“Take what you like and leave,” Arvin yelled-in a voice that was tight with fear. “I’ll keep my mouth shut. Neither the militia nor the Guild will-”

The jerk of being hoisted into the air cut off the rest of Arvin’s plea. As he landed across the accomplice’s shoulders, he swallowed nervously, suddenly aware that words wouldn’t save him. This was no ordinary bait and jump.

What in the Nine Hells had he blundered into?

22 Kythorn, Middark

Arvin tensed as the accomplice shrugged him off his shoulders and let him fall. Tensing was the wrong thing to do; Arvin hit the ground hard, cracking his head against stone. When the sparkles cleared from his blinded eyes, he tried to lever himself into a sitting position, but the ground was too slippery. He succeeded only in fouling his face and clothes with muck before falling back down again.

Judging by the smell, he was in the sewers. The stench was overwhelming; it filled his nostrils and throat, making him gag. The feel of sewer muck on his clothes and skin was worse than being covered in crawling spiders and renewed his determination to escape. He thrashed even more frantically, half expecting a blow from his captors at any moment, and eventually managed to sit up-albeit awkwardly, with his wrists tied firmly behind his back and his ankles lashed together.

If he could only see, he might conjure his dagger back into his hand and start to cut himself free, but blind as he was, he had no way of knowing where his captors were. One of them might have been standing right behind him, ready to pluck the dagger out of his hand.

Then he heard chanting. Men’s and women’s voices together, perhaps a half-dozen of them. He tilted his head, listening. It sounded like they were close-no more than a pace or two away-and all together in the same spot. He turned so his hands were away from them and considered calling his dagger back into his glove. Should he risk it?