by Marc Turner
Beside the kalischa, Trita Warner Sturge shifted on the bench. Moonlight reflected off his pate through his thinning black hair. Beside him sat the young water-mage Balen, dressed in the same black shirt and trousers as Warner. Doubtless Balen could have used sorcery to propel the boat more swiftly than Enix’s pole, but Agenta had told him to keep his powder dry in the hope he’d be mistaken for just another bodyguard. The remaining members of her entourage, Iqral and Jayle, occupied the bow of the boat. Iqral, a Kalanese, was testing the point of a shortspear against a finger, while Jayle, a follower of the Lord of Hidden Faces, sat stroking the wooden mask that concealed her face.
Just three soldiers and a water-mage, then, to protect Agenta if tonight’s meeting went to the Abyss. Her father had sent a dozen other soldiers dressed as civilians to trail her at a distance, but what chance would they have of tracking her through this watery rats’ maze? And even if they did follow her to her destination, what difference would twelve more swords make when there could be an army of foes hidden on the rooftops? Even now Agenta saw two shadowy figures materialize on the roof of a building ahead, only to retreat at a whistle from Enix. No, she was on her own out here, but how was that different from any other time?
She checked the straps holding in place the throwing stars at her wrists, then looked at the boatman. Thin as the pole he was holding, he steered the boat deftly in spite of the hook where his left hand should have been. His bare forearms were crisscrossed with scars.
When the kalischa spoke, her voice sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness. “Those scars on your arms, what do they signify?”
“Saberfin hunter,” he replied. “Blood draws the fish.”
Warner said, “You will address her as my Lady.”
Agenta shot him a look. If Enix was in the pay of the man—Sticks—that she was going to meet, the revelation that she was noble-born would not sit well with her cover as a trader in stolen duskstones.
Enix continued as if Warner had not spoken. “Of course, not all saberfin hunters use their own blood to attract their prey, if you takes my meaning.”
The kalischa remembered the severed arm in the net. “And if the blood draws the sharks, too?”
“How do you think I got me this?” Enix said, grinning as he held up his hook. Then his gaze flickered to something farther along the alley. “Best keep your voice down now, my Lady. Folks round here can get a bit jumpy like, if you takes my meaning.”
The street opened out, and Agenta saw a building rising from an expanse of rippling water, like a fortress at the center of a lake. The perfect hideout. No chance of anyone creeping up on its occupants unnoticed, and there was easy access to the open sea if a quick getaway was required. The windows on this side were boarded up, but light spilled into the night along its south-facing aspect. At first Agenta thought the houses surrounding it had been demolished, but when she looked over the gunwale, she saw the apex of a roof a finger’s width beneath the surface. A man carrying a crossbow came striding along that apex, appearing at first glance to be walking on water. Another whistle from Enix stopped him in his tracks, but his crossbow remained trained on the boat as it glided past.
The sea was choppier here than it had been in the flooded alleys, and between two partly submerged houses to the south Agenta caught a glimpse of foaming waves. Enix poled the boat to the building at the center of the lake and brought it to a stop beside double wooden doors. He rapped on the doors, and they opened outward to emit wisps of smoke and a burst of laughter. Warner stepped up and into the building, followed by Jayle, Iqral, and Balen. As Agenta made to climb from the boat, the water-mage offered her a hand. His palm was moist, and the kalischa saw his unease written plain in the pallor of his face. She flashed him a smile, reminding herself her brother would not have been cowed by what awaited him inside.
“You’ll wait for us here?” she said to Enix.
The boatman inclined his head.
As the doors closed, Agenta turned to examine the interior of the building. The inner walls had been knocked down to create a vast open space that was filled with a haze of smoke so thick the far side of the room could not be seen. Many of the marble floor tiles were cracked or missing. Through the gaps in the floorboards below, the kalischa could make out lapping water. To her left, in front of the flue of an immense chimney, was a bar. Tables were scattered about the room, and at them sat a ragged crowd of patrons. On each table was a lantern that gave off a pool of murky light.
From within the smoke at the far end of the room came the sound of breaking glass, then a shout and the thud of a body hitting the floor. The bar’s patrons paid no more attention to the fracas than they had to the arrival of Agenta and her companions. And if they weren’t interested, neither was the kalischa. Warner strode to the bar and spoke to a woman behind it. She responded to his question by pointing to a man sitting at a table in the corner—Sticks, Agenta presumed. Agenta crossed to join him, waving Warner away as he made to follow.
Sticks studied her as she approached. A few years older than the kalischa, he had short-cropped hair and a scar on his left cheek that ran from his mouth to his ear. On the table in front of him was a glass of what smelled like juripa spirits. He gestured to a chair, and Agenta sat down before looking over her shoulder to check on her companions. They had seated themselves at one of two tables nearby. The other table was occupied by a pair of grim-faced men who returned the kalischa’s gaze.
Agenta looked back at the scarred man. “Sticks?”
“And you’re Meliani Inessa,” he said, using the false name Lydanto had given when he’d arranged the meeting.
She nodded.
Sticks glanced at the bar. “You not drinking?”
“I’m here for the duskstones.”
No response.
“Can you deal?”
“Slow down. First we get to know each other a bit better.” He sipped his drink. “I’ve been doing some asking round. Seems no one in the Jewelry Quarter ever heard of a Meliani Inessa.”
“And Sticks is your real name, is it?”
“Whether it’s the name your ma gave you or not, a face as pretty as yours ain’t easily forgotten.”
After tonight it certainly wouldn’t be, but hopefully Agenta’s business in Olaire would soon be concluded and she’d be on her way back to Gilgamar. “I’m not from these parts. I come from Bethin.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
“My employer has extensive interests across the Sabian League.”
Sticks’s eyes narrowed. “Your employer?”
“Did you think that he would come himself?”
A heavy tread sounded to Agenta’s right, and she looked across to see a man in a string vest emerge from the smoke covering the eastern part of the room. Over one shoulder he carried an unconscious woman. Reaching the doors, he threw them open and tossed his burden outside. Agenta heard a splash as the woman hit the water. Then the doors were closed once more. But not before the kalischa had noticed Enix’s boat was gone. Most likely he’d parked the craft a short distance away to await Agenta’s summons, yet still the kalischa found her heart beating a little faster.
When she turned back to Sticks, he was rolling his glass of spirits between his hands. “You don’t look like someone from Bethin,” he said. “Your skin ain’t dark enough. And your accent—”
“Have you ever been to Bethin?” Agenta cut in. Truth was, she’d only been once herself. She could only hope that was one time more than her host.
“Aye, tipped my hat at the Sender’s Temple on King Street.” When Sticks grinned, his scar stretched his smile to his left ear. “Even sampled the wares of one of your flesh pits in the Temple District.”
Agenta pretended irritation. “There is no Sender’s Temple in Bethin. And the flesh pits are in the Speaker’s District, not the Temple District.” Whether any of that was true she had no idea. She suspected, though, that Sticks didn’t either, and that he’d merely fed her some n
ames to see if she’d agree with him and thus blow her cover. “Now, if you’re finished, you never answered my question. Can you deal?”
Sticks leaned back against the wall. From the roof overhead came footfalls, but the scarred man ignored them. He tapped the side of his glass. “I can deal.”
“Have you got one of the stones?” the kalischa said. Keep pushing, pushing, keep the conversation on her terms.
“First show me the color of your gold.”
Agenta took from a pocket a folded sheet of parchment and passed it to him.
Sticks opened it. “What the hell is this?”
“A letter of credit.”
“I can bloody see that.” He tossed the parchment onto the table. “You expect me to hand over the stones in return for a Shroud-cursed scrap of paper?”
“No. But I expect you to accept it as proof that I am good for the sum of fifty thousand imperial sovereigns.” When Sticks stayed silent she added, “Did you think I was going to bring the money here with me? With those duskstones weighing me down I’d have made it, what, a dozen steps from this table before suffering some unfortunate accident?”
The scarred man took another sip of spirits. Smoke from the lantern was stinging Agenta’s eyes, but she dared not close them in case Sticks took it as a sign she was hiding something. Finally he grunted, then produced a duskstone from a pocket and put it on the table. The kalischa took out a white cloth and a loupe. Placing the jewel on the cloth, she examined it through the loupe. Even by the flickering light of the lantern, she could see both the cut and clarity were superb, with a single pinpoint inclusion in one of its pavilion facets.
“How many do you have?” she asked.
“Enough for your fifty thousand imperial sovereigns.”
“How much per stone?”
“Fifty.”
“Thirty.”
Sticks’s sour expression almost brought a smile to Agenta’s face. “You’ll get five times that in Bethin.”
“And yet it’s nearly double what you’re selling them for in Olaire. You flooded the market, drove the price into the gutter. And if after three weeks you’ve still got enough stones for fifty thousand sovereigns, that tells me you’re having trouble shifting them.”
“For thirty I might as well take the damned things to Bethin myself.”
“Then why don’t you?”
No reply.
The door behind and to Agenta’s left opened again, and this time when she looked across she saw four women stepping down into a boat outside. They had fish-spine swords strapped to their backs, and each wore a tattered ballroom gown and heavy black boots. A strange combination, the gowns and the boots, but then in the Deeps a night on the tiles doubtless meant getting your feet wet.
Still there was no sign of Enix.
When the kalischa looked back at Sticks, something in his expression had changed. It occurred to her suddenly she might have made a mistake. And if after three weeks you’ve still got enough stones, she’d said. Three weeks ago was when the Gadfly went missing, so Sticks would now know that she knew where the jewels came from. And yet that didn’t mean the ship was hers, did it? It just meant she’d done her homework.
The silence dragged out. Stick’s gaze bored into Agenta, but the kalischa wouldn’t be the one to blink first. She drummed her fingers on the table.
The scarred man looked at her hand. Then he snatched up the duskstone and pushed himself to his feet. “Wait here.”
Agenta felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach. “You said that you could deal!”
“You want to speak to my boss, you got to get through me first.” With that, he strode over to talk to the two grim-faced men at the nearby table before making his way toward the far end of the room.
Agenta watched him vanish into the smoke. Things were not proceeding as they might. Sticks’s hasty withdrawal told her that he had suspicions, but then the kalischa had suspicions of her own. There was something about the man that didn’t fit. Few pirates, she suspected, would know what a letter of credit was, never mind be able to read one. And why had he put up so little resistance over the price? She’d expected him to feign outrage at her offer of thirty. To wheedle and to bluster and to threaten until a figure somewhere between their opening bids was agreed on. Instead, he’d scarcely seemed interested. But perhaps he was just leaving the real negotiations to his superior.
Agenta wished she could believe that.
Did she have any choice but to wait until he came back, though? If she walked out now there would be no second meeting, and then how would she find out who had hijacked the Gadfly? Moreover, running brought its own risks. Who was to say she wouldn’t get a crossbow bolt in her back the instant she left the building? Or while she was returning to dry land through the flooded avenues?
Her thoughts were interrupted by footfalls. Warner strode toward her. “We’re leaving!” he said.
Agenta frowned at his tone.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said we’re leaving.”
She glanced at Sticks’s friends at the next table to find them watching her in turn. “Calm down,” she said to Warner. “You’re drawing attention to us.”
“So what if I am?” Warner replied. But he’d lowered his voice all the same. “This whole thing stinks! That Sticks is a Shroud-cursed soldier. I knew it the moment I set eyes on him. Hells, the man’s boots are shinier than mine! As for his two sidekicks, it was all they could do to stop themselves saluting when he came over. And if I recognized Sticks, odds are he knows what I am too.”
Agenta regarded the trita dubiously. Lots of bodyguards would have once been soldiers, so there was no reason to assume Agenta’s cover was blown on that score alone. And even if Warner’s suspicions about Sticks were correct, that didn’t mean this was a setup. Agenta had suspected all along that one of the Storm Lords was behind the Gadfly’s disappearance, so it made sense that Sticks was a soldier and not a pirate.
Then again …
She scanned the common room. Of the patrons she’d seen when she arrived, half had now melted away, and none of the ones that remained were sitting close to Agenta’s table. As if they were expecting trouble. Was she reading something into nothing? Perhaps, but she was minded to trust her instincts on this, and her instincts were telling her it was time to leave.
She looked at Warner. “Go back to the others—”
“The Abyss, I will!” he cut in, seizing her arm. “If anything happens to you, I’m the one who gets it in the neck!”
Agenta added a touch of steel to her voice. “Take your hand off me.”
For a heartbeat Warner’s fingers continued to dig into her arm. Then he released her.
“Go back to the others,” she repeated. “Tell Balen to prepare a diversion in case we need it. The next time someone goes through those doors”—her eyes darted to the right—“I want you ready to move.”
CHAPTER 6
KARMEL STARED at the Dragon Gate in the distance. With its crisscrossing bars it reminded her of a castle’s portcullis, yet unlike a portcullis it was made up of two parts, the lower of which could be raised to allow ships to pass underneath. Atop the upper part were crenellated battlements, and at the center of those fortifications was a sea dragon’s skull. Fires had been lit in its eyes and mouth. A gust of wind tugged at the flames, and it appeared to Karmel as if the head were breathing fire.
Through the bars of the gate she could see nothing of the dragons lurking in the waters of the Cappel Strait, but she could hear their trumpeting like the blare of a thousand century horns. As the noise briefly died away, a vast shadow reared out of the gloom beyond the portcullis. Karmel heard a clank as the dragon pushed its head against the gate and set it rattling. That clank was followed by a deep lingering clunk as the beast butted the portcullis in earnest, and the priestess imagined the structure toppling into the sea to leave nothing but darkness between her and the creature. Her mind went back to her training at the temple. What advice would her we
aponsmaster, Foss, have given about fighting a dragon? she wondered.
Don’t, most likely.
The sound of laughter brought her back to her senses. The torchlit cliff terraces below Dian and Natilly were crammed with revelers. Their celebrations would go on through the night, Veran had told Karmel, yet the real festivities started at dawn when prisoners from around the Sabian League would be thrown into the sea beyond the gate for the dragons to feast on. Tradition had it that any captive who made it back to shore received a pardon, but in Karmel’s lifetime not a single soul had swum to safety. Indeed, the only person said to have survived the ordeal was a Corinian Storm Lord who, centuries ago, had been accused of plotting to seize power from the then emir. Accounts of the time reported that the Corinian had confounded the dragons by using water-magic to fill the sea with bubbles before escaping south to a kingdom across the oceans. There he had raised an armada of devilships and returned to bring fire and blood to the Storm Isles.
Perhaps that was why the only Storm Lord to be cast to the dragons since—an Untarian archmage from the turn of the century—had been sent on his way blinded and chained. With weights tied to his ankles. And drugged to the eyeballs on oscura.
The guild ship Karmel had seen this morning was anchored at the mouth of the Cappel Strait. Dian had no harbor, perched on a cliff as it was, and so anyone traveling to the city had to go west to Gilgamar before completing their voyage overland—except the privileged few, for whom access to Dian could be gained by way of a huge basket lowered from a guardroom in the bowels of the citadel. If Veran had come here hoping to see the thing in operation, though, he was going to be disappointed, for judging by the stillness of the guild ship its passengers had long since made the journey up to the city.