Beyond the Pool of Stars

by Howard Andrew Jones

  Ivrian gratefully dug in. He’d finished off the bird and nearly half the soup, seasoned with lime and filled with chunks of tender crab, before the white-haired fellow entered the room. Ivrian wrestled himself to his feet.

  “There’s no need for that,” the man told him, voice heavy with dignity and age.

  Ivrian bowed. “You are a priest of Iomedae.”

  “And also uncle to Gombe.” The older man stepped closer, and Ivrian noticed for the first time that he walked with a limp. He was clothed like a colonial, in tailored pants and a shirt, but wore a colorful red-and-yellow vest, and aged slippers. “From everything I hear, you are a very brave young man.” The priest gripped Ivrian’s shoulders with two powerful hands and pulled him in close. Startled, Ivrian belatedly grabbed the priest’s shoulders.

  “My nephew is so tired from what you have endured that he fell asleep sitting upright, but I believe I understand the gist of the matter. My given name is Onwu, and that is what I wish you to call me. I will join you. Please. Eat.”

  So saying, Onwu pulled out one of the high-backed chairs and lowered himself to the cushion—with some pain, Ivrian thought. After a moment, Ivrian took his seat, his own aches rendering his motion a mirror to the priest’s.

  “I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality, Fath— Onwu. And Mirian is going to be all right?”

  “I have personally tended her injuries. She will be fine, so long as she can have rest. Which you need sorely as well. I need be no healer to see that.”

  A woman he hadn’t noticed behind him passed a goblet Ivrian’s way, then stepped to hand one to Onwu.

  Ivrian drank gratefully. Fermented coconut milk mixed with brandy. Sweet, with a burn at the end. It felt good in his throat.

  “You have a warrior’s soul,” Onwu told him. “To fight sharks. To risk all for your friends.”

  Ivrian shook his head. “There are people, friends, who still need our help. I’ve got to speak with the governor and get them off the Chelish ship.”

  Onwu set the goblet aside. “It is not so simple. You cannot take these treasures you brought to the Icehand.”

  “Icehand?” Ivrian repeated.

  The woman answered, her voice low. “My grandfather means the governor. Ilina Ysande. They call her the Icehand.”

  Ivrian glanced over at her, but in the poor light he saw only a slim figure in one of the long yellow skirts of the Mulaa, a dark-red blouse hanging over a bare and muscular midriff.

  “This is Jeneta, my granddaughter. And she speaks true. The Icehand will take your money. You will have to get it to the baron without her.”

  “And what about our friends?”

  “I’ve looked into it,” Jeneta said. “Three lizardfolk and a single man were sold to the arena by the ship Wayfarer.”

  “How did you find out so fast?”

  “My granddaughter is resourceful,” Onwu said. “But this information was not gained as swiftly as you might think. You were long in the bath.”

  Ivrian put his hand to his head. Fatigue beat at him like a hammer. “Do you know if the man was named Rendak?”

  Jeneta turned her head slowly from side to side. “No one remarked upon him, only that he was a murderer. They recalled the lizardfolk.”

  “Those four are the ones we must ask the governor to free. We don’t have to mention the money.”

  “The governor will not care,” Jeneta said. “It’s unlikely you’ll get them back, particularly if they’ve been judged.”

  “Judged?”

  “Those presented as criminals to the arena are given a chance to explain their case to a ‘judge,’” Onwu explained. “A man who takes a cut from all those brought in for combat. You can guess why he very rarely rules in a victim’s favor.”

  “Then we’ll just pay off this man.”

  “It doesn’t work that way. Once past the judge, any prisoners are auctioned to agents who represent the arena stakeholders. You’d have to track down the agent, or the actual owner, and bribe them.”

  Ivrian was too tired for all this complexity. “Surely there’s some other way.”

  Onwu leaned forward, his dark face grimly serious. “As a priest, I could gain entrance to offer final prayers. But getting anyone out is problematic. No guards would accept bribes to release prisoners, not when the wrath of the arena’s owners would fall on them.”

  “Gombe says you have magics that allow you to breathe underwater,” Jeneta interrupted.

  “Yes,” Ivrian said, a little annoyed by the change in topic.

  Jeneta continued. “A sewer exit drains from the arena and out into the bay. It’s tied to an underground stream. A lot of blood has to be washed out of the arena every week. People have tried to escape that way, but they always drown. With your magic, though, they could live.”

  Ivrian felt the first flash of hope. “That may be our answer. We have two rings that allow the breathing of water. And an air bottle.” He frowned in thought. “Do you know how long the tunnel is?”

  “A quarter mile, perhaps? Maybe longer.”

  “That might be a bit long for the lizardfolk,” Ivrian said. “They can hold their breath for a good long while, but they can’t breathe underwater.” He remembered those eerie green-lit tunnels beneath the ancient city and tried to estimate how long the Karshnaar had gone without surfacing. How far could they swim if pressed to their limit? He couldn’t really guess. “It may be our best chance. Onwu, can you get me in to see them?”

  “I will take you,” the woman declared firmly. She stepped forward, and Ivrian had his first clear sight of her. She was tall and strapping, long-chinned. A bronze headband held back a mass of tightly curled hair from her face.

  There was no missing her determination, just as there was no missing her age. He had been deceived by both her height and her low, sonorous voice. She couldn’t be much older than sixteen.

  Tired as he was, Ivrian’s patience was razor thin. Still, he managed politeness. “Lives are at stake,” he reminded them. “I mean no offense, Father Onwu, but as head priest you’ll have far more authority than your granddaughter. Won’t you have better luck getting me in?”

  “I will be using my ‘authority,’ such as it is in this snake pit, to find a legal way to free them. If not, I’ll find you a way out of the town. If you must visit them, Jeneta is up to the task. She is a cleric of Iomedae herself.”

  The girl stepped closer and bowed her head with dignity. “You may have faith in me, young lord.”

  Ivrian started to object further, but Jeneta cut him off. “Grandfather, the lord looks as though he needs rest.”

  “I’ve never been more tired in my life,” Ivrian admitted, and it was true—he hadn’t been so weary since he’d stayed up for almost forty-eight hours straight writing sonnets to that damned Varisian actor. What a crashing waste of time.

  “To bed, then,” Onwu said. “May your dreams be blessed. Sore trials lie before you and your friends tomorrow.”

  32

  Death Songs

  Sylena

  The arms of the vendors hawking meat on a stick and candied nuts were so streaked with filth Sylena couldn’t imagine why anyone would purchase anything from the trays they carried. Yet the merchants did a brisk business among the folk in the viewing stands. At least with those who couldn’t afford seats beneath the awnings.

  She’d been in an arena before, but never one quite like this. It was a huge rectangular structure of old stone. Chipped rock benches swept up in stair-steps on its two longest sides, and one of its smaller. The north side was a raised platform that trailed the Sargavan banner down to the tallest of the barred arena gates. Smaller grilled doors were set into the walls beneath the stands at semi-regular intervals. In the early morning light there was little to be seen through them, but Sylena caught an occasional glimpse of some monstrous eye peering out.

  Rajana carried a parasol despite the protection of the sagging crimson awning over their expensive front-row seat. Sh
e didn’t want to risk any stray rays reaching her arms or neck. Sylena had sneered inwardly the moment her elder sister opened the pretty little thing, but she’d refrained from comment.

  Her sister and her smug Garundi bodyguard had been unaccountably quiet all morning.

  She addressed Rajana with forced cheer. “How many people are there in Crown’s End? I can’t possibly imagine how much money it must have taken to build such an arena. It must usually be empty.”

  Rajana’s left eyebrow arched, and she answered coolly. “Perhaps you failed to notice the age of the stone.”

  Sylena masked her embarrassment with a smile. “This was here before the settlement?”

  “Yes. A temple compound, long abandoned. Some accommodation was made in converting it to an arena.” An idle hand swept toward the barred openings built into the wall across from them. “I understand that some of the pens were added, and the images of savage gods removed.”

  Sylena strove for pleasant blandness, her eyes roving over the stadium. “It’s hard to believe the crowd could be gathered so early.”

  “It’s hard to believe any of us are here so early, isn’t it? I’d not expected to have to be here at all, sweating under this ridiculous awning.”

  Sylena bit back a rejoinder. Rajana didn’t have to be here. Her sister worried that Rendak or the lizardfolk might somehow jeopardize their cover in Sargava, despite Sylena’s assurances to the contrary.

  The more she’d thought about it, the more she realized her only real mistake had been Kellic. Seeing as how she hadn’t told Rajana about her plans for him, Rajana could hardly count that as an error. “That’s not fair, Sister. We earned plenty of gold for the lizardfolk and the human—”

  “A few purses is not ‘plenty,’” Rajana corrected. “And selling any of them to the arena, especially a human, was simply stupid. I can’t believe it didn’t occur to you to search their belongings! Anything carried by Galanor’s son or the salvager could have been used to scry the location of their bodies.”

  “Under fathoms of water,” Sylena corrected. “And we don’t have any salvagers.”

  Her sister spoke through gritted teeth. “A king’s ransom—no, a kingdom’s ransom—is lying on the ocean floor! I could have found a way if you hadn’t thrown their luggage into the water! You’re an idiot.”

  “I don’t think you realize the challenges I’ve been under.”

  Rajana’s eyes narrowed. “Praise Asmodeus that my superiors know the challenges I’m under, working with you. The little you’ve brought back will probably be enough to pay our extra expenditures, providing I make the right connections back in Cheliax.”

  “Two bags full of treasure,” Sylena countered.

  “One of which holds mostly strange carvings, and the other unreadable writing of a useless race. To get any worth from them I’ll need to find a collector.”

  “I think you miss the point, Sister, and are unduly harsh. I thoroughly wrecked the salvager mission, and Lady Galanor and her son are dead. And that money they found will not go to the Free Captains. That was the most important goal. Our superiors should be pleased.”

  “They may be content,” Rajana said. “Perhaps enough to let us leave this place for good. I, for one, will be pleased when that day comes.”

  A trumpet blast sounded.

  Sylena, Rajana, and the rest of the crowd turned to face the musician standing on the platform atop the fourth wall. He lowered the trumpet with a flourish and made way for a corpulent colonial in a shiny blue shirt.

  The newcomer grinned and spread his arms. “People of Crown’s End and visitors, I bid you good morning!” His voice boomed through the arena. “We’ve quite a spectacle planned today, starting with a very special treat! Your friends will wish they’d gotten out of bed early like you when they see the savage frillbacks who’ll be facing one another any moment!”

  The crowd stirred, clearly unused to drama in the early slots, which were usually given over to executions. Sylena’s heart raced as Rajana turned with burning eyes.

  “You said,” Rajana said with slow deliberation, “that this Rendak was scheduled for execution first thing.”

  “That’s what I was promised. Believe me, I’m very upset about this. Do you want me to get up and complain?”

  “To whom?” Rajana asked icily.

  The crowd muttered excitedly as the announcer elaborated on the ferocity and cunning of the frillback warriors they were about to witness in a bitter battle to the death.

  The trumpeter stepped forward to blow another fanfare, and then two lizardfolk were forced into the enclosure by the lash of whips. The spokesman continued to stress the untamed savagery of the imminent conflict.

  Sylena was too disciplined to sputter, though she very much felt like doing so. Why weren’t the human prisoners being introduced first?

  Fortunately, the announcer’s next words put her at greater ease. “These two will battle to the death, and then the winner will be set loose against the prisoners!”

  “Ah.” Sylena smiled. “You see, it’ll all work out.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Weapons were thrown out from behind the grills, the clack of axes upon swords just audible over the rising bloodlust of the hundred or so spectators scattered through the stands. This early in the morning there were many empty seats yet.

  It was the two smaller frillbacks they’d released first. Kellic had told her the one with the smaller snout was a female, although there were no obvious gender differences. Neither wore anything but a long loincloth that hung almost to their knees. Their frills were fully extended, and they stood near one another. The male raised his arms and called out to the people in the stands, saying something about injustice.

  “Excellent,” Rajana said. “He’s bound to mention you soon.”

  But the first was silenced as the second threw back her head and began a strange chirping, warbling song. The other’s head sank, along with his frill, and he plodded toward the weapons.

  “Let’s get this going!” a man shouted from higher in the stands.

  Now the frillback handed a sword off to the singer and began a melody of his own. Their songs sometimes clashed, sometimes met in weird harmony.

  It was certainly peculiar, and diverting enough that the catcalls briefly died down.

  An old woman in the awning beside theirs put hands to her mouth and shouted: “We didn’t come for frillback opera!”

  Roars of laughter swept through the viewers, and the announcer cried out to the frillbacks that neither would live unless they got to the fight.

  “It’s always disappointing when someone underperforms, don’t you think?” Rajana asked.

  33

  Song and Sword

  Mirian

  She was tired, so very tired, but when Ivrian shook her awake, Mirian’s eyes slid open, and she wondered briefly whether she were alive or dead.

  Concisely, sharply, the writer conveyed all that had transpired, leaving her little time to marvel over her miraculous survival, and less time to formulate a proper thanks.

  Ivrian shook his head at her mumbled gratitude. “I only did what you would have done for any of us, and done better. I’m sorry I lost your ring.”

  “A ring I thought already lost.” Mirian sat up. “Do we still have both wands?”

  “We do. And the haversacks with most of the gemstones.”

  She took stock of her surroundings for the first time. She’d woken in a narrow room with a high window. Wooden carvings hung on all the walls, though the gloom beyond the lantern light rendered all but the nearest indistinct.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” Ivrian said. “He tried to save you. Honestly, you’d probably be dead if not for him.”

  She nodded glumly. In the end, Kellic had proved less than she had hoped and more than she had feared. How was she going to tell their mother?

  “I’ve got to be honest, Mirian. Father Onwu tells me you’re fully healed, but you look
like you’ve been dragged through hell. I’m not sure this rescue mission is good for you.”

  “You don’t look that great yourself.”

  He chuckled with an ease of manner she hadn’t seen in him a few weeks ago. “I’ve been chewing chalva root. I couldn’t sleep now if I wanted, though I’m going to be down for a while when the effect wears off.”

  “Maybe I’ll do the same.” Mirian threw off the covers and set her feet to the cold, red-tiled floor. She discovered herself in an unfamiliar ankle-length nightgown. “This is the second time I’ve woken to find someone else has dressed me.”

  “This time it was definitely women,” Ivrian said.

  “All the same, I’d rather avoid it in the future. Has any of my clothing survived?”

  “Your blouse was ruined. Our hosts have donated another. And some footgear that will probably fit. Oh, and some for Rendak.”

  It was hard to believe this confident person was the same one she’d left the harbor with. “It seems you planned ahead.”

  “I knew better than to think you’d stay behind when your people were in danger. Rather,” he said after a brief pause, “your team.”

  “No one gets left behind.” The memory of Tokello dropping into that churning water was overlain by Lady Galanor chewed in half by the drake. Swept by anguish, she closed her eyes and prayed to her ancestors for calm. At least the gods had seen fit that she not witness Kellic’s death.

  When she opened her eyes, she found Ivrian rubbing a hand back through his hair. It was an unguarded moment, and there was no missing the fatigue and grief etched there. She wasn’t the only one who’d suffered loss. She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

  He flashed a smile that showed even teeth. He’d grown gaunt in the last weeks.

  “Come.” Mirian pushed to her feet.

  Garbed in the white-and-gold robes of Iomedae, driven in a coach emblazoned with the sigil of the warrior goddess’s sword, Mirian, Ivrian, and tall, spare Jeneta left for the arena. The golden tropic sun swept up over the ocean and threw long shadows before them.