Dragon Hunters

by Marc Turner

  Senar’s gaze shifted to the Remnerol shaman. What had Pernay said to Imerle earlier? He plays you for a fool. Somehow Jambar had convinced the emira to spare Senar’s life, but why?

  Rousing himself, the Guardian looked back at Imerle. There was an expectation in her eyes, and Senar knew what she wanted to hear. He had no hesitation in speaking the words, though if his hands hadn’t been on show he would have been crossing his fingers. Or the fingers he had left, that is.

  “My sword is yours, Emira,” he said.

  * * *

  The Chameleon priestess, Karmel, crept a step closer to her target. Elarr stood ten paces away, the back of his shirt emblazoned with a dark butterfly of sweat. Unlike Karmel he was pale-skinned, and as he turned toward her she saw his face was flushed. His eyes seemed to fix on her, but with her power employed Karmel knew she would be invisible to him while she remained still. Sure enough, the initiate’s gaze was already sliding away to the east.

  The priestess scanned the temple courtyard with its carpet of broken glass. Near the eastern edge was a huge sand-glass, its top globe now all but empty of sand. Beyond, in the shade of a colonnade, a small crowd of Karmel’s fellow priests and priestesses had gathered to watch the contest, for unlike a mere initiate such as Elarr they would be able to track her movements as she closed in on her adversary. Imrie was there with her mismatched sandals. Beside her stood Colley, the belt of his robe drawn so tightly round his waist it was a wonder he could breathe. Both were watching the scene intently. The object of the game she was playing was to reach the center of the courtyard and touch her opponent without being spotted, yet most Chameleons never made it that far. The best they could hope for was to go a turn of the glass undetected.

  Before commencing the game Karmel had removed her sandals, and the courtyard’s flagstones burned beneath her feet. The ground would be cooler ahead and to her right in the shadow of Vaulk’s Tower. The priestess had rejected an approach from that direction, though, because if she’d been in Elarr’s shoes she would have expected her hunter to come from there. Time had proved the wisdom of her choice. Since the start of the game Elarr had concentrated his attention on that side of the square, and as he looked that way again Karmel stepped forward, easing her weight onto the ball of her left foot before settling back on the heel. All the while her gaze was on her opponent, not on the ground in front of her. Earlier she’d mapped out a mental path through the glass, but she was still taking a risk in moving without checking for shards. It was a risk she had to take, though, for by keeping Elarr in her sights she gave herself a chance of stopping if he spun round unexpectedly.

  As he had a habit of doing.

  Karmel glanced again at the sand-glass. Judging by the level of the grains she had already exceeded her best time, but that was hardly surprising considering who her opponent was. The gangly youth, Elarr, was flintcat-quick, and he was taking care to ensure his movements never settled into a pattern, that his gaze never rested for long in one place. She’d known what to expect from him, obviously, for she had danced this dance with him once before—a contest six months ago from which she’d emerged victorious, but only after two turns of the glass. Why, then, had she chosen Elarr of all the initiates as an adversary today?

  For the same reason she’d opted to have broken glass scattered on the ground: she needed a challenge. Because if she could defeat an opponent such as Elarr when he knew he was being hunted, how much simpler would it be to bring down an unsuspecting target when she was finally trusted with a mission beyond the temple walls?

  Patches of shadow glided across the courtyard as a flock of limewings passed overhead. To the west the flags of the Ingar countinghouse fluttered in the breeze. Thinking to take advantage of the cover offered by the sound, Karmel raised her right foot to step forward—

  Elarr turned, his sandals scuffing on the flagstones.

  The priestess froze.

  Something had drawn the initiate’s gaze. That something could not have been Karmel, though, for Elarr was looking toward the scriptorium’s archway on her left. For an instant she considered lowering her leg, then rejected the idea in case her opponent spied her in his peripheral vision.

  She waited.

  Footsteps approached from the archway. Elarr’s mouth opened as he recognized the newcomer, and he touched the fingers of both hands to his forehead in a gesture of deference.

  Curious, Karmel followed his gaze—moving her eyes, not her head.

  Then frowned.

  Beneath the western colonnade stood her brother, Caval. The high priest always claimed it was coincidence that brought him to this part of the temple when Karmel was playing the game, but the priestess knew otherwise. He’d been here the last two times she’d tasted defeat, and Karmel suspected he’d had a hand in both failures. It would be easy for him to sabotage her efforts, after all; all he had to do was allow his gaze to linger on her and thus give Elarr a clue as to her whereabouts. If Karmel was going to reach the youth now, before Caval interfered, she would have to take more risks than she’d intended.

  Perhaps that was no bad thing, though. Since her brother had gone out of his way to seek her out, it seemed only fair she entertain him properly.

  A breeze stirred the leaves of a tree in the southwest corner of the courtyard, and their rustle blended with the susurration of the distant sea. Still balanced on one leg, Karmel looked at Elarr. The initiate had dragged his gaze from Caval and was now staring at something behind Karmel. A needlefly buzzed past his face, and he swiped at it with a stick in his right hand—the stick with which he must strike Karmel to bring the game to an end. The priestess worked saliva into her mouth. The muscles of her thighs were beginning to tremble from keeping her leg up, but she wasn’t yet concerned—such twitches would be imperceptible to Elarr so long as they remained minor.

  From beside her right ear another needlefly’s whine sounded. The insect settled like the touch of a feather on her arm. She silently swore as she felt its stinger pierce her skin. The needlefly’s body darkened and puffed out as it drew in her blood. Her flesh round the bite began to blister. The urge to scratch the swelling was strong, but Karmel ignored it. A breath of air tugged at her, and it took all her concentration to keep her balance. Her leg muscles were cramping. She reckoned she had only heartbeats before her strength gave out. Elarr would have to turn away soon, though. The longer he went without seeing her, the more he would worry she was creeping up on him from behind.

  Gritting her teeth, she waited for some sight or sound to snare the youth’s attention. Who knew, maybe Imrie or Colley would do something to distract him. It was against the rules for spectators to interfere, of course—but it wasn’t breaking the rules if you didn’t get caught.

  Her friends, though, seemed to be enjoying her discomfort. Colley in particular was grinning. But then maybe he had every right to, since when he’d played this game last week, Karmel had sprinkled pepper on the ground to make him sneeze. Pranks were common among the younger priests and priestesses at the temple. Indeed, they were expected.

  Not today, though. Not when there was glass on the floor that Karmel could step on.

  Just then the sands of the timer ran out, and two female initiates scampered over to it from the eastern colonnade. As they wrestled the glass end over end, Elarr looked toward them. It was the opportunity Karmel had been waiting for. Lowering her leg, she took two paces forward, praying she hadn’t left sweaty footprints on the flagstones behind.

  The needlefly on her arm took flight. It flitted across Elarr’s field of vision, and he waved his stick at it.

  Karmel was now only half a dozen paces from her opponent but these last few steps would be the most difficult, for the closer she came to Elarr, the greater was the chance of him seeing her when she moved. Some sixth sense must have warned him she was near, because he began thrusting out with his stick in all directions as if he were play-fighting an imaginary foe. Safely beyond range, Karmel considered her next move.
Immediately ahead the ground was blanketed in a covering of glass so thick she could see no way through. If she stepped over it to clearer ground, the initiate would surely hear her foot coming down. If she went round, though, she would have to plot a new path to her opponent. And if she was looking down at the flagstones, she couldn’t also be watching Elarr.

  Fortunately she had a plan. It would mean trusting more to luck than she would have liked, but with Caval standing by to spoil her game, what choice did she have?

  Elarr turned to survey the courtyard again. When his back was to Karmel, she bent down and snatched up a shard of glass from the ground. Her pulse was racing, but her thoughts remained calm. Truth be told, she was starting to enjoy herself. The thrill of the hunt was back: the buzz that came from feeling the gazes of the watchers—Caval included—upon her, from seeing her opponent’s frustration as she crept closer.

  Karmel rose and advanced, her right foot touching down in the space the shard of glass had occupied.

  So far, so good.

  Now, though, she would need a touch of the Lady’s fortune, for there was no way of knowing how Elarr would react to what she planned to do. On the previous occasion she’d hunted the youth, she’d duped him into turning away at the critical moment by throwing a fragment of glass onto the flagstones behind him. When he’d spun toward the sound—thinking, no doubt, that Karmel had inadvertently disturbed the carpet of glass—the priestess had sprung forward to touch him on the back.

  If it worked last time …

  Karmel tossed the shard of glass onto the ground. It made a tinkling noise.

  Elarr smiled. He must have remembered the ruse she’d played in their last encounter, for he turned not toward the sound but away from it, plainly expecting a repeat of the priestess’s deception.

  As Karmel had hoped he would.

  For she had thrown the shard not beyond the initiate, but merely a pace ahead and to one side of her. Elarr, by turning away from the noise, had put his back to the priestess, and two quick steps now brought her behind him. She rested a hand on his left shoulder.

  “Better luck next time,” she said.

  Elarr groaned, his head dropping.

  The sound of crunching glass marked Caval’s approach, and Elarr bowed to the high priest before scurrying away. Karmel searched her brother’s gaze for some hint of approval at what he’d seen, but there was nothing. There had been a time when they were able to share in each other’s successes; now Caval seemed to treat her victories as if they’d come at his expense. His beard was freshly oiled, and his shoulder-length hair was held back from his eyes by a silver band. He halted before Karmel.

  “Impressive,” he said, though his tone gave the lie to his words. He stroked his crooked nose. “I think there must be something wrong with your sand-glass, though. I noticed the initiates turning it earlier. Surely it hasn’t taken you half a bell to finish the game.”

  “The only problem with the sand-glass is that I haven’t fixed it so the grains run more slowly.”

  “Still obsessed with beating my time?”

  “You mean once wasn’t enough?”

  “Ah, you are referring to your efforts last month against that girl—Silina, wasn’t it? I had understood the point of the game was to touch your opponent before she touches you, not at the same time.”

  “Silina got lucky. Luck-y.”

  “Either that or she heard you approach.”

  “She couldn’t have done, because I made no sound. She must have heard something else and thought it was me.”

  “I can see why you would want to believe that,” Caval said, smiling his gap-toothed smile.

  Karmel scratched at her needlefly bite. There was something unconvincing about that smile, just as there had been something unconvincing about the whole exchange. It was as if the high priest’s jousting had been done for her benefit—as if he’d merely been going through the motions. The old banter between them didn’t feel the same anymore. Too often there was an edge to their words that could cut.

  At the edge of the eastern colonnade hovered two initiates with brooms ready to sweep the glass from the courtyard. A further two acolytes were carrying the sand-glass toward the scriptorium with stilted steps.

  “Walk with me,” Caval said to Karmel, setting off for an archway on the far side of the square.

  The priestess bridled at the note of command in his voice but followed him all the same. She had left her sandals next to a pool of water by the arch Caval was heading for, and she paused to wash her feet before slipping on her shoes. Imrie and Colley waited to her right. Karmel nodded to them, but there was no time to talk. Her brother had gone on ahead, and she hurried through the arch to catch up to him.

  A chill hung about the temple’s passages. Karmel’s sweat cooled against her skin. In front Caval passed the doorway to the Quillery, acknowledging with a raised hand a greeting from within. His footsteps echoed along the corridor, one moment as loud as if he were walking beside Karmel, the next so soft he might have been at the other end of the temple. The sorcery invested in the shrine’s walls was responsible, the priestess knew—it could play such tricks on the senses. Even now the walls rippled as Caval strode by, briefly taking on the hue of his black robe before fading once more to white.

  Karmel drew alongside her brother. “Did you know Mother is in Olaire?” she said.

  Their mother had always been a distant figure in their childhood—emotionally as well as geographically. Too often she’d abandoned them to their father’s care while she disappeared on some mission or other. Recently she’d tried to ingratiate herself into their lives, but neither Karmel nor Caval had let her. It was easy to play mother now that her children had earned independence from their father. Parenthood wasn’t supposed to be easy, though. And Karmel wouldn’t forgive her mother for being absent through the difficult times.

  “I know now,” Caval replied.

  “I would have thought as high priest—”

  “Ah, Anla reports to the emira now, not me. Imerle has been keeping her busy in the east, spying on the new pasha of Hunte.”

  At the end of the corridor they entered a courtyard and followed its colonnade round to the left. At the center of the square a mithreni initiation ceremony was under way, and a statue of the Chameleon throbbed in and out of focus as six priests circled it with outstretched hands. The slap of Karmel’s sandals drew a scowl from the bearded mithren leading the ritual. Karmel gave him a wave.

  “She asked if she could see you,” she said to Caval as they reached the next passage.

  “The emira?”

  “No. Mother.”

  “Maybe she wants to remind herself what I look like.”

  Karmel smiled sweetly. “Or maybe she has a message for you from Father.”

  They had arrived at Caval’s quarters. He pushed open the door.

  “Well?” Karmel said. “What shall I tell her?”

  “Tell her I have not forgotten.”

  She pretended ignorance. “Forgotten what?”

  A coldness entered her brother’s eyes, and Karmel wondered if she’d pushed him too far. That was always her problem: not knowing when to stop. But then when Caval’s moods slipped as quickly as they did, it could be hard sometimes to tread the line between teasing and taunting. Sometimes that line could shift midsentence. Karmel tried to think of some quip that would take the sting out of her words, but Caval had already walked into his quarters.

  Karmel trailed him inside.

  She felt a familiar knot in her stomach as she stepped over the threshold. These chambers had belonged to their father, Pennick, until Caval deposed him as high priest in a bloodless coup last year. Since then Caval had tried to erase all marks of his predecessor. Gone were the grim-faced images of the Chameleon glaring down from the walls; the gnarled fellwood furniture; the stale odor of sweat and old blood. In their place were white-plastered walls adorned with Elescorian tapestries; bookcases filled with books on philosophy, h
istory, and mercantile law; and covering the floor was a mosaic showing the Dragon Gate rising over the Sabian Sea. Yet even though Caval had been high priest for more than a year, the room seemed to Karmel to have an … impermanence to it. As if behind the plaster on the walls, the cold gray stone of Pennick’s time was just waiting to be exposed once more.

  For all her brother’s changes, the room’s most striking feature remained its transparent, west-facing wall, pulsing with sorcery. That sorcery meant that while Caval’s chambers appeared from this side to be open to the elements, anyone outside staring back at the building would see only a blank wall. Karmel looked down on Olaire’s black-tiled roofs. Years ago the Chameleon Temple had stood alone on the flank of Kalin’s Hill, but with the sea having risen to flood the low-lying districts of the city, a tide of humanity had swept up the slope to surround the shrine. Dominating the skyline to the northwest was the Founder’s Citadel, while farther south and east were the guildhouses, the mercantile courts, and the embassies of the Commercial District. One of the embassies was hosting a reception, and a dozen figures were gathered on a second-floor balcony. Some of those people seemed to be looking back at Karmel, but there was no way they would be able to see her.

  The high priest had seated himself behind his desk, and Karmel sat down opposite him. He gazed down on Olaire as if he’d forgotten she was there, but then doubtless he liked having her wait on him. He rubbed his left shoulder—the shoulder that had never healed properly even after all these years—and Karmel’s face twisted as she saw again the blow that had broken his collarbone, heard her father’s voice gasping the Chameleon’s name over and over in time to the rising and falling of his cane …

  Caval’s gaze focused on her. “I have a task for you,” he said. “One uniquely suited to your talents.”

  Karmel blinked. “Flattery, Caval? You must need my help very badly indeed.”

  “You are familiar with Piput Da Marka, the governor of Dian?”

  “I know the name.”

  “Ah, then you must be aware of the trouble he’s been stirring up for the emira recently.”