by Marc Turner
Karmel frowned. “Your last captain? I’d have thought a man of your distinction would command his own crew.”
The Rubyholter’s smirk wavered. “Eh?”
Caval raised his hands in a placatory gesture. “Ignore my sister’s barbs, friend,” he said to Scullen. “She likes to make her suitors work for her affections.”
Karmel gave him her “not impressed” face, but her brother was all innocence.
“Your sister?” Scullen said with a wink, his good humor restored. As if seeing the competition trimmed by one had somehow guaranteed his conquest. “Travel with her a lot, do you?”
“Until someone takes her off my hands.”
Karmel bit down on her tongue.
A gust of wind made the sails crack and set their shadows rippling across the deck. After the heat of Karmel’s cabin, the breeze on her face was welcome. It struck her that the Grace’s pace had quickened. Evidently the ship’s water-mages were keen for the vessel to clear the Rent as soon as possible.
Scullen leaned on the rail beside her. “One thing I’ll say for the Rent—least there ain’t no monsters lurking ’ere like those you find sniffing round the Isles. You heard of the Dragon’s Boneyard, petal? Creature there’s been known to take bites out o’ dragons.…”
Karmel stopped listening. Bites out of dragons, indeed! The book about the Isles that Caval had given her had been full of such stories, and each one more preposterous than the last. It was all just a smokescreen, she suspected, along with the tales about shifting currents and hidden cliff-top defenses. Nothing but propaganda to dissuade the Isles’ neighbors from trespassing on their territory. And Scullen’s presence on board was just another part of the myth. As if the Grace needed a guide to escort it through the Isles! True, there were only a handful of safe passages through the maze of islands that made up the Outer Rim, but after you’d sailed through them once, what was to prevent you coming back the same way after? Or making a chart of the route for others to follow?
“How long before we reach the Isles?” she said to Caval, talking over Scullen.
Again it was the Rubyholter who answered. “A turn of the glass to the Outer Rim. Another six before we get to Bezzle.”
“Only six?” Caval said.
“Aye,” Scullen said, still looking at Karmel. “Plenty of time for us to get to know each other.”
Her brother nodded gravely. “You’re a man of hidden depths, I’m sure.”
Karmel paid them no mind. Her gaze had been snagged by a smudge on the horizon—a smudge that was resolving itself into the sails of another ship.
“That’s a barquentine,” Scullen said, following her gaze. “See how it’s square rigged on the foremast, and fore-and-aft rigged on the main and mizzen?” He touched her shoulder, and she shrank away. “You’ve no need to worry ’bout pirates, though, petal. That there standard”—he pointed to the green flag he’d had the captain hoist below the Grace’s own—“tells anyone looking that I’m on board. Won’t get no trouble from Rubyholt ships while I’m about, that I can promise you.”
“Assuming the barquentine is another Rubyholt ship.”
“What else could it be? Ain’t no one fool enough to risk sailing these ’ere waters without our say-so.”
Karmel thought back to what Mazana Creed had told her about the stone-skin fleet, but said nothing.
* * *
Senar strode along the corridor at Mazana’s side. The sea was a whisper behind the wall to his right. Ahead he saw the executioner along with the priestess of the Lord of Hidden Faces, and Senar struggled against the instinct that he had seen the woman before somewhere. He shifted his gaze to the man standing behind and to one side of Romany. The Erin Elalese messenger. Senar knew all of the emperor’s Circle by sight, but this man wasn’t one of them. He was of a height with the Guardian but stockier, and his nose was so crooked it seemed to lie flat against his face. His clothes were all black, and he wore a heavy cloak ill-suited to the Olairian heat.
Perhaps Senar should have felt some sense of comradeship toward a fellow Erin Elalese, but the man was probably a Breaker, as well as a friend of the emperor’s. And any friend of Avallon’s was no friend of Senar’s.
Two Storm Guards hauled on the doors leading to the underwater passage. They swung open to reveal a wall of water that receded at Mazana’s gesture.
Senar followed her into the deep.
In the throne room, the Guardian took up a position to one side of the thrones. Mazana sat in the chair right of center, and the executioner and Romany stood behind her. At this early hour, the steely-blue walls of water gave off a palpable cold, so Mazana set the ceiling rising. The stretch of sea overhead grew thinner and brighter until the chamber opened out onto the sky in a wash of shimmering light. A fish slow to escape the vanishing waves flopped onto the floor at the feet of the Erin Elalese messenger, who had halted a short distance from Mazana’s throne. He looked at it before flicking it with a foot into one of the walls of water. His expression showed nothing, but there was something in the set of his features that told Senar he was determined not to be overawed.
The battle lines were being drawn early, it seemed.
“Emira,” the stranger said. “My name is Kolloken Kanar. Avallon Delamar sends his greetings.”
“And in some style too,” Mazana said, looking him up and down.
“When I left Erin Elal, I thought I’d be delivering this message to Imerle Polivar.”
“You still can, if you like. We’ve got her head on a spike around here somewhere.”
Not a hint of a smile touched the messenger’s lips. “I hear you’ve done away with the Storm Council. That you alone now speak for the Storm Isles.”
“For someone who’s just arrived in Olaire, you are remarkably well-informed.”
“When I got in last night, I stopped by the Erin Elalese embassy. The ambassador filled me in on what’s been happening.”
“Including the rumor about Cauroy Blent, I assume.”
“He may have mentioned it.”
Mazana’s smile was warm, but there was an edge to her voice. “Remarkable coincidence, no? That the rumor should surface the same day you arrive.”
Kolloken shrugged as if her implication had sailed over his head. “Shit happens.”
Senar cleared his throat. “I am Senar Sol, a Guardian from the Sacrosanct.”
The messenger turned his gaze on him. There was no surprise in his expression, but Senar’s presence in Olaire was doubtless one of the things Kolloken had been briefed on by the ambassador.
“You came here by boat?” Senar asked.
“How else?”
“Where from?”
“Gilgamar.
“So you’re a water-mage.”
“No, but my traveling companion was. A man called Jelek Balaran. Maybe you’ve heard of him, eh?”
Senar had, of course. Jelek was the most powerful water-mage in Avallon’s employ, perhaps the most powerful in all of Erin Elal.
“Where is he now?” Mazana said.
“Back in Gilgamar, I expect.”
“He left you stranded here?”
“For a short while only.” Then, “Emira, word has reached the emperor of what happened in Dian on Dragon Day, in particular the part played by the Augerans in sabotaging the Hunt. He asked me to pass on his commiserations for those who died.” He paused. “But in your case, I’m guessing the commiserations aren’t needed, eh?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“Of course not.”
Senar stared at Kolloken. The man’s tone bordered on insolence. Plainly the emperor’s hand wouldn’t be strengthened if his emissary were seen to come before Mazana on bended knee, yet still the messenger must be close indeed to Avallon to risk antagonizing the emira like this.
Kolloken glanced at Senar before looking again at Mazana. “I assume the Guardian has told you about Erin Elal’s history with the Augerans.”
“If
you mean the bit where they slaughtered you and drove you into the sea, yes.”
The messenger didn’t rise to the provocation. “As you might expect, Avallon is curious to know what brings the stone-skins to these parts. And after what happened on Dragon Day, he’s assuming you feel the same.”
“He wants to discuss an alliance?”
“He wants to discuss where our interests lie in common. And what we can do to move them forward together.”
Senar saw an opening. “Has Erin Elal been attacked?”
“No.”
The Guardian studied him. The man’s tone left no room for misunderstanding, but could Senar trust his word? Avallon’s best chance at securing an alliance with Mazana lay in convincing her that the stone-skins were targeting the Storm Isles, and that line wouldn’t wash if Erin Elal had already been hit. “Did the emperor know the Augerans had returned before they showed their hand on Dragon Day?”
“You’d have to ask him that. I’m only a humble messenger.”
Mazana said, “Does Avallon claim to know what the stone-skins’ next move will be?”
“They’ve already made it.” Kolloken left a pause for their interest to peak. “A group of Augerans is meeting with the warlord of the Rubyholt Isles. We don’t know what they’ll be talking about, but I reckon it’s safe to say they won’t be swapping honeyfish recipes, eh?”
If the man had expected a reaction from Mazana, he would be disappointed, for Jambar had long since warned her about the Augeran expedition. That was why she’d sent the Chameleons to Bezzle. “You think the stone-skins are going to use the Isles to launch a strike at the Sabian League?”
“Seems likely.”
“Indeed? As I keep reminding Senar, the Augerans are your people’s enemy, not mine.”
“Right. Maybe one of their commanders held his map upside down on Dragon Day and thought Dian was a part of Erin Elal.”
Senar said, “And maybe you rushed all this way for an audience with the emira out of concern solely for the Storm Isles’ fate.”
Kolloken did not respond.
When Mazana next spoke, there was a smile in her voice. “The emperor is suggesting a council, I take it. When? Where?”
“At Gilgamar. A delegation left Erin Elal the day after I did, heading for the city. It should arrive there today.”
Gilgamar again, Senar thought. “Who’s leading this delegation?”
“Tyrin Lindin Tar.”
“Not Avallon himself?”
Kolloken looked at Mazana. “The emperor sends his apologies. He would have come if he could.”
“Of course,” the emira said. “He has a war to prepare for, after all. Now, unless there was something else…”
And just like that, the man was dismissed.
For a moment Kolloken held his ground. Mazana hadn’t given him a yes or a no to his invitation, but he clearly knew better than to press her, because he gave a curt nod by way of farewell.
The executioner escorted him back the way he had come.
“Such a charming man,” Mazana said after he was gone. “And such an eloquent speaker too.”
“He’s a Breaker, most likely,” Senar said. “One of the emperor’s new military elite.”
“I thought that was the Guardians’ role.”
Senar made a face. Did she want some more salt to rub in with that? “Then you are three years late in your thinking. In another three, the Breakers will have replaced us entirely.”
“That explains the hostility I sensed between you. You do know you two are on the same side, don’t you?”
Were they? Senar wasn’t so sure. Only a fool would believe there were just two sides in all this. Or that the various factions wouldn’t be maneuvering against each other even as they plotted against the stone-skins.
Someone had to look past the petty rivalries, though. To focus on the common ground, rather than the divisions.
“Who were the others Kolloken mentioned?” Mazana asked. “Tyrin Lindin Tar?”
“She’s the Breakers’ second in command, and one of the emperor’s most loyal supporters. A steady hand. One for the details.”
“I like her already. And this water-mage, Jelek?”
“Jelek Balaran. A Mellikian. Or at least that’s how he appears.”
“Appears?”
“A few years back, one of the emperor’s pet mages—an old man called Enko—contracted some mystery illness and vanished. Most thought he had died. Then three months later, Jelek arrives and slips seamlessly into Enko’s role.”
“You suspect soul-shifting?”
Senar shrugged.
The executioner returned along the underwater passage, and the floor seemed to tremble at his coming. Senar watched him take up position near the priestess of the Lord of Hidden Faces. The priestess … Senar had almost forgotten the woman was there. He couldn’t see her eyes through the slots in her mask. For all he knew, she might be sleeping behind it.
Mazana must have been thinking the same, for she said, “Ah, priestess, you are still here. Perhaps you would honor us with your opinion on all this.”
When Romany spoke, her voice sounded hollow behind her mask. “Do I have to have one?”
“As I recall, it was your Lord, not I, who wanted you here for your counsel.”
The priestess sighed. “Very well. This man Kolloken knows more than he is telling, but that is hardly news to make the gods pause in their bickering. His job was not to answer your questions, but rather to lure you to Gilgamar for this council.”
“‘Lure’? An interesting choice of word.”
“Wasn’t it you who implied Kolloken might have started the rumor about Cauroy Blent?”
Senar said, “You think there might be some truth to the tale?”
“Why not? If Cauroy is alive, he could have struck a deal with Avallon. As part of it, the emperor lures you”—Romany nodded at Mazana—“into a trap at Gilgamar, allowing Cauroy to claim the throne. And in return, Cauroy pledges to help Avallon in the war against the Augerans.”
“But then why would the emperor start the rumor about Cauroy?” the Guardian asked. “What does he gain by doing so, save to warn us Cauroy is out there?”
Romany sniffed. “If Kolloken were here, he would doubtless say the same.”
Senar frowned, sensing a double meaning in her words. Does she think that I argue Avallon’s case? That I am complicit in his schemes?
Mazana swung a leg over an armrest of her throne. “What intrigues me most is how the emperor plans to make me fight his battles for him. Maybe it’s true the stone-skins haven’t attacked Erin Elal yet. But Avallon must think me a fool if he expects me to believe he is not their real target.”
In Senar’s experience, the emperor wouldn’t care what she thought, so long as she did what he wanted. He would use every weapon in his armory to get his way, but if the result was an alliance against the stone-skins, didn’t the end justify the means? If Erin Elal and the League were to meet the Augerans together … “The thing we’re missing here is what the stone-skins are planning next. Why did they arrange this meeting with the Rubyholters? And how does it tie in with Jambar’s warnings about Gilgamar?”
Mazana did not respond.
“What exactly was the threat he foresaw?” Senar pressed.
“There is nothing ‘exact’ about Jambar’s predictions, as you should know. But he was clear that both the Augerans and your people have a part to play in what is coming.”
Senar’s tone was incredulous. “He thinks Avallon will move against Gilgamar? When his own borders are threatened?” He shook his head. “You can’t trust the shaman, Emira, you must see that.”
“Trust?” Mazana spoke the word as if it were new to her. “Ah yes, now I remember.”
“Jambar wants Avallon dead more than he wants you alive. Erin Elal conquered his homeland. He is poisoned by his hatred of the emperor.”
“We can’t all have your objectivity,” Romany muttered.
Mazana chuckled, then raised a hand to forestall Senar’s retort. “This speculation is pointless. Jambar’s visions may be accurate or they may not, but I cannot afford to ignore them. Gilgamar’s canal is the gateway to the Sabian Sea. If either Erin Elal or the stone-skins should control it…”
Senar gave a grudging nod.
There was no need to finish that thought.
* * *
From the shadow of a building on Gilgamar’s waterfront, Ebon studied the wall separating the harbor from the Upper City. It was taller even than the wall encircling Majack, and its guardhouse was manned by a dozen soldiers. Two of them were using their spear butts to prod at the amphorae in a handcart as if they thought the flasks might bite. Over the course of the last half-bell, Ebon had seen twenty people approach the Harbor Gate seeking entrance to the Upper City. All had been turned away, save three. It seemed the owner of the handcart was not going to be the fourth, for he began shaking his fist and screaming insults at the soldiers. Then one of the soldiers pointed up at a collection of withered hands and feet swinging by cords from the battlements above.
That quietened him down in a hurry.
Even as far away as Galitia, Gilgamar’s Ruling Council had a reputation for brutality to its subjects. Judging by the number of body parts on display, it was a reputation well deserved. Ebon had once heard his now-deceased uncle, Janir, complain that beggars in Linnar were mutilating themselves in an effort to improve their takings. There would have been little point to that here, though, where every other man, woman, and child seemed to be missing a finger, an ear, or a nose. A girl in rags caught his eye, so thin she appeared to be made of bone entirely. Her left hand was missing, the stump a mass of puckered red flesh. If Ebon had possessed the skill to regenerate lost tissue, he might have given her back the hand. There was an emptiness in her eyes, though, that hinted at a deeper hurt no sorcery could heal.
He tore his gaze away and looked along the waterfront. Ocarn’s ship was easily identifiable from the black-and-white-checkered Mercerien flag flying from its mainmast. Ebon had tracked the vessel down within moments of arriving at the harbor this morning. The heady rush of elation he’d felt on seeing it had faded when he noticed the damage it had sustained in the Hunt. The mizzen yard was down, the mast itself pitched at an angle, and the stern was hacked and scarred. From the crew guarding the galleon he had learned that Ocarn at least had survived Dragon Day and was now somewhere in the Upper City. Ebon hadn’t risked asking about Lamella and Rendale for fear of arousing the sailors’ suspicions. But if they were alive too, they would surely be with their captor.