Maelstrom

by Jill Williamson

  You now can see shadir.

  Tell no one.

  O

  What in all the Eversea did that mean? O must mean Oli. Hinck had seen shadir the one time he’d tasted evenroot, and he had no desire to see them again. Before he had time to try to puzzle out what the duke was up to, Fonu called to him from his cell across the corridor.

  “Hinck? You still there?”

  “Where else would I be?” Hinck had spent four nights in this disgusting cell, which would have been unpleasant in calm seas, but the storm’s first massive wave had upended Hinck’s privy bucket, and each subsequent wave had tossed Hinck through the soiled hay, and eventually his own vomit as well. It seemed that Sâr Wilek had deserted him as the traitor he’d commanded him to be. Surely the sâr would not let him die just to keep up the ruse?

  “I heard a noise,” Fonu said. “Thought the guards had come for you. Ragaz says they’ve been patrolling the corridors all day.”

  Ragaz. One of Fonu’s shadir. Hinck shuddered at the thought of any human communicating with such beasts. “Does Sâr Wilek think we might suddenly find some way to escape?” Hinck asked, because he had examined his door fully and could see no way to gain freedom. It was a pocket door that, when opened, slid into the wall. There were no hinges to be tampered with. No latch or lock on the inside. And from what he could determine from staring out the peephole at Fonu’s cell, the mortise lock was low enough that he could not reach it.

  “Sâr Wilek thinks we’re all mantics,” Fonu said. “He knows about the cook’s missing root. He’d be a fool to expect we’d sit in our cells and rot.”

  “But we have done exactly that. For four nights. If we had the root, we would have escaped.”

  “Ragaz knows who has it. The mystery mantic has bonded with Lilou’s shadir.”

  Someone had the root? “How is that possible? I thought shadir were loyal.”

  “Not at all. A shadir can abandon its master at any time, though Ragaz says the man knows Lilou intimately. I expect she must know about the bond.”

  Hinck tried to work out what that meant. “Are we going to escape?”

  “Soon, I think. Ragaz went to talk to Zenobia. When I learn anything new, I’ll let you know. Oh, and, Hinck. It’s true about Janek. Haroan said they had his shipping today.”

  Haroan, Fonu’s common shadir that looked like a wolf. “Sands,” was all Hinck could think to say. Janek killed by Sir Kalenek. Hinck guessed the sâr had finally pushed the wrong man too far.

  This also meant that Lady Pia was free.

  It was a horrible, selfish thought, and Hinck pushed it aside as he knelt in the hay to destroy Oli’s note lest it implicate him. Once he’d dropped the remains into the privy bucket, he had nothing to do but sit in the darkness and ponder his fate.

  He must have dozed off because there was a sudden clamor of voices in the corridor. His cell door slid open and Fonu ducked his head inside.

  “Get out here. We’re going to attack.”

  Hinck never imagined he’d be reluctant to leave his cell. He pushed to his feet, stepped out into the corridor, and gasped. His memory flashed back to the night he was initiated into the Lahavôtesh.

  The hazy forms of shadir drifted around the rebels from the prison cells, bathing the corridor in an eerie glow. A long green one curled like a snake around Lady Zenobia’s waist and neck, its tongue flicking into the woman’s ear. Lady Mattenelle was speaking with a blue-and-yellow cloud. A third shadir floated through Sir Garn’s arm and into Uncle Canbek’s back, its gray, catlike face exiting the man’s chest just as Fonu said, “Gods, Hinck, you reek.”

  Trembling, Hinck remembered the note and pretended not to see the creatures, though when the gray drifted near him, he stepped aside to avoid letting it touch him.

  The catlike shadir whipped around, coiled in the air, and fixed its beady eyes on Hinck.

  “We all reek,” Hinck told Fonu, well aware that the gray shadir was still watching him.

  “Follow me,” Lady Zenobia said. “Our rescuer awaits.”

  The traitors and their shadir went to the empty room in the hold where they had once met as the Lahavôtesh. Two people were waiting inside the compartment along with a pile of swords. Sârah Zeroah sat on the floor, hands and feet bound, a gag in her mouth. Beside her stood Agmado Harton.

  “You?” Fonu asked.

  “Mado!” Lilou ran into Harton’s arms.

  He caught her, pulled her into a kiss, then shoved her away, grimacing. “You’re disgusting.”

  “Well, I like that.” Lilou propped a hand on her hip and pouted. “Let’s see how you’d smell after spending four nights in the hold.”

  “We all smell terrible,” Lady Mattenelle said.

  “Enough!” Zenobia said. “Where is the evenroot?”

  “I took it,” Harton said.

  Zenobia stepped swiftly toward him. “All of it?”

  “It was only a small vial,” Harton said. “You wanted me to open the cell doors. I did what you asked.”

  “Surely that didn’t require all of your powers,” Zenobia said.

  “No, but—”

  “Then you must capture Sâr Wilek yourself.”

  “I look forward to it.” Harton kicked Sârah Zeroah’s leg. “She’s expecting a child. Paliki heard her tell the sâr today.”

  “Are you!” Lilou crouched before Sârah Zeroah. “Congratulations, lady! Now you must listen to us and do everything we say if you want your baby to live.”

  Zeroah nodded.

  Hinck recoiled. Too much, too fast. That he could see the shadir, that Harton had joined the traitors and abducted Sârah Zeroah, who was with child! How was he to interfere?

  Lady Mattenelle knelt beside Zeroah. “Ignore her,” she whispered. “Lilou’s just jealous because she can’t have a child.”

  “Pick up a sword, everyone,” Fonu said, giving one of the blades a practice thrust into the bulkhead.

  Sir Garn handed Hinck and Uncle Canbek each a blade, then crossed swords with Fonu in a mock battle. Should Hinck take advantage of the rebels’ relaxed state, try to grab Sârah Zeroah, and make an escape?

  “What’s the plan?” Sir Jayron asked.

  “Sâr Wilek has moved the king to another ship,” Zenobia said.

  “Which ship?” Sir Garn asked.

  “I don’t know,” Zenobia said. “We must use his wife to get the sâr to talk.”

  “I thought Isaro was watching him,” Fonu said.

  “He was, but he did not see Sâr Wilek move the king,” Zenobia said.

  “He knows we’re watching?” Fonu asked.

  “Not necessarily,” Zenobia said. “He simply might have been exercising caution.”

  “Why would he hide the king unless he expects an attack?” Sir Jayron asked. “And if he does expect an attack, how could he surmise so much of our plans?”

  “Oli is helping him,” Fonu spat. “He was there for our interrogations, talking to Sâr Wilek in some kind of message, but the shadir could not puzzle it out.”

  “Oli is not a mantic,” Zenobia said. “He would have no way to learn what we were planning.”

  “The prophetess,” Uncle Canbek said. “The witch has a great shadir on her side.”

  “But the prophetess claims to serve Arman,” Hinck said. “And Arman abhors shadir.”

  Fonu snorted. “Arman is a shadir, Hinck. A great, to be sure, and mighty clever to have set up an entire religion making himself the object of so much devotion. If the prophetess has truly bonded with Arman, we are in for an epic battle.”

  “It is impossible not to notice her power,” Zenobia said, “but this is no time to discuss the prophetess. We will take Sârah Zeroah to the stern deck. That will lure Sâr Wilek to us. Master Harton, lead the way. Sir Jayron, bring up the rear. Lilou, untie Sârah Zeroah’s feet so she can walk, then you and Lord Dacre keep hold of her. It’s time to take this ship for Moon Fang and the King of Magic.”

  It all seemed like a dream
to Hinck, enhanced by the strange glow of what could only be the Veil between worlds. He followed the group, trying to ignore the shadir that flew among them like birds. He kept hold of Sârah Zeroah’s right arm. Her skin felt silky under his grimy hand, and he regretted that he might leave his stench upon her. She glared at him several times, and he wished he might pull her aside and confess that he was her husband’s spy. Instead he traipsed along the carpenter’s walk to the stern with the other traitors, then up four flights of stairs until they exited on the quarterdeck.

  Then it became real.

  Ever since Trevn had sent Hinck to Janek, spying had terrified him. But he had done it, had learned to play a part in order to help his sârs Trevn and Wilek keep the realm safe. This time was different. When Hinck stepped out onto the quarterdeck, people saw him holding Sârah Zeroah’s arm and walking with traitors, waving a sword for everyone to get out of his way. He moved in a haze of horror, knowing that he could never return to life as it had been. To the people of Armania—to Sârah Zeroah, the future queen—Hinckdan Faluk was a traitor.

  They made their way up to the stern deck and claimed a section at the taffrail, waving nobles back with their swords. Men cursed them. Women screamed and ran away. A few guards tried to engage, but Harton used his magic and with a muttered word sent their blades flying over the rail.

  Lady Zenobia demanded that Sâr Wilek come to the aid of his bride. Several guards scurried off with the message, and there they waited.

  The crowd began to heckle them.

  “Let the lady go!”

  “Hasn’t the sâr’s wife been through enough?”

  “What do you want with the sâr?”

  “He’s doing the best he can for all of us.”

  “Not for me!” Harton yelled. “I served him well. I saved his life time and again. I killed for him. I obeyed his every order. And I never questioned his reasoning. But I made one mistake and he cast me aside.”

  “You abandoned your post, Harton.” This from Captain Veralla, who was standing at the top of the stairs to the quarterdeck. “Any soldier knows that is grounds for dismissal.”

  Harton pushed past Hinck and hooked his arm around Sârah Zeroah’s neck, pinning her in the crook of his elbow. He held a dagger to her side. “Where is our sâr-regent?” he yelled. “Is he too cowardly to come forward and save his wife and unborn child?”

  A new wave of murmurs passed through the crowd. People looked at each other and Sârah Zeroah, exclaiming in wonder.

  “Release her.” Sâr Wilek stepped out from the cluster of guards at the stairs, his expression fierce. Novan, Rystan, and Oli followed behind. “It’s me you want, Hart. Let the lady go.”

  “On one condition,” Harton said, jerking Zeroah close. “We settle this, the two of us. With swords.”

  “That’s not the plan, Master Harton,” Lady Zenobia said. “Immobilize him now. Use your magic.”

  “I will not use magic!” Harton yelled. “I want to fight him.”

  “You don’t have the skill to defeat me with a sword,” Wilek said.

  Harton pushed Sârah Zeroah back to Hinck and lifted his blade. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

  Wilek wore no sword. He reached his arm toward Novan, who refused at first. Wilek motioned again, muttering something under his breath, and this time the shield drew his blade and tossed it to the sâr.

  As the two men squared off, Sârah Zeroah began to mumble, eyes closed as if in prayer.

  Wilek tried to circle, to get Harton to turn with him, but Harton was too clever to put his back to the sea of onlookers and guards. He maintained his position and lashed out to keep Wilek from advancing.

  Wilek parried the blow calmly. “Arman has shown me favor, Hart,” he said. “I am not afraid of you or your friends.” He gestured to Hinck and the others.

  “You should be,” Harton said. He swung down on Wilek’s head.

  The sâr deflected the strike.

  Harton twirled his sword up and slashed across Wilek’s middle. Wilek blocked, spun, and crouched back into his ready stance.

  It appeared that Sâr Wilek would not attack full on. He was keeping a hold on his temper, going carefully, one stroke at a time.

  Hinck had watched Wilek and Harton spar before on the practice field in Everton. And while he had never seen Harton defeat the sâr, one never knew if a subordinate hadn’t the skill to win or if he lost on purpose to gain favor with his master.

  Beside Hinck, Sârah Zeroah continued to pray, now speaking with her full voice. “Be his shield, his refuge, his stronghold. Save him from violence that comes against him. Save him from his enemy.”

  Harton sliced downward. Wilek countered and darted aside.

  Harton swung across the neck. This time Wilek knelt on one knee and cut for Harton’s waist, his first offensive strike.

  Harton jumped out of the way, but the tip of the sâr’s blade whisked though his tunic, bringing a cheer from the crowd.

  This only enraged Harton, who came after Wilek with fury in his gray eyes. He chopped his blade almost like an axe, growling as he did. Wilek staved off each attack, and while his crumpled brow glistened, he seemed to be exerting little effort in comparison.

  Harton came at the sâr from the right, the left, above, below, straight on. Wilek repelled each blow. The clash of their swords and their lunging steps made a steady rhythm that appeared to have no end. Until Harton took several steps back. He swung his blade before him to keep Wilek away while he caught his breath.

  “He will cover you with his feathers,” Zeroah yelled, “armored and protected in the shelter of his wings. He is your hiding place. In his arms he protects you from the attacks of your enemy.”

  “Shut her up!” Harton yelled at Hinck, then screamed and ran at Wilek, sword raised.

  Hinck pulled Zeroah back from the fray. “Lady, we should seize this moment to flee,” he whispered.

  She narrowed her eyes, keeping them focused on Wilek. “I will not abandon him.”

  Harton and Sâr Wilek fought hard, the sâr mostly defending. Harton attacked with a series of strokes Hinck had never seen before. Something about his footwork reminded Hinck of Sir Jayron and Rurekan Igote guards. He suspected Harton had decided to pull from his past in hopes of surprising the sâr with something he’d never seen before.

  It made no difference. Wilek’s blade made two more cuts on Harton, while Harton had yet to touch the sâr. Harton lunged. Wilek twirled his sword around Harton’s blade and knocked it out of his hand. He pressed the point of his sword against Harton’s chest. The crowd roared, lauding their sâr.

  “Guards,” Wilek said. “Arrest Master Harton and his associates and—”

  “Yaph!” Harton yelled.

  A pink shadir shot out from the cluster of traitors and knocked Wilek’s sword from his grasp. To everyone else it would have looked like the blade had jumped out of Wilek’s hand. It clattered on the deck by Sir Jayron’s feet. The man picked it up.

  Harton retrieved his own sword and pointed it at Wilek.

  “You said no magic!” Novan yelled, stepping toward them.

  The onlookers crowed and yelled their agreement.

  Harton waved his free hand at Novan and again yelled, “Yaph!”

  The pink shadir plowed into Novan, knocking the shield back into the crowd. Women screamed. People scattered. Two crouched to help Novan.

  “Stop messing around, Hart,” Fonu said. “Use your magic to make the sâr tell us where he took the king.”

  “He’s stalling,” Oli said, stepping out from the circle of onlookers. “He has little magic left.”

  “What do you know about it?” Harton asked.

  “Go,” Oli whispered.

  A white shadir flew from behind Oli’s arm and snatched Harton’s sword.

  The crowd gasped as the sword flew through the air and dropped into the sea.

  Harton gaped after it. “How did you . . . ?”

  Oli stepped closer. “Pick him u
p.”

  The white shadir zipped toward Harton and lifted him into the sky, above all their heads.

  Harton screamed, limbs flailing. “Don’t! Make it put me down!”

  “Very well,” Oli said. “Drop him.”

  The shadir released Harton, who fell and landed, back first, against the deck. Hinck cringed as Harton’s head bounced off the deck and the man passed out.

  Oli was a mantic? How?

  The crowd cheered. Guards rushed in, swords drawn.

  “Kill Sâr Wilek!” Lady Zenobia screamed.

  The traitors lifted their swords, but only three advanced. Uncle Canbek and the women stayed put along the rail, while Fonu, Sir Jayron, and Sir Garn engaged the guards. Hinck wanted to get Sârah Zeroah away from the fighting and pulled her toward the stairs.

  Something hard struck the back of his head and he staggered. Sârah Zeroah was taken from his hands. Another strike knocked him to the deck. A sword pricked his back.

  “You will stay right there, Lord Dacre,” Rystan said. “Or I will make you bleed.”

  Hinck’s head throbbed, but he watched as the shadir swooped and shrieked. They seemed to be enjoying themselves in spite of their masters’ impending failure. Uncle Canbek lay in a pool of blood. How he’d been struck while hiding with the women, Hinck couldn’t guess. Novan stabbed Sir Garn, who tripped over Harton’s feet when he collapsed. The guards swarmed, disarmed Sir Jayron, and seized the women.

  “You will all serve my master when he defeats Sâr Wilek,” Fonu yelled, then threw himself over the taffrail.

  Several guards rushed to the rail, looking over. Hinck had no idea what they saw. He looked for Oli and found him lying on the deck, eyes locked with the white shadir, mumbling a petition of purging.

  Rystan bound Hinck’s hands and roused him to his feet. “Back to the hold with you,” the young duke said.