Glistening undulations the colour of sunset clumped and hugged the walls, spreading upwards and outwards. An extravagance of toadstools encrusted the dour faces of the duardin gods who stood sentry over the nearest archway. In the lantern light, it almost looked as if the toadstools were twitching.
Tooms shook his head. It had never been this bad, in his day. You always got some mould down here, of course. That was only to be expected. A bit of black, creeping on the dampest stones, but nothing like this. Nothing like sour patches of mould, floating on the surface of the water, riding the currents until they bumped against something solid.
‘Things shouldn’t be growing down here,’ Dayla said. ‘Not like this.’
‘It wasn’t here last time,’ Guld muttered, as he lifted one of the fungal caps with the blade of his sword. A rat’s carcass, half-gummed up in the mould, flopped down into the water, startling him, and he cursed.
‘How do you know?’ Tooms said. He watched the rat sink. Its body was heavy with a thick encrustation, and from within its black hair, vibrant yellow filaments extended. His skin crawled at the thought. Had the rat been alive when the mould had taken root?
Guld looked at him. ‘Agert would have reported it.’
‘Agert’s gone.’ Tooms’ words hung on the air for a moment. The fungus on the walls, soft and fleshy, seemed to pulse in time to the echo. He and Agert were two of the last. Two of the oldest, who’d seen the city grow past the Old Fen Gate. Seen troggoths crawl out of the canals, and worse things burrow up through the dark.
He looked down at the water. It pulled at his legs, flowing past him, just like it always had. That meant they were going in the right direction. There were waterfalls in the deep places, spilling thunderously down into the great duardin-crafted cisterns. The cisterns were artificial lakes, filling high-vaulted chambers larger and more magnificent than any cathedral. There was a world down here, unseen by most and forgotten by the rest. Only underjacks like Tooms knew it. Or they had, once.
Things were different now. Things had changed. Things were always changing.
‘It goes on forever,’ Skam said, then, lifting the lantern. ‘Like the jungles of home.’ In the light, the fungus seemed to quiver and twist, as if trying to reach out. For a moment, Tooms had the impression that there was a face there, amid the sagging, flabby folds. Then it was gone, and he was left wondering why it had seemed so familiar.
Huxyl yelped. Tooms spun, reaching for his truncheon. The Chamonian splashed back from the wall, cursing. Shouting. ‘Look. Look!’
In the lantern light, something grinned. Skam stepped closer to the wall, and Tooms brushed aside a lump of mould with his truncheon. The skull of a man stared at them, with sockets full of feathery strands of yellowish mould. Crumbling bones, wrapped in rags that might once have been clothing, sank into the mould beneath it. The rest of the skeleton was missing, carried away by the current.
‘Like they sat down and died,’ Dayla said, her voice hoarse. She muttered something, in the heathen Ghyranite tongue. It sounded almost like a prayer. ‘We shouldn’t be here,’ she said, softly. ‘It’s not our place.’
‘She’s right, we should go back,’ Huxyl said. ‘Right now. We should report this.’
‘We don’t go back until we find them,’ Tooms said. ‘We press on.’
Guld shook his head. ‘This is stupid.’ He glanced at Dayla, and Tooms thought there was an understanding between them. As if they knew something he and the others didn’t. ‘We shouldn’t even be down here. Nothing good comes out of going this deep.’
Tooms looked at him. ‘Why are you complaining, boy? You volunteered.’ He swept his gaze from one to the other. The oldest was still a decade younger than him. Too young to remember how it had worked, or to know the secret knowledge – the routes through the darkness. Too young to know the things Tooms and Agert knew. ‘You all volunteered.’
‘I didn’t,’ Huxyl protested.
‘You got volunteered, same thing,’ Tooms said. ‘While we’re down here, you follow my lead. You do as I say, or I’ll let the rats have you.’
‘Only there’s no rats,’ Dayla said, her voice almost a whisper.
‘There’s something,’ Skam said, quietly. He held the lantern up, washing the shadows from the nearest archway. ‘I can hear it. Listen.’
Tooms heard nothing. But Skam did. There was a look on his face Tooms didn’t like. As if he were half-asleep, and dreaming. ‘What does it sound like?’ Dayla asked, and there was something in her voice that caught Tooms’ attention. She glanced around, nervously, and Tooms wondered what she was thinking. Whatever it was, Guld seemed to share her misgivings. He gripped the hilt of his sword tight, his face pale.
‘Singing.’ Skam took a step, and Tooms interposed his truncheon, stopping him from going any further.
‘Best not to listen.’
Skam shook his head, as if suddenly awake. He nodded blearily, and Tooms gestured to Dayla. ‘What are you thinking?’ he asked, in a low voice. Dayla frowned.
‘Nothing. Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’
‘Maybe something,’ she said, glancing at Guld, who shook his head.
‘Don’t look at him,’ Tooms said. ‘Look at me. What is it?’
‘Just… stories. Tales my gran used to tell.’ Dayla swallowed, and looked at the mould, as if expecting something to look back. She gestured, and Tooms leaned close. ‘I think it’s listening,’ she said, in a hushed voice. ‘We need to leave. We shouldn’t be here. This isn’t our place, not anymore.’
Tooms blinked and looked at the sagging folds of fungus, considering. Finally, he shook his head. They had a job to do.
‘We keep going.’
‘This is a kindness.’
Whose voice was it? Hers, or Agert’s? Tooms couldn’t tell anymore. He knew only that he was up again. But he didn’t remember standing.
He lurched forward on wooden legs, numbed by cold and pain. There was no light, but he wasn’t looking where he was going anyway. He was just following the water. His head hurt, and he felt loose at the ends, as if he were coming unravelled.
Unravelled, just like the others.
A kindness, Agert had said, but not in his own voice. In her voice, like the creak of branches in a strong wind, and the rush of water over smooth rocks. Had it even been Agert, or had it been her from the beginning? This place had been hers, once, and it would be again. Life was change, a cycle, a wheel turning forever – birth, death, decay, and new life in the ruins. Why should here – why should he – be any different?
He slumped against the wall and looked at his hands. Even in the dark, he could see that they were the colour of sunset, and that the flesh sagged. He had torn his palms on the walls, but there was no blood. His skin felt pliable, and rubbery. He itched all over, and had to fight the urge to scratch.
Tooms coughed, and the air filled with dust. He watched as it danced above the water, briefly consolidating into what might have been a face, smiling sadly, before dispersing on the air. The cloud of dust stretched away, like a beckoning hand, and he lurched forward again, though he couldn’t feel his legs.
He couldn’t feel anything.
