Crypt of the Moaning Diamond by Rosemary Jones Page B

who had started this tunnel, she was just managing to swallow her temper. After all, it would do her no good to scream at herself and it would worry the others.
    For Sanval, she gave a fuller explanation than usual, mostly because she knew Procampur’s forces were predominately human, and he’d probably never fought beside dwarves, half-ores, half-genasi, and whatever Kid was (one of these days, Ivy meant to figure that out, but she wasn’t too sure that she’d like the answer). “Because we may need that candle later,” she explained to Sanval. “And by we, I mean you and me. The others can see in the dark.”
    “It’s not so much seeing,” explained Zuzzara, as she worked with a quick gentleness to bind Gunderal’s arm into a comfortable position. For now, the half-ore seemed content to play nurse rather than nag.
    “It’s more like using the other senses. Sometimes a scent can have color and texture,” said Gunderal.
    “Smell, and sound, and touch, my dear,” said Kid, with a tilt of his head.
    “Even with one eye, I can see farther in the dark than any human.” Mumchance snorted.
    “So we can’t afford to waste a candle while the lantern still has fuel,” Ivy concluded. “We save the light and trust the others—by which I mean everyone who isn’t human—to keep watch.”
    “It is your company, Captain,” said Sanval, giving Ivy a title that she rarely used. But he was right; she held the high rank in their group, if only because nobody else wanted the title, and it sounded good when negotiating with someone like the Thultyrl. Ivy stared at Sanval. He gave her that straight-ahead, honest gaze that went with the square chin and rigidly straight helmet (she wondered if it had stayed straight during his fall, or if he had shifted the helmet back into its perfect alignment the first chance he got). Still, the level, honest stare was better than that nobleman’s down-the-nose look that he wore sometimes when she was being truly obnoxious. Ivy chose to interpret this as meaning he would not openly disagree with her orders—after all, it was her company, not his.
    “Thank all the gods little and small, or heavy and tall, that Procampur is too polite to fight,” she hummed under her breath. It was another one of the camp songs, a ditty that the mercenaries favored as an explanation as to why Procampur’s soldiers rarely got into the kind of camp squabbles that kept life in the mercenary section so interesting on a daily basis.
    The Procampur gentleman acted as though he had not heard her and mused in his usual mild tone, “Fighting by candlelight or lamplight poses some interesting challenges.”
    “We will have no need of swords,” Ivy said. “There is probably nothing down here but mud and a few rats.” Or at least she hoped that was the case. They had a job to do, and one of the worst parts of tunneling under other people’s walls was the nasty little surprises that you found underground. There were days when Ivy could swear that there was more wildlife below the earth than above it.
    Mumchance muscled between the two of them.
    “So now where?” said the dwarf. “If it would please you, Captain”—and his emphasis on the title was as dry as his beard was dripping wet—”to make up your mind while our boots are
    still out of the water.” Like all the Siegebreakers, Mumchance took Ivy’s title for what it was—a sham meant to fool other people—but he generally listened to her orders before criticizing. “Humans are never half as clever with their hands as the silliest dwarf child,” Mumchance once told her. “But your race is good at the obvious when it comes to survival. Given half a chance, you can wiggle your way out of a bad situation faster than a rat can gnaw through cheese.”
    “River isn’t over our heads yet,” said Ivy, “but we’re still all soaked and freezing. I want to be dry and I want to be warm before I start any march out of here. Can’t use Gunderal’s