Rastalak sat up. "No," it said, holding up its hands again, as if to stay her wrath. "No trap. But your kind make noise, too much noise! I had thought you like the hunter, the Silas Thorn. But your Fengel and his people, they trudge through jungle like razor-boars in heat! Even still, I had thought to avoid the sentries, but alas, I was wrong."
"Well, we have to get them free."
The Draykin nodded. "The High Priest has ordered all outsiders, Draykin or not, to be held for sacrifice. My people believe that such offerings given directly to the accursed gemstone bring them directly to our gods, the Great Ones."
Lina stared. "What? They're going to be sacrificed? We've got to do something!"
Rastalak made a kind of shrug. "Yes. That is the desire. With your people dead, my hope dies as well, the Burning Eye will tighten its hold upon my people. I, outcast that I am, have hidden here to try to devise a rescue. But the city is alarmed. Many of my people of gather in the Plaza of the Great Ones. They watch the wonder of your sky-vessel, and await the sacrifice before the Eye, that they may give up their prayers. Also, they watch the swarms of scryn native to the city as they attack your sky-vessel. I should have mentioned that first, perhaps."
"Chirr!" said Runt eagerly.
Lina blinked. "What? That's what's going on? Show me!"
The Draykin shrugged again. It turned and moved deeper into the ruin. Lina followed it around a collapsed chunk of the ceiling, which led upward to another story. Here shafts of sunlight illuminated a space through cracks in the four wide walls.
Butterflies churned her stomach. She had seen hundreds, thousands of Runt's kin flitting about the towers outside. If her friends were up on the Dawnhawk, and not on the Queen, they could be in deep trouble. And Fengel and the others were apparently going to be executed by the natives.
The lizard-creature scrabbled up the incline to a wide hole in one wall. Lina stopped, nonplussed. She tried to think of something to say in reply, then cast the thought aside as Rastalak gestured at the hole. She moved up to the wall and peered out. Then she caught her breath.
This side of the ruin looked out onto the pyramid at the center of the city, as well as the wide Plaza of the Gods that it dominated. Hundreds and hundreds of the Draykin were gathered below the temple steps, focused not on that building, but on the Dawnhawk hanging low in the skies above. They pointed and hooted at each other, watching the strangeness of the show.
The airship was blanketed. A writhing black cloud of scryn swooped in and out, driven to frenzy by something aboard. Pistol shots and battle-cries echoed down from the vessel. Ghastly red light set the deck and the gas-bag frame aglow.
"That is new."
Lina followed the pointing finger of the creature. It gestured at the high temple steps. There, a small procession of guards were carrying something. A woman, bound. She kicked and screamed and even over the din of the conflict above Lina recognized the voice.
Natasha. Lina felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. If she was here, then the ship above must have been under her command. Except...what was she doing down here, and not up above?
She turned to face the Draykin beside her. "There has to be something we can do," said Lina.
Rastalak raised its hands. "I can think of nothing simple," it replied.
Lina shook her head. "I don't care how brazen, how unlikely. I have to rescue my captain." And then maybe he could get them all out of this mess.
The Draykin eyed her. It stopped, as if caught by an idea. "There may be something that we can do," it said slowly. Then it gestured all around them. "I did not choose this ruin at random. Before my exile, I was Lorekeeper-in-training. The Lorekeepers are given to study the holy secrets that the Great Ones left behind. But what I have in mind may not be enough."
"You let me worry about that," said Lina. "Just tell me what you're thinking."
Rastalak told her its plan.
Lina decided she needed to worry about it.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Fengel examined his fingernails. They were getting rather long.
"Mister Smalls," he said. "Lend me your knife."
The little steward glanced up from the corner of their cage he was sawing at. Henry looked perplexed. The Draykin had taken all their weapons, but Henry had managed to keep a little paring knife hidden in the waistband of his trousers. Wordlessly, he handed it up. Fengel took the blade and trimmed his index nails, then handed it back. His steward gave him a flat look before bending back to his task.
Their cage was surprisingly spacious. Twenty paces by twenty, and a full ten feet high. Its bars were formed of some dense native wood, bound by gut and twine. The right and rear sides were flush up against the stone walls of this corner of the temple. Beneath the bars under their feet was a flat, stone surface. All of his crew were here; Sarah Lome, Maxim, Henry Smalls, Oscar Pleasant, and Geoffrey Lords. Each were either tending to their wounds or working on some method of escape. Fengel stood in the middle of the cage, supervising.