by Marc Turner
A burst of laughter brought her back to the present. She looked left to see four guards squatting over a pair of dice in the shadows of the gatehouse. One carried a fish-spine sword with a scrap of leather round the hilt. The others had scimitars pushed through their belts. Looking up at the battlements, Amerel glimpsed another guard with his feet propped up in a crenel, a battered straw hat tipped over his eyes. Two of his companions were exchanging obscenities with someone outside the fortress. The rest were slouched in what little shade was afforded by the merlons against the dizzying afternoon sun.
And to think Talet had said he wouldn’t be able to smuggle Amerel into this place. She could have ridden through the gates on the back of a unicorn, and the guards wouldn’t have spared her a second glance. Perhaps a change of plan was in order. Even if Dresk brought in extra men this evening to greet the stone-skins, a few more loafers on the wall wouldn’t constitute a challenge to a determined party crasher.
Getting out of the fortress after she’d assassinated the Augeran commander, though, would be a good deal harder than getting in.
No, she would stick to plan A.
The fortress’s bailey was fifty paces across, and the air above its flagstones shimmered. One of those flagstones near the center had an inscription carved into it, the words of which had faded to leave scratches like ribbon scars. Amerel pictured the stone-skins arriving at the guardhouse. Their route to the hall would take them close to the flagstone, but since Noon—waiting with his crossbow in the brothel’s window—wouldn’t be able to track their progress, he’d need a signal to tell him when to shoot. That signal would come from Talet, stationed in the highest window of the Great Hall’s remaining tower.
Crossing to the engraved flagstone, Amerel rose into the air until she could see the brothel’s window. She moved toward it, drifting past the battlements and over the marketplace, before turning to find some point of reference that would help Noon aim. There: a vertical crack snaking down from the parapet, filled with chokeweed. The height of the wall was such that Noon’s bolt would have to skim the top if it was to drop in time to strike a target in the yard. But perhaps he could adjust the shot’s trajectory to give the missile more dip.
Once it was past the wall, the rest would be up to Amerel.
There would be two chances for a killing strike—the first when the stone-skin party crossed the yard on arriving, the second when it returned from the Great Hall. Two chances, but Amerel wouldn’t let that blind her to the odds of success. The Augeran commander would be vulnerable for only a moment as he reached the flagstone before passing out of range again. Then there was the risk that Noon’s bolt might be blocked by a Rubyholter on the battlements, or by one of Eremo’s kinsmen in the yard. Did it matter, though, if a stone-skin other than the commander was hit? If the Augerans thought they were under attack, they would doubtless lash out first and ask questions later. It just needed one of them to go for a weapon, and the mood in the yard would slide into the Abyss.
Amerel smiled as she flashed back to her body. With luck, this would be the shortest alliance ever to defile the annals of history.
CHAPTER 5
SWORD IN hand, Senar pounded through the palace corridors in the direction of the fighting. The sharp retort of steel reverberated off the walls. As he crossed an intersection he almost collided with a female servant coming from the left passage. There were more servants gathered in the corridor ahead, and they flattened themselves against the walls at his approach.
Ever since Mazana’s betrayal of Elemy Meddes, Senar had been expecting an attack on the palace. In the aftermath of Dragon Day, a fragile truce had developed between Mazana’s forces and those Storm Guards still loyal to the dutia. But that truce had ended with Elemy’s disappearance. With Jambar’s help, Mazana’s mercenaries—the Revenants—had started hunting down the rebels, but they had yet to break the back of the insurgency. Just yesterday, a Storm Guard raid on the harbor had left seven mercenaries dead, and one of their ships ablaze. Now it seemed the rebels had struck at the heart of Mazana’s power. It couldn’t be a major offensive, though, because the clamor of metal had resolved into the ring of a handful of blades at most. An assassin, then. With Mazana the target?
Senar careered around the next corner, his shoulder brushing the wall.
Ahead a group of gray-cloaked Revenants was looking through an archway into a courtyard. No weapons in their hands, no tension in their bearings. A little of the tightness eased from Senar’s chest. Matters had to be under control if the mercenaries were content simply to watch from the sidelines. At Senar’s approach, a shaven-headed woman at the back of the group spun round. The sight of the Guardian bearing down on her with his sword drawn apparently wasn’t deserving of a second glance, for she promptly turned away again, uninterested. Must have recognized him as Mazana’s follower to have dismissed him so quickly as a threat.
Yes, that had to be it.
Sheathing his blade, he advanced to join the mercenaries.
The windows in the walls surrounding the courtyard were too high-set for him to look through, so he had to settle for the scant view afforded between the heads of the mercenaries in the archway. In the yard beyond stood a pale-skinned man holding in each hand a flail-type weapon made up of an iron staff with a weight and chain on the end. His face was covered in bruises, and he was stripped to the waist to reveal so many scars on his chest he might have been a joint of meat fresh off the butcher’s block. Across from him was …
Senar blinked.
The executioner?
The giant circled the other man, his weight on the balls of his feet, the silver links of his armor shimmering. With a roar, he brought his sword round in a blow aimed at his opponent’s midriff. The pale-skinned man swayed aside, then skipped forward and countered with a swing that sent the weight on the end of one of his weapons thudding into the threads over the executioner’s stomach. The giant might not have felt it for all the reaction he showed.
Senar tugged his gaze away. If the executioner was here, then Mazana could not be far—
“You tricked us,” said a woman’s voice from behind him.
The Guardian turned to find the twins, Mili and Tali, a step behind him. They wore gray cloaks over their susha robes, and their long blond hair was held up with fish-spine combs. Alas, they hadn’t lost any height since he’d last seen them.
“You tricked us,” the twin on the right said again—Tali, he presumed, since she always spoke first.
“On Dragon Day, you said…”
“… we were fighting the dragon…”
“… in order to draw it away…”
“… from the throne room.”
“But you intended all along…”
“… to go to Mazana’s aid.”
Senar couldn’t decide if their indignation was genuine or feigned. “Ladies,” he said. “You look well.” On Dragon Day, Tali had shed more than her fair share of blood, yet now she looked the picture of health.
“The Revenants have a healer…”
“… a good one.”
“He healed me.”
Senar glanced at their cloaks. “You have joined the mercenaries?”
Tali nodded. “Thanks to you…”
“… we were lacking an employer…”
“… and the attack on Olaire…”
“… left a few gaps in the Revenants’ ranks.”
“Perhaps Mazana will leave us alone…”
“… now she knows we are on the same side.”
Senar was silent, thinking. Was there a message in those words for the emira? Unsurprising if so, considering the way Mazana had moved against the handful of Imerle’s sympathizers who had survived Dragon Day.
He looked into the courtyard again. A stroke from one of the pale-skinned stranger’s weapons was deflected by the executioner’s sword. Half a dozen Revenants were watching the duel from one of the corners in the yard, and they scattered as the tide of battle brought the
combatants close. The giant’s next attack was intercepted by one of his opponent’s flails, the blade tangling in the chain. The pale-skinned man smiled to reveal he was missing his front teeth at the bottom and top.
“Who is he?” Senar asked the twins.
“His name is Twist,” Tali said.
“He is the Revenants’ second in command,” Mili added.
“So why is he fighting the executioner? I’m guessing it wasn’t because of something the executioner said.”
Tali shook her head. “Twist challenges everyone…”
“… he considers worthy.”
“He likes to…”
“… test himself.”
Senar adjusted his shirt cuffs. “And the executioner accepted his challenge?”
“Twist didn’t give him a choice.”
“He knew better than to ask.”
The Guardian looked through the archway again and saw Mazana watching the fight from a terrace across from him. “Why hasn’t the emira put a stop to this?”
“Why should she?”
“She knows Twist’s reputation…”
“… plus she is probably as intrigued as we are…”
“… to know how this will end.”
Senar said, “It will end with someone in a casket.” Twist, most likely.
“Oh, we doubt that, Guardian.”
“The duel is only to first blood.”
Senar watched Twist duck beneath a swipe of the giant’s blade that would have separated his head from his shoulders. “Did anyone think to tell the executioner?”
Tali seemed not to hear. “Twist challenged us, of course…”
“… when we first joined the Revenants.”
“And?” the Guardian said.
“He wanted to fight us singly…”
“… but we only come as a pair.”
“Just ask our mother.”
Senar looked from one to the other. “So you never fought?”
Tali’s smile left him none the wiser. “He will come for you, Guardian…”
“… when he hears you fought…”
“… the executioner on Dragon Day.”
As one, the sisters gazed at the dragon scales emerging from the collar of his shirt. Senar resisted an impulse to cover them.
“Soon, too, before you grow…”
“… a set of armor to eclipse the giant’s.”
Tali raised a hand to Senar’s cheek, and he flinched. “Such a pity,” she said.
“You seem sure the scales will spread,” the Guardian said.
“Have they not…”
“… done so already?”
“Perhaps.” Senar had tried to deny it at the start, but it was becoming increasingly hard to do so as the days passed. In his mind’s eye, he saw them spreading across his neck and face like a copper shadow. How long before they covered his whole body? How long before he was entombed in metal? He looked at the executioner. What a pair he and the giant would make then. And what a spectacle it would be if they ever fought again, each hammering uselessly at the other’s armor until they slumped together finally in exhaustion. “Even if they have spread, the rate of progression is so slow it will take weeks for them to reach my face. Maybe months. Plenty of time in which to find a way to halt their advance, or even reverse it.”
“As you say,” Tali said.
For once Mili had nothing to add to her sister’s pronouncement.
Senar beat a hasty retreat and made for a staircase leading up to the terraces.
Upstairs, Mazana was still standing where the Guardian had last seen her. She was wearing a sleeveless emerald-colored dress that accentuated the green of her eyes. Beside her was the Revenants’ commander, Jodren Labarde, stroking his pointed beard. At Senar’s approach, the man looked round. He’d been saying something to the emira, but he broke off now. The ever-present coral bird on his shoulder spread its wings and twittered. In the distance Senar could hear the low thunder of waves breaking against the seawall.
“Commander,” he said. “Emira.”
Jodren nodded. Mazana ignored him, unable to take her eyes off the duel.
In the courtyard Twist had blocked an overhand stroke from the executioner by bringing the staffs of his two flails together to form an X. Now he danced beyond the range of his assailant’s follow-up. The threads sewn into the giant’s skin were beginning to glow in the heat. Was that Twist’s tactic to defeat his opponent? Keep the executioner at arm’s length until he cooked in his armor?
As good a plan as any.
“You’ve been speaking to the twins, I see,” Mazana said to Senar.
“They’re two of mine now, Emira,” Jodren said. “They signed up after Dragon Day.”
The Guardian kept his gaze on Mazana. “And since the mercenaries work for you, that makes the twins yours as well.”
“And that is why they wanted to talk to you?”
“That, and to offer their commiserations.”
Mazana glanced at the scales on his neck, her expression studiously blank. Then she looked down into the yard again.
You had to admire the woman, the way she kept her emotions in check. To the casual observer, it might almost appear as if she didn’t care.
“We missed you earlier,” she said after a pause. “Our illustrious friend Jodren here wanted your opinion on his latest efforts to track down the Storm Guard rebels.”
Senar shot the man a look. That seemed unlikely, considering how infrequently Jodren had sought his counsel previously. Indeed you could count on the fingers of one hand—of Senar’s halfhand, even—the number of times they’d spoken before. The commander appeared equally confused by the emira’s words.
“I have been at the Founder’s Citadel,” Senar said.
“Have you now?”
“To visit the library there,” he explained. “I hoped to find something about the Augerans.” Perhaps he should have been looking for information about his dragon scales instead, but the trouble with looking for answers was that sometimes you found them. And Senar wasn’t sure they were answers he was ready to hear.
“The Augerans are a part of your people’s history, not mine,” Mazana said.
The Guardian shrugged. “It was a long shot, I admit.”
“And?”
“And I found nothing. But that’s hardly surprising considering the state the place was in.” When he’d opened the door to the reading room, the floor had been scattered with papers that quivered in the draft he brought with him. Their crackle had been the first sound he’d heard since entering the fortress, save for the tread of his boots.
“Someone beat you to the prize?” Mazana said.
The Augerans, was she suggesting? An interesting thought, but there was a simpler explanation. “More likely it was the work of the citadel’s new lodgers.”
“Who?”
Senar shrugged a second time. “The same people who used to live there before Darbonna threw them out, I suspect. I didn’t actually see them, because they took care to stay hidden. And after what happened in the fortress the last time we were there, I wasn’t inclined to go looking.”
“Could they be Storm Guards, Emira?” Jodren said. “The citadel was where a lot of the soldiers crawled to bleed out on Dragon Day.”
Mazana did not reply, her gaze still on Senar. She rubbed her wrists like she’d just pulled free of someone’s grasp. There was a certain expectation in her look as if she knew what was coming next.
“I thought I might speak to Darbonna,” Senar said. “Since I understand you’ve now got her under lock and key.” He’d tried to see the woman earlier, only to be turned away by Mazana’s guards. “No one knows the library better than she.”
There was sweat on the emira’s top lip. Perhaps it was just the sun reflecting in her eyes, but the orbs seemed to take on a reddish tinge.
Senar looked back at her, undaunted. “There seems little point in me wading through hundreds of texts when I don’t even kn
ow what I’m looking for. If Darbonna could confirm there’s something worth finding…”
More silence.
It was broken by a cheer from the courtyard. Mazana looked down at the duelists. “Enough!” she called.
Senar followed her gaze.
And saw the executioner bleeding from a graze on his chin. The emira’s command had been directed at him, for his sword arm was frozen in midswing as he was about to give answer to whatever blow Twist had landed on him. A heavy pause, then the giant returned his blade to the scabbard on his back before settling into his familiar relaxed stance. His gaze fixed on nothing. Twist, meanwhile, grinned like a youngling as he raised his arms to acknowledge the whooping of his fellow mercenaries. He tried to throw a comradely arm round the executioner’s shoulders, but such was the difference in height between them that it ended up falling around the giant’s waist instead.
The executioner looked at him.
Twist hurriedly withdrew the arm.
Jodren was evidently intent on basking in his second’s reflected glory, for he said, “See, Emira! Didn’t I tell you Twist would win? I think you may need a new bodyguard.”
Senar eyed him dubiously. “Your man scratched his chin, Commander. If the duel had been for keeps, Twist would have needed a thousand such hits to win. Whereas the executioner needs to strike only once.”