Clayton thanked the girl and closed the door on her. She was winsome, he gave her that, but he dared not lay a hand on her; not even to help her out of a pit of snakes. The Grievers were nasty customers and would brook no transgressions on any of their number, no matter how slight.
He crept over to the edge of the fire-lit platform and strained his eyes to see down the dark tunnel to the left and the right. The catacombs clattered with the distant echo of falling water, making it hard to get his bearings in the gloom. He sat down and felt with his toes, trying to find purchase, and slid until there was no hope of pulling himself back up.
At the point of no return, his fingertips slipped and he fell into the water like a log, touching bottom and bobbing back up. The bitch was down here somewhere, he thought, as he clasped the airtight waterskin with his pistols inside. He would swim all night if that’s what it took.
—The Fiddle and the Fire, vol 5 “The Blade and the Bone”
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