The Tide tickled the edge of Cayal’s awareness. Splashing his ale on the counter as he slammed his glass down, he staggered to the window, staring out into the shimmering heat. The marketplace was dusty and deserted—market day wasn’t until tomorrow—the midday sun having driven most of the residents of Ramahn inside until the witching hour.
“Sir?” the barman called after him, perhaps concerned that his only customer—and the cash he owed—were heading for the door.
Cayal ignored him, trying to concentrate, cursing the impulse that had driven him to drown his sorrows with the Tide on the turn. His mind was befuddled, his senses dulled, but even through that, he could feel the presence of another immortal. He could sense it within the very marrow of his bones.
The ripples in the Tide grew stronger, getting closer with each passing moment.
Cayal held his breath.
Waiting.
But the street remained empty. There was nobody out there.
Disappointed, Cayal returned to the bar, tossing a few coins on the counter to keep the barman happy. He wasn’t feeling nearly so garrulous anymore. That ripple on the Tide reminded him he was not alone. Close by, there were others of his kind. Given this was Torlenia, it might be Kinta or Brynden he’d felt. Neither of them ever ventured far from this land they had adopted as their own. Or it might have been one of the others, perhaps, on the move now the Tide was turning…
Cayal stared into the bottom of his ale, trying to muster some enthusiasm for the prospect of another High Tide.
“Oh come on! It can’t be that bad, can it?” a wry voice remarked behind him. “You look like the world’s about to come crashing down on top of you.”
Cayal’s slumped shoulders straightened at the voice. He spun around, shocked to discover someone could sneak up on him like that.
“Tides,” the newcomer exclaimed, eyeing Cayal up and down with despair. “You haven’t spent the last thousand years sitting here crying into your ale, I hope?”
“How did you…?”
“Sneak up on you? You weren’t paying attention. You gonna buy an old friend a drink, or what?”
“Um…of course…” Cayal signalled the bartender for two more ales and then studied his companion for a moment. As expected, his appearance hadn’t changed. His skin was still the same dusky brown, no more wrinkled or weather-beaten than it had been a hundred or a thousand years ago. His white-blond hair was trimmed neatly, although it still struck Cayal as being an unusual colour in one so dark. His eyes were just as blue, his smile just as world-weary. There was no sign of the tame rat, Coron, however. Perhaps he’d left him outside, fearful of what the bartender’s reaction might be to such an unwanted guest. “What are you doing in Torlenia, Lukys?”
“Looking for you.”
“Why?”
“Do I need a reason?”
“Never known you to do anything without one.”
Lukys smiled. “Fair enough.” He waited until the barman had delivered his drink with a speculative look, and then took a long swig before adding, “I think I have something you want.”
“I want nothing,” Cayal said miserably, downing the last ale so he could tackle the fresh one. “Where have you been?”
“Here and there. You know me.”
“And your little furry friend?”
“Who? Coron? He’s dead.”
Cayal let out a short, unsympathetic laugh and then froze as the full meaning of what Lukys was implying dawned on him. He stared at Lukys. “Dead?”
“As a doorpost.”
“But…how…how can that be? He was immortal…”
Lukys nodded. “Not as immortal as we assumed, it would seem.”
Cayal was stunned. “Do you know how he died?”
“Of course.”
“Then that would mean…” Cayal was almost afraid to say it aloud in case this proved to be nothing more than a drunken hallucination.
“That I know the secret to killing an immortal,” Lukys finished for him. “Yes, it would mean that, wouldn’t it?”
Cayal was too staggered to speak. Lukys raised his glass in Cayal’s direction, took another swig of his ale and then smiled at the younger man. “So it seems, my jaded and melancholic old friend, I do have something you want, after all.”
Chapter 4
The heat of Torlenia was the first thing that hit Stellan as their ship sailed toward the crowded docks. For days now it had been building up but this morning it was relentless; like taking deep heaving breaths too close to a furnace. The sun seemed closer, the view sharper…even the very air seemed to burn. Before he’d reached the railing to witness the sunrise, sweat stained his shirt in unsightly dark patches under his arms and in a “V” down his back.
Much wiser than their passengers, the sailors manning the ropes had long ago shed any clothing other than their thin linen trousers, their tanned bodies glistening with sweat in the bright sunlight. The few amphibious Crasii left on board dived over the edge as often as they could manage, returning via the ropes hanging on the side of the ship for that purpose only long enough to perform the duties required of them before returning to the water as soon as they were able. They were uniformly miserable. The amphibious Crasii were freshwater creatures. The salt water burned their eyes and accelerated the drying of their skin so they were forced to remain in the water. Staying wet was marginally less painful than drying out.
Stellan watched the city approach, fascinated by it. Ramahn’s unofficial name was the Crystal City and it was easy to see why. Built on the edge of the sea, eons of crashing waves had encrusted the chalky cliffs and the city walls above them with layer upon layer of salt, which the harsh sun had baked into a glistening wall of crystal. The rising sun illuminated the salts as if they were gemstones, setting the whole city alight and making it almost too bright to look upon. They were arriving just in time to witness the full effect. Their timing was so perfect, in fact, Stellan wondered if it hadn’t been a deliberate ploy on the captain’s part, to make sure the new Glaeban ambassador was suitably impressed by the magnificence of the Torlenian capital.
Regardless of the circumstances that had brought him here, or the suspiciously perfect timing, Stellan was glad he had witnessed dawn over Ramahn. It truly was a sight to behold.
At the muttered greeting of a sailor behind him, he turned to find the man bowing respectfully as Arkady headed toward her husband. She was covered, head-to-toe, in a white cotton sheath that allowed only a small, square cut-out around her eyes so she could see where she was going.
“Come to view the Crystal City in all its glory?”
“I’m assured it’s a sight not to be missed.”
He offered her his hand and smiled apologetically. “I am so sorry you have to get about in that ridiculous thing.”
“No apology necessary,” she assured him. “I’m actually stark naked under here and quite cool as a consequence, thank you. I think I’m going to quite like Torlenian fashion.”
He eyed her askance. “Really?”
She shrugged. “What do you think?”
Stellan frowned. “You sounded so…sincere.”
“Just being a good diplomat’s wife, dear. Truth is, I feel like a small child who’s stolen the sheets from her parents’ bed so she can run around scaring people by pretending she’s a ghost.”
He smiled. “You rather look like you have, too.”
Although he couldn’t see anything but her eyes, he could tell she didn’t think it was all that amusing.
“You only have to wear it in public, you know. In the privacy of our own home, you’re free to dress as you please.”
“In the privacy of the seraglium, you mean,” she corrected. “Those three small rooms where I can do as I please, provided it doesn’t involve me being seen, or having my opinion heard.”
“You know I would never confine you against your will, Arkady.”
She sighed, clearly doubting his ability to keep such a promise. “Thi
s is Torlenia, Stellan. You may not have a choice.”
“Your grace?”
“Yes?” Although they both turned to the Torlenian sailor addressing them, it was Stellan who answered him. There was no question of another man speaking to Arkady on board the ship. Not here. Not in Torlenia.
“The captain asked me to inform you we’ll be disembarking within the hour, your grace. And to tell you the Imperator has sent an envoy to meet you.” The man spoke haltingly, as if trying to find the right words. Stellan was impressed. Although Glaeban clearly wasn’t the sailor’s native tongue, he spoke it very well.
Squinting against the glare of the sunlight on the salt crystals, he looked back toward the city. They were past the rocks guarding the harbour, heading for the bustling port of Ramahn itself. The amphibians were all in the harness now, towing the ship toward the city. Stellan scanned the approaching dock and spied several gilded litters accompanied by a squad of Imperial Guards forming up on the wharf by the empty berth toward which the amphibians were pulling their ship.
“Thank the captain for me,” Stellan told the sailor, addressing him in Glaeban. No need yet to let the Torlenians know he had more than a passing acquaintance with their language. “And tell him we await his pleasure.”
The sailor sketched a quick bow and hurried away.
“Do you suppose it’s really just an escort?” Stellan asked, turning back to lean on the railing. The harbour was crowded and even from here the noise of the busy docks reached them.
“I doubt they’re waiting to arrest us,” Arkady replied. “After all, the Imperator sent his own flagship to meet us.”
“Only because he didn’t want any Royal Glaeban ships in Torlenian waters,” he reminded her. “I’m still wondering if I shouldn’t have insisted we arrive in our own ship.”
They had planned to. It was only when the Glaeban delegation arrived in the Chelae Islands to restock their dwindling freshwater supplies that they discovered the Imperator of Torlenia was refusing to allow the King of Glaeba’s ship into Torlenian waters. He wasn’t refusing his ambassador entry—they were fulsomely assured—just his ship.
The envoy sent to inform them of the Imperator’s decision had waxed lyrical for some time on the treacherous entrance to the Crystal City’s harbour and how no Glaeban seaman, no matter how experienced, could possibly assure the protection of the new ambassador and his lovely wife. Stellan had debated arguing the point. The bone of contention between Torlenia and Glaeba was all about where exactly the line between Glaeban and Torlenian waters lay. The Chelae Islands, which sat squarely in the middle of the disputed line, were the reason the two nations had been at odds for so long, and much of the reason Stellan was here now.
In the end, he decided to acquiesce to the Torlenian ruler’s wishes. It was still unclear how much damage Lord Jorgan had done when he lost his temper with the Imperator and got himself expelled. If there was a chance to smooth things over, better to try it first.
Stellan was a diplomat, after all. Pouring oil on troubled waters was his job.
“You did the right thing,” Arkady assured him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You couldn’t have done anything to fix this mess stranded on Chelae.”
He turned to look at her. “Can I apologise now? In advance? For all the indignities I fear you’ll be forced to suffer while we’re here?”
Her eyes narrowed in annoyance. “If you think it will help.”
“I’ll make it up to you, Arkady.”
“How?”
“Name your price,” he declared. “Whatever your little heart desires, if it’s in my power, I’ll grant it.”
Arkady was silent for a moment and then she turned to look at the approaching city. “What my heart desires is not in your power to grant me, Stellan.”
There was a note of yearning in her voice that surprised him. Although it was more than two months since her ordeal as a hostage of the escaped convict Kyle Lakesh, she clearly hadn’t forgotten him. Stellan wished he could read her expression, but the wretched shroud she wore prevented him from reading anything but her eyes and she kept them determinedly averted to prevent him doing just that.
He forced a smile, hoping to make light of the awkward silence that followed her statement. “Then suppose I promise to look the other way?”
This time she did look at him. And he was fairly certain she was amused. “Look the other way?”
“I’m a very tolerant sort of fellow, you know.”
“You’re a romantic fool, actually,” she corrected. “But I do appreciate the offer, no matter how impractical or unlikely it might be.”
“And I appreciate the fact that you’re standing here with me in that ridiculous outfit, prepared to suffer all manner of inconvenience for the sake of an ungrateful king.”
“We’re both going to suffer all manner of inconvenience for the sake of an ungrateful king,” she pointed out, clearly not pleased to be reminded of the fact that it was Stellan’s offer to help the Crown Prince of Glaeba that had landed them in this mess.
Stellan smiled thinly. “I wonder if that means we’re patriots or fools.”
“The latter, I suspect,” Arkady replied.
Afraid his wife had the right of it, Stellan turned in time to see the amphibians edging their ship into its berth while the human sailors on board threw ropes to the stevedores waiting on the dock to secure the vessel. As it bumped gently against the wharf, the Imperial Guard moved into position to provide an honour guard either side of the gangway. It thumped down onto the dock with a loud crash. A thin man in a long, embroidered red silk coat stepped forward to await their arrival.
“I suspect that’s our cue,” Stellan remarked, offering Arkady his arm.
She said nothing, but took his arm and let him lead her across the deck and down the treacherously bouncy gangway. As they stepped onto the salt-encrusted wharf, the thin man stepped forward and bowed, his left fist clasped in his right hand in the traditional Torlenian greeting gesture.
“Your grace,” the man announced in flawless Glaeban, to Stellan significantly, as if Arkady wasn’t standing right beside him, “welcome to Torlenia.”
Chapter 5
Shalimar led Warlock and Boots out of Lebec City on horse back early one morning. It was a little over a month after the canine Crasii had met with Declan Hawkes for the first time and been invited to join his secret Scard army in Hidden Valley. Warlock still wasn’t sure he believed such an opportunity existed, particularly as further investigation had revealed some interesting information about Hawkes. The alarming news that Declan Hawkes was the King’s Spymaster had only been slightly offset by the news that he was also their friend Shalimar’s grandson.
Warlock had been even more disturbed to discover that while their relationship seemed to be common knowledge in the slums, rumour also had it the two men hadn’t exchanged a civil word in years. Shalimar, according to the gossips, wasn’t at all pleased that his grandson had chosen a life which put him at odds with most of the people he’d grown up with and once thought of as his friends.
Warlock was fairly certain that was not the case, given Shalimar was the one who’d brought them to this ramshackle inn. It was here, on the orders of Declan Hawkes, they were waiting to meet the next—and as yet unknown—person in the unexpected chain of humans who seemed to be a part of this secret underground movement set up to help Lebec’s dispossessed Crasii.
“Stop pacing.”
His tail lashing impatiently, Warlock turned to look at Boots, who was sitting opposite Shalimar at the rough table set under the eaves of Clyden’s Inn. She was finishing off her second bowl of the inn’s surprisingly tasty stew, enjoying the bright summer sunshine. Shalimar sat opposite her, leaning back against the wall, his hat pulled down over his eyes, apparently asleep.
“I can’t help it,” he told her.
“Try,” she suggested. “You’re driving me crazy.”
“I don’t know how you can sit the
re stuffing your face as if there’s nothing going on.”
“You’re too used to knowing where your next meal is coming from, Farm Dog,” she replied through a mouthful of half-chewed meat. “Otherwise you wouldn’t need an explanation.”
“I wish you’d stop calling me Farm Dog.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
Warlock stared at her, trying to recall what he’d seen in this young female that had resulted in their savage mating in the alley outside the Kennel. He’d not been able to get enough of her back then. Deep down, he understood it was instinct. He knew when the heat was on her, there was nothing he or any other male could do to resist it. The Boots he’d come to know since then, however, was prickly, impatient and dismissive of many of the customs and traditions that, for Warlock, defined their very natures as Crasii. The timing of their mating made him wonder about something else, too. Although she showed no signs of being with pup yet, it might be too early to tell. She was certainly eating as if she had more than one belly to fill. Would she still treat him so impatiently if he’d fathered a litter on her?
“Someone’s coming.”
It was Shalimar who spoke, although he hadn’t moved or even raised his head.
“How can you tell?” Boots asked.
The old man sat up stiffly and pushed back his wide-brimmed, woven hat. “I can feel it in the wall.”
As he was speaking, Warlock’s sharp canine hearing picked up the sound of cantering hooves. They slowed before they became audible to less-gifted ears and by the time the newcomers came into sight along the western arm of the narrow crossroads, Boots, Shalimar and Warlock were on their feet and the horse men were approaching at a steady trot.
A few moments later the three human riders reined in and dismounted. The man in the lead was a dark-haired, not unpleasant looking man in his mid-thirties. His cloak was expensive, his riding gloves made of the finest kid, and he wore the kind of arrogant look Warlock had long ago learned to associate with Glaeba’s ruling class.
The Gods of Amyrantha Page 4