Shyan strains against the iron bars.
“Any luck over there?” Cang calls. They cannot see one another. Light from one mouldering torch flickers somewhere in the dungeon, but there are so many corners that the layout is impossible to discern.
“No,” Shyan mutters, fighting with the bars.
“You could do it at the gate,” Fassn says.
Shyan throws her hands up. “I know that, Fassn.”
“I guess this is harder.”
“Lich want us to come in,” Abia says. “Now, lich not want us to go.”
Shyan sighs, sits on the stone floor. It’s damp. She feels insects run across her hands. “No chance you’ve got a lock pick tucked into your boot, Cang?”
“If I do,” Cang says, removing his boots, “the lich knows about it, too.”
“Then doesn’t that creature seem to know everything damned thing?”
Cang’s boots fall to the floor. The soft noise of leather on stone is unsettling.
A short, sharp intake of breath tells Shyan her guess is right. “Better make it count, Cang,” she says.
