I always imagined dungeons as cold places, with fetid water dripping on fungus-slimy walls. The dungeons of Timmuzz are not like that. The halls where I walked were of a delicate coral color, dry and warm, and well-lighted with rundal-oil lamps that cleanly scented the air. And though they were below ground, in the belly-soil of the island of Nyshphal, the corridors were wide and the cells as adequate as any cage can be.
I found Kreeg pacing his adequate room like a spear-maddened ghyre. I hadn’t needed to kill anyone to find him. That didn’t mean I hadn’t hurt a few. The dark robes of a Sevarian monk had served me well as a disguise. I’d entered the keep unopposed, and because the monks commonly minister to the prisoners I’d been able to surprise what few guards I’d encountered on my way
