by Marc Turner
When Loop caught sight of Kempis, he dropped the medal on the floor.
“Report!” the septia said.
“City’s going down the sewer, sir.”
“The docks?”
“Holding, last I heard. The ship of that Thane Tanner guy was still moored when the attack came. Seems there was an air-mage on board, and he downed one of the gray-sailed ships before he got studded like a pincushion. Bought some time, though, for the Storm Guards to sort themselves out.”
Whatever success the soldiers had enjoyed thus far would be short-lived. On the walk down from Kalin’s Hill, Kempis had seen the raiders from the Deeps take the Forge Barracks without a fight. Now the Harbor Barracks was under attack, and if it fell the Storm Guards at the port would find themselves fighting on two fronts. “And you were just off to help them, right?” he asked Loop.
The mage looked down at his clothes, then shrugged. “Wouldn’t want anyone confusing me for someone who gives a shit.”
“This ain’t over for us yet.” Kempis told Loop what had happened in the throne room.
The mage’s tone was incredulous. “You wanna go after the stone-skin? Bugger that. The emira’s finished.”
“Either that or she’s just getting started.”
Duffle spoke. “You reckon she’s behind this, sir? Then why’s she attacking her own Storm Guards?”
“Storm Guards are loyal to the Storm Lords, not the emira. As for whether she’s the one pulling the strings, ain’t no one else stupid enough to try to take Olaire. An invader might conquer the island, but they’d never leave it again while the Storm Lords controlled the seas.” He hawked and spat. “One way or another, the emira will come out on top, you’ll see.”
Loop ran his hands through his hair. “And you’re worried she’ll be pissed if you don’t hunt down this stone-skin?”
“I don’t give a damn about the stone-skin. I’m going after Sniffer.”
“Sniffer?” Loop looked about as if noticing for the first time she was missing.
“She went to pick up the assassin’s trail. Odds are she’ll have tracked the woman to the Shallows.” A while ago Kempis had detected a familiar whisper of water-magic from the south of the city. Strange that the stone-skin had swum round the island instead of finding a quiet cove on the northern shoreline, but maybe she’d wanted to put some distance between herself and the throne room.
Loop frowned in response to his words. “It’s Sniffer’s last day.”
“Yours too, if you like.”
“That ain’t what I meant. Sniffer won’t stick her head where someone’s gonna shoot at it.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about going after her!” Kempis said, his temper rising.
Okay, so Loop was probably right about Sniffer not getting caught up in the invasion. But she’d know that Kempis would have detected the stone-skin’s sorcery, and if she was waiting in the Shallows for him to come and investigate …
Footfalls sounded from the street beyond the Watchstation. It occurred to Kempis that, after the docks and the two barracks complexes, the Watchstation would be high on the raiders’ list of targets, so he was relieved when the footfalls receded. He looked from Loop to Duffle, not liking what he saw in their expressions, but knowing better than to try ordering them to come with him. He’d have preferred not to slow himself down with their company, but if the city had gone to the Abyss, then the Shallows was no place for a Watchman to be wandering alone.
Like Sniffer is now.
Kempis blew out a breath. Truth was, he was tired of putting all his partners in the ground. Before Corrick it had been Pleat, who had lost his head fighting smugglers down at the Jetty. Then there was Jingle, who’d been nibbled on by a shark when he trailed a thief into the Deeps. Afterward, Kempis had had to break the news to the fool’s missus, then say some words over his shroud at the funeral. That was typical of Jingle, though: the man was the other side of Shroud’s Gate, but he still found a way to make work for the septia.
“Look,” Kempis said to Loop and Duffle, “I’m a reasonable man. I don’t want to get drawn into this shit any more than you. We find Sniffer, then we go somewhere quiet to weather the storm, that’s it. Now, are you with me or not?”
Loop exchanged a glance with Duffle before looking at Hilaire’s medal on the floor. Kempis could guess what he was thinking: if the mage hadn’t stopped to plunder Hilaire’s office he might have escaped the Watchstation before the septia arrived. There was a lesson there somewhere, though Kempis was damned if he knew what it was.
Eventually Loop sighed and nodded. “If we’re doing this, we’d best get a move on. There’ll be rain before the bell’s out, mark my words.”
Kempis turned away, pretending not to notice when the mage stooped to retrieve the medal.
* * *
Senar’s duel with Greave had been going on for a tenth of a bell. During that time the Guardian had been content to defend while he analyzed his opponent’s technique. On two occasions Greave had overbalanced when Senar angled his sword to make the champion’s weapon slide off it. If it happened again Greave might find his blade out of position when the Guardian countered, but Senar had learned to expect tricks from the champion, so the next time Greave seemed to lose his balance the Guardian merely feinted to his foe’s midsection rather than going through with the attack.
Greave was already stepping to one side to evade the thrust, and he retaliated with a cut to Senar’s neck.
Senar parried with ease, knowing now that the apparent flaw in his opponent’s technique had been a ruse.
Greave began cursing the Guardian’s luck, his caution, his cowardice. Then, when that brought no response, he started telling Senar what he would do to Mazana if he found her alive after the duel. The Guardian’s thoughts shifted to the Storm Lady. With Cilin injured, she should be able to outrun the soldier if she saw him coming—
Greave roared and delivered a slash of such power it knocked Senar’s parrying blade into the pillar behind. The champion made to follow up the blow, only to check his sword arm midstroke. Senar hesitated, expecting Greave to repeat the tactic he’d used in Mazana’s house when he had thrown his weapon from one hand to the other so as to change the angle of his attack.
Instead the champion’s left hand snapped forward, and a dagger flashed for Senar’s chest.
His first instinct was to block the throw with his Will, and he was therefore late in raising his sword to parry. Rather than batting the knife aside, he could only deflect its course. Fortune was with him, though, for he did enough to spoil the dagger’s flight.
Its hilt thudded harmlessly into his shoulder.
Swearing, Greave renewed his onslaught. Senar blocked three crunching blows, retreating all the while. Suddenly his right heel slipped on the stone fragments on the floor, and he went down. He turned the fall into a dive that took him behind one of the pillars, then slipped again as he tried to rise. The champion was on to him, but Senar swung his sword round at ankle height, forcing his opponent back. He regained his feet in time to meet Greave’s next thrust.
The Guardian blinked sweat from his eyes. That had been too close for comfort, but the slip had given him an idea.
It was time to try a trick of his own.
A high cut from the champion gave him his chance. He dived under the swing, then came up on one knee, his blade darting out toward his opponent’s groin. Greave’s parry was unhurried, but Senar’s attack hadn’t been the purpose behind his maneuver. This time when he’d rolled he had scooped up some rock shavings in his halfhand, and as he lurched to his feet he flung those shavings into Greave’s face.
The champion flinched as the grit struck, turned his head away.
Too late.
Blinded, Greave pawed at his eyes with his left hand. Now it was the champion’s turn to backpedal, and Senar pressed after him to stop him fleeing into the mist. Greave began swinging his sword in broad arcs to keep Senar at bay, but the Guardian
didn’t need to get in close in order to finish this. When Greave’s blade next lashed out, Senar stepped to his left and lunged with his weapon to score a cut to the back of his foe’s right hand. The champion’s sword flew from his fingers and skittered away into the murk.
Greave retreated, then tripped over a white-robed corpse. He hit the floor and let out a stream of curses. His hands searched the ground for his lost blade but closed instead on the shield of one of the dead librarians. He seized it, holding it out before him as he clambered upright.
Senar did not advance. The red solent would already be doing its job, and there were no extra points on offer for killing the champion twice.
Some of the chippings he’d scooped up had stuck to his palm, numbing the skin. He wiped his hand along his trousers, then spun on his heel and strode deeper into the chamber. Somewhere in the mist Cilin was hunting Mazana, and the Guardian wouldn’t stand aside and let her die, even if it meant stepping into the soldier’s path. As for what happened after …
Senar grimaced. “After” would have to wait until he was clear of this place.
* * *
Kempis peered out from a doorway on Flask Street. To his right the road, slimy with mud and fireweed, led down to the sea. Moments ago another quake had shaken Olaire, and the north-facing wall of one of the houses on the waterline had collapsed. Beams jutted from the ruined building like broken ribs. From within the darkness of the exposed first floor, a boy sat watching Kempis.
The septia’s gaze strayed to a familiar partly submerged house. It was covered in the same flaking red plaster he recalled from six months ago. He hadn’t returned to this place since Corrick’s death. He remembered his partner’s blood oozing from his mouth; a crossbow bolt thudding into Kempis’s shoulder; the slap of waves against his face as he swam toward the red house and struggled through a window just above the waterline. Inside, he’d treaded water, sensing his hunters were waiting for him beyond. He’d been lucky to survive, he knew, for the tide had crept in through the window after him, the sea rising first to his ears, then his nose and eyes …
Perhaps, Kempis mused, whatever secret he and Corrick had stumbled onto that day was tied up with this invasion. Perhaps the blueblood they’d followed to the Shallows had been on his way to a meeting with the raiders. The incident was a reminder of what happened when you involved yourself in blueblood affairs, but that wasn’t what Kempis was doing now. All he wanted was to find Sniffer and get out of here. The problem was, the Untarian didn’t use magic, so he couldn’t track her the same way he could the stone-skin. The only chance he had of locating Sniffer was to hunt down the assassin and hope his partner was close by. But while the lingering ripples of water-magic on the air told Kempis the stone-skin had exited the sea in this place, that was quarter of a bell ago. She could be anywhere now. The septia could do nothing except wait and hope she used her power again soon.
Loop and Duffle were getting increasingly twitchy. The mage was muttering something over and over, while Duffle was sharpening his longknife so fervently it was a wonder there was anything left of the blade. If Kempis stayed here much longer he would lose them both, but what was he supposed to do? Wander blindly through the streets and hope he bumped into the stone-skin?
As if I’m that damned lucky.
This was beginning to feel like a waste of time. Kempis didn’t know for sure whether Sniffer had managed to pick up the assassin’s trail outside the throne room. She could be sitting somewhere with her feet up, laughing at him. It wouldn’t be the first time either. On one occasion she’d arranged for them to meet with a snitch in the Shallows, only to stand Kempis up. Half a bell he had waited with the sea lapping at his boots, thinking all the time that someone must have done for her. Just a misunderstanding, Sniffer had claimed afterward when he found her in the mess hall. But the smile in her eyes had said otherwise.
A flicker of water-magic to the west, and Kempis stiffened. The stone-skin.
With a nod to Loop and Duffle, he set off.
Loop hadn’t been exaggerating earlier when he said the city was going down the sewer. The sky was stained with tendrils of smoke, and above the murmur of the sea Kempis heard glass smashing, flames crackling, shrieks, laughter. And not a raider within a stone’s throw, he’d warrant. He took a left into Berry Street. The locals were out in force, looting all manner of stuff they hadn’t wanted yesterday and wouldn’t want tomorrow. Two strangers were struggling under the weight of a sedan loaded with slabs of flamestone. Farther along, three women were using a statue of the Sender as a battering ram as they pounded on the door of a house. Screams came from inside. Kempis checked his stride for an instant, then breathed a curse and continued on. What was he going to do, arrest the whole district? As yet no one had noticed his Watchman’s uniform, and he’d prefer that it stayed that way.
If there was one advantage to this chaos, it was that the air would be flush with necromantic energies. Glancing at Loop he said, “You ready with a blast if we need it?”
The mage inclined his head. His expression betrayed his lack of enthusiasm, but then doubtless he would rather have been joining the looters instead of picking a fight with them.
Ahead a shaven-headed man with scratch marks on one cheek turned into the road from a side alley. He was dragging a young girl by the hair. Her hands were round his wrist, her sandals scrabbling at the cobbles as she sought to gain her feet. Kempis nodded a greeting to her captor.
Then he swung his fist hard, catching the stranger full in the face. The man collapsed, boneless.
“’Scuse me,” the septia said, shaking out his hand.
The girl scampered off.
Kempis turned left into Mount Avenue, then took the next right and halted at the corner of the last building. In front was a square littered with bricks, potsherds, and broken furniture. The sea sloshed at its southern edge. The raiders must have landed in force here earlier, for a handful of boats were drawn up at the waterline, unguarded. To the west a house was on fire, and the wind blew smoke across the square. Muffling a cough with his sleeve, Kempis scanned the windows of the buildings about him. Those at ground level were boarded, while those of the upper floors were empty. If there were people inside, they knew well enough not to show themselves to the undesirables prowling the streets.
“Where’s Sniffer?” Duffle said, his voice tight.
Kempis had been wondering the same himself. Then he caught another whisper of water-magic approaching from the sea.
Showtime, he thought.
Before frowning.
Because the signature of the sorcery was not the same as the stone-skin’s.
* * *
The glow from the torch faded behind Senar as he plunged into the mist. For a moment he considered returning for it even though that might mean another confrontation with Greave. Then far ahead he noticed a glow like moonlight through tattered cloud. With nothing else to guide him he set off toward it, pausing to clean the poison from his sword on the shirt of a dead titan.
For a while the echoes of Greave’s curses accompanied him. Then the noises dwindled to leave him walking in silence except for the crunch of stone shavings underfoot. On the floor was a trail of blood—Cilin’s, Senar assumed, for the septia had been wounded when the Guardian last saw him. A handprint beside two oval impressions in the chippings showed where Cilin had fallen to his knees before clambering upright again. Maybe the soldier’s strength had failed before he tracked down Mazana. Maybe Senar would find his body somewhere ahead in the fog.
Maybe.
A dozen more paces brought the Guardian to another ring of broken pillars. Beyond, the frost-covered ground glittered like a field of silverspark flowers. Senar’s step faltered. There was a … sensitivity to the air here, a prickle he had come to associate with sanctified ground. Could this be a holy site? If so, who was it sacred to? Considering the titans’ ancient enmity with the pantheon, Senar couldn’t see them building a shrine to any god or goddess. Except
to knock it down, perhaps.
His heart skipped a beat as he caught sight of a woman’s body on the ground in front. But it was not Mazana’s. The stranger was wearing a blue robe, and her skull was bulb-shaped, twice as broad at the cranium as at the jaw. A Fangalar. What in the Matron’s name was she doing here? The Fangalar were an elder race that had disappeared from this part of the world centuries ago. Was she the one responsible for the dead titans Senar had seen earlier? The Guardian doubted it, for while the Fangalar’s ability to draw energy from more than one element made them formidable sorcerers, a single mage, however strong, could not hope to match the power of a titan.
A mystery for later.
More corpses came into view—titans this time, maybe fifteen in all—their skins blackened by sorcery, their clothes scorched and torn. One man’s legs were bent at impossible angles; another’s face had been torn away; a third had a hole in his chest the size of a sandfruit. Senar shifted his grip on his sword, scanned the fog all about. What with the attack by the librarians, he had somehow managed to forget the disquiet he’d experienced in the chamber above. Now it came stealing up on him once more, and the sweat from his earlier exertions beaded cold on his skin.
Then he saw Mazana.
Wreathed in mist a dozen paces ahead, she stood facing away from him, her bare arms wrapped about herself. The knot in his chest—a knot he hadn’t even realized was there until now—eased a fraction.
On the ground to Mazana’s right, Cilin lay facedown and motionless, a bloody puncture in the back of his neck. Mazana still held the dagger that had made that hole. She must have recognized the tread of Senar’s boots, for she did not look across as he drew level. He studied her face. The fog had drained both the color from her cheeks and the warmth from her eyes. There was a fierceness in her expression he had not seen before, a determination in the set of her mouth. She was staring at something in front of Senar, and he turned to follow her gaze.