by Marc Turner
He flexed his fingers. They’d tied him to a chair, wrists bound so tightly his hands tingled from the restricted blood flow. How long had he been like this? He’d heard at least one bell ring, maybe two. Odds were, he was waiting for Ocarn to arrive, for it was surely Ocarn’s men who had grabbed him. He swallowed against a thickness in his throat. He’d been so busy thinking on his own plan that he’d never considered the Mercerien might have one too. Someone must have seen Ebon scouting the embassy earlier. Or the woman who he’d talked to had joined up the dots. After, when he’d gone walking with Vale, the Merceriens had arranged an ambush for his return. Had they grabbed the Endorian as well? He wasn’t in the room with Ebon, but maybe Ocarn was just keeping them apart so he could question them separately.
If Vale had escaped capture, though, perhaps he was outside now, planning his move. Perhaps if he saw the closed shutters he would guess which room Ebon was in.
Perhaps, perhaps.
He felt a flush of helpless rage and started struggling against his bindings. The ropes burned his wrists. He’d failed. Even if he walked out of here alive, Ocarn would already have taken Lamella and Rendale away. But that was the least of Ebon’s worries just now. Ocarn had scores he wanted to settle, and what reason did he have to show restraint? No one knew Ebon was in Gilgamar except Vale and Gunnar, and not even they would be able to prove Ocarn was behind his disappearance.
Muffled footsteps came from Ebon’s right, swelling louder as a door opened. How many sets? It was difficult to judge. Three people at least, maybe four. Ebon’s breath came quickly, hot and moist inside the bag.
Moments later, the bag was snatched away to leave him blinking against the light of a torch. Ocarn was holding that torch. He passed it to someone behind Ebon. All of the others who’d come in with him were behind Ebon, out of sight.
The door shut.
Ocarn grinned at Ebon like they were old friends reunited. His face had thinned since their encounter seven years ago, and he’d dispensed with his apology of a mustache. The blond curls that had once hung down to his shoulders were cut short. He took out a pair of heavy gloves and pulled them onto his hands.
Ebon looked around the room. To his left, the large shuttered windows were bordered by threads of light. A rug that must once have covered the floor had been rolled up against a lacquered desk to leave Ebon’s chair standing on stone. He wanted to see how many men were behind him, but when he tried to turn, someone grabbed his head to keep his eyes forward. A pity, that. There was no way Ocarn could know about the powers Ebon had inherited from Galea, but the surprise would last only as long as his first burst of sorcery. If he’d known where Ocarn’s men were standing, he could have tried to disable them before turning on their master.
“Prince Ebon Calidar,” Ocarn said, “what a pleasure to see you again.”
He stepped in close.
Ebon’s chair shifted as someone behind him grabbed it to hold it steady. The prince braced himself.
Ocarn’s first blow was more of a cuff than a punch. The Mercerien was evidently just warming up, though, for his second strike hammered into Ebon’s cheek, snapping his head round so fast he felt a wrench in his neck. He found himself staring down at the floor, forced himself to look at Ocarn again.
In time to meet the third punch. His head exploded with light, and he would have toppled over if he hadn’t been held. The whole side of his face throbbed, yet it didn’t hurt as much as his scalded pride. Pride, it had always been his curse. He’d need to swallow it a while longer, though, before he retaliated—at least until he’d given Ocarn a chance to brag. He worked his tongue around his mouth, tasted the warm iron of blood.
And looked at Ocarn once more.
“Lord, that feels good,” the Mercerien said, flexing the fingers of his punching hand. “For you too?” He stepped back and gestured to the man holding Ebon’s chair. “Stand him up.”
Ebon’s chair was lifted, and he staggered to his feet. Still tied to the chair, he could not stand fully straight and had to look up to meet Ocarn’s eyes from a half bow.
“I like that pose,” the Mercerien said. “It suits you.”
His fist thudded into Ebon’s ribs, knocked him back a step, but Ocarn came after him, connecting with a blow to the midsection that folded Ebon in half and snatched the wind from him. He gasped like a grounded fish as Ocarn hit him again and again, right fist, then left, working on his stomach. The Mercerien grunted with the effort, like he was the one being hit, and grunts escaped Ebon’s own lips no matter how hard he tried to keep them in. He wanted to tense his muscles against the onslaught, but he was too busy wheezing for a breath that would not come. He thought to jerk forward and butt Ocarn in the face, but instead he took the punishment, curling up as best he could to rob the punches of their weight.
Finally the beating ended, and Ebon sagged back. The man behind him guided the chair down until it touched the floor. Ebon slumped into it, his head lolling forward, his whole body shuddering. He had to swallow to keep his guts from heaving. He channeled his power to his bruised midriff—just a trickle at first to soothe the ache there. Wouldn’t want Ocarn seeing how easily his hurt was shrugged off. Wouldn’t want him thinking Ebon was ready for another round. The Mercerien grabbed a handful of Ebon’s hair and tugged his head up, brought his face close so he could study every line of pain. Rather than meet his gaze, Ebon kept his eyes on the floor. Let Ocarn think he had knocked the fight out of him. Maybe he would move on to the gloating that was sure to come.
Ocarn released him, and Ebon’s head fell forward.
“Hurts, does it?” the Mercerien said. “Good. But it’s still not enough for the dishonor you visited on my sister. Maybe I’ll get my men to bend you over that chair, let them have some fun with you. How does that sound?”
Ebon’s voice came out a croak. “Where’s Rendale?”
“If I were you, I’d be more worried about yourself. Aren’t you curious how I knew you were coming? How I was able to snare you so easily?”
Ebon stared at him.
Ocarn chuckled. “You still have no idea, do you? Then let me tell you a story. Yesterday a man comes to see me at the embassy. Says he has information for sale. Says a woman called Tia sent him. Apparently someone paid her to get them into the Upper City, no questions asked. But Tia’s a curious sort, and after she strikes a deal with this person, she has him followed to the harbor. She sees him pay a guard to deliver a false message to me about a fight on my ship, then watches him snatch one of my crew and question him, and, well, it seems even scum from the Lower City can work out what two plus two equals. And since you were stupid enough to believe she couldn’t smuggle you across the canal immediately on false papers, she has all the time in the world to send one of her thugs to seek me out.”
Ocarn’s voice was thick with scorn, and Ebon almost lost his head then. He wanted to lash out with his sorcery and smear the man’s smile over the wall behind. But his anger was as much for himself as for the Mercerien. Stupid, Ocarn had called him, and Ebon couldn’t deny it. He’d let his desperation cloud his judgment of Tia. He’d thought he was risking only a few thousand sovereigns in trusting her, but now his folly was about to cost him his life. Because there was no doubt in Ebon’s mind that Ocarn meant to kill him. When you crossed a certain line, you didn’t let your victim walk away after to talk about it.
“She was going to take your money and stand you up,” Ocarn went on, “but I convinced her to honor her side of the bargain and deliver you into the Upper City. It cost me a great deal. Five thousand sovereigns she wanted to go through with your agreement, and I must say that seemed a high price at first.” Ebon didn’t think Ocarn could have stretched his smile any wider, but he managed it now. “But eventually we reached an arrangement.”
Ebon was silent, unsure what the Mercerien was hinting at. Then a jolt of prickling cold ran down his spine. “You gave them to Tia,” he whispered. It all made sense suddenly. Ocarn had given Lamella and Rendale to Tia s
o she could ransom them to his father. Earlier, the embassy woman had told Ebon that Rendale was taken away yesterday—taken away to Tia, it now seemed. The irony wasn’t lost on him. For the last twenty-four bells, he’d been champing to get into the Upper City, while all the time Lamella and Rendale were likely being held by Tia in the Lower.
“Gave them to Tia?” Ocarn said, staring at Ebon through narrowed eyes. “Ah, yes, Rendale’s crippled woman.” He paused to study Ebon some more, his look calculating. “Except she wasn’t Rendale’s woman, was she? She was yours.”
Ebon’s expression gave nothing away. Nothing more away, at least.
“I always thought their displays of affection were forced,” Ocarn continued. “Or they were to start with.” He looked to his guards for a laugh, and they duly obliged. Three laughs, meaning three men, though Ebon couldn’t pinpoint precisely where they stood. “Pretty enough girl, your Miela,” Ocarn said. “A bit too willing, though, for my taste. She never gave me much of a chase when I came for her. Claimed it was the leg, but we both know otherwise. She liked to be bent over a chair, just as you will be. Maybe you’ll enjoy it as much as she did, eh?”
Ebon was barely listening. The taunts didn’t fool him. He was thinking about other things. Strange, he shouldn’t have needed an incentive to want to live through this encounter, but the news that Lamella and Rendale were with Tia made it suddenly vital that he get away. Assuming Tia intended to ransom them, how long would it take for her demands to reach Galitia, and for Ebon’s father to respond? Months perhaps, with the Sabian Sea off limits. Months held in that cesspit of a Lower City. And when the time came for Tia to release her charges, was she any more likely to play fair with Ebon’s father than she had done with Ebon himself?
He looked toward the windows, the shadow of an idea flitting through his mind. There was only one way he was going to escape from this place, and if his plan failed, he would likely suffer all Ocarn had promised and worse. Before he rolled the dice, though, he wanted one more piece of information from his host.
“You know this means war, don’t you?” he said. “Between Galitia and Mercerie. When my father finds out you took me—”
“He’ll do nothing,” Ocarn cut him off. “You forget, I left Mercerie only two weeks ago, which meant I was there when word arrived of the attack on Majack.” He stepped closer. “Your people are weak. Weaker now than they’ve ever been. You think your father will risk a fight while he’s threatened by Garat Hallon and the Kinevar? And by the time those threats are resolved, if indeed they ever are, I’ll have likely taken my father’s throne and struck at Galitia myself.”
Ebon held back a smile. Everything Ocarn had said was true, but Ebon had never believed that war was a possibility. That hadn’t been the purpose of his question. When my father finds out, he’d said, and Ocarn hadn’t tried to deny that Isanovir would find out. And who alone knew enough of what had happened here in Gilgamar to carry word home to Galitia?
Vale.
Meaning the Endorian had not been captured.
Time for me to do some taunting of my own. “You, on Mercerie’s throne?” he said. “Sounds like my father will have you just where he wants you.”
Ocarn gave a chill smile. “Well, well. It seems the cock hasn’t completely lost his crow. Let’s see what we can do about that.” He gestured to his man behind Ebon. “Hold him.”
“Are you sure you’ve got that right?” Ebon said. “Are you sure it shouldn’t be you doing the holding and your man the punching?”
The Mercerien laughed. “That’s funny. I like that. Tell you what, you keep the lines coming. We’ll see if they can outlast my punches.”
“Or you could try taking a run up this time,” Ebon suggested. “Get some extra force behind the blow.”
Ocarn did not reply. Instead he flexed his fingers. His cheeks were flushed, and Ebon wanted him hot if that meant he’d hold nothing back when he threw his next punch.
Because when that punch came, a wall of Ebon’s sorcery would be waiting to meet it.
* * *
Senar descended the ladder into the bake-oven air of the Eternal’s hold. The stench of bilge greeted him, and there was a smell of rot too. He stepped down onto the planking above the bilge and turned. An Erin Elalese soldier held a lantern. By its smoky light, Senar saw a wall of barrels and casks to his left. To his right was the mizzenmast where it descended through the ceiling to join the keel below. Beyond, the vertical beams supporting the orlop deck faded into darkness, black like the trunks of burned trees.
Above the creak of shifting wood, Senar heard the scratch of rats’ claws, the metallic thud of the hull bumping into the quay. He stepped forward to make room for Kolloken behind. At the base of the wall of barrels, bodies had been piled into a mound of flesh and gore. Rubyholters. Among them were women and children. All had had their throats cut. Flies buzzed about.
To one side was a smaller heap of four corpses, all wearing gray cloaks—presumably the Revenants who’d been guarding the quay at which the Eternal was docked. Their throats, too, had been cut. Crouching next to the bodies was the Revenant subcommander, Twist, his expression as dark as the bruises on his face. A few paces away, standing beside the lantern bearer, was the Erin Elalese water-mage Jelek. His skin glistened with sweat. As his gaze met Senar’s, he put a sweet in his mouth. His teeth were brown and rotten.
“Who found the bodies?” the Guardian asked.
The lantern bearer grunted responsibility.
“And?”
The man looked at Jelek as if seeking permission to talk, but the mage just stared back. After a pause the lantern bearer said, “Me and Cutter. We were following that Hex guy down from the Alcazar. He left maybe a bell ago. We watched him skip down the quay and across the gangplank”—he glanced at Twist—“but we couldn’t see any Gray Cloaks standing guard. That got us thinking. So we went to check up on our lads in the Bloodfish.”
“The Bloodfish?”
“The inn at the end of the wharf. Couple of our boys have been keeping an eye on the ship—you know, watching the Gray Cloaks’ backs, and all. Well, we get to their room and find them dead, their throats cut just like these. So we thought maybe we should take a look round the ship, find out what’s been going down.”
Jelek popped another sweet into his mouth, then pointed to the larger pile of corpses. “These-a souls,” he said in his singsong voice, “must be the Rubyholters who sailed the ship from Bezzle. Looks-a like the stone-skins kept hostages belowdecks to guarantee the sailors’ cooperation, then killed them all to stop them a-talking.”
Made sense. That would also mean, Senar realized, that the Augerans and the Rubyholters were at war, for the notion of Galantas lending his ship to the stone-skins was irreconcilable with the presence of hostages on board. He wondered if Galantas’s corpse would be found in the pile. “Easy enough to kill the Rubyholters unwitnessed,” he said. “But what about the Revenants? Someone must have seen or heard something.”
“Not that they’re admitting to,” the lantern bearer said.
“You asked at the inn?”
“Aye.”
Kolloken said, “If our lads at the Bloodfish had seen someone attack the Gray Cloaks, they would have hollered.”
Senar nodded. “Meaning the Augerans must have silenced the Erin Elalese in the inn first. But how? I doubt they get so many stone-skins round here that a few more wouldn’t have caught the eye.”
“Maybe there weren’t no stone-skins to see. Maybe they had friends working for them. Gilgamarian friends.”
“Maybe.” The Guardian turned back to the pile of gray-cloaked corpses. “But that doesn’t explain how four Revenants got butchered without anyone noticing.”
Twist looked up from his crouch. “If their throats were cut, they must’ve been taken by surprise. But they were stationed on the quay. Ain’t no way someone could have crept up on them without them seein’.” He flashed a look at Jelek like he wondered whether the culpr
its were Erin Elalese.
It was a possibility, Senar had to concede. For while the Gray Cloaks wouldn’t have counted Avallon’s men as friends, they wouldn’t have counted them as enemies either, to be kept always at spear’s length. And if Breakers had slain the mercenaries, that would explain why the Erin Elalese soldiers in the Bloodfish hadn’t raised the alarm … if not why those soldiers had themselves been killed.
No, it had to be the stone-skins.
“Was there any blood on the quay?” Senar asked.
“No,” the lantern bearer said.
“Then maybe the Gray Cloaks weren’t killed there. Maybe they were lured onto the ship.”
Twist frowned as if the suggestion was a slight to his men’s professionalism. “All four of them?”
It did seem unlikely, but what part of this mess didn’t?
The pitch of the deck made the pile of Rubyholt bodies move. A young woman slid to the boards, causing a cloud of flies to rise into the gloom. Senar tugged at his collar. The heat was making it difficult to think. “No matter how or where the Gray Cloaks were killed, the stone-skins would have needed numbers to do it. So where are they all?” He turned to the lantern bearer. “You searched the ship?”
The man nodded.
“Search it again.”
“Search it yourself. They ain’t here, I’m telling you.”
“A group of stone-skins doesn’t just walk down the quay and blend into the scenery.”
Kolloken said, “Maybe they lowered a barge over the side and rowed to another part of the harbor.”
The lantern bearer spat on the boards. “Already thought of that. The ship’s still got its full complement of boats.”
“So maybe they brought another with them to throw us off the scent.”
Jelek chewed thoughtfully on another sweet. The light from the lantern caught sparkles in his metal piercings. “If they took a barge, they still had to come ashore somewhere.”
An idea surfaced in Senar’s head. “Unless they went through the Neck and left the harbor.”