“Take ‘em off,” a gruff voice ordered.

  Klane wasn’t sure where they’d been taken to. He squirmed around, finding his arms tied behind his back. The familiar weight of Pride and his belt were gone.

  The last thing he remembered was a sack being thrust over his head before he lost consciousness. The sack masking him now differed from the first one, more of a silken fabric than the gritty, burlap material that had so abrasively scuffed his ears.

  Wisps of his hair pasted to a film of sweat that had formed on his face. The sounds of the city had died, replaced by an echoing chamber filled with sounds of rushing water and dripping, where footsteps rang against metal grates and wet stone. The smells of the marketplace and salty air of the waterfront had been replaced by a foul mix of musky, warm algae and the occasional hint of rotting flesh. Gnomish instinct told him one thing. They were somewhere underground.

  “Take ‘em off!” the gruff voice commanded again.

  The way his words echoed, the voice of an angry god, told Klane they were in a large cavernous chamber far away from the waterways, which he could hear faintly to his right.

  Klane’s hood tore away.

  An older man sat at a round, oaken table raised on a central pedestal. A scraping noise caught Klane’s attention, and he craned his neck toward the mouth of a tunnel behind him. A group of five men, muttering curses and snarling like rabid dogs, dragged Rolnar’s unconscious body in.

  Five mice hauling a mountain.

  They dropped Rolnar at the center of the chamber, and the ground literally shook. Klane stared intently at his friend, relieved to see his chest gently rising and falling.

  It was just as he had suspected. He and Rolnar were indeed underground. The chamber, a cavern of lichen- and algae-covered granite, expertly cut at sharp angles that only a team of master masons and workmen of a large city could achieve.

  Two large tapestries, apparently made from the same fabric as the cowls and cloaks the men wore, hung by tarnished chains from one of the far walls. Tattered and torn, the dirtied fabric bore a red phantom figure, which crumbled near the bottom like a broken stone. Klane thought it a rather peculiar design.

  A river of green filth traveled at a gentle decline through the center of the chamber, running beneath the central pedestal where the man stood at his table.

  “Klemens,” the man at the table spoke.

  “Highborn Father.” Klemens spoke with unmasked deference.

  “These two are from that smuggler’s ship? The one helping the Ruined Saints?”

  “Yes, but may I speak freely, Highborn Father?” Klemens appeared over Klane’s shoulder. He glanced down, his steel eyes betraying careful consideration of his next words.

  “Go ahead.”

  Klemens nodded gratefully. “They should be left alone. They had no part in the doings of Captain Aldheim and his men.”

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  Klane fought back a surprised smile, doing his best to come off defeated and innocent.

  “How can you claim this?”

  “He’s the galley cook. Joined up not more than a fortnight ago. He can’t even taste.”

  “And he’s the cook?” The man at the table chuckled.

  “He was lying to get away from the sorry life he had before. He’d been a pit miner in the Ravine.”

  “I see. And this one?” The man nodded at Klane, fixing him with a deadened stare.

  “This gnome,” the word sounded foreign from Klemens, “is trying to return a journal to the orphaned son of a Clockwork Mining employee.”

  “Orphaned?” Klane squinted at Klemens, surprised. “What about the mother?”

  “Yes. Elana—” Klemens started.

  The man behind the table let out an audible sigh, shaking his head disappointedly.

  “—sold into slavery not more than a month ago,” Klemens continued. “Andrew is all that remains.”

  How does he know? Klane marveled at the impressive depth of Klemens’s knowledge.

  “We could make use of a life or two, rather than take them needlessly.”

  “Good point. Andrew.” The leader narrowed his eyes. “He works at the Clockwork Mining Company, does he?” The old man sounded intrigued. “Has no one ever told you, gnome, that no good action goes without consequence? What is your name, anyway?”

  “Klane Berrywizzle.” Klane puffed his chest out, proclaiming it with all the authority he could muster. “Miner, adventurer, treasure hunter.”

  “All right, Mr. Berrywizzle.” The old man held up a hand. “You may be of some use.”

  “Who are you?” Klane stuck his chin out defiantly.

  “So much bravado for someone in no position to have it. Not a characteristic I associated with gnomes. Granted, I’ve never met one.”

  “I—” Klane faltered for a second. The old man was right, but nevertheless, “I stand by my question.”

  “I am Highborn Father Wilfried Hass.” The old man stood ramrod straight. “We are the Spirits of the Crumbled.” He swept his hands out to a crowd that had formed behind Klane and the lump of flesh who was Rolnar.

  “S-so you’re all … a cult?” Klane glanced behind himself.

  A veritable host of hooded figures, enclosed in a shroud of creeping, mist knelt motionlessly.

  They look like spirits. He chewed his lip absently. He had to escape, somehow. Where are my things? Where is Pride?

  Highborn Father Hass grew wide-eyed, taken aback at the word. “Not a cult, Mr. Berrywizzle. Not a cult at all. We fight for the oppressed.”

  “Kill the oppressor!” the host behind him echoed. Their words exploded throughout the chamber, carrying with it a chest-shaking weight.

  “We aim to stop the fates of those like Elana, sold into slavery, her life for all intents and purposes over. Do you like slavery?”

  “No.” Klane shook his head.

  “Do you like oppression?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Does this make you a cultist?”

  “N-no.” Klane scrunched his face up. Why would that make him a cultist?

  “It doesn’t make us a cult then, either,” Highborn Father Hass said.

  Klane stared at him for a moment, struggling to find the similarity. He wasn’t a cultist, or part of a cult. He didn’t meet in secret and assassinate people in taverns. He didn’t have a band of followers regarding him with the reverence of a quasi-deity. These … Spirits of the Crumbled … were still a cult.

  “I don’t meet in—” Klane began.

  The toe of Klemens’s shoe subtly nudged him. He shut up.

  “Then we are not a cult, either,” Hass repeated. He smiled, thin, sallow lips stretching over yellowed teeth. “Klemens is right, you may be of some use to us.”

  “And him.” Klane nodded toward Rolnar. “If I’m of use, he is, too.”

  Rolnar was starting to stir, making a few of the nearby cultists uneasy.

  “Loyal to your friends. Admirable.”

  “So, what did you have in mind?” Klane tugged frustratedly on his ropes.

  At a simple incline of the Highborn Father’s head, he was cut free, finally able to stretch out his arms and stand. He came to just above Klemens’s waist. He decided he would say or do anything necessary to get his things back and get himself, along with Rolnar, to relative safety.

  “You’ll make a delivery.” Highborn Father Hass gestured toward Klemens. “Fetch the Clockwork garb from our man, Klemens. You’re taking a trip to Clockwork Mining Company headquarters.”

  “Yes, Highborn Father.” Klemens gave a curt bow.

  Everything went dark as Klane’s hood was drawn back over his head.

  He recognized the rough hood, the one that had subjected him to unconsciousness. Already a hazy feeling began to obscure the sounds and smells around him. As Highborn Father Wilfried Hass spoke, his words grew distant and flat. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Berrywizzle. Sadly, it will be the last time you and I see one another.”