Calliope gasped lungfuls of air, her throat burned like the very devils. She had just enough time take in the fact she was still alive before the mob, baying for her blood, came charging down the stairs, torches and bloody knives waving. At their head dressed in an elegant and expensive suit of armor was Caliban, one of Sebastian’s chief lieutenants. 

Her captor, a dirty looking man with dark hair in a ponytail, rightly judged that the mob would tear him apart and grabbed her and pulled her away from the cell. He seemed to be leading her towards a cracked culvert where the waste from the prisons open latrines flowed. Calliope was in no position to argue even though the wretched smell made her half gag. As she turned she looked back over her shoulder and shouted another word of power. It came out as more of a hoarse croak but the actual sound of the utterance mattered less than the mental focus. A shimmering plate of force appeared across the bottom of the stairwell. It was a simply shield spell not good for stopping more than a thrown rock or knife, it shattered almost immediately as the armored Caliban charged into it, but it did check his progress for a half second. Dozens of bodies crashed into him and the front rank of the mob collapsed in a heap. Those behind continued to charge forward, unaware of what was going on at the foot of the step and unable to arrest their progress. The whole mob became a mass of tangled bodies and shouted curses but even had she more powerful magic to hand their was no way they could have dealt with the whole lot of them.

Without a backward glance they fled into the hot foetid darkness of the sewer. Her rescuer, whoever he was seemed to know the way. Was he perhaps a smuggler who had been bringing people in and out of  the palace. Whoever the fellow was he clearly realised that now was no time to argue with an angry bloodthirsty mob. That spoke well of him at the very least. Their feet splashed up a spray of stinking waste as they fled down the low tunnel. It twisted and turned but her guide seemed to know the way. Within a minute they burst into small chamber where several smaller tributaries of shit river ran together. THere was also a small exit to the street. The stranger didn’t hesitate taking the exit at a dead run, behind them the sound of the screaming mob was amplifying. She climbed out after him into an alley.

“This way!” she snapped. In her mind she rationalized that it would be safer to stick together, safer for her which was the important thing, but in her heart it was because she didn’t want to be a lone fugitive in a city hunting for her. Moving at a brisk jog they wove their way down the street, passing looted shops and the occasional body. Here and there the riotous mob were drunkenly shouting triumph and looting more prosperous shops. At last they came to a rope makers shop, too poor in attractive women or alcohol to make an attractive target. Furthermore Calliopie knew it to be deserted because the fellow had been thrown in prison for failing to pay his taxes a few days ago. It smelled powerfully f hemp and flax but it was a good place to lay low.

“We should be safe enough here, whoever you are,” she said, her hand rested on her sword. WHoever this was she doubted he had saved her out of some sort of innate goodness of heart.