end. Again, nothing, only evenly laid stone. The candle guttered, and Christian blinked, for he had felt no drafts. After a moment’s thought, he held the candle up again, watching it steadily, unblinking. Long seconds passed, and then the candle guttered again, not to the left or right but downward, as though that unseen draft had come from the ceiling. Christian looked up again but saw only stone. Frustration threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced himself to hold still. Another minute passed, and then he felt it: a breath of wind, blowing down onto his forehead. He reached up, feeling the top of the wall, and his hand slipped through the ceiling.
Christian stared at this phenomenon: his hand, vanished through what appeared to be unbroken stone. Lifting his candle high, he saw that there was an opening there, barely wide enough to fit a man . . . an opening cleverly concealed. For the first time—but not nearly the last—Christian found himself wondering who had built this place.
Reaching higher into the opening, Christian found it: a protruding lip of stone, the first rung of a ladder. Christian doused his candle, tucked it back into his kit, and grasped the rung, pulling himself up into the hidden opening. It was tricky; he had to haul himself up, scrabbling against the wall for purchase, and he wondered how the slight arms of Lord Tennant had managed the trick. Perhaps there was some other structural help here, something Christian couldn’t see. As he boosted himself up through the opening, he felt it for certain: a breeze, cool and dry against his sweaty brow.
He did not know whether it was his own eagerness, or the true span of time, that made that climb seem to last forever. The stone ladder might have had thirty rungs, or a thousand. Nothing seemed real, as though, rather than climbing through a hole in the ceiling, Christian had climbed through a hole in the top of the world, into a darkness so complete that there would never be any more light. But eventually the feeling disappeared, as Christian realized that he could see again, the clear outline of each stone in front of him. Somewhere above, there was torchlight, filtering down.
Cautiously, he climbed through a final opening and found himself in a long, broad corridor, lit with torches, which ended in either a corner or another dead end. The corridor was empty, so Christian pushed himself off the ladder and straightened, then winced as he saw the wall, where an enormous mural had been painted: a picture of a group of children at play, sitting on a floor among balls and jacks and dice. Above this pretty picture were three words. Christian could not read them, but he did not like the look of the script: swirling and sinister, painted in red.
He pulled his mace from his belt and began down the hallway, moving on tiptoe. As he neared the bend, he passed a pile of swords and cloaks, all of them thrown carelessly at the base of the wall that held the mural. Christian counted the swords carefully, found nine.
Laughter echoed again. Christian gritted his teeth, for the sound reminded him of the ring, where men went to drink and enjoy the thrill of combat from the cheap seats. Christian was high above the tunnels now, hundreds of feet in the air, but he smelled the Creche all over this place, a stink like nothing else on earth. He tightened his grip on his mace, squeezing it until his fingers felt as though they might shatter, and peeked around the bend.
For a moment, he was blinded by light. Glass and crystal seemed to sparkle everywhere, wineglasses and mirrors and even an enormous contraption hanging from the ceiling, innumerable candles strewn about its sides. Carroll had told him the name of such devices, though Christian could not remember it now. They were designed to light large rooms, and the room before him seemed nearly the size of the Queen’s ballroom.
Everywhere Christian looked, he seemed to see children.
They were there, sitting on sofas and small cushions and men’s laps. Some of the girls wore dresses, as grown women did: silks and satins in bright colors. Some of the boys were dressed as well, like pages or even knights. One small boy wore a miniature suit of armor. None of them were older than seven. Some of the littlest ones still wore nappies, and they walked or toddled freely