by Marc Turner
When she was done, Caval shrugged. “Another of Imerle’s lackeys, most likely.”
“But—”
“He came from the citadel, yes? How did he get into the control room?”
Karmel thought back. “The door was barred.”
“Ah, and who was watching the door?”
She saw what he was suggesting and shook her head. “Veran was driven off by the guards.”
“Or he let himself be.”
“But the stone-skin fought him while I was unconscious.”
“And yet neither of them died.”
“He broke Veran’s arm! Broke it! That was the only reason I survived when Veran attacked me on the boat.”
Caval shrugged a second time. “I don’t have all the answers. But I know a woman who does.”
“The emira.”
Her brother gave a gap-toothed smile, but there was no humor in it. “Imerle has commanded me to attend her at the palace and to bring the full strength of the Chameleon priesthood.”
Karmel’s tone was disbelieving. “You’re still going to help her?”
“Ah, who said anything about helping?”
The priestess almost found herself returning his smile. Then a thought came to her. Caval hadn’t known about the emira’s treachery until Karmel told him just now, so how could he be prepared to launch a strike against her? “You’ve been planning to betray her all along, haven’t you?”
“Imerle would have turned on me eventually. Better to strike first while she is exposed. As a swordswoman, you’ll know the moment one attacks is also the moment when one is most vulnerable.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“What would have been the point? If you’d stayed in Dian as planned, you wouldn’t have been here to take part in the attack.”
And yet Caval had said the emira had only informed him about the Dianese mission at the last moment. He’d had weeks before that to share his plans with Karmel. “What else haven’t you told me?”
If her brother was aware of the edge in her voice, he gave no indication. “Troops from the emira’s home island have been arriving in Olaire for weeks. This morning they attacked from the Deeps, while a band of mercenaries known as the Revenants attacked the harbor. Some of the Storm Guards have turned to Imerle’s cause, but most remain loyal to the Storm Lords, so if the emira is going to take the city, she’ll need every man she’s got.” His voice was a monotone. “She’s left herself short-staffed at the palace. The Chameleons are to act as her bodyguards for the day—or at least that’s what she thinks.”
“And if you succeed in killing her? How do you intend to hold on to power afterward?”
“Ah, who will take it from me? The Storm Lords? With the dragons released, they’re probably dead by now—or wishing they were. The Sabian League? With so many heads of state killed on the Hunt, the League will be too busy licking its wounds to interfere.” There was a note of resignation in his voice—as if for all his talk of victory, he believed his cause hopeless. “As for the Revenants, with the emira’s gold in my possession I’m sure they’ll accept my orders as readily as they took hers.”
A knock sounded at the door, but both Karmel and Caval ignored it. Karmel studied her brother, wishing she had time to consider all he’d told her. After the shock of discovering Veran had tricked her, her mind was only just starting to function again. And while she felt sure Caval was holding back as much as he was telling her, she couldn’t think what, or why.
There was another knock at the door.
“A moment,” the high priest called.
Karmel said, “You’re going to the palace now?”
He nodded.
“I’m coming with you.” The emira had all the answers, Caval had said. Karmel meant to be there when she gave them.
“Out of the question. When Imerle sees you, she’ll know that I know she betrayed us.”
“By which time it’ll be too late for her. We’ll already be in the throne room.”
“And if one of her cronies should recognize you before we get there?”
Karmel scowled. The more Caval protested, the more she was determined to go. “Ever heard of hoods? Remarkable things.”
“It’s too risky.”
“But it wasn’t too risky for you to send me to Dian?”
“Ah, Dian had a purpose. One more sword won’t gain us anything at the palace, but it could lose us everything.”
Karmel’s voice betrayed her irritation. “It was me in the control room with the stone-skin. It was me Veran tried to kill. I want to hear what Imerle has to say for herself.”
“You don’t trust me to pass on her words?”
“You don’t trust me to hear them for myself?”
Caval held her gaze, then turned away to look out over the city once more. A third knock sounded at the door, but the high priest seemed not to hear it. At the entrance to the Causeway a copper-scaled dragon had attacked the gray-sailed ships stationed there, and a hail of flaming arrows flew out from the vessels’ decks. As Caval watched the dragon sink beneath the waves, he rubbed the shoulder that had been broken by their father. Strangely the sight didn’t touch Karmel as it had three days ago.
Turning, he took a breath and let it out.
Then he nodded his assent.
* * *
Ahead of Senar the palace gates came into view. Twice on the descent of Kalin’s Hill he’d been forced to circumvent roadblocks, and twice he’d lost his way in the maze of tree-lined avenues. The battle for Olaire had obviously not reached this part of the city, for the streets all around were still. The gates to the palace were guarded by Storm Guards—Imerle’s minions, most likely. They watched him draw near with grim expressions but made no move to oppose him.
“Where’s the emira?” he asked as he passed. If the soldiers thought he was going to report to her, they’d be less likely to inform her of his presence.
“In the throne room.”
Inside the palace the corridors were empty but for a scattering of servants. Senar asked one how to find Jambar’s quarters, then set off in the direction indicated, whispering a silent prayer to the Matron that he wouldn’t bump into one of Imerle’s inner circle on the way.
He reached his destination without incident.
As he approached Jambar’s door he took Fume’s bones from his pocket. The shaman’s door was already opening. Jambar stood in the doorway, his gaze fixed on the bloody bundle in Senar’s hands.
Understanding came to the Guardian. “You’ve seen this moment before, haven’t you?”
Jambar looked at him. “I see many things—”
“That’s why you stepped in to save me from the emira when I first came through the Merigan portal. Not because—as you told Imerle—you’d seen me save her life, but because you saw me delivering the god’s bones to you now.” It was only a hunch, but the Remnerol was not bothering to deny it. Jambar reached for the fingers, and Senar withdrew his hand. “I wonder if the emira realizes yet that you played her false.”
“As I’ve said before, all I see is possibilities. Imerle understands that not all of them can come to pass.”
And yet, the information he’d provided to Mazana about events in the fortress had been unerringly accurate. “If she’s in any doubt as to your motives, I’m sure Mazana will be happy to clear up the confusion.”
“You think Mazana and I are allies? We are not. I simply performed a service for her, and in return she performed one for me.” This last was said with a pointed look at the bundle. “Now, the bones if you please.”
Instead of handing them over, the Guardian pushed past the shaman and entered his quarters. Jambar watched him openmouthed, and Senar gave a half smile. For all the Remnerol’s powers of foresight, it was nice to know he could still be surprised once in a while.
Jambar’s room was as the Guardian remembered it: the barred door, the strange smell, the table with its circular wooden board covered with symbols. There
were bones on the board, Senar noticed. He turned to the shaman.
“I have disturbed you in the middle of a reading, I see. Last time I was here, you told me Dragon Day was a blur to you. The dice have been cast. The players are all assembled. Surely the fog must be clearing from your eyes now.”
Jambar closed the door. His gaze flickered to something behind Senar—the board, maybe. “I will be able to tell you more once the god’s bones are in my possession.” He reached for the bundle again, and this time Senar let him take it.
“Perhaps I will stay for your next casting.”
“You wish to know which side will emerge victorious? Would you have me believe your allegiance to Mazana Creed is so fickle?”
“My part in this conflict is done.”
“Then why are you so keen to know its outcome?” His gaze flickered past the Guardian again.
Senar’s eyes narrowed. Something had the shaman unsettled, but when the Guardian looked round he saw nothing except the board with its bones. Was Jambar worried Senar might read something in the bones’ pattern? Or was he anxious to return to a reading interrupted? There was something Senar was missing. Something Jambar didn’t want him to see.
Then it struck him.
The bones on the board were speckled with blood.
Senar’s lips quirked. “It seems I have my answer as to where you draw your power from. Blood-magic, correct? The bones themselves are dead, but blood invests them with an energy you can shape to divine the future.”
Jambar’s expression indicated annoyance, but his slowly released breath suggested Senar had seen only part of what the shaman wanted to hide. Was it relevant, the Guardian wondered, that the bones he’d delivered to the Remnerol belonged to a god renowned for blood sacrifice? Senar hoped not.
“My secret is flown,” Jambar said. “Now, if you will excuse—”
“Where does the blood come from?”
“The blood?”
“The blood on the bones.”
The shaman licked his lips. “From my own poor veins, alas. Such is my devotion to my art. Such is my unswerving loyalty to the ideals of reason and civic duty.”
“Show me.”
“Show you?”
“Show me your cuts, your scars.”
Jambar made no move to comply.
Just then Senar heard scratching to his right. It came from the barred door. And suddenly he realized the significance of the bar being on this side of the door. His hackles rose. Pernay had told him about the servants who had gone missing when they delivered messages to Jambar’s quarters. Now Senar knew what had happened to them.
“Open the door,” he said to Jambar.
“Do not rush to hasty judgment, Guardian. Whoever considers his own failings fairly will find no reason to judge others.”
“Open the door!”
“If you cannot shape yourself as you would wish, how can you expect—”
Senar lashed out with his Will at the bar across the door, and it snapped in two. One half fell to the floor while the other hit the ceiling before cannoning down to strike the ground a handspan from Senar’s right foot.
He crossed to the door and tugged on its handle. Stupid to linger here perhaps, but there were some things you didn’t turn your back on.
The room beyond was swathed in shadow and so hot it felt to Senar as if he were standing at the door to a forge. He gagged at the stench of rot and excrement. Through watering eyes he saw a boarded window on the wall to his left. Beneath the window was a cot to which a boy had been chained. Another figure, a woman, was scuttling away from Senar. She halted in the corner farthest from him, then crouched and pushed herself into the wall as if she were trying to squeeze through the cracks between the stone blocks. The Guardian lifted his hands to calm her, only to find he’d clenched them into fists. The air was alive with the buzz of needleflies.
A footfall sounded behind him, and he spun to see Jambar opening the door to the corridor. The shaman was carrying the board of blood-spattered bones. Not so fast. Senar tensed his Will to close the door in the old man’s face, but Jambar was already halfway through, and the Guardian’s efforts succeeded only in propelling the Remnerol into the passage beyond. The door slammed shut behind him. Senar heard the clack of bones falling to the floor.
Scowling, he strode to the door and wrenched it open. He had no idea what he’d do when he caught up to the shaman. But he’d start by dragging him back by the scruff of his neck, and go from there.
A handful of bones were on the ground before him. Jambar had abandoned them and was now standing ten paces along the passage to the Guardian’s left.
He was not alone, though. With him were the emira’s bodyguards, Tali and Mili. The shaman was gabbling at them in a high-pitched voice, nodding at Senar as he clutched his board and its remaining bones to his chest. He flashed a triumphant look at the Guardian.
Senar raised the heel of his boot and brought it down with a crack on the nearest finger bone. A pity it had not been one of Jambar’s own.
The shaman shrieked and scurried away.
And the twins advanced.
CHAPTER 19
AGENTA HEARD the clang of a crossbow bolt hitting a shield, then a strangled oath as one of her soldiers went down clutching his leg. From a side street came wolf whistles and taunting shouts. Four of her troops, their shields held in front of them, went charging along the passage until a bellowed order from Warner drew them up.
Just as another enemy appeared at the mouth of an alley opposite. Agenta saw him point his crossbow at the four Gilgamarians.
Then the soldiers Warner had assigned to protect her closed in, and her world contracted to the handful of armspans immediately about her.
And to think the expedition had started so well. After leaving the Shallows, Agenta had seen a few scattered groups of warriors, but always at a distance and never of a size to challenge the Gilgamarians. Then, a quarter of a bell ago, the company had turned into a road at the foot of Kalin’s Hill to find their way blocked by pale-skinned warriors in gray cloaks. The strangers had retreated from the more numerous Gilgamarians before splitting into small parties to harry the kalisch’s men with their crossbows. Not once had they engaged the Gilgamarians blade to blade, and not once had Agenta seen an enemy warrior take so much as a scratch. In contrast, eight Gilgamarians had been killed or injured.
“Much more of this,” Agenta said to Warner, “and we’ll have no one left to face the emira’s troops when we reach the palace.”
“The bastards know what they’re doing. I can’t let my men give chase because we don’t know what’s round the next corner. But if I send a large force, we may get separated.”
“Then we must increase our pace.”
“And risk running into an ambush?”
Agenta shook her head. “If these Gray Cloaks are mercenaries, they won’t know the city.”
“They’ll know it well enough to realize we’re heading for the palace.”
“But not well enough to know which route we’ll take. They won’t waste time laying a trap that we could just walk around.”
There was another crash of a quarrel deflecting off a shield. Agenta looked up to see a gray-cloaked crossbowman crouching on the roof of a building across the street. A Gilgamarian crossbow twanged in response, but the enemy had already ducked down.
Agenta located Farrell and waved him over. The merchant’s face was beaded with sweat, and his pink shirt was sodden across his chest and beneath his arms.
“How far are we from the palace?” she said.
“Maybe a quarter … of a league,” Farrell replied between breaths. “It’s downhill from here, though … thank the Lady.”
“How many gates?”
“Three … I’m taking us to … the main one.”
Agenta considered. The main gate was the one most likely to be open, yet it would also be the one most heavily guarded. If the defending force proved too strong, the Gilgamarians could stil
l try the smaller gates, but what if those too were impassable? Would Agenta then retreat to Lydanto’s residence? She grimaced. What would be the point? With the Crest stranded in the Shallows, there would be no leaving the island. And if the emira’s coup was successful, her troops would soon hunt the Gilgamarians down wherever they went to ground.
A gap opened in the shield wall round the kalisch. She caught a glimpse of the soldier who’d been hit in the leg earlier. One of his companions tugged the crossbow bolt free, and the wounded man’s scream momentarily drowned out the sounds of combat to the west.
Agenta sought Warner’s gaze and held it. “If we’re going to make a run for it, we need to do something with the wounded. We can only move as fast as the slowest man.”
Warner spoke grudgingly. “If we break into one of these houses”—he gestured to the buildings to either side—“maybe we can find somewhere for them to lie low until this is over.”
The kalisch did not hesitate. Like as not she would be condemning the men left behind to their deaths, but would their chances be any better if they stayed with the main company?
“Do it.”
* * *
Tali and Mili slunk forward, quick as flintcats, and as alike to Senar now as they had been when he first met them. They halted a dozen paces away. If anything they seemed even taller than he remembered.
He said, “I didn’t realize you took orders from the shaman.”
“We do not,” replied the twin on the right—Tali, the Guardian presumed, since she always spoke first.
“We were sent by the emira,” Mili added.
“To find me?” Senar asked.
“No—Jambar.”
The Guardian raised an eyebrow, then nodded along the corridor behind the sisters. “He went that way.”
“Finding you here…”
“… was merely good fortune.”
Senar crushed another of Jambar’s bones underfoot. “Actually I was just leaving.”
“Without paying your respects…”
“… to the emira?”
“Perhaps we should…”