by Marc Turner
Fortunately, there were lots of places around the Isles where a small boat could lure a larger vessel into peril. One was close enough that he might reach it before those bolts of sorcery reached him.
The Dragon’s Boneyard.
Galantas smiled. If the stone-skins were intent on following him, it seemed only fair that he show them the best sights.
Barnick steered the boat north toward an opening between two cliffs, hugging the inside bend of a curve. The channel narrowed. Ahead the ivory-colored ribs of a dragon rose from the water. Three years ago, Galantas had seen that creature die—or rather heard it. He’d been standing on the cliff at Hangman’s Drop after midnight. He remembered a weight of darkness below him, nothing but glints of moonlight off the dragon’s armor. When it was ambushed by the monster that nested in the Dragon’s Boneyard, its first trumpeting had suggested outrage at its attacker’s audacity. But that trumpeting had quickly turned to squeals as it was overpowered and dragged beneath the waves. Next morning Galantas had seen one of the dragon’s scales at the foot of the bluff. He’d always believed the creatures’ armor to be impenetrable, yet the plate had been mangled like some hedge knight’s shield.
Galantas had come this way only once before—in the Thousand Islands Race three years ago. The race followed a course that crossed the territories of all eight clans. It was hotly contested by the best sailors in the Isles, and the Dragon’s Boneyard had offered Galantas a shortcut that promised victory. Barnick, as a water-mage, had been able to negotiate the channel in relative safety, so in the days before the race he had spent bells mapping out the contours of the strait together with the flooded ruins under the surface. That information had enabled Galantas to devise a plan to get them through the waterway and past the creature that dwelled there. In the race, he and Barnick had barely escaped with their lives. It had been worth it, though, to see the look on Dresk’s face when he handed over the winner’s purse.
Galantas had never imagined he’d have to come this way again. And three years ago he had been sailing in a boat specially adapted for the route he would take. If he wanted to follow the same path now, he’d need to make some modifications to the craft he was traveling in.
“Qinta!” he said. “Get the mast down! Use your sword.”
Qinta had the sense not to question him. He clambered upright and drew his blade. Setting his feet, he delivered a crunching stroke to the mast at waist height. The weapon caught in the wood. He waggled it free.
“Faster!” Galantas said, and Qinta started chopping over and over at the mast, splinters flying, until he’d hacked out a sizeable groove. Then he resheathed his sword and put his shoulder to the wood, hit it once, twice, three times. It creaked and finally snapped and toppled. Galantas cut the lines attaching it to the sail and heaved the lot over the side.
The channel had now narrowed to the length of three ships. In the water ahead were threads of what appeared to be fireweed, but Galantas knew them to be the strands of a vast underwater web spun by the creature that dwelled there—the Weaver, it had come to be called, after the spiders of the same name that infested Bezzle’s underground aqueduct. Its lair was at the foot of the southern heights, so Barnick steered the boat toward the cliff on the north side. As he did so, he let the wave beneath the craft recede. The slower pace would allow the stone-skins to get closer, but it would also reduce the Islanders’ chances of catching the Weaver’s eye.
The water seemed unnaturally still. Beneath the surface, Galantas could make out two towers that might once have guarded a road between the cliffs. To the west, the skeletons of four more dragons jutted from the water, while at the base of the southern bluff was a patch of shimmering blackness that marked the portal between this world and whatever hellhole the Weaver called home. As the boat drew level, Galantas held his breath. These were the critical moments, he knew. If the beast remained in its lair until the stone-skins arrived, its attention would surely be drawn to the larger ship.
Assuming it wasn’t already lying in wait somewhere ahead.
Time crawled. The channel was in shadow, and the air had an unmistakable chill to it. Qinta frowned at a flock of starbeaks overhead, but when he opened his mouth to explain the birds’ import, Galantas forestalled him with a raised finger. The boat crept forward. In keeping close to the northern cliffs, Barnick was forced to take the craft through the partly submerged rib cage of one of the dragons. Each bone was as thick as the trunk of a ketar tree. The boat was traveling toward the head of the creature, and as it cleared the chest cavity, Galantas glanced down to locate the beast’s skull in the water.
Only to find it was missing, the bones of the neck bitten through.
Suppressing a shudder, he looked back the way they had come. The Augerans were still following, but the wave of water-magic under their vessel had subsided just as Barnick’s had. They couldn’t know what awaited them in the channel, yet the warning in the dragons’ bones was clear. One set would have been a curiosity, two, a coincidence. Five, though …
The Augerans’ caution was understandable, but it stood to play into Galantas’s hands, because the lower their ship rode in the water, the greater the chance that their keel would tangle in the Weaver’s threads.
Nearly there.
“Galantas!” Qinta said, pointing toward the rent.
His heart skipped a beat. Something moved in the darkness, spreading through the water like a bruise. Coming for Galantas’s boat? The stone-skins couldn’t be the Weaver’s target because their ship hadn’t yet entered the strait. Nor was that likely to change if they had seen the creature too.
Time to be going.
“Barnick!” Galantas yelled. “Go, go, go!”
CHAPTER 12
EBON WATCHED the boy pause in the shadow of the Mercerien ship’s windowed stern. Dressed in three-quarter trousers and a shirt that looked like a sack with holes cut for arms, he took a stone from a bulging pocket and sent it looping over the rail. It landed with a clatter on deck. Another stone followed, then another. The third one drew a shout from a sailor on board, but no one appeared at the rail to investigate the source.
Just because Ebon had arranged access to the Upper City through Tia didn’t mean he couldn’t explore other options too. Gunnar had recently returned from scouting the entrance to Gilgamar from the direction of Dian. Alas, the guards stationed at the East Gate had refused to let him pass. Vale had received the same message at the Canal Gate. Not everyone was being turned back, though. A bell ago, Ebon had seen a party of gray-cloaked warriors and some metal-skinned giant enter the Upper City. He’d been tempted to tag along in the hope he would be mistaken for one of the group, but he’d hesitated at the crucial moment, and the chance had gone.
Tia it was, then.
Before he entered the Upper City, though, he needed to find out as much as he could about the circumstances in which Rendale and Lamella were being held. To do that, he needed to lure one of Ocarn’s lieutenants down to the port. And so earlier Gunnar had posed as a sailor, and paid a guard at the Harbor Gate to take a message to the Mercerien embassy. That message had alleged a fatal dispute between two of Ocarn’s crew. Ebon hoped that Ocarn would send someone to knock heads together, thereby allowing Ebon to snatch and interrogate the man. After three bells, though, there was still no sign of any visitor. With the afternoon drawing on, Ebon had decided to cut his losses and try instead to question a member of the Mercerien ship’s crew.
Which was why he was standing here now, watching a boy in his pay throw stones at the vessel in an effort to lure a sailor onto the waterfront.
A bearded head finally appeared at the rail. The boy’s next throw was inspired, skimming off the top of the man’s skull. The sailor reeled back, clutching his head and screaming at the boy. Ebon couldn’t understand the words because they were spoken in Mercerien, but he doubted the man was complimenting his tormentor on the accuracy of his throw.
Another stone sailed over the sailor’s shoulder.
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He stepped back from the rail.
Ebon wet his lips with his tongue. Ten heartbeats passed. Twenty. What would the sailor do next? Head belowdecks out of reach of the missiles? Throw the stones back at the boy?
Then a rattling clatter sounded as the gangplank crashed onto the quay.
As the bearded sailor crossed it, Ebon heard the force of his rage in the weight of his steps. The boy had seen his danger and fired off a final stone before turning to flee. Wait, Ebon silently urged him, for if the boy disappeared too soon among the crowds, the sailor would probably return to the ship.
The prince needn’t have worried, for the boy moved away at a stuttering pace, feigning a limp to keep his pursuer interested.
The sailor had reached the end of the quay. His forehead was smeared red where the stone had hit him. He set off at a sprint after the boy, arms pumping, sandals slapping, bellowing at the people in his way to clear a path.
The boy vanished along the alley where Vale waited.
Ebon headed after them. “Stay here,” he said to Gunnar over his shoulder. The mage’s job would be to warn them if someone else got off the ship.
Gunnar nodded.
When Ebon rounded the corner, he saw the sailor already lying in a heap next to a mud-brick building that seemed to be melting in the heat. Vale stood over him, while the boy went through his pockets. Finding nothing, the boy rose and spat on the prone man. Damned imposition that, not carrying anything for a thief to steal. Ebon looked round to see if they had attracted attention. No one seemed to have noticed anything, though. No one ever did when blood was in the air.
Ebon tossed the boy a sovereign, and he scampered off.
“Help me get him up,” the prince said to Vale.
Together they hauled the sailor to his feet, then Vale hoisted him onto his shoulder. Taking a route that kept them out of sight of the Mercerien ship, they made their way along the waterfront to where their boat was tied up between a Corinian galley and a salt-rimed fishing scow. Their craft bobbed an armspan below the level of the quay, so Ebon raised it on a wave of water-magic. He stepped on board, Vale following with his load. The Endorian dumped the unconscious sailor in the prow before tying his wrists and ankles.
Moments later, Gunnar joined them. Ebon released the wave supporting the boat, and it sank down onto the water between the shifting walls of wood to either side.
“Wake him up,” Ebon told Vale. He had to speak over the spatter of bilge being pumped from a hole in the hull of the Corinian galley.
Vale scooped up a double handful of greasy water from the harbor and tossed it in the sailor’s face.
The man spluttered and came to.
Ebon sat on the oar bench and gave the sailor a while to register his bound hands and feet, the three grim faces staring back at him. The Mercerien sat up slowly, in no hurry to get this started.
“I have some questions,” Ebon said in the common tongue. “When we’re finished, my mage here”—he pointed to Gunnar, sitting behind—“will take you east along the coast so you can walk back to Gilgamar. Or he can drop you a league out to sea and find out how well you swim with your hands and feet tied. Which would be your choice?”
The sailor squinted at him like he was trying to find the trick in the question. “I don’t want no trouble.”
“Good. You sailed with Prince Ocarn Dasuki from Mercerie?”
A nod.
“There were two Galitians on board.” Not a question.
The Mercerien’s eyes narrowed further. Now he saw where this was going. Another nod.
“Who were they?” Ebon said, taking his time.
“Some dandy from Galitia. Rendale were his name. A prince, I heard, but that could o’ just been the lads talking.”
“And the other one?”
“A woman. Never caught her name. No tits, twisted leg. The prince’s woman, they said.”
The prince’s woman. The words left a sour taste in Ebon’s mouth, like he’d swallowed some of the dirty water from that bilge pipe. “And was she?”
“Was she what?”
“Rendale’s woman. Did you see them together?”
“Sure. They came up on deck to give us a show—”
Ebon rose and struck the man a backhand blow across the face. The Mercerien’s head snapped round, and he fell against the side of the boat. He ran his tongue about the inside of his mouth as if checking for loose teeth. Then he looked at Ebon with a guarded expression.
Ebon sat back down on the oar bench. A crimson line ran down from one of the sailor’s nostrils, and Ebon wished he hadn’t already sold his rings, else he might have left a more permanent mark. And yet the sailor couldn’t have intended to taunt him. He couldn’t have known who Lamella was, or what she meant to Ebon.
Couldn’t have known before. But couldn’t fail to suspect now.
The prince’s woman.
Ebon forced himself to calm. Rendale would never try to steal Lamella from him, just as Lamella would never let herself be stolen. There was another explanation for the sailor’s words. Rendale knew of the enmity between Ebon and Ocarn, so he would know not to reveal Lamella’s identity to the Mercerien. The only way for him to keep her close without arousing suspicion was to pretend the two of them were together.
Still the idea festered.
Vale righted the sailor, then took up the questioning. “Are they both alive?” he asked the Mercerien. “Rendale and the woman?”
Ebon’s breath caught. In his rage he hadn’t thought to confirm that detail, just assumed.
The sailor answered with a nod, but there was enough hesitation to give Ebon pause.
“But…?” he prompted.
The Mercerien tensed as if expecting another blow. “Rendale got hurt on the Hunt. Half the mizzen yard fell on him. Left a lot of blood on the boards and had to be carried below, but when we got to Gilgamar, he were able to walk down the gangplank on his own.”
“And the woman? Was she hurt too?”
“Not as I saw.”
Vale said, “What happened out there? On Dragon Day?”
The sailor spat a gobbet of blood over the rail. “Gate never got lowered again after it went up, that’s what. Shroud-cursed dragons everywhere. Ocarn were quick to turn tail once he smelled trouble, but this gold dragon rises out of the waves dead ahead of us, as big as the Dawnspark herself. No time to steer round, so we rams the thing. Hurt us more than it hurt the dragon. Then the creature’s tail comes whipping down on the decks, over and over like it’s beating on a drum. Friend of mine got impaled by one of its tail spikes. Dragon lifted him up and mashed him down again till we was all wearing bits of him.” The sailor’s gaze flickered to Ebon. “That’s when Rendale took his hurting. Mizzen spar broke and came down on the quarterdeck.”
“How did you get away?”
“Through luck, that’s how. Damned water-mage of Ocarn’s couldn’t conjure up a wave big enough to wash your feet. He starts us off west, but the dragon’s catching up to us like we’re sailing through blood honey. So Ocarn gives the order to turn south.”
“South,” Ebon repeated. “Toward the Dragon Gate.”
“Smart move, too. ’Cause while the Dawnspark might have been moving slow, there was plenty of other ships moving slower. We sees this galley limping along, its oars clacking together ’cause the oarsmen are all pulling at different times. Ocarn tells the mage to take us across its bows, hoping the dragon might stop for a look. Works a treat, too. And while the creature’s munching on oars, Ocarn takes us west again. Sender himself must have been watching o’er us, ’cause we didn’t see another dragon in all the time it took us to reach Gilgamar.”
“Dragon Day was twelve days ago,” Ebon said. “Have you been stuck on the ship all that time?”
“Yeah.”
“What about Ocarn?”
“Disappeared into the Upper City when we got here. Ain’t seen him since.”
“Disappeared where, exactly?”
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nbsp; “The embassy.”
“And he took Rendale and the woman with him?”
The sailor nodded.
“How do you get a message to Ocarn if you need to?”
“Dunno. Ain’t needed to yet.”
Ebon stood up abruptly. He suspected the sailor had told them everything he knew, and the Galitians’ time would now be better spent watching the Dawnspark in case one of Ocarn’s men turned up in response to Gunnar’s false message. He untied the boat and tossed the rope to the mage. “Take him along the coast toward Dian,” he said. “We don’t want him walking back here before we’ve finished our business.”
Gunnar inclined his head.
A last look at the sailor. The man spat bloody drool over the side. His expression suggested he didn’t know whether to believe Gunnar would set him free, and perhaps killing him would have been the most sensible course. Even if Gunnar took him as far as Dian, he might steal a horse and be back here in a couple of days. There was no guarantee Ebon would have found Rendale and Lamella by then. Why take the risk? Why put their lives in danger when tossing the man overboard now would put the matter beyond doubt? It wasn’t as if anyone on the waterfront would see anything, or care if they did.
A fishing boat emerged from the Neck with a flock of screaming limewings in tow. Ebon watched it disappear behind the hull of the Corinian galley.
Then he raised the boat on a swell of water-magic and stepped back onto the quay. Vale followed him.
The boat with Gunnar and the sailor in it moved away on a wave of Gunnar’s water-magic.
Ebon looked back toward the Upper City. In the shadow of a ramshackle warehouse, a group of men was gathered around a fire in a can. A pushing match was under way, and one man stumbled into the can and tipped it over. His shirt went up in flames. The other men started whooping and dancing about him as he shrieked and writhed. Then finally he thought to run for the harbor to douse himself.
“Are we doing the right thing?” Ebon asked Vale. “Waiting until night?”