by Marc Turner
And she had started to hear stories about him. Stories she’d refused to believe.
The sky flashed red, and Karmel glanced up to see the sorcerous dragon attack a Corinian vessel with orange-trimmed sails. A flick of the creature’s tail shattered the forecastle—
Something struck the priestess on her right shoulder. She flinched, almost slipped into the sea. It took her a moment to make out Veran’s blackened rope swinging in the shadows of the recess.
So much for the climb taking him half a bell.
Holding a hand out to the cliff for balance, she pushed herself to her feet. As Veran had done before her, she tugged on the rope to check it was secure. A look up revealed only dizzying blackness.
She began to climb, trying not to think about what awaited her at the top.
* * *
Nothing ever went to plan, Karmel thought as she huddled on the Dragon Gate.
Things had started well enough after Veran’s rope fell on her: the ascent to join the priest just below the battlements had passed uneventfully; the changeover of the Dianese guards had taken place at the fourth bell, as expected; the Chameleons had even had a slice of luck with the genders of the new soldiers—a man and a woman judging by the voices floating down from the ramparts. The problem was that those guards, since beginning their watch over a bell ago, hadn’t strayed more than a dozen steps from the door to the control room. And until they moved along the battlements—and thus away from the Chameleons’ position next to the cliff—Veran had no hope of scaling the parapet undetected.
Dawn was still far off, but the Chameleons were running out of time to silence the soldiers, relieve them of their uniforms, and take their places on the battlements. At this rate Karmel might still be waiting on the gate when the crowds started gathering for the Dragon Hunt, and what was she going to say when they asked her why she’d climbed up here? That she’d done it for the view?
Alongside the priestess Veran stood motionless on one of the gate’s links. His eyes were closed, his bearing relaxed, but Karmel could read his unease in the ever-deepening furrows across his brow. To the south the terraces below Dian and Natilly were empty of people, and the torches affixed to the cliffs had been extinguished to leave the strait veiled in darkness. In spite of the gloom Karmel felt exposed on the gate with the wind threatening to tug her from her perch. Above and to her right the edges of the battlements were stained red from the fires in the dragon’s skull, and she could hear the crackle of fluttering flames. Then over that came the voice of the male Dianese guard—Clemin, she’d heard him called. He was describing to his female companion how a prisoner thrown to the dragons had been seized by two creatures and torn apart in the ensuing tug of war. Clemin gave a raucous chuckle.
One of those where you had to have been there, obviously.
Veran’s voice in Karmel’s ear startled her. “Stay here,” he murmured. “I’m going to cross to the middle of the gate and climb there.”
Cross to the middle? And surrender the cover of the deeper shadows near the cliff? Okay, so the Dianese guards on the battlements wouldn’t be able to see him make the traverse, but what if someone had lingered on the terraces and saw him inching through the blackness?
It seemed Veran wasn’t interested in Karmel’s opinion, though, for he’d already begun making his way across the gate, wrapping his arms about each vertical link before placing a foot on the other side and swinging round. It wasn’t until he’d passed out of whispering range that Karmel realized they hadn’t discussed what to do if he was spotted. Should she climb up and attack the Dianese soldiers? What would be the point? Even if she could silence the two guards before they called for help, there would still be their Natillian counterparts to consider. And since there’d be no getting into the control room if the alarm was raised …
We only get one chance at this.
Overhead the voices of the soldiers were becoming animated. Clemin was bemoaning his ill fortune after betting heavily on the Dianese champion in the duel over the strait. Apparently the fighter had knocked his opponent off the platform, only for the Natillian to seize a handful of his foe’s hair and drag the Dianese with him. A tie, then, all bets annulled—though Clemin seemed to think he was entitled to a proportion of his winnings on account of what he saw as the Dianese fighter’s moral victory.
Of course, he’d first need to explain to his bookmaker what the word “moral” meant.
Veran had reached the center of the portcullis. He unslung his pack and took out a grappling hook. He raised it in one hand.
Just as a shout sounded from the Natillian end of the gate.
Karmel’s blood ran cold. Had someone spotted Veran? A watcher on the terraces, perhaps? No, the shout had come from along the battlements. Could the Natillian guards have leaned over the parapet and spied him? Karmel switched her gaze to Veran. She couldn’t make out his expression in the gloom, but she could see his left hand held out, palm facing toward her.
Wait.
She snorted softly. What the hell else was she going to do, lie down and catch up on some sleep?
Above, the Dianese guards had broken off their conversation. Karmel heard footfalls heading along the battlements toward the dragon’s skull. Steady footfalls, she decided. Not the tread of soldiers who thought they were facing an imminent threat. Clemin called something the priestess couldn’t hear. A query as to what the Natillian guards had seen, perhaps? Or what they should do about the idiots climbing the gate?
The footfalls halted near the center of the battlements. Words were exchanged between the Dianese and the Natillians. The speakers were too far away for Karmel to make out what was said, but the tone of the voices was unflustered. Good-humored, even. Then Clemin gave a loud chuckle, and Karmel blew out her cheeks. Evidently the guards knew each other and were chatting across the dragon’s skull. The fact the Natillian soldier’s shout had come just as Veran was readying his grappling hook must have been pure coincidence.
Karmel felt Veran’s gaze on her again, and she looked over. She could guess what he was thinking. With the Dianese soldiers distracted, this was the perfect time to climb to the battlements. The trouble was, the guards were now above Veran’s position. He could rejoin Karmel, of course, but by the time he moved back the soldiers might have finished their conversation and returned to their former station. And all the while the sky in the east was paling.
Veran hesitated, then pointed a finger at Karmel and up to the battlements.
It was a heartbeat before she understood his meaning.
The priestess swallowed. Me?
He wanted her to climb. How had she not seen that coming?
Karmel wet her lips with her tongue. Earlier she’d complained about him treating her like a fifth wheel, yet now that he was offering her the chance to prove her worth, she found herself wishing they could swap places. She could always signal him to join her, she supposed—wait for him to cross back and pretend she hadn’t climbed because she’d thought she heard the guards returning. He would know it for a lie, though. He was probably expecting her to try something like that, and she’d be damned if she would measure down to his low opinion of her.
I can do this.
She unslung her pack so she could take out her grappling hook. Her fingers fumbled at the bag’s clasp. Her whole body was trembling. At last she opened the pack and withdrew the grapple. It was attached to a length of black rope. Holding the rope in both hands, Karmel faced north. I can do this. She let the hook fall a few armspans, then swung it back and forth, judging the grapple’s weight as she pictured the cast she would have to make. It would be a difficult throw, she knew, trying to snare a merlon she couldn’t see. Too little rope and the hook would clatter into the parapet. Too much and it would overshoot the battlements and land on the walkway. And there was no way the mexin round the grapple would disguise that sound. To make matters worse, she’d need both hands to control the rope, meaning she couldn’t hold on to the portcullis at the sam
e time. If her balance was wrong or the wind should gust at an inopportune moment …
Setting her feet, Karmel swung the rope and let the line run through her fingers. The hook arced up into darkness.
She knew immediately she hadn’t given it enough. The grapple struck the merlon with a muffled clang. The noise was so loud it seemed the Dianese guards must hear it. Instead of the expected challenge, though, all Karmel heard was another of Clemin’s booming chuckles. She whispered a prayer of thanks to the Chameleon. The soldier’s laugh must have covered the sound of the hook.
She wasn’t in the clear yet, though, because the rope was swinging back down, and she had to snatch the grapple from the blackness to prevent it hitting one of the gate’s bars. As her fingers closed round it, she took a half step forward, wobbled, then lunged for the bar beside her to stop herself tottering into oblivion.
She closed her eyes for a moment, leaned her head against the bar and took a breath. Veran’s disapproving gaze felt like two fingers pressed against the back of her head, but he could go swim with the dragons so far as Karmel was concerned. A handful of heartbeats to steady herself, then she played out the rope again and prepared for another cast. I can do this. Maybe if she thought it enough times, she’d start believing it.
Her next throw was judged to perfection. She heard a scrape of metal as the hook bit into the merlon.
A tug on the rope to check it was secure, then a pause to ensure there was no change in the guards’ voices. Those voices had become louder as their owners argued over which ship would triumph in tomorrow’s Hunt. Karmel let the banter wash over her. Now for the hard bit. Veran hadn’t told her how he’d intended to dispose of the two Dianese soldiers once he’d climbed to the ramparts, but until Karmel had assessed the lay of the land, there was little to be gained by playing out scenarios in her head. Better to get up there and get on with it.
The moon slid behind a cloud. When Karmel looked down she saw the silver-flecked sea had faded to black. Below, the links of the portcullis receded into the gloom, and it felt to the priestess as if she were standing on the brink of the Abyss.
This wasn’t helping.
Gripping the rope with both hands, she leaned forward and swung out into emptiness. Her momentum took her away from the gate, and she clung to the rope while she waited for its pitch to slow. If the Dianese soldiers had looked down just then they would have spotted her, but when Karmel glanced left in their direction she saw only the snout of the dragon’s skull protruding from the ramparts. She climbed the rope until her head was just below the parapet. The merlon shielded her from the guards’ view—
“What was that?” Clemin said from along the battlements.
Karmel froze. Had he caught the sound of the rope creaking as she climbed? Or the grinding of the hook on the merlon? Sucking in a lungful of air, she forced herself to relax. It didn’t have to be her he’d heard, and even if he came to investigate, he wouldn’t be able to see her. Yes, the breeze was tugging her this way and that on the rope, but so long as she didn’t move, her sorcery would hide from sight not just her but also the rope and the hook over which she’d extended her powers.
There was a low buzz of conversation between Clemin and the female Dianese soldier. Then Karmel heard footfalls heading toward her.
She held her breath, her right cheek pressed against the merlon.
The footfalls stopped a few armspans away on the other side of the battlements. Karmel adjusted her grip on the rope. Within moments the guard was on the move again, crossing to the priestess’s side of the walkway. She caught a whiff of cheap perfume—the female soldier then.
Karmel waited. She tried imagining this was a training exercise at the temple, but a trumpeting from the distant dragons made it hard to sustain that illusion. Footfalls sounded again. Perfume’s tread came closer until it stopped above Karmel’s position. The soldier could be no more than an armspan away now—so close that when a puff of wind ruffled the priestess’s hair she could almost believe it was Perfume’s breath. Her arms started to ache. The grapple was hanging from the merlon by just one of its claws, and Karmel caught the faintest groan of metal as it shifted. Had Perfume heard? Clearly something had grabbed her attention for her to spend so much time in this place.
Clemin barked a question.
Perfume’s response—“I’m looking, damn you!”—blared so loud in Karmel’s ears she almost surrendered her grip on the rope. Her muscles were burning now, and she silently counted heartbeats in an effort to take her mind off her discomfort. A swish of cloth told her Perfume was leaning over the battlements. Karmel fought an urge to seize the woman and help her over the side. Then a thought came to her. The grappling hook. If Perfume’s hand should brush against it …
The soldier drew back. Karmel tensed, expecting to be sent plummeting as the hook was prized loose from the parapet.
Instead Perfume spat over the merlon.
Then retreated along the walkway toward the dragon’s skull.
Karmel’s shoulders sagged with relief, but this wasn’t the time to count her blessings. Now that Perfume’s back was turned, the priestess had a chance to climb to the battlements unseen. She seized the merlon with her left hand before boosting herself up. Raising her right leg, she placed her foot in one of the crenels. Then she paused in a half-crouch, her scabbard tangled in her legs, her right hand still clutching the rope. She glanced along the battlements after the retreating Perfume.
The woman’s stride had not faltered. Beyond her Clemin was looking south over the Cappel Strait, oblivious.
So far, so good.
Karmel stepped onto the walkway before lifting the grapple from the merlon and dropping it over the side. There was a danger someone might see it fall, but what choice did she have? The instant she released her hold on the hook, it would become visible to the Dianese soldiers, because she could only extend her powers over something she was in contact with. And she couldn’t leave it hanging from the parapet any more than she could put it back in her pack.
Looking to her right she saw a sheer cliff face. Set into it was the metal door that led to the control room, bathed in the glow of two torches affixed to the rock on either side. High above, Dian’s citadel loomed dark and still, an immense shadow broken only by a window of fuzzy light in one of the towers. To Karmel’s left, Perfume had rejoined Clemin and was now shrugging in response to some unheard question. Behind them the dragon’s skull spanned the battlements, half again the height of a man and massing so large it hid from Karmel’s view the Natillian soldiers beyond. The fires within the skull made the bone appear semitranslucent. In its part-open mouth were dozens of teeth, each as long as the priestess’s arm and charred black from the flames licking at them.
Karmel studied the Dianese guards. Clemin was pale-skinned and blond-haired. A head taller than his female companion, he had the slouch of a man used to stooping as he went through doors. Perfume, by contrast, was trying to make herself look taller by standing stiffly at attention. Both soldiers wore swords at their waists, but no armor. Their helmets were on the walkway opposite Karmel. Across their jackets were yellow sashes marking them as citadel guards—the elite among Dian’s defenders. But they were still just soldiers. And, more important, soldiers who weren’t expecting company.
Karmel drew a throwing knife. Her best chance of disposing of them quietly would be to kill her first victim out of sight of the second, yet that meant waiting for them to separate again. By striking the hilt of her knife against the merlon she might lure Perfume this way a second time, but the sound would surely put the soldiers on guard, and Karmel wanted them breathing easy. What options did that leave? If the Dianese returned to this end of the battlements, Karmel might be able to silence them simultaneously with two well-placed knife thrusts. Yet one or both might cry out and alert their Natillian counterparts.
Karmel’s conversation with Veran in the boat came back to her, and she realized this would be the first time she had killed
anyone up close. She’d hunted lots of people in her training at the temple, though. Why should this be any different? Fortunately there wasn’t time to dwell on the matter, because the conversation between the Dianese and the Natillian guards had ended. The Dianese moved toward the priestess. The hilt of her throwing knife was slick in her palm. Two soldiers represented no threat, she told herself. It was the doing-it-quietly part that was the challenge.
Only then did it occur to Karmel that the battlements were just four paces wide, and that unless the Dianese soldiers halted they would walk straight into her.
Shit.
She fought down panic. If she’d thought to draw two knives, she could have tried bringing both guards down at a distance. But “if” wasn’t helping her now. It seemed she’d be forced to take out Clemin with her first blade and hope there was time to draw a second before Perfume reacted. One victim at a time, she thought. Make that first knife count.
She tensed the muscles of her right arm.
Clemin drew up.
Karmel remained still, struggling to keep her rasping breath quiet.
Perfume checked her stride and glanced back at her companion before tutting in disgust and continuing on. She halted two paces away from Karmel. Turning to look over the strait, she adjusted her sash. Clemin, meanwhile, had untied the laces of his trousers and was urinating over the parapet.
Karmel could have done with relieving herself too. She took a shuddering breath. Now was her chance to strike at Perfume. No time for hesitation or second thoughts. She’d have preferred to go for Clemin first, but Perfume, with her back turned to the priestess, was the easier target.
Two steps brought Karmel behind Perfume. The woman couldn’t have heard her approach, for she made no move to turn. Karmel stabbed her under her right ear, angling the blade up into the brain. The soldier spasmed, then went limp.
And started toppling forward over the battlements.