by Marc Turner
Swearing, she tried to lift her head. Warner held her down. She shouted at him to release her, but her words were lost beneath the sound of the keel scraping against stone. The bow began to rise. In veering left to evade the fireball, Balen must have taken the boat across the submerged roofs, and the craft now rode up the pitch of one before lifting into the air.
A moment of weightlessness, then the boat hit the water, rebounded, and came down again.
Warner came down with it, slamming Agenta’s head into the boards once more, and crushing the air from her lungs. She tried to take a breath, only to get a mouthful of the trita’s sleeve. For all she knew she might have been about to get smothered, but all she could think of was how this fumbling and grunting reminded her of the last time she’d had a man on top of her, and she found herself fighting down laughter again. A loud crack sounded as the bow ricocheted off the wall of a building. The impact made her bite her tongue. Over the ringing in her ears she heard muffled shouts that fell quickly behind, followed by a deep-throated rumble. At first she thought the house struck by the fireball had collapsed.
Then the rumble grew louder. The boat shuddered as if a clap of thunder had broken beneath its bows.
Earthquake, Agenta realized. And yet she was in no danger, she knew, for judging by the rhythmic pounding of waves against the hull, the boat must now have reached the open seas. No buildings out here to fall on her, or for crossbowmen to perch on. Which meant no reason for Warner to still be lying on her. Twisting round, she pushed at his chest, only for one of his arms to come down across her throat.
“Get off me!” she screamed.
The trita raised his body, and she wriggled free.
Sitting up in the bow, Agenta shot him a look. Warner’s attention, though, was elsewhere. She followed his gaze north to see the Deeps receding off the stern. A ribbon of foam marked the path the boat had taken. The house struck by the fireball burned fiercely, staining the night sky orange. The earth tremors had subsided, but the damage to the building had evidently already been done, for with a groan its east-facing wall fell into ruin. Then the rest of the structure crumbled into the sea.
A short distance to the west, a huddle of figures stood watching the Gilgamarians’ retreat from a rooftop. No one was making any effort to pursue them, so Agenta looked at Balen and said, “I think we’ve come far enough, don’t you?”
Huddled amidships, Balen gave her a sheepish smile.
The boat settled onto the rocking sea as the wave of water-magic beneath it dispersed.
There was blood in Agenta’s eyes, and she leaned over the gunwale and cupped water into her hands before washing her face. To her right Warner tore his left sleeve from his shirt. Only now did the kalischa notice a gash to his arm where a crossbow bolt must have grazed it. Served him right for getting in the way of a missile meant for her. Behind him, meanwhile—
Agenta started. Slumped against the oar-bench was Jayle, her shirt torn and bloody round a quarrel protruding from her chest. Beside her sat Iqral, holding her hand and speaking softly in her ear. Her head lolled against his shoulder. He reached down to pull out the quarrel, but the pressure drew a sob from the masked woman and he withdrew his hand.
Agenta looked away, uninterested. The guard meant nothing to her. She’d always made a point of keeping her distance from her father’s troops, not because she considered their company unworthy, but because soldiers had a habit of dying. And the kalischa knew better than to fill her life with people who were more likely even than most to be snatched away at any moment.
Each of Jayle’s breaths came shallower than the last until a death rattle sounded in her throat. From the corner of Agenta’s eye, she saw Iqral release the woman’s hand and reach out to lift her mask. He studied her face before shaking his head and turning away.
“Now I know why she wore the damned mask,” he said.
* * *
Kempis drew in a rasping breath.
Bright Eyes had not stayed long on the rooftops before descending again to street level. Sniffer had directed Kempis to where the woman had come down, but with no time to wait for the Untarian to rejoin him he’d been forced to continue the pursuit alone. He’d briefly gained company in the form of two other Watchmen who’d crossed his path, but both they and Bright Eyes had swiftly outdistanced him and disappeared from sight. For a time Kempis was able to follow them by the sound of their footfalls or the occasional shout. When the noises faded, though, the septia drew up gasping, doubled over a pain in his gut so sharp it felt like he’d been punched.
He looked round to get his bearings. A dozen paces away was the junction of the Catway and Fletcher Street. The Watchstation was a mere stone’s throw to the east, and the Forge Barracks a similar distance to the west. Why had the assassin come this way? It was possible she was running blind, going downhill simply because it was easier on the legs, but Kempis doubted it. Indeed the longer the chase had gone on, the more he’d become convinced he knew where his quarry was heading: the alley in the Shallows where the septia had interviewed Colm Spicer two days ago. But why?
Kempis pushed the thought aside. All that mattered now was getting to the passage ahead of Bright Eyes. If he was right about the woman’s destination she was following a tortuous route, but then a stranger to Olaire wouldn’t know the quickest path. With the aid of a few shortcuts Kempis might cut her off. And if his hunch proved to be wrong …
He shrugged. What did he have to lose?
He stumbled south.
His nose was running faster than his legs, but he found an extra burst of speed as he skirted the Untarian ghettos—a Watchman never walked through this part of the city. In Abbot Street he was forced to clamber over the rubble of a collapsed building. The destruction wrought by the quake here was worse than it had been in the Commercial District, but the houses in this area were so ramshackle you could bring them down with a shove. Kempis had done it enough times to know.
The strengthening stench of excrement told him the Shallows were getting close. His stomach lurched as he caught the sound of lapping waves. Then above that came a crackling whoosh of flames as the skyline ahead and to his right flashed crimson. Elemental magic. A fire-mage, and a powerful one to have unleashed such a blast after the sun had set. The explosion had come from the Deeps. Was it a coincidence a fire-mage should be abroad at the same time as Bright Eyes?
Kempis hoped so.
He swerved into Seaford Lane. In front he saw the right turn that would bring him to his destination.
Approaching at a dead run from the opposite direction was a shadowy figure chased by two Watchmen. Bright Eyes. The dash across the city hadn’t slowed her at all. She reached the alley before Kempis and vanished along it.
The septia swore and followed her in.
The brothel was ahead and to his left, the sea a shimmer beyond. Bright Eyes had covered half the distance to it already, but her way was blocked. In front of her were three figures, all turned the other way: a Drifter and the two Watchmen who had been assigned to hold his hand tonight.
She was trapped.
Kempis yelled a warning to his colleagues, and the men spun round.
The first to react was a bearded spearman named Joren. Sizing up the danger, he set his feet and lowered his spear as if he expected Bright Eyes to run obligingly onto its point. The second Watchman, Clapp, grabbed the hilt of his sword, only for his helmet to slip over his eyes. Between them, the Drifter dropped to his knees, gibbering.
The assassin ran at Joren. She feinted to go one way, then flowed round his spear tip on the other side. Silver flashed in her hand, and the Watchman gave a gurgling cough, clutching at his throat as blood bubbled between his fingers. He fell to the ground, his spear jarring free of his grasp. Clapp was still trying to draw his sword as Bright Eyes sprinted past. She didn’t slow when she reached the sea. Her feet kicked up spray as she ran a handful of paces before leaping into deeper water. Bottles clinked around her.
Rea
ching Joren’s side, Kempis sheathed his sword and scooped up the dying man’s spear. But as the septia pulled back his right arm to let fly, the Drifter bolted in front of him, and he was forced to check his throw.
“Out of the way!”
Bright Eyes was in water up to her waist. She turned to look back at Kempis just as he hurled his spear. The weapon flew true, straight for the woman’s chest. A surprise, that, but a welcome one.
There was a flash of teeth from within the assassin’s cowl. Then for a stomach-churning heartbeat the flooded alleys and dilapidated buildings of the Shallows were overlain by an image of heaving waves that stretched into the darkness.
The assassin vanished, and with her the shadowy vista of the sea.
Kempis’s spear passed through the air where she had stood moments earlier, skipped off the water, then splashed down and sank beneath the waves.
* * *
“About bloody time,” Thane said in response to the news that Gensu was on his way. “Finally we can bring this farce to an end.”
The faintest of tremors passed through the floor beneath Senar’s feet. It was followed by a distant growl like retreating thunder. None of the Storm Lords seemed to notice it, though. A change had come over the throne room. The mood of strained solidarity that had prevailed while Gensu was missing had fled, and the looks now being cast about the chamber were laced with suspicion and rancor. The Storm Lords were readying themselves for the battle of wills to come.
Predictably it was Mazana who fired the first salvo. To Thane she said, “While we’re waiting for our wily colleague Gensu to arrive, perhaps you would care to explain what the two of you discussed when you visited him on Airey five days ago.”
Thane stared at her.
“You forget, my island is next to his. I make it my business to know what ships pass through my waters.”
Thane shrugged. “We were discussing piracy.”
“How very candid of you.”
“Not ours!” he snapped. “Two weeks ago Gensu spoke with the Master of Courts, and what he discovered troubled him enough for him to call for me. I think we all knew about the rise in piracy over recent months, but the scale of the problem is much greater than I thought. The number of claims against the Storm Council for lost ships has increased tenfold since midsummer.”
“I fail to see—” Pernay began.
“I’m not finished! While most of these claims are mired in legal technicalities, some have been settled with unseemly haste. One in particular caught Gensu’s eye—a payment of two hundred thousand imperial sovereigns for a galley, the Swift, carrying Androsian silks that went down in a storm off Rastamira.” Thane’s voice was rising. “The Swift flew the Mercerien flag, yet she does not feature on Mercerie’s shipping register, nor has the Shroud-cursed merchant who owned her ever signed the Charter of Warrants! None of this, I’m told, will come as news to our chief minister.”
The emira was looking at Senar. Doubtless she didn’t want him watching the Storm Lords bicker. He thought she would dismiss him, but instead she said to Thane, “We are not clear what you’re suggesting.”
“I’m suggesting information about these claims has been withheld from us. That money is being siphoned from the treasury.”
“Quite an accusation,” Pernay shrilled. “You have proof, of course.”
Thane rounded on him. “I’m not talking to you! If I have my way, you’ll be out on your ear before this night is done!” He cast a look at Mazana. “If Mazana has stopped playing games, that is.”
Imerle sounded uninterested. “And that’s all there is to these summonses? Surely this could have waited until the next Council session.”
Cauroy said, “So it was Thane who sent the summonses?” He flashed a triumphant smile at Senar. “I knew it! Didn’t I say—”
“The summonses aren’t mine,” Thane interrupted. “Nor do I think Gensu is behind them. He didn’t mention them when we last spoke.”
“Then perhaps,” the emira said, “Gensu is playing you as much as he is the rest of us.”
The silence that followed was broken by footfalls approaching from the underwater passage. The newcomer was a young woman wearing a servant’s livery. As all eyes fell on her, she stumbled to a halt, then moved forward again at Imerle’s impatient gesture. She knelt at the emira’s feet. Such was her fear that her eyes misted with tears, and her words came out in a tumble. Senar heard only the occasional snatch: “… when Orsan arrived … with all haste … found the ship…”
Imerle’s already ashen face had become corpse-pale. The flames in her eyes flared brighter until they eclipsed the glow from the braziers. When the servant finished speaking, the emira barked a question. The girl shook her head, eyes downcast. Imerle waved her away, and she fled the room as if the executioner were snapping at her heels.
The emira and Pernay exchanged a look, and Senar caught something in Imerle’s gaze that had him holding his breath.
This time the chief minister did not keep the other Storm Lords waiting. He stood to address the room.
“My Lords,” he said, his voice grave, “another message has arrived from the harbormaster. It seems that while the ship coming in to dock flies Gensu’s flag, Gensu himself is not on board, but rather his son, Polin.” He paused, then went on, “Gensu is dead. His ship was ambushed off Airey two days ago.”
PART II
A STORM IS COMING
CHAPTER 7
THE SUN was strong against Karmel’s face as she looked down on the Cappel Strait. Far below, dragons writhed and snapped in a melee of silver and steel and copper that churned the sea into a spitting cauldron and sent waves crashing against the Dianese and Natillian cliffs. Beneath the froth, huge scaled forms slithered through the water, intertwined like the knotted coils of some immense sea snake. A tail struck the Dianese cliff a blow that Karmel felt through the soles of her sandals. Stones were dislodged from the rock face and went raining down to clang off the dragons’ scales like arrows off plate armor.
Into the Natillian cliffs across from her had been carved dozens of terraces which, along with the stairwells connecting them, were as crammed with people as the Dianese gallery on which Karmel stood—so crammed, in fact, that the priestess had to wait for those around her to breathe in before she could do likewise. The air thrummed with anticipation. Someone’s elbow was jutting into Karmel’s back, but she didn’t have space to turn round and complain. To her right an Untarian man with the rasping voice of a blackweed smoker shouted a bawdy greeting to a woman on the Natillian side. If the recipient of that greeting responded in kind, her reply was lost beneath the cacophony of jeers and insults being traded across the strait.
Just then the eighth bell sounded, and a hush settled on the assembled multitudes. Karmel shifted her gaze to the lowest of the Natillian terraces. From beneath a canopy of golden cloth emerged the city’s governor, resplendent in a yellow robe. At arm’s length he held a silver goblet as if it were a wither snake. The cup contained dragon blood, Karmel knew, drained from the corpse of the creature slaughtered in last year’s Hunt. Over the past few weeks drops of that blood had been sprinkled into the sea to draw the dragons here from their haunts in the Southern Wastes. Now, as the Natillian governor stepped to the rail and emptied the contents of the goblet into the water, the creatures flew into a frenzy of claws and teeth that momentarily stilled the watching crowds.
A steel-colored beast started ramming its head over and over into the Dragon Gate, while another creature, copper-scaled, swam to the cliff beneath the governor’s terrace and sank its talons into the rock before pulling its front quarters from the waves. Panicked cries sounded as a handful of dignitaries scrambled for the stairs leading up to the next gallery. The forerunners had made it no farther than the first step, though, before the stone beneath the dragon’s feet crumbled. The beast tumbled back into the sea with a crash that sent water fountaining into the air.
The Natillian governor had been among those flee
ing, but he now recovered his poise and sidled back to the rail. Karmel saw his lips move but could not hear his words over the trumpeting of the dragons. He clapped twice. A century horn blared from one of the Natillian terraces. Then another horn sounded—from Karmel’s right this time—and another, and another, until the priestess’s head rattled with their call. A roar went up from the crowds. Karmel was standing at the front of her terrace, and as the people behind her surged forward she was squashed against the rail at its edge. She struggled to draw breath. As the pressure grew, she wondered what she should fear most: that she would be crushed to death against the rail, or that it might give way to send her plummeting down to join the waiting dragons.
Such was to be the fate of the hapless souls clustered on one of the Natillian terraces below and across from her. Shackled to steel rings in the cliff were criminals from around the Sabian League. Their executions were to form the curtain-raiser to today’s festivities, and as the century horns faded the first of the captives—a shaven-headed woman with a face dappled by bruises—was released from her chains by two guards and dragged to a gap in the terrace’s rail. A plank had been extended over the strait. Beside it stood a man in the white robes of a Beloved of the White Lady. When the woman drew level with him, she fell to her knees to receive his benediction.
An impatient murmur went up from the people around Karmel—a murmur that changed to heckling as the heartbeats passed. Finally the Natillian soldiers lifted the woman under her arms and deposited her, still kneeling, on the plank. When she refused to move, a guard used the butt of his spear to push her along the board and over the edge.
As she fell screaming, a dragon arched its neck and snatched her from the air.
The crowds cheered.