The shouts from behind told Dust his escape had been discovered.
"He's gone! The door's open!"
"How did he—check that tunnel!"
Heavy footsteps pounded across the cellar floor as Dust pressed himself against the damp stone wall of the narrow passage. The tunnel was barely wide enough for his shoulders, forcing him to move sideways like a crab. Behind him, light flickered as someone thrust a torch through the doorway he'd escaped from.
"It's too narrow," Willem's voice echoed through the passage. "I can't fit through here."
"Then get someone who can," Garrett's voice replied, cold with fury. "And send men to every sewer outlet in the district. He can't have gone far."
The light retreated, and Dust heard urgent conversations as Garrett's men organized their pursuit. He didn't wait to hear more—every second counted now.
The tunnel stretched ahead into absolute darkness. Dust kept one hand pressed against the wall to guide him, moving as quickly as he dared. The stone was slick with moisture and something else he didn't want to identify. The air smelled of decay and stagnant water, with an underlying metallic tang that made his stomach turn.
After what felt like an hour but was probably only minutes, the passage began to widen. Dust could stretch his arms without touching both walls, though the ceiling remained low enough to force him into a crouch. Somewhere ahead, he could hear the sound of running water.
The tunnel ended at a junction with what was clearly part of Lower Ashmark's old sewer system. A channel of dark water flowed sluggishly through the center, flanked by narrow walkways on either side. The smell here was overwhelming—rot and waste and things that had been forgotten in the darkness for too long.
But there was also light. Faint and gray, filtering down through gratings in the street above. It was enough to see by, at least.
Dust paused to get his bearings. The water was flowing toward what he thought was the harbor—that would take him away from Garrett's territory but also toward the docks where the man's influence was strong. The other direction led deeper into Lower Ashmark's residential areas.
Behind him, he heard voices echoing through the tunnel he'd just escaped from. They'd found someone small enough to follow.
"I can see light ahead," a young voice called back. "He definitely came this way."
Dust chose the path toward the harbor and began moving as quickly as the treacherous footing would allow. The walkway was narrow and slippery, with loose stones that threatened to send him tumbling into the foul water below. More than once, he had to grab at the wall to keep his balance.
The sound of pursuit grew closer. Whoever Garrett had sent after him was moving faster than Dust had hoped—probably someone who knew these tunnels better than he did.
The sewer passage curved to the left, and suddenly Dust found himself looking at bars. Iron grating blocked the tunnel ahead, with gaps too narrow for a person to squeeze through. He was trapped.
Panicking, Dust examined the barrier more closely. The iron was old and rusty, set into crumbling mortar. Some of the bars were loose, shifting slightly when he pushed against them. But not loose enough to move by hand.
He pulled out the glass shard he'd used to cut his bonds. It was smaller now, worn down from sawing through rope, but still sharp. Using it like a chisel, he began chipping away at the mortar around the loosest bar.
The sound of his pursuer was getting closer. Light flickered off the tunnel walls as someone with a torch approached the junction behind him.
"Which way?" the voice called back to others.
"Follow the wet footprints," came the reply.
Dust looked down and cursed silently. His boots had picked up water and mud from the sewer, leaving a clear trail on the stone walkway. He might as well have drawn arrows pointing to his location.
The mortar crumbled away piece by piece as Dust worked frantically with his makeshift tool. The glass was cutting into his fingers, making them slippery with blood, but he didn't dare stop. Behind him, torchlight was growing brighter.
Finally, the bar shifted enough for him to push it aside. The gap wasn't large, but Dust was thin from years of poor eating. He might be able to squeeze through.
"There! I can see him!"
Dust threw himself at the opening just as his pursuer rounded the curve. The iron scraped against his ribs and tore his cloak, but he managed to wriggle through. On the other side, he could see gray light ahead—another grating that led to the street above.
Behind him, his pursuer reached the barrier and cursed creatively. "He got through! I need someone smaller, or tools to move these bars!"
But Dust was already moving toward the light. This grating was older than the first, its iron bars corroded by years of moisture and neglect. When he pushed upward, testing its strength, he felt it shift slightly in its frame.
The street above was empty—it was early evening now, and most people were indoors preparing dinner or settling in for the night. Perfect timing for an escape, if he could manage it.
Using his boots for leverage against the tunnel walls, Dust pushed upward with all his strength. The grating groaned, shifted, then suddenly gave way entirely. He tumbled up onto the cobblestones in a cascade of rust and debris, blinking in the sudden daylight.
He was in an alley he didn't recognize, somewhere in the maze of streets that surrounded the harbor district. The sound of the docks was close—shouts of sailors, the creak of rigging, the splash of waves against hulls. And underneath it all, the deep horn that signaled ships preparing to depart.
The evening tide. The Sea Witch would be leaving soon.
Dust picked himself up and began running toward the harbor, his torn cloak streaming behind him. His ribs ached where the iron had scraped them, his fingers were bloody from working with the glass shard, and his legs shook with exhaustion. But he was free.
At least for now.
As he reached the main dock road, Dust could see the harbor spread out before him. Ships of various sizes bobbed at anchor, their masts creating a forest against the darkening sky. Sailors moved with purpose, loading final cargo and preparing for departure.
And there, at the end of the furthest pier, was the Sea Witch.
Her sails were already being unfurled, catching the evening breeze. Captain Aldrich stood on the quarterdeck, barking orders to his crew as they prepared to cast off. Even from a distance, Dust could see the urgency in their movements—they were leaving soon, with or without him.
He started toward the pier, then stopped as shouts erupted from the alley he'd just escaped from. Garrett's men were emerging from the sewers, and they'd spotted him.
"There he is! Don't let him reach the ships!"
Dust looked at the distance to the Sea Witch, then at the men spreading out to cut off his escape routes. It would be close—very close.
But it was his only chance.
He ran toward the pier as fast as his exhausted legs would carry him, while behind him, Marcus Garrett's men gave chase through the gathering dusk.