Dragon Hunters

by Marc Turner

  Kempis said, “We’re trying to find your killer, man! You telling me you don’t want the woman who pricked you to get what’s coming to her?”

  “Maybe I like what she did for me.”

  “Then when we catch up to her, you can shake her by the hand! Oh no, wait, you can’t, because your hand’s still attached to the rest of your Shroud-cursed body in the Shroud-cursed Mausoleum!”

  Irlon’s features briefly lost cohesion as if a breath of spiritual wind had tugged at his form. He leaned forward as if testing his ethereal chains again. Then he shot a glance at Loop’s sweat-sheened face before looking back at Kempis. “You’ll let me go when I’ve answered your questions?”

  “I’m a reasonable man.”

  “Make it quick.”

  The septia let his breath out slowly. “The assassin … you remember anything about her?”

  “I remember her eyes glowing. And she was quick. I always carried a dagger in case the locals got frisky, but the woman had her pigsticker in me before I could draw it.” He sneered. “Is any of this helping?”

  “What about when she disappeared? Did you see where she went?”

  The Drifter’s sneer gave way to a brooding expression. “I saw darkness. The buildings faded. And there were waves—big waves, too. Not like the ones round here.”

  Kempis nodded. He’d witnessed the same last night. “You sensed her open a portal?”

  “No,” Irlon said sharply. Then more hesitantly, “No. She didn’t open a gateway, I’m certain of it. It was as if the gateway was already there, and she just tugged aside the veil concealing it. Does that make sense?”

  Perfect sense, Kempis thought. Bright Eyes steps through a portal that wasn’t there moments before, but which she didn’t create, and transports herself far out to sea so she can swim all the way back to shore. What wasn’t there to understand? “Have you seen her since three days ago?”

  “Sure. She came by to check there were no hard feelings.”

  “You ain’t gone looking for her?”

  “I’ve had better things to do.”

  “Could you find her if you wanted to?”

  “Maybe if I knocked on every door in Olaire—”

  “You could keep an eye on the other Drifters,” Loop cut in. “Follow the assassin to her hideout if she showed again.”

  “I could do,” Irlon said. Then he jabbed a finger at Kempis. “Except you said I’d be free to go after I answered your questions.”

  “And I meant it. What about the other Drifters the assassin did for? You come across any of them since you bought it?”

  “One or two.”

  “They see anything more of Bright Eyes than you?”

  “Ask them yourself!”

  Kempis looked at Loop. “Doesn’t have to be the harbor where we throw that stone. I reckon here would do just as good—”

  “Jilane saw nothing,” Irlon interrupted. “But then the old man is as good as blind anyhow. Gordan caught a glimpse of the assassin’s pigsticker—blackened steel, in case you’re wondering. As for Rill”—he shrugged—“I’ve not had a chance to speak with him yet.”

  “Rill?” Kempis looked at Sniffer and Loop, and saw his confusion mirrored in their expressions. “Which one is Rill?”

  “The Corinian. Does the Wharf District. Speaks with an accent as thick as he is.”

  The septia’s mouth was dry. “When was he killed?”

  “Half a bell ago, maybe.”

  “You said the Wharf District. Where, exactly?”

  “Dell Street.”

  One of the alleys underwater, meaning Bright Eyes would have got her feet wet. And since Kempis hadn’t sensed her using her power, she must have exited the sea on foot instead of doing another disappearing act. Leaving a trail Sniffer can follow.

  The Untarian had already broken into a run along the alley. Kempis gave Irlon a wide berth as he set off after her. “Find Duffle,” he called to Loop. “Sort us out some backup.”

  Loop’s voice followed him. “What about this guy? What am I supposed to—”

  “Keep him,” the septia shouted back. “I may have more questions later.”

  Irlon wasn’t impressed. Or at least Kempis assumed that was what his sudden screeching was about.

  “Questions?” Loop said. “Like what?”

  Like whether that stone-in-the-harbor idea would work, for starters.

  * * *

  From the shadows of an alley, Senar watched the entrance to the temple of the Lord of Hidden Faces. The shrine was a squat gray structure with a porch flanked by two statues of masked men, one with the legs of an alamandra, the other those of a flintcat. The ramp leading up to the porch was covered with debris from more figures that must have fallen from the roof of the temple—there were gaps in the ranks of statues atop the cornice. Weeds grew between the ramp’s ebonystone slabs.

  Senar had long harbored doubts concerning the identity of the Lord of Hidden Faces. Decades ago the immortal had risen from obscurity with none of the fireworks that usually accompanied the emergence of a new player in the pantheon. Then, a dozen years later, the god’s cult had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind only empty temples and unanswered questions. Even the name the Lord of Hidden Faces aroused suspicion, for what immortal needed to hide behind a mask? And just how many faces did the god have? It was as if the deity had been a front for some other power—a power that had abandoned it when it lost its novelty or purpose.

  The cult of the Lord of Hidden Faces seemed to be going through a revival in Olaire, however, for at sundown scores of people had converged on the shrine. Untarians, for the most part, though Senar had seen mixed in with them as many different races as there were cities in the Sabian League.

  And among the worshippers had been Mazana Creed and her champion, Greave.

  After escorting the Storm Lady to her house this morning, Senar had been summarily dismissed. Suspecting something was afoot, he had kept a discreet eye on her home from a small park along the street. At midday he’d spotted her leaving with her dutia, Beauce, and he had followed them to the Commercial District, only to lose them in the crowds. Returning to the Storm Lady’s house, he’d seen her reappear at the seventh bell, then head out again shortly afterward, this time with Greave in tow. Senar’s curiosity had grown as he trailed them north into a run-down district with narrow streets lined by rows of dust-streaked buildings. Mazana evidently didn’t want to be followed, for she and Greave would stop frequently in doorways or double back on themselves in an effort to shake off any pursuers. By reaching out with his Will, though, Senar was able to track them at an unobtrusive distance.

  He was beginning to wish he hadn’t. For almost two bells he’d waited outside the temple as the darkness deepened and the breeze blowing off the sea cooled to give some blessed relief from the heat. Night had fallen, and the worshippers had long since departed. Except for Mazana and Greave, that is. Had the Storm Lady come for a private audience? If so, what business did she have with the Lord of Hidden Faces? Somehow Senar couldn’t see her bending the knee to anyone, mortal or immortal.

  For a while longer the Guardian listened to the murmur of the sea and the shouts of dockhands working at the harbor to the southwest. The harbor. How simple it would be for him to steal away to the docks, or maybe to the Erin Elalese embassy he’d seen while trailing Mazana round the city. The ambassador might be able to hide him or even smuggle him off the island, but could Senar afford to trust him? Odds were the man would be Avallon’s creature, and the Guardians had learned from experience to look for hidden blades in the hands of their kinsmen. Another charge Senar intended to make the emperor answer for when he returned to Erin Elal.

  His leg muscles started to cramp. Why in the Nine Hells had he waited this long? Crass stupidity could not be ruled out, he supposed. Most likely Mazana had left by another exit or slipped away in the crowds. It was time to return to the palace, inform Imerle of Mazana’s movements, and leave to h
er the task of puzzling over the Storm Lady’s new spirituality. Certainly Senar wasn’t going to discover any answers out here, and if he risked entering the temple then of course Mazana would choose that moment to appear. That was the way things worked, wasn’t it?

  Time to go.

  Then he noticed movement amid the gloom of the temple’s porch. He shrank back into the passage. A man appeared, hands on hips. There was no mistaking Greave’s bulk, or the puffed sleeves of his shirt. He looked along the street, his gaze lingering on the alley where Senar sheltered.

  A cloud passed in front of the moon, and blackness descended like a curtain.

  Senar blinked against the dark. From along the street to his left came footfalls. A lone, gray-robed figure materialized from the shadows—a woman, judging by her height. Her hood was drawn up, and she kept her head down as she walked. An acolyte of the Lord of Hidden Faces? No, for she didn’t turn on to the ramp leading to the temple. Instead she continued past the shrine and the entrance to Senar’s alley. He lost sight of her behind the corner of the building to his right.

  The moon reemerged, and the Guardian looked back at the porch. Greave was standing where Senar had last seen him. On his cheek was the cut the Guardian had given him in their previous encounter. Even in the darkness Senar could tell he was smiling. Did Greave know he was being watched? There was no way he could see the Guardian in the gloom of the passage—unless he had a second pair of eyes …

  A second pair of eyes! The hairs on the back of Senar’s neck stood up. He looked over his shoulder, expecting trouble.

  Nothing stirred.

  He swung back to the porch in time to see another figure come out of the temple—Mazana. As she made to step past Greave, he lowered an arm to stop her. Senar heard the Storm Lady voice a question, and the champion growled a response. Mazana tried to step past him again, but again his arm blocked her. Senar frowned. Had Greave seen something the Guardian could not? With Senar’s restricted view, the champion would be able to make out more of the street than the Guardian. Senar was tempted to surrender the cover of the shadows for a better look. If he did so, though, he risked giving away his position.

  When Mazana next spoke, her voice held a note of irritation. Greave chuckled. He senses me, Senar thought. But then why hasn’t he called me out? Greave’s huge frame nearly filled the porch, all but obscuring the smaller figure of Mazana behind. She tried to push past him a third time, and for a moment Senar thought he would relent.

  Then he seized the Storm Lady’s wrist.

  Another cloud passed in front of the moon, and darkness rushed in.

  Senar muttered an oath. His senses strained to pick up whatever the champion had detected. The street remained deserted, but an assassin could easily be hiding out of Senar’s sight in a doorway or alley. He looked up. The cloud obscuring the moon was dusted with silver. It floated slowly through the sky. Come on, come on! Senar thought he heard a sound from inside the porch, but it was lost beneath the cawing of a limewing. The noise came again—a scuff of a boot on stone, followed by a muffled gasp.

  This had gone on long enough.

  Senar left the cover of the alley, glancing all about. The buildings were silent and watchful. He halted at the foot of the ramp. The animal-legged statues reared up to either side of the porch, and it felt like inhuman eyes were staring at Senar from behind their stony masks. Someone was watching him, of that he was certain. Mazana and Greave? How was he going to explain his presence here? Just taking a walk, saw the shrine of a god he doubted even existed and thought he’d stop by to pay his respects?

  Within the porch, the door leading into the temple was framed by threads of light, but the glow was not bright enough to illuminate Mazana or Greave. Then the moon came out, softening the darkness. Senar saw twisting shapes in the gloom, charcoal gray on black. A smothered cry reached him, cut short.

  Understanding came to him.

  Blood pounded behind his eyes, and he sprang up the ramp. Stone chippings crunched underfoot. Reaching the top, he saw the champion had forced Mazana back against the temple wall, his left hand pinning her right, his other hand lost in shadow. His mouth was pressed over hers. As she struggled to turn away, he released her right hand and seized her chin to hold her still. Mazana’s free hand now pummeled his shoulder.

  Senar increased his pace, heat rising to his cheeks.

  He was a dozen steps away when Mazana brought her elbow thumping round into the champion’s chest. Then she drove a heel into the back of his leg, and he dropped to his knees.

  Just as Senar lashed out at him with his Will. Greave pitched backward. As he fell, he grabbed for Mazana’s arm, half pulling her with him before the Storm Lady wrenched free and stumbled into darkness.

  Senar moved to stand over the champion. He drew his sword and rested its tip against the man’s throat. Greave held still, his gaze locked to Senar’s. The Guardian’s Will-blow had torn loose the stitches on his cheek, and blood now oozed from the wound. Senar was finding it hard to breathe. The urge to drive his blade through Greave’s throat was strong, yet he held back. There was a line you didn’t cross—even with men like the champion—and killing Greave now would have been the wrong side of it. In any case, it was not Senar’s place to pass judgment here; that responsibility was Mazana’s. He looked at her for direction, but she remained motionless, a silent shadow in the porch.

  “Mazana?”

  No reply.

  Greave’s lips curled back. He shuffled backward out of range of Senar’s sword. Pushing himself to his feet, he stood with his back to the temple door. Then he hawked and spat at the Guardian’s feet. His hand hovered over the hilt of his blade. “Well, well, look what the wind blew in.”

  Senar did not respond. His Will was still bunched up inside him, but his grip on it was slipping. Anger could spoil your concentration if it was strong enough. This was different, though. Some form of deadening sorcery was seeping from the shrine’s walls, making it difficult for Senar to focus his power. He took a half step back to take him away from the magic’s influence. Greave must have thought he did so out of fear, for he laughed. For an instant Senar believed—even hoped—the champion would challenge him. Instead Greave moved his hand away from his sword hilt and held his arms wide to show he meant no threat. A mocking bow to Mazana, then he strode past Senar, his shoulder brushing the Guardian’s as he did so.

  “Later, pretty boy.”

  Senar watched him walk down the temple’s ramp and head toward the alley where the Guardian had hidden. As darkness claimed him, Senar tried to shake off the feeling he would one day come to regret not killing him when he had the chance.

  One day? Hells, he was regretting it already.

  He sheathed his sword and turned to Mazana. Her back was pressed to the temple wall. Senar could make out the shape of her nose and mouth, but her expression was concealed in shadow. Her breathing was ragged.

  He took a pace forward.

  “Stay away from me,” the Storm Lady said.

  Senar drew up.

  “I didn’t need your help! I don’t need any of you! Soon, soon you will see…”

  That would need considering later, but for now Senar couldn’t think past the tremor in her voice. He stepped in and took her in his arms. Her arms remained by her sides, but after a moment she tilted her head the merest fraction so her cheek came to rest on his chest.

  Maybe it was the ring on the little finger of Senar’s right hand pressing into Mazana’s back, or maybe it was the Storm Lady’s hair stained black by the gloom, but suddenly it was not Mazana he was holding, but Jessca. They were standing atop one of the Sacrosanct’s towers in Arkarbour, staring out across the wide emptiness of the night and listening to the Gamala Clock Tower ring the tenth bell. Even two days after the attack on the Black Tower, ripples of magic still illuminated the sky over the building, and sorcerous fires raged through its upper levels.

  He released Mazana at the same time as she pushed him away.
The shadows were bruises beneath her eyes. “You followed me here?” she said. Her voice was empty.

  “Yes.”

  “Because the emira told you to watch me?”

  He nodded.

  A pause. “Then you will have lots to tell her when you make your next report.”

  “I will escort you home.”

  “I can find my own way.”

  “Nevertheless. After Gensu…” He offered her his right arm, and she hesitated before taking it.

  They started down the ramp.

  The thrum of a crossbow string was Senar’s only warning. He didn’t see the quarrel, only heard it rip through the air. It came from the right—Mazana’s side. Senar threw up a Will-barrier even as he pulled the Storm Lady round to shield her with his body, knowing it was too late.

  Tensing himself, he waited for Mazana’s cry or the punch of a quarrel in his back.

  * * *

  From a few streets ahead of Kempis, a shout shattered the stillness of the night. Bright Eyes’s work? It had to be.

  Quarter of a bell ago the septia had arrived in Dell Street with Sniffer to find the body of the Drifter, Rill, being picked clean by a gang of urchins. According to Sniffer, Bright Eyes had exited the sea at the junction with Yew Lane, and the assassin’s trail was still strong enough for the Untarian to follow. Her steps led north across the city, past the Sanctorium and the Artisan Quarter, until coming finally to the Temple District on the west-facing slopes of Kalin’s Hill.

  Now, as a second shout sounded, Kempis found himself running through Olaire’s streets once more.

  * * *

  Senar felt the crossbow bolt strike his Will-shield and deflect away. Drawing his sword, he pushed Mazana behind him and turned toward where the crossbow had been fired from. He expected to see Greave advancing. Instead, a woman clothed in gray—the one he’d mistaken for an acolyte earlier?—detached herself from the shadows of a doorway. Her eyes glowed with a smoky blue light.

  She drew two longknives. Then she surged forward, angling her blades to flash moonlight into Senar’s eyes.