by Marc Turner
Was that so far from the truth, though?
The emira said, “Well, well, what have we here?” She scanned the Gilgamarian party, her gaze lingering on Balen before shifting back to Agenta. “Of all the people we expected to encounter this day, you were among the last.”
The kalisch’s voice was flat. “You failed, Emira.”
“To dispose of you, you mean? And yet by coming here you have been gracious enough to give us a second chance.”
“You don’t deny it, then? That the Icewing was attacked by Orsan at your command?”
“Would you believe us if we said otherwise?” Pernay leaned across to whisper something to Imerle, but she motioned him to silence. “We confess, we are curious how you survived the wave and made it back here so swiftly.”
“Your betrayal was foreseen. My ship, the Crest, was on hand to rescue us.”
“But from the absence of your father we assume it did not come quickly enough.”
For a heartbeat Agenta could not speak. Cracks began to open in her resolve.
Farrell came to her aid. “The game is up, Emira. Dutia Elemy Meddes, Karan del Orco, Gerrick Long: all survived. They know the role you played in the attack on the Icewing.”
“Then why are they not here now?”
Farrell ignored the question. “When the survivors return home, word of what happened to the Icewing will spread. Soon the whole of the Sabian League will know of your treachery.”
“Assuming, of course, those survivors make it off the island. The dragons may have something to say about that, don’t you think?” Then to Agenta she said, “We owe you a debt. By bringing the Icewing’s passengers to Olaire, you have made the task of rounding them up so much simpler.”
“And how do you propose to show your thanks?”
Imerle gave a thin smile. Then she gestured with one hand.
The ceiling collapsed.
Agenta flinched as the sea plunged down. Beside her, Balen threw up his arms.
And the water stopped.
The ceiling of the throne room had transformed from a smooth, glassy plane into a misshapen convex dome with threads of water hanging down like stalactites. Droplets fell from those stalactites as if they were made of ice. Agenta saw in Balen’s gritted teeth what it cost him to hold the sea in place. Imerle’s expression, by contrast, was cool, even sleepy. She cocked her head to inspect the young water-mage.
Then fires kindled in her eyes.
Water began to pour from Balen’s face. He sank to his knees. Within moments his robes were drenched. He seemed to age before Agenta’s eyes, the flesh of his face melting away even as his skin grew ashen and wrinkled. His lips vanished, his nose withered, black bags formed beneath his eyes. He doubled over, clutching his head in his hands.
Agenta’s hackles rose. The emira was drawing the water from his body. Soon he would be nothing but a dried-up husk. She spun to face Imerle. “Wait! We can still deal!”
“And what is it you have to offer us, Kalisch?”
“You talk of hunting down the Icewing’s survivors, but there are sure to be some who escape your clutches. And once word gets out that you attacked your own flagship, it won’t take long for people to realize that you were behind the sabotage of the Dragon Gate. If I were to support a different account of what happened on the Icewing—”
“Agenta,” Farrell cut in.
“Quiet!” Then to the emira, “If I were to support a different account—I, who lost my father on the ship—would that not take the sting out of any accusations leveled against you?”
Imerle’s gaze bored into her. The kalisch met it without looking away. To her right Balen’s breath was a rasp, while to her left she heard Farrell shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Imerle glanced at the merchant. There would be hurt in his expression, Agenta knew, perhaps even anger at the kalisch’s betrayal, but she couldn’t afford to let the sensitivities of her companions distract her. All of her attention was focused on the emira. There was suspicion in Imerle’s eyes, but there was calculation too. Would the emira believe Agenta’s proposal was genuine? Would she trust in the kalisch’s silence enough to take the deal that was offered?
Imerle drummed her fingers on the arms of her throne, then looked at her chief minister.
It was the opening Agenta had been waiting for. Her right hand snapped forward, and the throwing star she’d been holding went whistling through the air. The throw went straight for the emira’s sternum over the heart. Pernay shouted a warning, but it was too late—
There was a clang of metal on metal, and the star fell to the ground.
Agenta stared at the executioner’s sword now shielding the emira’s chest. Somehow the giant had drawn his blade and brought it down to intercept the missile. Now he returned the weapon to its scabbard and settled back into his relaxed stance, his gaze fixing on nothing.
Agenta cursed.
Points of color appeared on Imerle’s cheeks, and the smile she directed at the kalisch was glacial. Then her smile faded as her eyes flickered to something over Agenta’s shoulder.
Behind, footfalls sounded.
* * *
Kempis was beginning to think he should have stayed behind in the flooded corridors. How in the Sender’s name had it come to this? He’d joined Mazana’s party in the hope of finding Sniffer, but instead he had walked in on something that smelled as bad as the Untarian’s fishy breath. To his left the Gilgamarian water-mage knelt in a puddle as if he’d pissed himself. Sparks were coming off his flint-eyed female companion, and Kempis was guessing the throwing star on the floor near Imerle hadn’t been dropped there by the emira. Evidently the different factions here were intent on spilling each other’s blood to see whose ran the bluest. To cap it all, Imerle was staring at Kempis like he’d just suggested a tumble behind the thrones. He realized how it must look to her, him standing among the ranks of Mazana Creed’s followers.
He shuffled back a pace.
The emira turned her attention to Mazana Creed. “Mazana, what a pleasant surprise.”
“We need to talk.”
“You wish to discuss the terms of your surrender?”
Jambar said, “Emira—”
“Silence.”
“Emira, listen to me!” the shaman continued. “I know who the stone-skins are and why they are here. I know what is coming.”
Fires smoldered in the depths of Imerle’s eyes. “What you say is coming.”
“You question my art? I warned you about the assassin, did I not?”
“Because it served your purpose to do so. Just as it served you to lie to us about Senar Sol saving our life, is that not so?”
Mazana spoke to Jambar. “I told you she wouldn’t listen. She doesn’t know what happened in the Founder’s Citadel. She still thinks she is the stronger.”
Kempis’s eyes narrowed. The Founder’s Citadel? How did the fortress fit into all this?
Who cares? he rebuked himself. He should be concentrating on getting out of here alive, not indulging his curiosity in blueblood business. A look round revealed no one was paying him any notice. He retreated another half step.
Jambar’s gaze hadn’t strayed from the emira. “If I thought this was a battle you could win, do you think I would be standing on this side of the room?”
Imerle’s tone was mocking. “What do you propose?” She looked at Mazana. “An alliance between us?”
“You need her,” Jambar said, then glanced at Mazana. “You need each other. Against what is coming—”
“And do you believe for a moment,” the emira cut in, “that she would ever be satisfied with one of these other five thrones?” She gestured to the chairs to either side.
It was Mazana who answered. “Of course not, my dear. But you might.”
“You expect us to step down graciously, is that it?”
“While you still can, yes. All that has taken place today—the attack on Olaire, the disturbance in Dian—can be laid at the door of the
stone-skins.”
“And what of us?”
“You would remain a Storm Lady—take your place in the succession and wait for your time to come again.”
The flint-eyed Gilgamarian woman snorted. “The hell she would.”
Imerle and Mazana ignored her.
Kempis shifted his weight. He didn’t understand half of what was being said, but the smell he’d caught when he entered the chamber was getting worse. If the bluebloods meant to cover up the emira’s part in the invasion, they would want to dispose of any witnesses whose silence they couldn’t rely upon. And since none of those present had any reason to trust Kempis …
The throne room had fallen still. Even the susurration of the sea seemed to fade. Then the emira broke the silence. “Strange,” she said to Mazana. “Just a short time ago we received a similar offer from Caval Flood.”
“You seem to be running thin on allies.”
“What makes you think the answer we give you will be any different from the one we gave him?”
The Storm Lady shrugged. “I don’t.”
Imerle’s cold smile was in marked contrast to the heat in her blazing eyes.
Kempis retreated again. The fuse had been lit, he sensed. The others in the chamber knew it too. The chief minister was sitting forward in his chair, ready to bolt. One of the Gilgamarians—a red-faced man with a shield strapped to his back—was edging to position himself between his flint-eyed mistress and the emira. Skirt’s right hand hovered over his sword hilt.
Then Imerle’s left arm snapped forward. A spear of fire flashed toward Mazana, briefly lighting up the throne room.
In front of the Storm Lady, a curtain of water descended from the ceiling to intercept the emira’s attack. The flames fizzled out with a hiss of steam, and what remained of the curtain collapsed into droplets.
Nobody moved. Had it not been for the curls of vapor rising from the floor, Kempis might have wondered if he’d imagined the sorcerous exchange.
Then Mazana wagged a finger at Imerle.
The room exploded into motion.
The executioner bellowed a challenge and hurled himself at Skirt. Mazana’s bodyguard unsheathed his blade and leapt to meet him. Pernay sprang from his chair and took cover behind it. To Kempis’s left the red-faced Gilgamarian unlimbered his shield and brought it round to screen his flint-eyed kinswoman.
Time to say my good-byes.
* * *
Senar dispatched his male Chameleon foe just as the young priestess’s dagger buried itself in Tali’s left shoulder. Gathering his Will, Senar lashed out at the thrower. The priestess was standing close to the edge of the terrace overlooking the sea, and the blow sent her staggering backward. A futile twist and jerk for balance, then she toppled into the waves.
The impact of her dagger had spoiled Tali’s attack on Caval, dragging the twin’s sword arm down so that her blade missed his neck and scored a crimson gash across his chest. He countered with a backhand cut, but Mili intercepted the stroke, her sword skewering his arm below the elbow. The arm spasmed, and Mili’s weapon was wrenched from her grasp to go skittering across the terrace. She responded by unleashing a kick that caught Caval under the chin and lifted him from his feet. He hit the ground hard and rolled a few paces before coming to a halt. He lay still, most likely unconscious. Or perhaps he just had the sense not to come back for more.
Sheathing his sword, Senar crossed to join Tali. The priestess’s dagger was embedded below the twin’s collar bone, and its hilt when he seized it was sticky with blood. He looked at Tali. She nodded. From the resignation in her look she knew what pain was coming, but it wasn’t as if they could leave the knife in her. Gripping her shoulder with his halfhand, he tugged the blade clear. Tali screamed and sagged into his arms. Senar looked down on her blond scalp. Another woman in his embrace, yet they never seemed to stay there for long. Blood was oozing from her wound onto his shirt. He pushed her upright, then raised her right hand and pressed it to her injured shoulder.
“Keep pressure on this.”
Tali nodded a second time, trembling as if with cold, yet the touch of the sun was so fierce it had already started to dry Senar’s clothes. He crouched to tear a strip from the robe of his Chameleon victim for a bandage.
The sound of Mili’s breath hissing out drew him up. He looked round, expecting to see more Chameleons rushing toward them. Mili, though, was staring not along the roof terrace but out to sea.
Senar followed her gaze.
A short distance away the young Chameleon priestess was struggling to keep her head above water. The fins of two briar sharks were approaching from the north, though whether they’d been drawn by the priestess or by the bodies in the palace, Senar could not say. He should extend the same courtesy to the woman that he’d shown to the twins in the flooded passages, he knew. Then he realized it wasn’t the swimmer that had caught Mili’s eye. In the sea beyond her, a flash of red light sparked. A reflection on the water? No, this came from beneath the surface. The throne room. Evidently someone had fought through to the emira, and a sorcerous duel was now taking place under the waves. Mazana? It had to be, for who else in Olaire could stand toe-to-toe with Imerle?
Senar watched the smears of light sway and sparkle, wondering what his next move should be. He turned to scan the terraces. The closest ones looked deserted, but that meant little when there were Chameleons abroad. On the crest of a tiled roof a gray-cloaked soldier was engaged in a wobbling duel with a Storm Guard. The other warriors scattered about seemed in no hurry to resume the hostilities that had been interrupted when the sea came crashing in. To the west three soldiers were making for a rocky shoreline beyond the palace boundaries. If Senar tried to follow them, would the twins let him go? After the business with the shark they’d forged a fragile alliance in order to meet the Chameleon threat, but he still wasn’t entirely comfortable having Tali at his back now, injured though she was.
Then again, he’d never exactly been comfortable having the sisters at his front either. More to the point, if the emira triumphed here she was unlikely to forget his betrayal. She would send her followers to hunt him down, and how long could he hope to hide from them in an unfamiliar city? Where could he go that might offer him shelter? The Erin Elalese embassy? That would be the first place Imerle thought to look. And even if the ambassador didn’t hand him straight over to the emira, Senar doubted the rules of diplomatic immunity would hold the embassy’s doors against the executioner. Like it or not, his fate was tied to Mazana’s.
He scratched at the stubs of his missing fingers. It should never have come to this. He should have gone with her to fight the emira. Her words from outside the temple of the Lord of Hidden Faces came back to him. I don’t need any of you! she’d said. Maybe that was true now that she’d absorbed Fume’s spirit, but Senar wasn’t one to leave his fate in the hands of another. He needed to get in on the fight, and that meant reaching the throne room. If he dived down he might be able to enter the chamber through its ceiling, yet the sorcerous light show was more than thirty paces from the roof terrace. The briar sharks would doubtless close on him before he made it that far.
Movement to the north. When Senar looked across he saw a shadow in the sea beyond the Watchtower at Ferris Point. At first he thought it was a shoal of fish. A big one. Then the water began to boil and bulge as something stirred in the depths.
Senar’s stomach clenched as the head of a copper-scaled dragon burst from the waves—the same dragon, in all likelihood, that he’d seen pursuing the Gilgamarian ship earlier. Sunlight flashed off its head and neck, and beneath the sea its immense body glittered like a jewel. The creature must have spotted the Guardian and the twins for it trumpeted a challenge and surged forward, its neck cutting through the water like the prow of a ship. In front of it rolled a wave an armspan high.
Senar stood his ground.
* * *
Karmel floundered in the sea near the terrace. When she tried to move her left arm, agony
ripped through it. Judging by the pains shooting through her side she must have been charged by a lederel bull, yet when she looked back at the terrace all she saw were the twins and their black-haired companion.
A lump came to her throat. Meaning both Caval and Foss were down. Doubtless the priestess would soon be sharing their fate if either twin deemed her worth the cost of a throwing knife, but what did it matter? What did anything matter?
My brother is dead.
Just then she heard an all-too-familiar trumpeting behind. She twisted round to see a horned copper head burst from the waves. No, it can’t be. Higher and higher it rose, until it seemed to Karmel as if the dragon’s head must brush the wispy clouds. It was still several hundred armspans away, but the gap was closing. If it hadn’t seen Karmel already, it surely would when it neared the terrace.
Her pain forgotten, she turned and kicked for the seawall.
What would she do when she reached it, though? The terrace was too far above her for her to pull herself up, and it wasn’t as if one of her enemies was going to offer her a hand. She could activate her powers to make herself invisible to the dragon. That would mean stilling her movements, however, which in turn meant finding something to hold on to that would keep her afloat. Aminex’s corpse bobbed in the water to her left. If Karmel used him as a buoy, though, she might find herself devoured by the dragon if it came looking for easy meat.
That left swimming down to the arched doors and reentering the palace. Drawing in a breath, she prepared to dive.
But she hadn’t reckoned on the wave created by the dragon’s coming. The sea swelled beneath her, and she was lifted up and over the lip of the terrace to bump and roll across its flagstones. Her hands grasped for something to slow her rush. In vain. She fell headfirst into the courtyard beyond, cracking her skull on stone.
Blackness rose to claim her.
* * *
As Kempis turned to flee, his eye was caught by movement in the wall of water behind the Gilgamarians.
He blinked.
Far off in the sea, a shape moved toward the chamber. A shark, perhaps? No, it was too big. Bigger, he realized with a start, than the wreck of a galley he could make out on a reef to the east. As it drew nearer, Kempis saw sunlight glinting off scales. A shoal of fish? But then what were the twin globes of golden flame that suddenly kindled in the deep?