by Marc Turner
“He tells it right.” Even nine years ago there had been a steel to the youth that had left Amerel relishing their clash of wills. The latest reports from Bezzle suggested he’d lost none of his self-assurance in that time. Ambitious and charismatic, he was said to possess the ability to unite the Isles’ fractured clans in a way his father never had. “Makes you wonder why the emperor has let him live this long,” Amerel said with a pointed look at Noon.
“Is that why you think Avallon chose me to come with you? So I can put Galantas in the ground while you’re charming his father?”
The thought had crossed her mind. “I’ve read your file,” she said. “Lots of gaps in it.” They’d been the most interesting parts by a distance. “Gaps that suggest you’ve been doing a few things your superiors don’t want anyone knowing about.”
The Breaker’s expression gave nothing away. “I’ve read your file, too—”
“I didn’t realize I had one.”
“And I saw a few gaps in there as well. Like the time you disappeared in Kal for five months on a job that should’ve taken as many days. Five months on the run from the Kalanese, and you show up without even a scratch on you.”
“I accounted for all my time in my report to the Guardian Council.” A heartwarming tale of heroism and sacrifice, it had been—a tale Amerel had spent weeks dreaming up. She was thinking of reworking it for the stage.
“There were rumors that you’d gone over to the Kalanese. That you’d betrayed the empire.”
And none as bad as the truth. “Yet here I am.”
“Here you are,” Noon agreed. “Betrayal’s not something new to you, though, is it, Princess? I’m curious, why did you betray the Guardians and come over to the emperor’s side?”
Amerel rolled her eyes. “Betrayal” was such an emotive word. And so ripe with hypocrisy. The First Guardian had flung it at her when she’d dropped by to tell him she was leaving the order. Like he thought it would make her feel guilty. Like he thought she owed him for all the murder and the blackmail she’d carried out in the Guardian Council’s name. And perhaps he did think that, for along with the anger in his look, there had been a hint of hurt and indignation. It was for just such a look that she had gone to break the news to him in person, rather than slipping out the back door as Borkoth had done. In response to Noon’s question, she said, “Maybe the emperor made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right. That’s the problem with you people born with a silver spoon in your mouth: all you can think of is that it should have been gold.”
“What makes you believe it was money that swayed me? Maybe I just didn’t fancy being the next Guardian sent through the Merigan portals.”
“Maybe,” Noon said. “Still, can’t have been easy walking out on the Guardians like you did. Big fish like you. Leading light on the Guardian Council. Architect of the Confederacy.”
“Please, you’re making me blush.”
“Makes you wonder, though. If you can walk out on your friends like that, how quickly might you walk out on the emperor when the squeeze is on?”
Amerel sighed. There was no pleasing some people. If she’d remained a Guardian, Noon would have called her a traitor for opposing Avallon’s will. Yet now that she’d joined the emperor, he was condemning her for doing so?
He was right about one thing, though: Avallon couldn’t count on her loyalty any more now than he could have done when she was on the Guardian Council. Maybe she wasn’t a Guardian anymore—not really—but she wasn’t a Breaker either.
Bezzle was drawing close, and Amerel shifted her gaze back to the city. Overhead, starbeaks circled on the turgid air. Protecting the entrance to the harbor was a line of islets, still smoldering from the fires lit in the run up to Dragon Day to ward off approaching dragons. One of those islets was scarred by claw marks where some beast must have tried to get at the men tending the fires. Along with the smell of charred wood, Amerel caught the acrid tang of dragon blood.
She scanned the harbor beyond. A forest of masts bobbed and twitched like the upthrust spears of some peasant army. On the greasy water, fishing skiffs rubbed shoulders with warships three times their size. Towering over them all was the steel-hulled monstrosity Amerel knew to be Galantas’s flagship, the Eternal—a ship the warlord’s son had claimed after it drifted unmanned through one of the gateways close to this island. Hard to believe such a thing could even float, yet Amerel had heard it was as swift as it was striking to the eye.
Movement caught her attention—a shape emerging from the shadow of the metal-hulled warship. Amerel blinked as she saw a three-masted ship pulling up at one of the quays. Its sails were half-furled, but the Guardian could make out enough of the cloth to see the brightly colored patterns upon them, all intricate swirls and spirals like the weave of an Elescorian tapestry. She looked at Noon and saw he too understood the significance of what they were witnessing. Patterned sails. The ancient Erin Elalese texts were unequivocal on that detail.
That ship—it’s Augeran.
Noon drew in air between his teeth. “Well, well,” he said. “That certainly adds some spice to the pot.”
The stone-skins had gotten there ahead of them.
* * *
Galantas Galair drew up as he entered the Great Hall. The air was heavy with blackweed smoke and the sour smell of unwashed bodies. His father’s krels were already at the table to his right, while Dresk sat slouched in his throne at the end of the room, stroking his braided beard. Magdella was in the chair to his left, his chamberlain, Talet, behind. Of the stone-skins there was no sign. Still on their way up from the harbor, no doubt. But then it wasn’t surprising that they should have taken longer to reach the fortress than a native like Galantas—particularly since he’d told Qinta and Barnick to intercept them, and delay them by whatever means necessary.
He leaned against the wall beside the door, his heart drumming from the briskness of his walk. Dresk was glowering at him through eyes made bloodshot from last night’s drinking. For a heartbeat Galantas thought his father would order him to leave. Apparently Dresk knew better than to try, though, because he kept his silence. Hard to cling to the illusion of authority, after all, when even your own son defied you. Galantas met his glare with a smile, and it was Dresk who looked away first. He’d never been able to hold Galantas’s gaze since that raid when Galantas had taken a sword strike meant for his father. And at the cost of his own left arm, too.
Galantas took in his father’s tousled hair and swollen belly. His face twisted. This was the man who styled himself warlord of the clans? This was the man by whom the rest of the Isles would be judged? Nine years ago Dresk had put down a Raptor insurgency, and for the briefest of moments he’d had a chance to unite the clans under his rule. Instead he’d allowed the old rivalries to fester, while he wasted time chasing girls like the dew-eyed trophy sitting next to him now. And all so he could try to father on them another son to rob Galantas of his birthright—a birthright Dresk had already attempted to bestow on Galantas’s younger brother, Kalim, before Kalim’s untimely death on the Shark Run.
Galantas scanned the hall. The chamber was a mirror to its lord in its lost glory, with its stained rugs and its smoke-blackened tapestries. Mounted in one corner was the skull of a sea dragon, its mouth missing most of its teeth. The eyes of Dresk’s krels gleamed in the gloom. Clamp was there, along with Worrin and Faloman and Karsten Berg. These were hard men, weathered by sun and sea and storm. Men who deserved a better leader than Dresk. Galantas had sailed with them all in his time; his blood had mixed with theirs on the decks of a dozen enemy ships taken. A few stared at him now with the reflected hatred of their lord, but most looked glad to have him here. And why not? The stone-skin messenger hadn’t said why his masters wanted this audience. If their minds were on conquest, they weren’t going to be dissuaded if they thought Dresk was the extent of the Isles’ resistance.
It was more likely, of course, that their coming here was connected t
o Dragon Day. The Dianese governor, Piput Da Marka, had tried to hush up the events around the sabotage of the Dragon Gate. But a group of stone-skinned warriors running amok through your citadel wasn’t the sort of thing you kept under wraps. Trouble was brewing between the Augerans and the Storm Lords. Perhaps the stone-skins had come here seeking allies for that fight, but if so they were going to leave disappointed. Galantas’s people had more sense than to pick a scrap with an empire as powerful as the Sabian League. Besides, the Rubyholters weren’t warriors, they were prospectors. And where was the profit in war? Where was the advantage in disturbing the flow of Sabian trade that was the lifeblood of the Rubyholt nation?
Footsteps sounded along the passage to Galantas’s right. He looked across to see six stone-skins enter the hall. At the front was a huge warrior with swirling golden tattoos on his cheeks. Behind him came a man with spiked hair and a face crisscrossed with scars that made him look like he’d been sewn together from scraps of unwanted flesh. Both Augerans wore red cloaks, as did the four men who trailed after. The party halted a dozen paces in front of Dresk’s throne. For a while no one spoke. Dresk frowned at the newcomers. The Augerans looked about them, taking in every detail of the hall. Finally one of their number—an older man with a receding hairline—stepped forward.
Galantas pushed himself away from the wall and circled to his left for a better view of the proceedings.
“Warlord,” the balding stone-skin said to Dresk in heavily accented common tongue. “It is an honor to meet you. I am Commander Eremo al First of the Augeran empire.”
Dresk rubbed his temples as if the man’s words had given him a headache. “Never heard of it.”
“Nor would I expect you to. My homeland lies beyond the Southern Wastes, hundreds of leagues from here.”
“Then I’m guessing this ain’t a social call.”
Eremo inclined his head. “Allow me to introduce my companions. This”—he indicated the man with the scarred face—“is my mage, Hex, while beside him”—a man with eyes unnaturally far apart—“is my Keeper, Ilabari.”
“Your Keeper?” Dresk said. “Tucks you in at night, does he?”
From the krels came a scattering of laughter and the pounding of fists on the table.
The Keeper stiffened, but Eremo merely smiled. “My people have strict rules when it comes to dealing with other cultures. My friend’s job is to ensure I abide by them.”
“Any of them rules say anything about turning up when you say you will?”
Galantas had heard enough. “Please forgive my father’s ill manners,” he said to Eremo. “Sender knows the rest of us have had to long enough.” He advanced and offered his hand to the Augeran. “Galantas,” he said.
Eremo gripped it. Galantas didn’t squeeze—that would be immature. Plus the other man could probably squeeze harder. He’d expected the Augeran’s skin to be as coarse as the granite it resembled, but it proved no more rough than Galantas’s own.
Eremo took in Galantas’s missing arm, his sharkskin cape, his necklace of shark teeth. Something in his look suggested he hadn’t needed the introduction to know who Galantas was. “A pleasure,” he said. His gaze shifted back to Dresk. “Apologies if my arrival has caught you unprepared. The crossing proved swifter than we expected. If you prefer, I can return—”
“What do you want?” Dresk growled.
The scarred man, Hex, was on the move, capering toward the krels’ table. As he settled into an empty chair, those nearest to him edged back. He crossed his arms on the table, lowered his head onto them … and fell asleep. His snores reverberated around the hall.
Eremo didn’t bat an eyelid. “You have heard, I take it, about the part we played in Dragon Day?” he said to Dresk.
“Nice bit of work,” the warlord replied stiffly. Stiffly, because he’d tried to do something similar eight years ago, and failed.
“How did you pull it off?” Galantas asked.
“Anonymity helped,” the commander said. “At first, the Dianese governor was wary of hosting our delegation on Dragon Day. But the opportunity to impress his guests with a few stone-skinned strangers proved impossible to pass up.” He gave a half smile. “Somehow I doubt the trick will work a second time.”
“Somehow I think you made your point the first. Assuming there was a point.”
The commander regarded Galantas evenly. “You want to know why we targeted the Sabian League?”
The Keeper bristled. “We are not in the habit of explaining—”
Eremo raised a hand to cut him off. “Call it a preemptive strike, if you will. We had reason to believe our interests in the region would make conflict with the League inevitable.”
Interests in the region? Galantas winced. “Sorry. I just felt a sudden pain in my pocket.”
A lone krel banged his fist on the table in approval. Galantas would have to tip him later.
Eremo’s tone remained affable, yet there was a tightness about his eyes that suggested his patience was already being tested. “Let’s cut to the chase. We have unfinished business in these parts, and it is business that cannot easily be conducted across an ocean. We are looking to set up a base in the Isles from which to operate.”
“A military base?”
Eremo nodded.
“You’re going to war with the League?”
“Does it matter who our target is?” The commander looked about the hall. “Are you worried we might strike at one of your allies? Oh no, wait, you don’t have any, do you?”
Galantas said, “There’s a lot of water between not being allied with someone and being at war with them.”
“We’re not asking you to go to war. We’re asking you to help us in ours.”
“A fine distinction. I hope our neighbors appreciate it.” From the bailey outside, the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer struck up. Over it Galantas said, “You see the problem we face, Commander? What happens when you lose this war? What happens when you disappear back across the ocean, leaving us to pick up the tab?”
Some of the krels banged their fists on the table again. Eremo waited for the noise to die down, then said, “We will not lose.”
Galantas pursed his lips, unimpressed. The words had been spoken with an unshakable assurance, but when did an invader ever embark on a campaign thinking it would fail?
Eremo swung his gaze to Dresk. “In addition to a base, we would need free passage through your waters, reliable charts—”
Dresk’s snort interrupted him. “Charts?” He looked at his krels. “Hear that? The man wants charts!”
Laughter greeted his words.
Eremo’s expression was wary. “I suspect your cartographers lack the skill of ours. We have collected more than a dozen different charts of the Isles, yet no two are alike in anything but the most cursory details.”
More chuckling.
Galantas came to the stone-skin’s rescue. “Those discrepancies are deliberate, Commander. Years ago, a neighbor used one of our charts to mount an invasion. Afterward the decision was taken to flood the market with false charts—so outsiders couldn’t tell the real from the fake. Even if you did find an accurate chart, it would be covered in symbols you wouldn’t understand, showing which waterways are passable and which are not.”
Eremo’s glance over his shoulder suggested whichever of his companions was responsible for intelligence would be enduring a testing half-bell when this was over. “Then you will have to explain them to us,” he said to Galantas. “We will also need navigators to guide us through the waterways—until we know our way round.”
“At which point we will cease to be of use to you.”
Eremo ignored the comment. “Of course,” he said to Dresk, “we don’t expect you to give this help for free. Does the sum of fifteen thousand talents seem fair to you?”
Galantas’s heart skipped a beat.
Dresk stared at the commander. The hall had gone still.
“Twenty thousand, then,” Eremo said, a glint in
his eye.
Galantas let his breath out slowly. Twenty thousand talents. More than a hundred million sovereigns. It was an outlandish sum. Absurd, even. With that money Dresk could buy all the ships in the Sabian League, and crews to man them besides. An awed muttering started up among the krels. Eremo was trying to dazzle Dresk with wealth, and Galantas was struggling to see past the glare himself.
Easy giving something away, though, when you intended to take it back straight after.
“This base you mentioned,” he said to the commander. “Where would you put it?”
“That’s something we’ll need to reconsider, since you tell me the charts we’ve been working from are likely fakes.”
“How long?”
“You mean how long would we need the base? Until we have established a presence on … the mainland.”
That hesitation was telling. If he’d been about to say “the Sabian League,” why not just say it? And why spend twenty thousand talents to sail through the Isles to the League when you could sail around them for free, with only a few bells lost? No, the more Galantas thought about it, the more he suspected the stone-skins’ real target here was Erin Elal with its vulnerable eastern seaboard. “And then the base would be decommissioned?”
“Of course. It won’t be much use to us afterward.”
“Enough!” Dresk said to Galantas, but Galantas pressed on.
“How many of your ships would enter our waters?”
The commander cocked his head. “Surely you don’t expect us to reveal the size of our fleet.”
“Why not? You said you couldn’t lose this war. Are we supposed to just take you at your word?”
“Enough!” Dresk said again to Galantas. “Your whining is making my head hurt.” Then, to Eremo, “You said you ain’t from round here. Where’d you get twenty thousand talents from?”
“We didn’t get twenty thousand talents from anywhere. We got one, and produced copies.”
“But still made from gold?”
“Yes.”
“Show me.”
Eremo took a huge coin from his pocket and tossed it to Dresk. The warlord missed with his snatch, but the talent landed in his lap. He inspected it by the dim light. “Where are the rest?”