by Marc Turner
Then the priestess nodded and turned away.
Amerel watched the Chameleons shoulder their packs and head silently toward the waterfront. Just two more shadows amid all the others. The Guardian could feel Noon’s gaze on her, and she looked across. The Breaker was frowning at her like she’d set him a riddle he couldn’t fathom.
She leaned in close and whispered, “That was easy.”
CHAPTER 15
CAVAL PUSHED open the back door to the house and moved through, clearing the way for Karmel to follow behind. Once inside, she closed the door and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark. She was in a room that made up the entire ground floor. There were flies everywhere, weaving through the murk. On the opposite wall was a window. Its shutters were closed, but through the gaps between the bars came strips of light that left bright scratches on the north-facing wall. The other side of the room was veiled in blackness. Karmel watched for any shift in the consistency of the gloom that might indicate movement.
Nothing.
She drew a throwing knife. Its hilt felt slick against her palm. The house smelled of wood smoke and mirispice. From outside came the rattle of bonechimes stirred to life by the breeze, the thud of a hull bumping into a quay—the hull of Karmel’s target, most likely—then above that a drip, drip as of water from a leaky roof.
That was when she saw it: a pool of liquid—blood?—at the center of the floor. There was a stain on the ceiling above. Karmel’s breath stuck in her throat. She looked at Caval, and he nodded to indicate he’d spotted it. If the blood was wet enough to drip, it must have been spilled recently. Karmel strained to hear any noise that might indicate someone was upstairs. A creak sounded. Probably just one of the beams settling down for the night, since it was unlikely that a stone-skin was up there taking a nap.
They’d be finding out soon enough. There was no way they could unbolt the downstairs shutters without alerting the stone-skins on the waterfront, so they’d have to try their luck upstairs. To Karmel’s right, a wooden staircase led up to a square of paler gloom in the ceiling. Caval moved toward it. Karmel waited until he reached the bottom, then followed. Scattered across the floor were potsherds and splinters of wood from a smashed chair, and the priestess lifted her feet high before placing them down again so as not to kick something across the ground. For a moment she was back training in the temple, stepping over pieces of glass in the courtyard as she closed on the acolyte at its center.
Drip, drip.
She drew up alongside Caval, wishing she could see in his face even a trace of her own apprehension. His expression, though, was quiet, as if he’d done this before many times. All those occasions he’d gone missing from the temple when she was younger, were they for missions such as this? Each time he’d returned, he had changed a little from the person who had left. The priestess was only now seeing the effect of all those differences put together, and realizing she didn’t know what they added up to. He’d never spoken about his experiences, and she had never asked. Just one more thing they would have to put right if they got out of this alive.
Caval climbed the steps and drew up when his head came level with the ceiling. With his power employed, he would be invisible to anyone lying in wait. He scanned the room above.
Outside, the bonechimes clattered again.
Drip, drip.
Earlier Karmel and Caval had discussed what they would do if they were interrupted before they could shoot the dart. At the time Karmel had felt reassured to think they were ready for all eventualities. When you boiled it down, though, their plans amounted to no more than hide or run if they could, fight if they couldn’t—and then hide or run. While hoping the Erin Elalese, waiting somewhere out back, had something to contribute beyond showing them a clean pair of heels.
Voices sounded on the waterfront, along with the measured tread of an Augeran patrol. As the soldiers’ footsteps died away Karmel swung her gaze to Caval. He beckoned to her, then headed up the last of the stairs and out of sight.
Karmel started climbing. The steps were smeared with blood, and she kept to the outer edges where the boards were unstained. The buzzing of the flies rose from a hum to a drone.
Upstairs consisted of a single room too, with windows looking out onto the harbor. Unlike downstairs, the shutters were open. A breath of air alerted Karmel to the broken pane of glass before she saw it. Light from a torch on the waterfront reflected in the panes, making it seem as if flames licked at the glass. Against the south-facing wall was a bed covered in blood-speckled rushes, and beside it was a pool of blood and viscera. Karmel could smell the stink of it even over the blayfire fumes. A woodcutter’s ax was buried in the wall next to the bed. Not the weapon of a stone-skin soldier. Evidently the house’s former occupant had taken a swing at one of his attackers before being cut down.
Karmel’s fingers were cramping from their grip on her knife, so she sheathed the weapon before joining Caval at the window. Outside she saw the stone-skin ship that was their target, tied up along the waterfront to her left. In the darkness, the cordage hanging between its masts and spars looked like the threads of some vast spider’s web. Figures moved on deck, and lights shone from the windows at the stern.
On the waterfront itself stood two black-cloaked Augerans. A stone’s throw to Karmel’s left, and moving farther away, was the patrol that had just walked past. To the north, more figures milled about on the quays, and Karmel heard the rattle of a gangplank, the rumble of rolling barrels. The stone-skins were preparing to withdraw, no question. But for now, the section of waterfront immediately outside the house was quiet.
She retreated from the window. Caval had already removed from his pack the flask of dragon blood Mokinda had given him. Thoughts of the Storm Lord reminded Karmel of their conversation on the Grace, and suddenly the breeze stealing through the window felt as chill as Shroud’s breath on her neck. What the hell was she doing here, when the smallest mistake could bring an army of stone-skins down on her? She thought back to Amerel’s words at the White Pool. Those words had had the ring of truth to them, but maybe that was just the Guardian’s Will talking. In any case, what did Karmel care for the fate of the Erin Elalese? Or of anyone beyond herself and Caval? Was she here out of guilt for Dragon Day? Was she seeking redemption for the part she’d played in the deaths of all those killed by the dragons?
Because what better way to redeem yourself for a thousand deaths than by killing a thousand more?
She should give it up now, she knew. Leave her blowpipe on the floor and go back to the boneyard. How far would she get, though, before the Chameleon’s chain around her neck pulled tight? The god had struck down Veran’s wife with the gray fever; he could do the same to Karmel in an eyeblink. Or to Caval.
And if she did leave, how did she know her brother would come with her?
Caval must have seen something in her expression, for he raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“We’re not going to make it through this, are we?” Karmel said.
He gave a half smile. “Anything you’d like to get off your chest while you can?” He’d spoken the words lightly, but Karmel sensed in them an invitation, maybe even a challenge.
She looked away. What did he expect her to say, that she forgave him for betraying her? She’d tried the words out in her mind a thousand times, but they didn’t ring true now any more than they had before. She understood why he’d done what he’d done. Because he’d hoped to escape the memory of his childhood beatings. Because he and Karmel had drifted apart. But there were things Caval had done that she could not reconcile herself to, however hard she tried: the premeditation to his scheme, the way he’d maintained the lie until Imerle’s revelations had rendered his deception untenable.
A part of her railed at her obstinacy. What did it gain her to hold on to her anger? To cling to it was to prolong the hurt, not just for herself but for Caval too, so why could she not give it up? Before tonight, she’d always told herself to be patient, but what if she no
longer had time for that?
“Let’s get on with this,” she said, reaching for the blowpipe strapped to her back.
“Let’s.”
Karmel would be the one taking the shot, and she withdrew from her pack a cloth purse containing the darts of blackened tarnica. Each was stored in its own slot to ensure they did not clink together. Karmel selected one, then closed the purse and put it back in her pack so she was ready to make a quick exit if she had to.
Caval took the stopper off the flask of dragon blood. The vinegary fumes it gave off brought a mist to Karmel’s eyes. She touched the tip of the dart to the inside neck of the flask, before holding the tip over the bottle’s opening for a count of ten to allow any excess liquid to drop. Then she placed the dart in her blowpipe, taking care that the tip did not come into contact with the mouthpiece. The dart’s feathers gave the missile a snug fit in the bore, ensuring it wouldn’t slide along the pipe when it was tilted down.
Moving back to the window, Karmel checked no stone-skins were looking toward her. Then she lowered the tip of the blowpipe onto the bottom of the broken pane of glass. The weapon extended past the window, and Karmel extended her powers over it to make it invisible. She placed her left hand on the pipe where it rested against the glass. Her right gripped the shaft below the mouthpiece. The window was at an awkward height for her, too low for her to stand upright, too high for her to kneel.
Caval’s hand settled on her shoulder. Her brother would be her eyes while she took the shot, and they had already agreed on the signals he would use to warn her of trouble: removing his hand meant “wait,” a squeeze meant “abort.” She focused on the stone-skin ship that was her target. It bobbed on the greasy waves, meaning she’d have to get her timing right if she wanted to strike the hull near the waterline.
Indistinct voices reached her from along the waterfront to the south. She ignored them. The angle of her shot would take the dart close to the heads of the two Augerans stationed below, but there was nothing to be done about that. Karmel tightened her grip on the weapon and raised its mouthpiece to her lips. A muscle in her leg trembled from the discomfort of her half crouch.
Caval’s hand was steady on her shoulder. The coast remained clear.
Karmel adjusted the angle of the blowpipe, picturing the shot she wanted to make.
A sharp breath, then she blew hard into the mouthpiece. The expulsion of air was so loud it seemed the stone-skins must hear it. Karmel didn’t look to find out. Instead she watched the dart flash across the waterfront. She couldn’t see where it struck the ship because of the shadows, but the trajectory had been just as she’d planned.
First one done. Simple enough, though the prospect of having to repeat the feat a dozen times tonight didn’t appeal.
Then Caval squeezed her shoulder in warning.
* * *
Floating in spirit-form above the waterfront, Amerel watched an Augeran guard take a step toward the Chameleons’ house. He couldn’t have seen the dart, else he would have raised the alarm by now, but clearly something had caught his attention. He growled a question at his female companion.
A shrug was her only response.
Amerel pursed her lips. If the man went looking for the Chameleons, he was unlikely to find them with their powers activated. But why take the risk when a touch of the Will might convince the stone-skin he was jumping at shadows? She gathered her power.…
Then she caught sight of someone looking down from a window in the house next door—just their eyes and a mop of blond hair above the sill. A boy, maybe twelve years old.
Amerel didn’t hesitate.
Reaching out with her Will, she tapped on the glass of the boy’s window. Not loud, but loud enough.
The boy froze at the sound, then flinched back and down.
But not before the stone-skins had looked up.
* * *
Karmel felt a stab of guilt as she listened to the thud, thud of the Augerans pounding on the door to the neighboring house. Perhaps the Rubyholters inside had done something to attract the stone-skins’ notice just as Karmel fired the blowpipe. Most likely, though, it was her shot that had stirred the enemy to watchfulness. The Islanders might still have time to escape out the back before their front door gave way. But even as the thought came to Karmel, she heard a splintering of wood followed by a woman’s screams, a boy’s crying.
She looked at Caval. He shook his head as if to say, “Not this time.”
Karmel scowled. Did he think she meant to rush out to save the Rubyholters as she had the woman in the alley? Maybe take on the stone-skin army single-handed? Did he really consider her so naive? So selfless?
Stepping back from the window, she returned the blowpipe to the straps on her back.
* * *
Galantas sloshed through water in the Serpentine Aqueduct. It was more than half a bell since he and the rest of the raiding party had started along the underground passage. They had brought only a handful of lanterns between them, and the darkness in the tunnel had a weight to it that served as a constant reminder of the tons of rock and soil overhead. The way led ever downward as if Galantas were descending into one of the Nine Hells, and that feeling was reinforced by the occasional muffled scream from the city overhead. Behind him someone muttered in the gloom—the same fool of a Keel, most likely, who had been complaining about the lack of room in the passage. At the Hub, Galantas had warned the other clan leaders how narrow the tunnel was, so of course Tolo had sent someone who was afraid of enclosed spaces.
Of the two hundred men in Galantas’s raiding party, roughly half were his own Spears, meaning the other chiefs had entrusted him with a hundred of their own men. A hundred! Another time, the temptation to lead them astray might have proved irresistible, but in a tunnel with no paths leading off it, the opportunities on that score were limited. Along with the Needles and Falcons, Keels and Squalls, there were two Raptors whom Kalag had doubtless sent to watch Galantas in the hope he slipped up. Or to make sure he did, perhaps, by sticking a knife in his back? Galantas shrugged the thought aside. That was the one good thing about walking a tunnel as narrow as this: you had only to worry about the man immediately behind you. And Galantas had ensured it was Qinta stationed there.
A while later the air started to pale from black to gray. Ahead a low arch marked the place where the tunnel entered the White Pool. Galantas dropped to his hands and knees, then ducked his head under the water before crawling an armspan and resurfacing in the pool beyond.
After the chill of the tunnel, the air in the subterranean chamber felt like a warm blanket enveloping him. The room was gritty with flies. He waded to the side of the pool, then sat on the edge and swung his legs over. Qinta joined him. The floor was covered by a mosaic of a two-headed dog with more than half its stones missing. Men exited the water to gather in dripping huddles, while yet more warriors emerged spluttering from the aqueduct. It would take a while before the last of them cleared the tunnel, so Galantas looked for the crewman Squint, whom he had sent ahead to scout the waterfront.
Squint sidled up. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and there was something in his eyes that had Galantas bracing himself for bad news. Was there any other sort?
“The Eternal’s gone,” Squint said.
“What do you mean, ‘gone’?”
“She ain’t where we left her, Cap’n.”
“Then the stone-skins must have moved her.”
“Not inside the harbor, they ain’t—I’d have seen the gleam off her main trunk if that were so. She’s gone I tell you.”
Galantas’s oath brought the heads of his nearby clansmen round, but he paid them no mind. The Eternal vanished. Could the stone-skins have scuttled her? No, that made no sense if the other vessels had been left untouched.
Qinta spoke. “We’re gonna need another ship.” Then, to Squint, “You see anything out there you like?”
Squint flashed the stubs of his teeth. “There’s always the Fury. Handy girl to
have in a scrap.”
That she was. And while no vessel in the Isles could match the spectacle of the Eternal, the Fury—a devilship—had its own distinctive draw.
“The Fury’s a Raptor ship,” Qinta said. “If we take her, Kalag’s gonna want her back.”
“Then he should be here now,” Galantas snapped. “Where is she tied?”
“Outside Scurve’s place,” Squint said.
“Then that’s our target. Qinta, tell Barnick and the others.”
The Second moved away.
Galantas looked around. Some of the krels from the other clans watched him with guarded expressions, no doubt wondering what he had to discuss with Squint that he couldn’t share with them. Among them was a barrel-chested Needle called Tub—Malek’s right-hand man and a useful person to have in a knife fight. Next to him was Cleo, a Falcon, who was said to command the highest bounty of anyone in the Isles, after feeding half of Londell’s monarchy to the Rent. With them were some of Dresk’s krels—no, Galantas’s own krels, he corrected himself. Clamp was there with his rainbow-dyed hair, and Faloman too, fresh from his appointment with the Speaker. There was no longer any need for Galantas to dispose of him. Once news had spread that the stone-skins had killed Dresk, Faloman—along with all of Dresk’s erstwhile supporters—had quickly fallen into line.
As Galantas beckoned them toward him, he took a steadying breath. His most important task as commander was to project a sense of calm, so it wouldn’t do for the krels to see his irritation about the Eternal and mistake it for fear. He studied their faces. Hard men, these. Confident. But then they were about to steal a few ships from an enemy, and what self-respecting Rubyholter hadn’t trodden these same boards before?
“Gentlemen,” he said, “shall we get down to business? Squint, tell them what we’re dealing with.”