The Deepcombers

Chapter Thirty Two

Melcart waited in a vaulted passage with the map and a shy smile. His eagerness reminded Lon of his childhood friends and their adventures together when they would pretend at being deepcombers to explore the woods and caves near their homes. The rogue had the same undeniable appetite for stealth and subterfuge. Lon remembered the sad face he'd mad when he'd told him he was unreliable. That was likely the cruelest thing he could ever have said; it was a deep cut he didn't deserve.

Mel had waited because he needed torchlight before he could venture any further. Lon poked his freshly fashioned flame-stick under the arch and they advanced together and discovered the next chamber was half storage, half workshop. 

In the center of the cellar was a large copper alembic surrounded by stoneware crocks. Add this item to the list of amenities bought with medicine money; the metal shined with polish which means the appliance was well-maintained and frequently employed.  Embers still glowed in a fire hole under it's belly but he noticed there was no container to catch the drips under from its long condensation spout. The distillers were done for the day.

Workbenches lined the walls and there was a mortar and pestle on one table. Somebody had been making paste from green herbs and they'd only just retired from here a few hours ago; Lon could still smell the sweet fragrance that hung in the air and he saw the leafy mess on the counters and floors.

This room had four doors and each led to more chambers beyond this central shop. Lon raised his fresh torch to give his companion enough light to search around and read the map.  Melcart had only just peeped into two adjoining spaces before he figured it out.

"It's right here," the explorer pushed a wooden riser to expose a hole in the floor. "Hidden in plain sight. Behold."

Lon could see a round gap underfoot. He lowered his torch right down into the abyss and tried to glimpse the bottom but the smoke and glare made it hard to see anything down there. When he raised the flaming branch up over his head he saw its glare reflect a wet surface about ten feet down.

"There're no stairs?" Lon said, "If we jump, we'll be trapped."

"There's a way," Mel ran his eyes along the storage racks. He gazed-up at the rafters for clues and then scanned the far corners of the room.

"Why would they not make steps?" Lon asked.

"They don't encourage visitors."

"Smells like dirty socks down there."

"It's not just a pit. It's the basement below the basement. It looks pretty big, is my meaning."

"We'll, without stairs..., We'll have to sneak a...," Lon said. "We may have to return with a...,"

"Here it is," Melcart interrupted. "A ladder!"

The rogue pointed into a dark corner and Lon stood up and brought his torch. He spotted a long spindly ladder that looked incredibly flimsy laid up against the wall.

"You really think that's what they use?"

"Oh sure. See the bits of rope on the top and bottom?" Melcart indicated a tangled cord that dribbled away from the ends. The ladder's twin posts were fourteen-feet long and there were twelve steps doweled-in between. It was splattered with candle wax and paint and perforated by decades of small insects drilling for food. Termites, bark beetles and carpenter ants had all nibbled on the artifact and Lon came to believe the heirloom could be as old as the temple itself.

'The ropes are tie-offs?'

"Yeah. Pull ups." Melcart explained. "To haul it up when they're done." He laid hands on the wooden relic and tilted the top down until Lon caught it. Being so incredibly dry, it was mercifully light.