Mythron spat the blood away from his mouth. “You haven’t ventured out of doors lately, it would seem, or my spies would have found you, and I’d have killed you on the street.”
 Terin mocked the angry leader, “Really? It seems to me you prefer to bring men indoors and kill them when they least suspect it, or at least try. From what I hear you only got one of two that you tried that on last time. Here you are trying it again. When exactly was the last time you killed someone in the street?”
 Terin’s tongue cost him on that count, as Mythron hurled a torch from out of a wall socket before Terin’s words ceased in the air. Catching him full in the face Terin was blinded for a short while.

 Laven recalled back the principal topic, their escape, “There’s always the sewer, that’s been done by heroes and crooks alike for ages and in all the tales.”
 Reiyen looked back, “Sewers and wizard robes don’t mix well. Aside from that difficulty, sewers and large amounts of fugitives don’t work well together - much too messy, with filth and blood. Still, my robes might be willing to sacrifice for a while, far enough to get us away from this neighborhood. I suppose you and the rebels have a tunnel system that works with them?”
 “I don’t know if we do or not, that’s always been old Ulaag’s business. He just told me, ‘Ever need escape, use sewer. Watch sign dripping compass. Take you to safe.’” That was how the oldest agent in Okthin had always spoken. “I don’t know if that means a safe-house or out of the city.”
 “If it’s out of the city that’s bad news. Mythron will be guarding that. If it is to a safe-house, or to any other part of the city than this one, that’ll do.” Reiyen began picking through their various packs, taking the things they couldn’t afford to leave: Drune’s sturdy knife, Achpollo’s and his papers, his gum, and the best of Terin’s fruits.
 “There’s no knowing ‘til we’re in there. Ulaag knew just how little to tell each of us...

 He awoke in what was certainly a cellar, which would have smelled even more of beer if it had been warmer. There seemed to be a fog in the air, until Terin realized it was a fog in his mind. Blinking several times he cleared the fog enough to see. Two men sat huddled with a torch between them, both fast asleep and their faces perilously close to the flames. . .
 Then Terin saw it. The oldest method of escape in the old tales, at least all those since cities were built into metropolises. A grate, down to the sewer, surrounded by only packed dirt. He wouldn’t even need his hands untied for this one. He crawled over and lifted the grate without a sound. Still tied, he couldn’t make an easy descent, and he’d have to leave the grate off, but it was his best hope. Down he dove, into the muck.