Scimitar's Heir

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by Chris A. Jackson


  Dura could not discern a hierarchy among their captors, or even identify a chief or shaman who held sway over the populace. She had seen no one pay deference to another, no badges of office, no signs of authority or organization. How they functioned as a society was a mystery. They seemed to make decisions by yelling at one another until one prevailed, then, strangely, the decision became law. And they argued incessantly. This very morning they had argued about which of the captives would be their next feast. It took a while, but once they had decided, they acted as one, dragging a young man—a bright fellow named Nori, a talented crafter of their primitive dugout canoes—out of his cage to his fate.

  Twenty-two captives remained.

  Tomorrow would be a reprieve; no captive would be taken, slaughtered and eaten. The following day, however, one of them would die. The last thing Dura wondered before she closed her eyes again, was if it would be her.

  Chapter 19

  Predators and Prey

  “We are close.” Ghelfan sipped his wine and tapped the much-expanded map they had created. It covered the table of the main mess aboard Peggy’s Dream three pages deep, beautifully rendered in the shipwright’s elegant hand. Many levels had yet to be charted, but their goal, the Chamber of Life, was somewhere near the center and below where their existing maps extended. He was sure of it.

  “It’s about bloody time,” Feldrin said, and Ghelfan could see agreement in Cynthia’s dark-circled eyes. Fatigue and anguish were wearing her thin, so thin that he doubted her complete sanity.

  “We found inscriptions here, here, and here.” Ghelfan tapped his stylus at three spots on the map in the city’s lowest explored level and equidistant from the center. “All refer to cautions and protocols associated with the Chamber of Life. I believe the chamber itself must be one level below: here.” The area he tapped this time was a void in the center of the map where no patrols had explored—indeed, where no passages delved.

  “All the passages above have either ended or turned along this circle,” Cynthia observed, reaching to scribe an arc with her finger. Her movement jolted Mouse from his slumber on her shoulder and he grabbed onto her hair to keep from falling into her blackbrew cup. The poor sprite was as exausted as any of them, having run messages and joined in the exploration with Cynthia every day. “The chamber must be vaulted, arching up through the levels above.”

  “That is what I surmise as well.”

  “But all those stair hatch things we’ve found along here are closed. The level below’s flooded,” Feldrin said, his Morrgrey scowl firmly in place. His eyes slid sidelong to his wife. “Can you hold the sea back if we have to open one of these doors?”

  “Yes.”

  Her answer was so matter of fact that Ghelfan wondered if she truly understood the question. The forces involved if one of the floor hatches was opened to the sea would be titanic. A chamber or corridor would fill in seconds if she could not hold back the sea. Unfortunately, there was no way to test her abilities; he would have to take her word for it.

  “Very well.” He pointed to a descending stairwell that was marked as closed. “I suggest we try this one. It is closest to this harbor.”

  “Good.” Cynthia lifted her cup in a trembling hand and gulped the cold blackbrew. “We’ll do it first thing in the morning. A small group would be better, since I can’t hold back the entire ocean. Maybe six.” She looked to the shipwright. “You have done more than I intended you to do on this trip already, Ghelfan. If you want to stay aboard the Dream…”

  “I will accompany you, Mistress, if you would allow it. You may have need of me, since any warnings or protocols you find will undoubtedly be inscribed in elvish, and I wish to see the Chamber of Life. It is the chance of a lifetime.”

  “All right, then.” She turned to her husband. “Feldrin, I want Edan along on this. We’re certain to meet up with the mer, and he’s our secret weapon. Would you mind sending word for him? I think we should let him know what we’re up against.”

  “Right.” Feldrin lifted his own cup; its contents were also cold, but distilled rather than brewed, and he drained them in a single swallow. “I’ll get the little firebug.”

  ≈

  “By the nine unholy hells…” Sam breathed, staring up at the floating city. She had first spied Akrotia with the setting sun, looking like a sharp-peaked island silhouetted against a blood-red horizon. During the early hours of the night they had approached, slowly and silently, like a cat stalking a mouse. Now, under the silver moonlight, the city loomed bigger than anything she imagined; she discerned towers, archways and roads, but not a single light shone from any of the peaked windows. Camilla had told them the city was dead, and it seemed she was right. The entire place was nothing but a mausoleum.

  She whispered an order to Uag, tracing a circle in the air with her hand, and the blades of the four long sweeps bit into the water, silently propelling Manta’s twin hulls around the city. Sam climbed the ratlines to the foretop for a broader perspective, peering into the coves and inlets in search of her quarry. They passed two curious harbors, their mouths huge archways, and as a third hove into view from around the bend, she spotted the characteristic masts of the two schooners silhouetted by the moonlight.

  “Starboard rudder!” she hissed down to Uag, keeping her voice low. Sound carried far across water, and the sea witch might have sentries posted. “Turn around. Go back.” She climbed down and grinned at them in triumph. “They’re here! We’ll go back to the first harbor we saw and go in there.”

  “Aye, Capt’n Sam.” Uag grinned back at her, his shark-like teeth glowing in the moonlight. Manta turned until her bows pointed back the way they had come. After a short time, the arch they sought rose ahead of them, silver in the moon’s luminous glow.

  They approached warily; though the city looked dead, gods only knew what might be lurking, watching them from those dark windows. The only sound was the rhythmic swish-splash of the sweeps and the lapping of the lazy swells against the city’s hull. As they neared the arch, mutters broke out among the crew, and the cadence of the oars became less synchronized. Uag spoke before Sam could, ordering them to silence.

  “Slow, now!” Sam ordered as they came abreast of the looming arch. She peered through it into the harbor, sweeping her viewing glass from left to right. Piers jutted out from the low seawalls; it would be easy to get ashore. “Good! Take her in, Uag.”

  “Aye, Capt’n Sam.” Uag hissed orders, and Manta turned until her bows pointed at the center of the gap under the arch.

  Sam stood on the port bow, staring open-mouthed up at the wondrous structure. The arch, a perfect half circle thrice the height of Manta’s masts, was etched with flowing script that glinted in the moonlight. Though clear against the gray stone, the characters were completely foreign to her. As they slid under the arch, she noticed a wide slot cut into the arch’s underside. The arch seemed hewn from a single piece of stone, with no seams except for that mysterious slot. A portcullis, maybe? Thus her eyes were directed up instead of down into the water’s depths as they passed the threshold. Her lapse of attention cost them dearly.

  Sam pitched forward at the same instant she heard the terrible grinding sound of Manta’s starboard hull grounding on coral. The bow pulpit hit her in the stomach, which kept her aboard, and the ship spun around to starboard. As she gasped for breath, she found herself staring down into the water at the moonlit coral reef that she would have seen if she had been paying proper attention. The port-side hull ground to a halt on the edge of the reef as the ship came around, her bows now pointing across the aperture.

  Sam peered into the water and quickly assessed the situation. Good that we were going slow, she thought. It should be easy enough to push off and—Before she could complete the thought, one of the long ocean swells lifted Manta up and dropped her even higher onto the offending reef, leaving the sh
ip high and dry.

  “By all Nine Hells and high water!” Sam pushed off the pulpit and turned to face her crew. They were already on their feet, their eyes wide and white against their dark faces, their features painted with fear. It would be dangerous for her if that fear turned to panic. “Well,” she said in a satisfied tone as she looked around, “that saves us time docking, anyway. Splash the launch, Uag. We’ll go ashore and have a look around.” Perhaps if she played it down, their lack of experience would let them believe her story.

  “But, Capt’n Sam, de ship is on de rocks! We’re stuck! We gotta get her off before she sinks!”

  “Manta will not sink, Uag,” she explained patiently. “I saw this ship being built; she’s strong! Her keels are on the coral, but her hulls are fine. She’ll have a few scratches, to be sure, but we’ll get her off. But we need daylight to do it, so we might as well go ashore now and have a look around.” She fixed him with a level stare, and said her next words slowly and deliberately. “Splash the launch.”

  “Aye, Capt’n Sam.” He spoke to the rest of the crew, and there was some argument, but they finally relented.

  By the time the launch bobbed beside Manta, Sam had dressed and armed herself for the excursion. She doubted she would find Edan tonight, but she could scout their position by moonlight easily enough. There was a wide avenue that seemed to circumscribe the entire city, and she could follow that until she was close, then pick a spot to spy on them. Then it would be a matter of watching and waiting for the right opportunity. When she found Edan, she would rescue him from the sea witch, and they would escape together on the Manta. If Cynthia Flaxal died in the process, so much the better.

  ≈

  *They near the chamber, my love,* Slickfin signed to Eelback. *Today we heard them banging and fumbling around. Noisy, clumsy creatures.* She flipped her beautiful tail, admiring the way the scales glistened and sparkled in the pale light that shone from the ceiling of the Chamber of Life.

  Most of the chambers they had flooded made her uncomfortable, being structured to accommodate landwalkers, not mer, but she liked this one. The domed ceiling arched high and sported an intricate mosaic of glass prisms. Akrotia had been constructed to bring light into this deep chamber, bright during the day, and soft at night, as now. It made her feel as if she swam in the open ocean, with the moonlight filtering down through the sea above her head.

  She and Eelback swam lazy circles around the center of the room, where the Chamber of Life itself rested atop a many-tiered dais. The crystalline structure glittered in the subdued light, like one of the tiny floating jellies that she loved to watch in the moonlight. Fluttering her gills in mirth, she swam into the chamber through one of the four open arches, then out the opposite side. It was inert, now, of course, safe for them to explore. She was no seamage, and had no magic to awaken Akrotia. She flipped her tail playfully, swam back to Eelback, and curled her tail around his.

  *Yes, they come near,* Eelback agreed, sliding his hand down her flank in affection. *When the seamage comes to this place, Akrotia will live again.*

  *And then, my love?* Slickfin shuddered, and a milky substance issued from her underside, at the base of her caudal fin. She flicked her tail and her potent scent wafted through the water. Eelback’s color shifted from light to dark, his broad shoulders quivering.

  *Then, we will populate our new home. And you, my sweet Slickfin, will be the trident holder’s wife, and mother to Akrotia’s first generation.* His hand found hers and he pulled her into a spiraling embrace, their tails flexing and undulating together.

  *Yes, my love,* she signed, her hands fumbling the words through their embrace.

  Then their clinch became even more intimate, and neither could sign. They drifted to the floor of the chamber, each shuddering in the throes of their passion. After a time, a shower of tiny, glistening orbs bathed in a thick, milky fluid fell to the floor beneath them. Slickfin and Eelback floated quietly for a long moment before Eelback finally stirred. He brushed her cheek with his smooth, webbed fingers and signed farewell, then swam out of the chamber.

  Slickfin pulsed her gills slowly in satisfaction, and sank to the bottom of the chamber. Taking the glistening orbs into her mouth, she stored them one by one in the special pouch deep in her throat. There, by the grace of Odea, a new generation would hatch in a few weeks—the first new generation Akrotia had seen in a thousand years.

  ≈

  Huffington snapped awake, one hand on his dagger, the other batting away the light touch on his shoulder. Fortunately, he recognized the wiry ensign with whom he shared a berth aboard the Marie Celeste and stopped short of putting a blade in the boy’s eye.

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to startle you, but—”

  “Morning already?” He levered himself out of the narrow bunk, deciding not to tell the tight-laced young officer just how close he’d come to meeting the gods.

  “No, sir. It’s just the midwatch, sir. Six bells.”

  “Six bells, mid…” Huffington hated the blasted system these nautical types used to tell time, bells and watches and all. Why not just say it was three o’clock in the morning? “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know, sir. Master Upton sent word for you, sir.”

  “From Indomitable?” One look into the youth’s blank face told him there would be no explanation forthcoming. Ensigns didn’t ask questions, didn’t know any answers, and, aside from saluting and calling everything that had two legs and wore a jacket “sir,” didn’t have any redeeming qualities at all that Huffington could see.

  “Very well, then.” He reached for his boots. When the emperor’s spymaster summons you at three in the morning, you don’t ask why. “Thank you, Ensign.”

  “Sir.” The boy saluted, turned on his heel, and left the cabin as quietly as he had arrived.

  Huffington put on his jacket and spectacles, checked his pockets, picked up his satchel and made his way to the deck. There, a burly coxswain and a crew of six sailors waited impatiently at the leeward boarding ladder.

  “You bein’ Mister Huffington, sir?” the coxswain asked, knuckling his forehead half-heartedly, as if unsure if Huffington was worthy of the deference.

  “Yes, I am,” he answered. “And I’m not navy, so you don’t have to salute me or call me anything but Mister Huffington.”

  “Yes, sir. We’s to take you to the flagship straight away. Captain’s orders.”

  “So I heard.” Huffington looked out at the pitch black sea and the smattering of lantern lights, and asked, “You’re sure you can find it?”

  “Oh, aye sir!” The man pointed at one particular array of lanterns among the many. “There she lies, clear as the nose on me face, sir.”

  “Very well, then.” He set the strap of his satchel diagonally across his chest, head and arm through the loop so that there was no way he could accidentally drop it overboard. “Lead on.”

  He boarded the launch and was borne across the ink-black waters with astounding alacrity, straight as an arrow, right to Indomitable’s leeward boarding ladder. Huffington clambered aboard the flagship and was escorted by yet another ensign—this one probably all of thirteen years old—to Master Upton’s cabin. The ensign knocked, two quick raps, and stood with his hands behind his back until the door opened.

  “Mister Huffington, sir,” the youth said with a sharp salute.

  “Very good. Come in, Mister Huffington,” the spymaster said, backing away from the door and waving at one of the two chairs in the small cabin. It was only slightly more spacious than Huffington’s own, though the spymaster did not have to share it with three ensigns. “Please make yourself comfortable. I’ve got blackbrew, or I can call for tea if you prefer. We have a great deal to discuss.” The spymaster was in shirtsleeves, so Huffington lay his satchel aside and doffed his coat.

  “Uh, n
othing for me, sir. Is there a problem, sir?” he asked, sitting in the indicated chair and eying the room with practiced scrutiny. Papers were stacked in neat piles on the little folding table. In the bright lamplight, he could see that one stack was the packet he had handed over three days before.

  “Problem? I daresay there is always a problem, Mister Huffington, and usually more than one. Such problems are the reason people like you and I have a profession. We are solvers of problems.” Upton poured steaming blackbrew into a cup and lightened it with milk, which surprised Huffington. Evidently, Admiral Joslan’s rank warranted such luxuries, and Indomitable was large enough to accommodate a cow. Huffington wondered if the admiral knew that Upton was nicking his private stores. “As to a particular problem, no. Need there be?”

  “The hour, sir,” Huffington explained, nodding to the dark porthole.

  “Why, what is the…” Upton fished a pocket watch from the jacket that hung next to his chair and flipped open the cover. “Well, it is late, isn’t it?”

  “Late?” Huffington could not suppress a little cough of laughter. “Er, I would call it early, sir, but…”

  “Well, nevertheless, here we are, and we may as well discuss your particular situation while we have a moment to ourselves; less chance of curious ears.” Upton sipped his blackbrew and nudged the stack of papers that Huffington had delivered. “You will find, I’m sure, that the hour of the day or night, or even the day of the week or month, has little to do with the duties of our profession.”

 

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