“If you actually do know magic,” says Silhouine, “this would be an excellent opportunity to–”
“I’m not a magician,” sighs Yael. “I’m a spy.”
They take a few dozen more steps in silence. The spiral is wide but the stairs around the outside narrow; the light of the candle Sanguoît threw in after them gives no sign of how deep it goes. It’s almost more useful for detecting the little currents of air that whistle from the stone at regular intervals. It’s cool and fresh.
Whoever’s buried here, Yael thinks, was serious about proper ventilation in the afterlife.