, Bifalt led Elgart, Jaspid, Malder, Jeck, and a growing number of riflemen down the stairs.

Boy and his father said nothing until the King neared them. Then Spliner cleared his throat.

“He lives, Majesty. I do not know how. We have feared—” He stopped, unable to find the words he needed.

Boy intervened. “For a day now, Majesty,” he said, “we have feared that every breath would be his last. Every drop of blood he exhales seems to announce an end. Yet he is still with us. When he opens his eyes, his gaze is clear. He can make his needs plain.”