by Marc Turner
Dian and Natilly had stirred to life with the coming of dawn, and the noise of the Dragon Hunt crowds had swelled from a murmur to a hum and finally a drone. South of the Dragon Gate, the terraces overlooking the Cappel Strait—the same terraces that had been crammed with people for the executions—were almost empty, for they offered a poor vantage of the seas where the Hunt would take place. Instead most of the clamor came from the galleries along the cliffs fronting the Sabian Sea. On the towers of Dian’s citadel had assembled scores of dignitaries, each arrayed in a costume as colorful as a coral bird’s feathers. Karmel scanned their ranks. Governor Piput would be among them, but even if she’d known what he looked like she wouldn’t have been able to pick him out. That would change when the Dragon Gate failed to rise: he’d be the one from whom the other dignitaries hastened to distance themselves.
Movement above and to Karmel’s left caught her eye, and she glanced up to see two gaudily dressed men in one of the citadel’s windows. When they pointed in her direction, she lowered her gaze. In all likelihood it was the dragon’s skull and not the priestess herself that had attracted their attention, but in any event there was no way they could make out her features at this distance. All the same, for an uncomfortable heartbeat it seemed to Karmel as if the gazes of all the people in Dian and Natilly were focused on her. Her throat closed up like someone had grabbed her round it. And yet hadn’t she always wanted the eyes of the world on her? Wasn’t that why she had accepted this mission—for the opportunity for notoriety it offered?
Half a league to the north, ships had gathered at the buoys marking the starting positions for the Hunt. Karmel saw Androsian corricks with their high-rounded sterns, Corinian galleys with their green-trimmed sails, Thaxian brigatinas with their black-and-white-banded hulls. Among the flags being flown were the red and yellow stars of Rastamira, the sunburst of Elescori, the white cross on gold of Peron Ra. Of the emira’s flagship, there was no sign. Had Imerle chosen to stay away, knowing the gate would not be rising? No, Karmel reasoned, for the woman’s absence would have aroused suspicions. Most likely the Icewing was anchored to the east or west, concealed from the priestess’s view by the cliffs.
Her bladder felt ready to burst. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Veran, a pace to her left, was speaking in a low voice, telling her again what to expect when they entered the control room—as if the previous nine hundred and ninety-nine times might not have been enough. Karmel had wanted to attack as soon as they were inside, but Veran said they needed to know exactly what they were dealing with first, and the priestess had conceded the sense in that. The point was rapidly becoming moot, though, for if they were kept waiting much longer there wouldn’t be time to waste on planning and reconnaissance …
The sound of bolts being drawn back jolted her from her reverie. She had just enough presence of mind to snatch up her helmet and pull it over her head before the door to the citadel opened. Two soldiers appeared, anonymous behind their faceplates, yet unquestionably both men. Veran was already striding toward them. The first newcomer raised a hand as if he meant to challenge him, but Veran pushed past, muttering a rebuke to the guards for their tardiness. He kicked open the door to the control room and plunged through.
The two Dianese soldiers stared after him, then swung to face Karmel as she followed. One of them said something as she drew level. Karmel did not catch his words. She was too busy trying to peer through the yawning doorway into the gloom beyond, but the darkness was too deep for her to see anything. As she passed the second guard she felt the prickle of his gaze on her back. Her hand strayed to the hilt of her sword.
Then the soldier slapped her on the buttocks, and it was all she could do not to spin round and give him a piece of her mind.
The air in the control room was heavy with heat and blackweed smoke. Within moments the padding of Karmel’s helmet was soaked through. Such was the limited visibility afforded by her helmet’s eye slits that she had to turn her head to scan the chamber. The room was windowless. Light came from a brazier in the corner to her right, and from an oil lamp on a table diagonally opposite. To her left an immense chain rose from a hole in the floor, turning at right angles over a smooth lip of rock before passing through an oversized metal chest with four large circular holes in the top. The chain finished at an upright drum from which eight spokes extended at chest height. To Karmel’s right was a cabinet that reached from floor to ceiling. On the wall opposite, a closed but unbolted door led deeper into the citadel.
All exactly as Veran had said it would be. Except …
In the room were two male soldiers, one shaven-headed, the other bearded, both flushed and wearing shirts stained beneath the arms. Just two. Karmel had expected the guards manning the capstan to be in position already. Her thoughts raced. The Dragon Hunt wasn’t due to start for another quarter-bell, but there was nothing to say the Chameleons had to wait that long before attacking. Yesterday Veran had told her he had a device to disable the capstan permanently, so if he used it now the Dianese wouldn’t be able to repair the damage before the Hunt commenced. Karmel wanted to laugh. It was suddenly all so easy: kill the guards, disable the capstan, then activate their powers and lie low until the dust settled. If they left the door to the citadel unlocked, when more soldiers arrived they would assume whoever had destroyed the capstan had already slipped away into the fortress. It was perfect!
Karmel tried to catch Veran’s gaze, but his back was to her. In her peripheral vision she saw Beardy close and lock the door to the battlements. A red-tinged gloom descended on the chamber. The noise of the crowds fell away to a whisper, but the floor still shivered to the beat of the dragons butting the gate.
Veran spoke to Baldy. “Why were we left out there so long? Thought we’d end up watching the Hunt from the gate.”
The guard shrugged. “Should have asked Hook when you passed him. Bastard overslept, is my guess.”
“We still on for a start at the ninth bell?”
Another shrug.
Karmel watched nonplussed as Veran began walking toward the door to the citadel. Where the hell was he going? Did he think they had time for a tour of the fortress before they got down to business? Or were two guards not enough of a challenge that he had to go looking for more? Perhaps he wanted to lock the door to the citadel to ensure there were no gate-crashers. Yes, that had to be it.
Even as the thought came to her, though, Veran drew up and spun to face Beardy and Baldy once more.
Frowning, Karmel turned with him. Now what? Had he changed his mind and decided to kill the soldiers while their attention was elsewhere? Beardy was picking his nose, while Baldy had crouched to polish his boots with a sleeve. Karmel tensed to strike.
Instead of attacking the Dianese, though, Veran said to them, “You hear that?”
Blank looks. The men seemed as confused as Karmel.
“From the battlements,” Veran added. “Sounded like Hook calling.”
The soldiers exchanged a glance. Then Beardy turned for the door, his companion watching him.
Both guards were now facing away from the Chameleons, and Karmel sensed Veran release his power. She followed his lead—though why he had to make himself invisible before attacking was beyond her. As Beardy opened the door and called out to Hook, Karmel drew a knife from her baldric. She’d have to wait for the door to close again before letting fly—
Veran seized her wrist. Faintly above the din from outside she heard him say, “Wait.”
“Wait for what?” she wanted to ask, but Beardy was already closing the door once more, and she was forced to bite her tongue.
“What did he want?” Baldy asked his companion.
“Nothing.” Beardy scanned the room. “Say, did you hear them other two leave?”
“They ain’t here now, are they? Work it out, genius.”
Veran’s grip was still tight on Karmel’s wrist. He waited until both Dianese were turned away again before drawing her back, step by
painstaking step, into the corner beside the weapons cabinet. Such was the size of the cabinet that it shielded the Chameleons from the guards’ sight. Karmel resheathed her knife, then lifted her helmet and perched it at an angle on her head. When Veran also raised his helmet, she leaned in close.
“What are you doing?” she whispered. “There are only two of them! Two!”
“Wait.”
“Wait for what, damn you? What is there—”
She fell silent as the door to the citadel opened. A soldier entered, then another, and another, all chatting and laughing, and Karmel hissed her fury until Veran clamped a hand over her mouth. One of the newcomers, a sleepy-eyed man with a limp, must have heard the noise, for his gaze fixed for a moment on the corner where the Chameleons stood before sliding away again.
More and more guards appeared. The priestess’s anger gave way to apprehension. Nine, ten, eleven … But hadn’t Veran said there would be eight on the capstan and one overseeing? Still they kept coming. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Veran’s hand remained over Karmel’s mouth, but he removed it when she elbowed him in the ribs. When she looked at him, she saw her confusion mirrored in his eyes.
Her count ended at sixteen.
And understanding dawned.
Eight spokes to the capstan, yes, but two soldiers to each spoke, not the one they’d anticipated. Karmel ground her teeth together. Now, instead of two opponents she and Veran had almost ten times that number to deal with. Veran’s expression had a wry cast to it, and he murmured something that sounded like “one more thing you should know.” Whatever the hell that meant.
“Idio—”
His hand covered her mouth again.
Another soldier entered the room, sallow-skinned and wearing a red sash—an officer, Karmel presumed. He slammed shut the door to the citadel. Karmel pulled a face. How many did that make it in all? Just seventeen? There was room for another dozen, surely, if everyone shuffled along.
The officer scented the air like a bloodhound, then started reproaching Beardy and Baldy for the blackweed smoke.
Still Veran made no move to attack.
A suspicion surfaced in Karmel’s mind. What if Veran had never intended to attack the guards? What if the Chameleons’ real target here was not the Dragon Gate but Governor Piput? If the emira wanted to bring an end to Piput’s troublemaking, a dagger through the heart was a more effective solution than this elaborate plot to discredit him. Karmel shook her head. No, that made no sense. There was no reason Veran would have kept such information from her. And in any event, if you wanted to assassinate Piput the very last day you’d choose to do so would be a day such as Dragon Day when the citadel’s security was at its tightest.
Meaning this really was the balls-up it appeared.
Karmel elbowed Veran until he removed his hand from her mouth, then elbowed him once more for good measure. Damn the man! Why hadn’t he gone for Beardy and Baldy when he had the chance? Even when the first of the new soldiers arrived, he could have driven them back and barred the door against them. But no, he’d just stood there frozen in indecision.
Unless …
She cast him a speculative glance. Unless he didn’t care how many guards were present because the device he’d brought to destroy the capstan would kill anyone close to it …
Her thoughts trailed away. The device. It had been in Veran’s pack when he climbed the gate, but he’d thrown his bag over the battlements at the same time Karmel tossed hers. So where was the device now? Had he hidden it somewhere about his uniform? Was it so small that it could fit in a pocket?
Her breath caught.
Or had the thing never existed at all?
All at once the pieces fell into place.
“We’re not here to stop them raising the gate, are we?” Karmel whispered. “We’re here to stop them lowering it again once it’s up.” That was why Veran had passed up the chance to attack Beardy and Baldy. That was why he’d refused to tell her about the device in their basement lodgings, and why he’d been opposed to returning to the battlements once the mission was complete—they could hardly escape back that way if there were dragons in the Sabian Sea.
Karmel put her face in her hands. Gods, what a fool she had been! She’d known Imerle was conspiring to stay in power. Well, here was the woman’s chance to eliminate the other Storm Lords, all of whom would be out there now on their ships, waiting for the Hunt to start. And the emira herself? With her feet up in Olaire, no doubt, or on her flagship a safe distance from the Dragon Gate, ready to turn and flee once the dragons were released.
Had Caval known the real plan when he briefed her in the temple? The emira had trusted him enough to tell him she was plotting to remain in power, so why wouldn’t she trust him with the finer details of the mission? Something he’d said on the beach came back to the priestess—something concerning Veran. You’re to do as he tells you out there, understood? At the time she had wondered at the intensity of his words, and at what instructions Veran might have for her that Caval could not convey there and then. Now she realized he’d been referring to just this moment.
He knew this would happen. All along, he knew.
But then why hadn’t he told her?
Another thought surfaced. Her predecessor on this assignment—the one who’d backed out at the last instant—had he or she withdrawn when the true nature of the mission was revealed? Had Caval feared Karmel would do the same? She pictured the ships on the Sabian Sea. On most Hunts a vessel or two would be destroyed by whichever dragon was released, but only a handful of passengers lost their lives because other ships would engage the creature before it could feast on them. This time, though, with as many as fifty dragons on the loose … They’re all going to die. Had Caval feared she might balk when she understood how many would perish? Would she have done?
He doesn’t trust me. The realization struck her like a punch to the gut. Oh, he trusted her abilities well enough, else he wouldn’t have sent her on the mission. It was her conviction he evidently doubted. Her stomach for the job. Her loyalty to the Chameleon cause.
And yet he’d trusted Veran. A man who had walked out on the priesthood.
An outcast.
When Veran spoke, she could barely hear him over the whine of the Dianese officer and the muted crash of the dragons ramming the gate. “Glad you’ve finally woken up to the real world, girl.”
“Why?” Karmel said, her tone bitter. “Why wasn’t I told?”
“Ask your precious brother.”
“But he said…”
She got no further because the officer had finished lecturing Beardy and Baldy and was now crossing to the cabinet. He opened the doors and reached inside. Karmel couldn’t see what he tried to take out, but it must have been heavy because he growled at his men, “Help me with these, damn you!”
Eight soldiers hurried to obey.
There was a thud as something hit the floor, then a grinding sound as two guards dragged a huge T-shaped object made of tarnica across the ground. At the officer’s direction they left it leaning against the chestlike construction through which the chain passed. Three more such objects followed.
The other soldiers took up their positions at the capstan, their faces ruddy in the light from the lamp and the brazier.
Veran whispered to Karmel, “When the ninth bell rings, they’ll start raising the gate. Are you listening, girl? As soon as it’s up, those two”—he nodded at Beardy and Baldy—“will lower four metal stays into that chest, where they’ll pass through the links of the chain and into holes in the floor. The stays take the weight of the gate so the soldiers at the capstan can relax until a dragon passes through the strait. When that happens—are you getting this?—a horn will sound outside. Then the stays are removed, and the gate is lowered again.”
Through the numbness that had seeped into Karmel, she registered that Veran still meant to go through with the plan. In spite of the numbers they faced, he would still go through with it. And in doing
so drag her with him through Shroud’s Gate, most likely.
“We’re not waiting for that horn, though,” Veran continued. “We attack as soon as the stays are lowered. First you go for those two.” Beardy and Baldy again. “I’ll cover the door.”
Karmel made no response. The priest began repeating his instructions, only to break off as the officer crossed again to the cabinet and closed its doors.
The priestess had stopped listening anyhow.
He doesn’t trust me.
CHAPTER 12
AT MAZANA’S side, Senar entered the gatehouse of the titan fortress. The light was as somber as stone, and when the Guardian looked behind he saw the sunshine streaming through the open gates was held back by a barrier of chill gray air. Powerful sorcery seeped from the walls—the same sorcery that had defeated the attempts of Senar and a handful of other Guardians to punch through the gates of the titan fortress in Karalat two years ago. Memories of that day came back to him: shoving Luker Essendar aside so he could be first up the ladder to the battlements, arrows flitting through an evening sky shot through with bronze, Taluin shamans in the citadel chanting as they whipped their followers into a frenzy of bloodlust. Senar had lost the two missing fingers of his halfhand in that Shroud-cursed fortress.
Ahead the Guardian made out a group of soldiers, sixteen in all, dressed in uniforms with the emblem of a fiery wave on their breasts. The soldiers wore fish-scale armor and were armed with spears as well as the swords scabbarded at their waists. Across from them were four figures, and Senar’s expression tightened as he caught sight of Greave among them. With the champion was the Everlord Kiapa, together with a man and a woman Senar recalled seeing at Mazana’s house. The man was squat and thick-jawed, and he wore a bearskin cloak and carried a butterfly-bladed ax. The woman was taller and broad-shouldered, and her slanted eyes glittered blood-red.