His progress now was much quicker and surer; no further obstacles impeded his way, and nothing emerged from the gloom to challenge him. Partway along, he found the nineteenth-floor access hatch just where Rocan’s map had said it would be: a six-rung steel ladder embedded in the rock leading up to it. If there were to be problems, this was where he was likely to find them—right on the other side of that hatch. He climbed the ladder carefully, trying to muffle his movements, and when he reached the trapdoor he gave it a gentle nudge. It resisted his efforts momentarily and then gave way. Keeping tight hold of the circular handle at the top of the door, he raised it all the way, climbed another step, poked his head out, and looked around.
A long corridor of rough stone stretched away in both directions, disappearing into gloom. The walls were unbroken barriers save where heavy metal doors were embedded in metal frames, their surfaces dusty and old and worn, smooth except for a small metal slide that served as a peephole for viewing whoever was locked within. More than that, Shea couldn’t tell from where he was. His directions showed Tindall’s cell marked with an X and the number 1935 written next to it. If he assumed 19 was the floor, then he should be looking for cell 35.
But in which direction should he go—left or right? He shook his head in disgust, a mouse measuring its chances of avoiding the cat once it left its bolt-hole.
He hesitated a moment longer, wanting to be sure of what he was doing, and then levered himself through the trapdoor and into the gloom-filled corridor above. Keeping tight hold of the handle, he gently lowered the door back into place.
And immediately heard the sound of something coming.
Panic set in, worse than with the scrubber. At least that would have been a hasty death. If he were caught here, he would live out the rest of his days behind one of these metal doors: a slow, agonizing, living death. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. He instinctively turned away from the sounds approaching and went up the hall the other way. He kept his footfalls light and smooth, forcing himself to remember that any noise at all would give him away. He glanced at the numbers on the cell doors as he went: 19…20…21…Okay, right direction, then. But what good would that do him if he was found and trapped out here?
A hiding place! I need a hiding place!
As if in answer to his plea, one appeared. A cell door on his left stood slightly ajar. Without even stopping to consider whether this was a good idea or not, he slipped inside and closed the door so that it almost latched. Then he backed himself against the door to one side so that anyone looking through the peephole slider wouldn’t be able to see him.
The sounds drew closer.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Somehow the scraping made things even worse. Whatever was out there was not walking as a human would. The sounds were irregular, a dragging of metal on stone. He closed his eyes in dismay. Why had he ever let himself get into this? What was he thinking to come into this forbidden place—this tomb from which no one ever returned?
He started making bargains with himself. If he got out of this, he would extricate himself from Rocan Arneas’s clutches once and for all. He would turn his back on Arishaig and flee. He would not even think about the credits he was losing. He would forget the promises of a bright future. He would never do something this stupid again.
Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.
Then the scraping stopped. Right outside his door. The peephole slider opened to permit whatever was outside a view into the cell. Shea pressed up against the wall and closed his eyes. Then opened them as he heard the door nudge open slightly, a few inches, no more.
A long pause. Intense silence settled over everything. Shea tried not to breathe.
Then the slider abruptly closed, the door was pulled shut, and the lock engaged.
Shea felt his heart stop. He was trapped.
* * *
—
For an instant, he panicked—remembering his thoughts of a living death while out in the corridor. He tried the door, but it would not open; there was no give at all. He had no way to contact Rocan from up here. There was no one save Rocan who knew he was here, and no one who could help him now. He had let this happen by making a bad choice and now he was…
He caught himself. What was he thinking? A wave of disgust swept through him. He was supposed to be smarter than this. Of course he could get out. He had let himself panic for no reason!
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the corrosive clay. Between the unexpected grate and the live scrubber, he had already used more than he was supposed to, but there might still be enough left to free himself from this cell and Tindall from his after. A small amount on each lock should do the trick, while leaving enough for Tindall’s window bars. He could still do what he had set out to do.
He opened the leather and measured what remained of his store of clay. Enough, he decided. He placed a wad of the clay where the lock secured to the door, spit on it, and jumped back. Immediately the metal began to steam and foam and finally just melt away, and the door was open. He held it in place a moment, listening for sounds of the scraping creature, then opened the door and peered out.
No one in sight.
He felt a fresh urgency to reach Tindall and get them both free before anything further happened. He stepped through the cell door and pulled it closed again, then quickly made his way down the hall toward cell 1935. When he found it, not all that far ahead, he pressed himself flat against the door and listened. Hearing nothing, he looked up and down the corridor, peering into the cavernous gloom, afraid he would draw the attention of that creature once again.
He slid back the peephole cover and peered inside. The gloom was marginally lightened by a wash of gray light that spilled through a barred window on the back wall. It illuminated almost nothing, and Shea could not even tell if the cell was occupied.
Another glance to be sure no one was coming, and then he pressed his mouth against the opening. “Tindall? Are you in there?” he whispered.
Nothing. He waited a moment.
A sharper whisper now: “Tindall! Answer me!”
A rustling this time—someone moving about. A voice, cracked and ragged, answered. “Who’s there? What do you want?”
“I’m a friend of Rocan’s.”
“Rocan’s here?”
“Not right here, but yes. He sent me. I’m going to get you out!”
A long pause, and then an eye appeared at the peephole. Shea backed away, startled at first, then held his ground so that the other could see him clearly.
“You’re just a boy! You can’t get me out. Go find Rocan!”
“Look, Rocan sent me because—”
“Go get him! Do what I told you!”
The old man was practically shouting at him. Shea backed away and looked up and down the hallway once more, certain that someone must have heard. But apparently no one had, because no one appeared.