Chapter 56: The Grand Duke Goes Underground (1)
I have always disliked underground places.
Not because I was afraid, of course. That would be a ridiculous assumption. I was a swordmaster, the Grand Duke of Sonomi, a man whose beauty could bring weaker hearts to repentance and whose wealth could make most kingdoms reconsider their moral principles.
Fear was not the issue.
The issue was dampness.
Underground places were always damp, dusty, cramped, and filled with the kind of stale air that made one question the judgment of every civilization that ever thought, "Yes, let us build tunnels beneath the city. Surely, nothing terrible will breed there after a few hundred years."
Truly, humanity was talented in many ways.
Unfortunately, self-preservation was not always one of them.
The carriage rolled through the Capital’s southwest district beneath the dull gray light of late morning. Unlike the upper quarter, where every street had been scrubbed until even the stones seemed vain, this part of the city had no such pretensions. The roads were narrower. The buildings leaned closer together like old men exchanging gossip. Laundry hung between windows. Children darted across alleys with the nimbleness of rats and the audacity of minor nobles.
The air smelled of wet stone, cheap food, smoke, and humanity.
A vast improvement over the palace perfume, I must say. At least, this one wasn’t as pretentious.
Two Konstantin shadows rode ahead disguised as ordinary mercenaries. Another pair followed from a distance. I was dressed in a plain dark coat, my appearance adjusted just enough to become forgettable without suffering the psychological damage of becoming truly average again.
There were limits to sacrifice. I have learned that well during my excursion in the Black Market.
One could not expect me to abandon all dignity simply because I was conducting covert work.
William had argued against me going in person.
Bernard had looked as if he wished to argue, realized he valued his life, and wisely stayed silent.
Abi had been the most troublesome of all.
"Are you certain you do not need me?" he had asked at least five times before I left.
"I am certain."
"What if the tunnel collapses?"
"I will step out of the way."
"What if there are old wards?"
"I will not touch them recklessly."
"What if there are enemies?"
"I brought a sword."
He had stared at me for a moment, then sighed like a tragic maiden abandoned on a balcony.
"Fine. Go without me. I shall protect the house, your son, your butler, the children, the records, the tuna leftovers, and my own wounded heart."
"You should protect everything except the last one."
"You’re such a cruel brother."
"As I have always."
That had been the end of it. Mostly because I left before he could continue.
I had no doubt Abi would keep the estate safe.
If anything, the ones trying to infiltrate it would deserve my pity. Not enough pity to save them, but enough to acknowledge that their death would likely be creative.
The carriage stopped two streets away from the old aqueduct entrance.
I stepped down.
The southwest district was awake in a different way from the upper city. There were no polished carriages, no noble gossip, and no crystal storefronts trying to seduce people into financial irresponsibility.
Here, people moved with purpose. A baker shouted at a boy stealing bread. A woman argued with a fishmonger over the price of river carp. A drunk slept against the base of a statue whose face had been worn down by rain and apathy.
At the corner, half-hidden by an arch of cracked stone, stood one of my shadows.
He gave a slight nod.
I followed him into a narrow lane where moss crawled along the walls in unappealing green patches. The smell of water grew stronger.
"Report," I said.
The shadow bowed his head. "Your Excellency, the old aqueduct entrance is guarded by city maintenance seals, but two of them have been tampered with. Recent traces. Within the last two days."
"How recent?"
"Likely after midnight yesterday."
I smiled faintly. "How considerate. They knew we would come and prepared the door for us."
"Should we assume a trap, Your Excellency?"
"Always assume a trap. That way, if it is not a trap, you can be pleasantly disappointed."
The shadow did not react, evidence of their excellent discipline.
We reached a rusted iron gate set into the side of an old stone structure. Once, it must have been an official access point for maintenance workers. Now it looked like the entrance to a place where fools died after saying something deeply intelligent such as, "Let us check inside."
I stepped closer.
The air around the gate was wrong. Not overwhelmingly so. A normal person might feel only a slight chill and dismiss it as dampness from the aqueduct. A magician would perhaps sense old mana trapped in the stone. An aura wielder might feel a faint resistance against the skin.
But I had grown up in Sonomi.
The Lorillis Desert taught its children to notice pressure before it became a sandstorm.
The ward on the gate was old. Older than the Capital’s current structure. It had been patched over many times with imperial seals, maintenance marks, and several sloppy additions that looked recent.
How distasteful.
It was like seeing a priceless antique repaired with cheap glue.
"Whoever touched this lacked respect for proper craftsmanship," I said.
The shadow paused. "Your Excellency?"
"Nothing. I am merely offended on behalf of history."
I lifted my hand and let aura gather at my fingertips. Just enough not to break the ward. Breaking was easy. Any brute with power could break something. The problem with old wards was that they often remembered being broken.
And things that remembered did not always remain quiet.
I traced the outer ring first.
A faint golden line flickered.
Then another.
Then the tampered part pulsed a sickly gray.
There it was, neither temple mana nor imperial mana.
It was something else entirely.
A thin sensation crawled over my skin, like a whisper made of cold thread.
The mark from the ritual chamber surfaced in my mind.
Circle. Descending line. Three marks beneath.
"Interesting," I murmured.
The gray pulse retreated, as if it had heard me.
My smile widened.
"Oh? Shy, are we?"
The shadow beside me stiffened. "Your Excellency, should we retreat?"
"No."
"But if the ward is reactive..."
"It is. That is precisely why we cannot leave it alone."
I pressed two fingers against the gray patch and released my aura in a thin, clean line. The ward trembled. For a breath, the old stone gate seemed to inhale.
Then something whispered.
Not in sound but in meaning.
Open.
My eyes narrowed.
Well, that was rude.
If a mysterious ward beneath the city invited one to open the door, the proper response was to leave, return with an army, burn incense, write a report, and perhaps pretend one had never been there.
Naturally, I opened it.
Not because I was reckless. Absolutely not. I was merely confident in my ability to survive my own curiosity. There is a difference.
Important things need to be said thrice.
There is a difference. There is a difference. There is a difference.
The iron gate groaned as it swung inward.
The air that breathed out was cold and wet.
And beneath that damp smell was something faintly sweet.
Incense. Stale temple incense.
I despised being correct sometimes.
We descended carefully. The first passage sloped downward through old stone steps slick with moss. Thin channels ran along both sides, carrying trickles of dark water that reflected the light from the small crystal lamp my shadow held.
The walls bore marks of age. Some stones were from the original aqueduct. Others were newer, added during repairs across generations. Here and there, I saw symbols carved near the lower edges, half-erased by mineral deposits. Most belonged to maintenance guilds. Some did not.
I crouched near one.
A small circle. A line. Three marks.
Again.
"Your Excellency," the shadow said quietly from behind me. "There are footprints."
I stood and looked.
Several sets. Small ones. Adult ones. Some dragged slightly. Others moved cleanly.
Children.
Of course, there would be children.
My mood cooled.
The passage continued deeper until the sounds of the district above vanished entirely. No more creaking wheels or shouting vendors. No quarrels or birds squawking. Only dripping water, distant echoes, and the faint scrape of our boots against stone.
Then I heard it.
Singing.
It didn’t sound loud or close.
A soft thread of sound drifting through the tunnel, so faint it could have been mistaken for water passing over stone.
But water did not sing words.
I raised a hand.
Everyone stopped promptly.
The shadows drew their weapons without a sound.
The singing continued.
It was not a hymn from any church I recognized. The melody was slow, almost tender, but something about it slid unpleasantly beneath the skin. The words were old. They were not Ancient Paravel exactly. Something older? No, not older.
Distorted. The words were distorted.
A child might hum it without understanding.
An adult might hear it and feel homesick for a place he had never been.
That was the dangerous part.
"Do not listen too closely," I said.
The shadows lowered their gazes obediently.
I focused my aura around my ears, not blocking the sound entirely but dulling its edges. The melody became less seductive, more brittle. Like a beautiful glass cup with a crack running through it.
We moved forward.
The tunnel opened into a wider chamber.
