Seaborn 03 - Sea Throne

by Chris Howard

  Klodia spit out her braid and nodded, scowling over the last point in Nikasia's tale. "The strangest thing is that the king was afraid?"

  "No," said Nikasia in a hushed voice. She waved a finger at them and looked around to see if all their eyes were on her, a tight pull on the net that held them. "The strangest thing is that the king sent the Olethren out to war. Years passed, and we lived in fear. We have been kept inside the city, our farmlands cost more to work because we must have watchers and swift carts to return to the city, and no one tells us anything. King Tharsaleos sent the Olethren to war. . .and they will not return. No, the strangest thing is that they now have a new master."

  Nikasia whispered, "Kassandra," slipped lower in the water, and left them with their mouths hanging open—as all good bards should expect at the end of a tale—even a tale they had all heard before.

  Chapter 11 - The Vents

  Guards. Guards. Nikasia kept her head down, entered the square low, and swam into the crowd of vent-bound, the four loose spirals of thick silvery links down her forearm, hoping that no one would notice that she'd broken the binding on hers, turned it into a thing that enslaved Erix's sea-turtle.

  Guards everywhere.

  She counted the number of prisoners by their silver bracelets. She tasted the bindings in them, twenty-eight separate spikes of metallic and electric salt across her tongue, mostly men, one girl by herself, floating off to one side next to a hauberked guard, teeth clattering, friendless, probably no older than seventeen, so scared she'd already pissed. Three women in king's court couture—gauzy capes and laced leggings tight and shimmery—attacked a less than well-dressed fourth they blamed for their awful fortune, getting caught, sentenced to the Vents, shamed, gorgeous clothes ruined. What a fucking nightmare!

  Scowling at the well-dressed women, Nikasia caught the traces of a few bleeds among them. She would have liked to shut them all up, but instead she drifted in a circle and grumbled, "You didn't get your hair done for the event?"

  The train was an ancient rattling linked-together line of float platforms with benches and railings pulled by a six-orca team. The teamster, one-eyed and missing a few fingers, was difficult to read. He could have been a nice guy caught on the hard life current, or he could be a monster who slurped newborn's blood for breakfast. Nikasia gave him a few quick studies before he leveled his gaze back at her, and she closed her eyes and tasted what the sea sent her senses.

  "Ungodly strong bleed in him," she whispered to herself, tilting her head, scraping his flavor off her tongue with her upper teeth. There were a couple others in the area with deep bleeds.

  One was a tall slender man in a pale blue tunic and leggings almost identical to Nikasia's—and he was complaining to the guards about the judgment he'd received, unfair for a man of his line, a man of his intellect and power, a man...

  Nikasia sucked in a shallow breath, loaded it with words and blew them out to the crowd. "Man? A man would get through this without complaining."

  Scattered laughing and Mr. Pale-blue-tunic turned a pale shade of red.

  Then she felt it, someone watching her. Damn. Nikasia swallowed a sour surge from her stomach. The teamster was nodding and then gave her a wink with his good eye, his sense of humor—along with a few extra senses—intact.

  Nikasia kicked aboard the last platform, taking the last bench against the outside rail, folding her arms and trying to appear unapproachable, which had no effect on the three high fashion courtiers. They drove the fourth woman to the back of the last platform, and she curled in painful fits in the water. She skidded to her knees, slammed her elbow against the floor, and then crawled into a knot on the bench across from Nikasia, her legs pulled up, braids tucked tight over one shoulder. She sobbed and buried her face in her circling arms.

  Nikasia looked up, let her eyes go a little wide so that the orange wouldn't be difficult to miss. "Leave her alone."

  All three twirled in the space between the benches, fingers spreading, graceful necks tilting back, lips pulled down, a synchronized, offended dance.

  "And who are you?"

  Nikasia stared calmly back, counting her heartbeats, the slow, calm thump in her chest.

  One, two, three...

  Then they started begging.

  "I am sorry milady Kirkêlatides."

  "We meant no offense."

  They back kicked, curling in supplication, heads down. "Please forgive our intrusion on your thoughts." Suddenly they looked foolish, all dressed up for the dirtiest broken-nailed work seaborn justice could offer.

  Nikasia ignored them, looking over at the woman on the opposite bench.

  "What is your name?"

  Trying to be helpful, one of her three tormenters sputtered, "Pheronika. Her name is Pheronika."

  Nikasia swung her gaze back to the three, sang under her breath, and forced each of them to look up, straight at her. "Do you think I do not already know that, Bitinna of the Alkimides? Or you, Deinarete of Alkimides, or you, Isanoreia, Polemakles' daughter of Dosianax—" she raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed with the company. "—a child of the first of the King's Eight?" She released them and waited for an answer. Nothing but head dropping and whispered "milady's," and the trembling exhale of the water that had been trapped in their lungs.

  "I was..." I was a child of the first of the King's Eight once—before that Rexenor animal killed my father. Nikasia waved at them. "I was being courteous. Now, get out of my sight."

  The three noble ladies clutched each other consolingly and bolted through the water to the first platform, right behind the teamster's bench.

  Nikasia watched them huddle and whisper, tasted their fear-sweet relief in the currents. "Yeah, frilled hagfishes, go sit with Mr. Not-playing-with-a-full-set-of-eyes-fingers-or-anything-else."

  "Fine company for me, too," said the teamster right behind her, and Nikasia kicked in a spin, brought her hands up, one in a fist, a hiss of spiny defenses haloing her in the water, a stab of death poised on her tongue.

  He laughed and held up both incomplete hands. "Mr. Not-playing-with-a-full-set-of-eyes-fingers-or-anything-else just needs to inspect the floats, milady. Justice will be done in the Downs. We don't want to lose any of you along the way."

  Nikasia lowered her arms and put away her weapons, walls, secrets, instant death spells. She kept her cold look, studying him openly now. He allowed it, closing his eye.

  "How did you lose that? Or your fingers? What wars were you in?" She followed the lance scars along his arm and nodded, acknowledging his veteran status. "Sir."

  He smiled faintly and wiggled the stubs of three fingers. "I was on the First North Campaign decades ago, many battles before that. But I was there in the First North with the Olethren killing all life. Ocean of blood red, thick flows of it, thousands of Rexenors dying, screams of children on the currents. And the dead crowding over the walls, eating, cutting, killing everyone. Lost these, bitten off by one that still had its teeth. Never would have got away. Your mother, great Lady Theoxena, saved my life." He gave her the same nod back. "Emandes of the One-eye at your service, milady."

  "Of what house?"

  "Of a house of no importance."

  "What about your eye?"

  He touched the pearlescent shell that cupped his right eye socket. "This one is new. In the last year." His lips twisted bitterly and he jabbed a finger down, indicating the Downs, the deep abyss, the Vents. "Dragon. Big, very old female, the color of blood right out of a wound. What a beautiful monster. She sweeps through every once in a while, following a trail of loss, looking for someone—probably her master." He narrowed his one eye at the doubt in Nikasia's expression. "Tried to catch her." He tapped the shell. "Once."

  Nikasia's look soured even more. Dragons were something out of myth. The Telkhines, the old kings, had dragons because they could create them, they could become them. The Telkhines created most of the Nine-cities, the walls, the level growing fields, even Helios' Twin, the interminably burning sphere
that traced its hemispheric path over the towers and fields twice a day.

  "There aren't any dragons, not after the Alkimides purge. Rexenor lost the few they had in the First North."

  The teamster didn't seem to hear her, looking off into the distance, over the walls of the Justice Square, squinting his good eye and tilting his head back to taste the currents. "Imagine you would love to see her." He kicked off without looking back, and took up the reins of the orca team.

  The train glided through the channels between fortress walls and long flat proving grounds, in the shadow of the floating walls of the oldest of the nine cities—the Telkhines city, closed by those ancients—unopenable—for two thousand years.

  After a few guard checks and judicial formalities, the train pulled smoothly through the front gates and left the Nine-cities and bright Helios' Twin behind.

  Long shadows rolled out in front of them, slithering hard darkness across barren rock, and then the train went into the abyss, pure and solid black with the winking lure of predators in the night.

  The teamster tossed a few bulbs of glowing blue over his shoulder, just enough to make the surrounding dark darker.

  Nikasia lit her own light, letting it trail behind the last float, and making her braids curl into eerie shapes, tentacles and snakes, and when the three noble ladies dared to glance over their shoulders, rude gestures.

  A small afraid-of-the-night voice at her shoulder, "Do you believe him?"

  Nikasia clenched her muscles, rammed her tongue into her teeth against killing whatever it was.

  She brought her hands in, flexing her fingers, and whispered back, "Do not do that again, Pheronika."

  The woman sobbed, face dropping into her hands. "I am sorry milady."

  Nikasia waved away her apology. "Look at me." She jutted her chin toward the front of the train. "This is going to be ugly. Why are you and your prettily-dressed friends on this little outing?"

  A fresh wave of tears blurring the water in front of Pheronika's face, and she brushed them away. She swallowed hard. "We wanted to see the beauty of Euchaon, milady. He is the last of the oktoloi, the youngest, almost twenty." She pointed to one of the women in the first row of benches. "Isanoreia is the daughter of Polemakles, the first of the trusted Eight."

  "You don't go to the Vents for a good look at a man—even one of the King's Eight. What did you do, break into his home and abduct him?"

  Pheronika looked down. "His mother's estate."

  A slow smile started on Nikasia's lips. "Really?" Then broadened when Pheronika smiled back.

  "Not just a look, milady."

  "I gathered." Nikasia studied her for a moment. "You have the bleed, Pheronika—enough to get the four of you through whatever protections they've set up." Her voice soured. "So, they used you, pretended friendship for your abilities, and you sink with them when they fail." She stuffed her anger in, and waved Pheronika to continue.

  "We took him from his bed."

  Nikasia could see her face redden in the dark.

  "He sleeps wearing nothing. I put a binding on his hands, together behind his back."

  "En toisin aidoiois ton engkephalon echôn. Didn't put up much of a struggle, then."

  "Not at all. He bowed to us, orthos, and asked of what service he could be to four fine ladies of the Thalassogeneis."

  "Did he? How were you caught?"

  "His mother."

  "Oh."

  "Bitinna was kissing him—and not gently. Isanoreia was just getting a turn with beautiful Euchaon when his hideous Dosianax soldier mother kicked in with her sword drawn followed by half the estate guards."

  Nikasia laughed sadly, slid down in her seat, and let her head drop back to the top of the bench, eyes unfocused, staring off into miles of dark above her. She imagined the scene, sharpening her smile, and then whispered, "Thank you for sharing your story with me, Pheronika. Friends or no friends, you had more fun than I had, it appears." And then with acid edging her voice, "I have no friends, no family, only enemies. And a king who will hate me and use me when it is my time."

  I must have close to half my mother's magic by now.

  She heard Theoxena's voice in her head, It is time, Nikasia.

  She looked over and found Pheronika staring back at her, caught the woman's soul and held on tight.

  I would show you part of my story, Pheronika. Do not be afraid.

  Nikasia reached over and took her hand.

  I left my home between the Twin's light, spun on my back looking for any sign of movement above me. Pheronika gasped as the house battlements rose like black mountains in the gloom of her imagination. The rise of light was still a long way off, but there are always watchers on the towers.

  I made a cloud of ink that followed me and kept me hidden all the way to the temple of Artemis of the Deep. I'd selected my favorite sanctuary long ago for this kind of excursion. It's out of the way, not well attended, and backs right against the northwestern outer city wall. I couldn't very well go up to the guards at the gates and ask to be let outside.

  I did prepare for this, testing the walls, discovering that the King's Protection is far stronger above the walls than along them. Still, small, slow moving fish—and some surfacer's shoe—can go right through it. Armies and weapons have to find another way in.

  Pheronika watched as Nikasia swung rapidly through the swim channels, slipped along walls in the shadows.

  The temple of Artemis was empty at this hour, and I went straight to the deepest chamber—the deepest backs against the outer fortress wall of the Nine-cities. Damned convenient. I moved a long table, clearing a path to the tapestry covering the stone, one of Artemis hunting a squid in blue spirals of ink and dapples of surface light. I tore it down.

  In the dream, Pheronika looked at Nikasia's hands as if they were her own, fingers curling in and out, stiffly at first, bending at different points, but there were unexpected steps in their movement as if Nikasia had joints in her fingers between the knuckles. She moved them faster, each of them in turn, the stepping motion breaking into so many points that her bones appeared to have turned to water.

  She sang in tones as deep as her voice could push sound, a song of Gaia, the displacement of stone, and the unmaking of a very small part of the earth.

  The motion of her hands became a blur of pale skin, and then one finger stopped, pointed stiffly away from her. She pressed the pad of her finger against the unyielding stone and drew a circle as wide as the span of her shoulders.

  She repeated the song, drew the circle again, and let her eyes close. A stain spread from the center, seeping between the blocks, bleeding into them in crooked lines. Pheronika sang with Nikasia, her eyelids fluttering, and she closed her mouth around the last verse.

  Nikasia's hands went still, pushed the water above her, so that she dropped and peered into the hole through the great fortress wall. It was a tunnel with glassy black sides many times her length.

  Did you know the walls of the city were this thick?

  Pheronika shook her head.

  Neither did I.

  Nikasia crouched and pushed her way into the hole she'd cut through the outside walls of the Nine-cities, and Pheronika shuddered when she heard the cold watery echo of Nikasia's voice through the dream, "One more wall, the King's Protection, to get through, and then I will be free. Then, father, I will hunt down your killer and tear his beating heart from his body, cut his soul from his form, burn the joy in his memories, kill forever his sense of touch, his capacity for love, make his pain last an eternity."

  Nikasia eased her grip on Pheronika's hand, let her go, and leaned back on her bench, closing her eyes for the rest of the journey to the Vents.

  Nikasia vomited up her early meal, cursed, brushed it away, globs of half digested food and bile slick in her fingers. She vowed to kill Mr. Fenhals slowly. Gregor Rexenor first, then that low-handed needle-using shit-eating Fenhals.

  She drifted in the sour sulfide spew from the vents, wondering
if there was a way to cut out Fenhals' tongue, force his vocal cords into early decomposition, somehow make the fucking old king's slave scream blood inside his own head while she worked him like a puppet, enjoyed his silence and the funny pain expressions into which his face would twist.

  She looked around at the smoke black and chalk white world, heavy metals precipitating out of the billowing vent discharge and raining down on her. She was here because Fenhals had poisoned her, caught her, returned her to the king. "You will die in agony, old man—next, after the Rexenor lord. Unless I catch you first."

  She rolled her basket over one shoulder, cast a brighter glow overhead, and waded through fields of Riftia tubeworms, some of them twice her height, blood red retractable plumes sucking food out of the stinking water. The train had glided along a ridge of warm new ocean floor, throwing off prisoners in pairs with their collection baskets, moving on before anyone could jump back aboard.

  The halfblind teamster laughed at their complaints, their sickness, shouting as he sped off, "Welcome to the Vents, ladies and gents!"

  Nikasia kicked from the jungle of tubeworms into a plain of blackened rock and millions of stark white bivalves—clams the size of her fist. She glanced over at the idiot she'd been partnered with, a pointy nosed, longhaired man in his late-twenties, maybe a year or two older than her. He wore an expensive tunic and matching leggings with purple embroidered interlocking squares, some misfit member of one of the noble houses.

  He swung his bright blue gaze at her and curled his lips into a defiantly bored snarl. She just stared back, showing none of her thoughts, flitting fire yellow schools of butterfly fish, death eels oozing venom, ambush predators, the usual stuff in her head. One thought broke from the rest, drifted to the front of her mind, and floated there a moment: He might as well have words written across his forehead, "Used to getting my way" in big thick letters.

  His scowl deepened as if he had managed to net a few of her thoughts.