The Art of Hunting

by Alan Campbell

‘No.’

  ‘Motivation,’ another tried.

  ‘Yes,’ Hu said.‘Motivation. They need to know what happens to cowards in my army.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Briana cried. ‘You need us on your side, Hu. Can’t you see that? You need me.’ As she said this, she broadcast a message to every Guild telepath who might hear it. Hu has seized me and turned against the Guild. Send help to the Imperial palace in Losoto. ‘What about all the Unmer you have here in Losoto? Who will guard them?’

  ‘I released them.’

  Briana’s face fell. ‘Released?’

  ‘They sailed for Awl this morning.’

  Briana was dumbstruck. ‘You think that’s going to save you? A token gesture of conciliation? Do you really think Marquetta will forgive you for all the years of enslavement?’

  The emperor strolled around the map table and came up to Briana. ‘I see no harm in preparing for all eventualities,’ he said. ‘If the Unmer leave us in peace, then we will not pursue them. Otherwise my combat psychics will be ready and waiting. And they will stand firm, Miss Marks. They will fight or they will suffer the same fate as their leader.’

  Her throat felt dry. ‘What are you going to do to me?’

  The emperor smiled. ‘I’m going to have you leucotomized, of course.’ Then he laughed suddenly, and turned to address the others. ‘The Unmer must appreciate the irony of that.’ This statement provoked a smattering of laughter and nods from his guests.

  ‘Please,’ Briana said. ‘Don’t do this. I can help you.’

  Emperor Hu turned back to her, his eyes still wrinkled with mirth. Briana searched his expression but she could not find a shred of pity in there, only defiance and triumph. ‘You will serve me better as a symbol,’ he said. He waved to one of the Samarol. ‘Do it now.’

  The blood drained from Briana’s legs. Her heart froze.

  The Samarol to her left slipped a nine-inch blade from the loop in his belt. In some dulled corner of Briana’s brain she registered it as one of their famous seeing knives. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Don’t.’

  The other bodyguard seized her neck in the crook of his arm. His free hand clamped her forehead. She watched his companion step forward and press the tip of his blade against the innermost corner of her right eye, angled upwards into the brain.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said.

  She felt her body go completely limp with terror. Had the emperor’s men not been supporting her, she would surely have collapsed to the floor. And just as her thoughts began to reel she found she had no more time to think.

  She felt pressure in her eye and watched the Samarol push his gauntleted fist forwards, sliding the full length of the knife up into her brain. Liquid coursed down her face. She tasted blood.

  There was a moment of confusion, while she tried to remember how she’d hurt herself. She sensed heavy pressure behind her nose. They were holding her firmly. Her face was wet so she must have been crying. And then she remembered that they were severing the two lobes of her brain, so she really ought to remain very still in case they made a mistake. She felt the knife moving up and down next to her eye. More liquid – blood – streamed down her face. The vision in her right eye went dark.

  And then the warrior in the wolf’s head helmet withdrew the blade. Briana felt a surge of welcome relief. There were people all standing about her, looking at her. She recognized the powdered face of Emperor Hu. There were other men who could only be warlords. And servants.

  ‘Should we put the eye back in?’ Hu said.

  Was she crying?

  Briana touched her face. It was wet. Her fingers came away bloody.

  ‘How do you feel?’ the emperor asked her.

  Briana stared at the blood on her fingers. ‘I’m hurt,’ she said. And then she realized that everyone was still looking at her. She smiled shyly. ‘What happened?’

  The emperor’s eyes glimmered. ‘You were ill,’ he said. ‘But we’ve fixed you now.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘You know,’ the emperor said, ‘I think I might follow your advice after all.’ He turned to an old man who was wearing an Imperial naval uniform crusted with medals. ‘What do you think, Admiral? Should we strike them at sea?’

  The old man moistened his lips. ‘A splendid idea, Your Highness.’

  Port Awl’s shipwrights had completed their repairs to the Haurstaf man-o’-war, Irillian Herald, and there remained no trace of the damage Ianthe’s father had caused. She was moored against the dock, her gilt brass fittings as bright as sunlight and her red dragon-scale hull shining fiercely on the crystal-green brine. The water was so calm and clear that Ianthe could see three former harbours down below the current wharf and the ruins of old stone buildings along what had once been the waterfront. Paulus took her hand and led her up the gangway onto the midships deck.

  Sailors were busy with a system of ropes and pulleys, loading crates of provisions and stowing them in the hold. A young man walked past with a goat in his arms and smiled at her. Ianthe thought she recognized him from her journey here with Briana Marks.

  They climbed some stairs up to the quarterdeck and entered the wheelhouse – a hemisphere of Unmer duskglass – where Ianthe was surprised to find Captain Erasmus Howlish conversing with Duke Cyr.

  Howlish was tanned and wore his black hair in a single long plait. He had sailed under Briana Marks for years, and his easy manner and broad grin implied he was just as comfortable sailing under his new Unmer masters. The man had been a privateer, Ianthe supposed, and therefore used to selling his allegiance. She could still see the raised white lines across the back of his hands where the Haurstaf had once applied their whips.

  ‘Your Highness,’ Howlish said.

  Paulus acknowledged him with a nod. ‘How soon until we leave?’

  ‘Half an hour, if it suits you.’

  The young prince nodded. ‘That’s fine.’ He turned to Duke Cyr. ‘And how have your own negotiations gone, Uncle? Do you have everything you need?’

  Cyr smiled and bowed. ‘As we had hoped, Highness.’

  Howlish glanced between them, a trace of unease on his brow. ‘We stowed the crated cargo as the duke instructed – on the cannon deck and the powder stores,’ he said. ‘Away from perishable supplies and the crew bunks.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Will it require any . . . special attention?’ Howlish added.

  The prince wafted his hand. ‘Rest assured, Howlish,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing in those crates but a few artefacts rescued from the palace cellars: objects that should make our passage somewhat easier.’

  ‘Weapons?’ Howlish asked.

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Howlish waited a moment, but when it became apparent that the prince had no intention of elaborating, he turned to Ianthe and added, ‘Miss Cooper. Do you have news of the whereabouts of the Ilena Grey?’

  This was the ship on which Paulus’s people were sailing from Losoto. News that Emperor Hu had released the Unmer from his ghettos had come from one of the palace psychics – a pretty girl named Nera, who had so impressed the prince that he’d brought her along on this journey as his personal seer. Ianthe still felt uneasy about this assignation, but was ill placed to speak out against it. Her objections would only be seen for what they were. Jealousy.

  ‘We shall locate the Ilena Grey once my fiancée has rested,’ Paulus said. ‘We have both endured a rather arduous and jarring carriage ride and need to freshen up.’

  Howlish nodded to one of his officers, who stepped forward to escort them to their cabins.

  Ianthe found herself in Briana Marks’s old cabin, with its opalescent walls and floor dusted with crushed pearls. Bereft of all furniture but the bare minimum, it reminded her of the stark simplicity of the operating rooms and recovery wards in the Haurstaf palace. Monastic – that was the word. Briana had undoubtedly intended the décor to be restful, but it left Ianthe feeling uneasy. It felt as cold and lifeless as the grave and she
was bothered by a unsettling sense that she was trespassing. Briana had been decent to her on that last voyage. Now there was nothing here except painful memories.

  As it would not have been seemly for Ianthe to share a bedchamber with her fiancé, Paulus and Cyr had been allocated their own cabins at the front of the warship, as had Nera.

  They had brought servants with them. Ianthe’s maid, Rosa, was a young Evensraum girl, no doubt chosen for the connection with Ianthe’s homeland. And yet despite their common heritage, they rarely spoke. Rosa unpacked her clothes and put them away and then bowed and left. Ianthe didn’t even know where the girl slept. And now that her curiosity had been piqued, she thought about slipping into her mind to find out.

  But she didn’t.

  Using her talents to perform espionage in a time of war was one thing. Spying on the staff was something else altogether. And spying on her prince?

  The day she did that would be the day their love died.

  She thought of Nera suddenly. And in a moment of jealousy she wondered if the girl had been chosen entirely for her telepathic ability. But then almost as soon as the thought had occurred to her, Ianthe felt foolish and guilty. She pushed all such corrupting ideas away. She was going to be a queen, after all.

  Soon the anchors were raised and the sails lowered and the Irillian Herald slipped out of Port Awl on a stiff northwesterly breeze.

  No sooner had they cleared the harbour than Paulus sent a message, telling Ianthe to meet him in Duke Cyr’s cabin. A few minutes later she was knocking on the cabin door.

  Nera opened the door.

  Ianthe blinked with surprise. Paulus and his uncle were hunched over a table under the window. Just why exactly did they need a psychic present? She tried to smile at the girl. Nera smiled shyly in return, her cheeks dimpling. She flashed perfect white teeth. Her blonde hair shone like silk. Her blue eyes sparkled. Ianthe hated her.‘I know we haven’t really spoken yet,’ Nera said. ‘But I’m sure we’ll become good friends on this trip.’

  Ianthe nodded. ‘I’m looking forward to that.’

  ‘Ianthe,’ Paulus said, beckoning her over. ‘I’ve something to show you.’

  She wandered over to the table and found that he had laid out four ichusae – the sorcerous little sea-bottles that were the source of all brine. The glass from which they were formed was old and woozy and each had a copper stopper jammed into its mouth. She looked up at Paulus, only to find him smiling.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  She glanced at the bottles again, but this time they held her gaze as suddenly she realized they weren’t ichusae at all. Only one of them was actually filled with brine. The others held different things entirely.

  In the first she perceived a tiny flickering light. As she peered closer, she saw that it wasn’t a flame or any such glow from a wick, but rather a miniature pulse of forked lightning. She reached towards it, but then hesitated. ‘May I?’

  ‘Be my guest,’ Paulus said.

  Ianthe lifted the bottle and stared into it. She could see a tiny cloudscape in there – dark vaporous forms rolling over each other. Lighting flickered between them, illuminating the underside of the clouds. ‘It’s a storm,’ she said.

  ‘Rather more than that,’ Duke Cyr said.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’

  Paulus exchanged a glance with his uncle. ‘Think of them as a wedding gift to us,’ he said.

  ‘From Fiorel?’

  He nodded. ‘Look at the others.’

  Ianthe replaced the storm bottle and then picked up the next one. This phial held an inch of inky liquid at the bottom – brine, she supposed. Floating on this brine was a tiny model of a ship, no larger than her thumbnail. She had never seen such wonderful craftsmanship. Every last detail of the ship, from its three masts, to the glass in its portholes, was perfect.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ she said.

  ‘Look at the third bottle.’

  Ianthe complied. The third bottle also contained liquid, but this was clear and completely filled the space inside. Floating in the liquid was a maggot. She frowned and put the bottle down again. ‘I’m not so keen on that one,’ she admitted.

  Paulus laughed.

  The fourth bottle held nothing but some sort of yellow gas.

  ‘What are they for?’ Ianthe asked.

  Duke Cyr cleared his throat. ‘We don’t yet know. But Fiorel presented them to me in this specific order and told me to open them whenever I felt that we required assistance. The storm bottle must be opened first, followed by the ship, and so on.’

  Ianthe examined the bottles again: the storm, the ship, a maggot, and the gas. She looked up at the prince’s uncle. ‘You brought these back from a dream?’

  He nodded. ‘In which I met my patron.’

  ‘What does he look like?’ she asked.

  The old man huffed. ‘Well, that usually depends on whatever mood he’s in. At the moment he has a penchant for snakes. It is not the most relaxing form to be in the presence of.’

  Paulus took her arm and walked her past Nera, and she realized he was leading her towards the door. ‘I can stay,’ she said. ‘I don’t have any other plans.’

  ‘My uncle and I must discuss strategy,’ Paulus said. ‘You’d only find it boring.’ He smiled. ‘And we would not wish to disturb your search for Conquillas or your father.’

  From then on, Ianthe kept mostly to her cabin. She tried repeatedly to find Conquillas, hurling her consciousness out across the oceans in search of him, skipping from the mind of one dragon to another. She spent whole afternoons flying with the great serpents, thrilling at the rush of the wind on their faces, breathing in the bitter fuel-oil stench of their exhalations. But the dragon lord was nowhere to be found. It was as if he had vanished from the face of the world. Her persistent failure began to dishearten her, but Paulus’s optimism never wavered. His support for her was unerring. You’ll find him, he said. I trust you. Lately her beloved had been spending a great deal of time with his uncle Cyr. When they were not pondering the significance of Fiorel’s bottles they were going through the artefacts they had brought with them from the Haurstaf palace. On several occasions she heard strange mechanical whistles or saw queer lights coming from the gun deck at night. She restrained her curiosity by priding herself on the fact that she did not know what was going on.

  So Ianthe kept herself to herself. She read from some of the books she’d brought from the palace. Her literacy had improved considerably since she’d been able to see through her own eyes, rather than piggy-backing the minds of others. Paulus had given her a fine gold chain for her lenses, to prevent her from losing them. He had also showered her with jewels and rings taken from the palace coffers, although if she was honest she considered them to be rather vulgar and so only wore those in his presence. But the chain was different, more personal somehow.

  They sailed south-east, taking advantage of the prevailing westerlies, but soon the weather changed and a storm came hurtling down on them from the north. The Mare Verdant frothed and churned, the waves looming like hillocks of tar behind the portholes in Ianthe’s bedroom. But she was long used to the sea and had witnessed more violent weather. The booming and crashing of the ocean, the creak and roll of the hull – it all felt strangely exhilarating to her.

  The storm continued for two days and was still raging when they reached the dragon nesting grounds of Carhen Doma. That evening she stood with Paulus and Cyr in the Irillian Herald’s duskglass wheelhouse and watched the huge serpents soaring over the rocky cliffs and the partially submerged temples. Doma was much smaller than the Dragon Isle and had been abandoned by men even before the seas began to rise. The leaden clouds brought an early gloom to the scene, and the dragons filled the air with fleeting and murderous shadows. Rain lanced down and drummed against the wheelhouse panes while out in the distance spume exploded against stacks of black rock. The sea around them heaved like liquid coal, but in the west th
e dying sunlight suffused and pierced the storm and turned both cloud and brine to flame.

  The duke watched with hooded eyes. ‘Our presence here will be reported to Conquillas,’ he remarked. ‘He will see that we move to Losoto, just as we have claimed.’

  ‘You expected an answer from him?’ Paulus said. ‘Here?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Cyr said. ‘He knows Doma lies on our route.’ He was silent for a moment, and then his lips drew back and he smiled and pointed up to the tumultuous heavens. ‘Could this be it, I wonder?’ He turned to one of Howlish’s officers. ‘My cloak. Goggles. Come,Your Highness. And Howlish, bring your men.’

  To the west Ianthe could see a vast winged silhouette turning against the fiery clouds. It had broken away from the main group of serpents and was now bearing down on them.

  Paulus hurried into his storm cloak and face mask and pulled a pair of brass navigator’s goggles over his eyes. Howlish and two of his officers did likewise. Ianthe glanced at Cyr, then back out at the approaching dragon, and then she grabbed her own cloak and wrapped it around her and hurried after the departing men.

  Outside, the wind shrieked and almost blew her across the quarterdeck. She could smell the sea all around her, the bitter tang of metal salts, but also the clean rain driving against her skin. The ship was pitching heavily, ploughing deep into ocean troughs and then rising to burst through the crest of the waves. Storm clouds thundered overhead. Pale blue lightning flickered in the north.

  She slipped on wet timbers but grabbed a support rope lashed to the deck hatches and pulled herself after the others, reaching them just as they clambered up the steep stairs onto the foredeck.

  From here she had a clear view of Carhen Doma – its cadaverous temples rising from that black and stinking ocean, roofless, their gables broken and battered by brine and spray, mullioned windows gaping. Whale bones and shark bones and the bones of seals lay mounded and glistening under cliffs of wet and rotten stone. Cold gales shrilled. Sunset lay in a red line across the western horizon, a hot wound in the burgeoning darkness, but the clouds above it were dark and copper veined and monstrous. Against these flew the dragon.