by Marc Turner
Could that be it? Had the stone-skins feared Avallon would seize them, and so slipped away while no one was looking? The Guardian wasn’t buying it, and judging by the expressions of those around him, neither were his companions. If the Augerans’ intent had been solely to flee the city, why dispose of the Rubyholters?
“Daylight,” Senar said, his voice betraying his bemusement. “How did they do this in daylight without a soul noticing?” Unless … “When did they dock this morning?”
“A bell before dawn,” Kolloken said. “The harbormaster lowered the chains for them specially.”
“Meaning it was dark when they arrived. Could they have slipped away then?”
“They could have done, but then who killed the Gray Cloaks and our boys? They ain’t been dead that long. And why did Hex come down to the ship now? Odds are, it’s because he meant to disappear with his friends—maybe even help them do it.”
Twist straightened. “The hows of it will have to wait,” he said. “First we got to find out where the bastards went. Because if they’re still in Gilgamar, the fact they didn’t wait till tonight to pull this stunt means there’s somethin’ going down—and going down soon.” He looked from Senar to Jelek. “The chica and the emperor must be told.”
* * *
Ocarn threw a punch at Ebon’s head, putting his whole body into it, twisting for leverage.
To the sound of cracking bones, his hand struck a wall of Ebon’s sorcery and buckled. Such was Ocarn’s momentum, his elbow followed through to strike the shield too. He let out a wail of pain, staggered back a pace, and fell to his knees. He seemed to collapse in upon himself, curling up round the blood-smeared hand now clutched to his chest.
Hurts, does it?
Ebon didn’t give Ocarn’s men a chance to react. Dropping his sorcerous barrier, he gathered his Will and lashed out. Not at Ocarn or at his own bonds—none of his powers could be used to sever them—but at one of the windows to his left.
Glass and shutters exploded outward with a splintering roar. Such was the force of the detonation, the stones around the window were torn loose as well to leave a jagged hole. There was a grating, settling sound, followed by the patter of falling mortar and splinters of wood. Clouds of dust billowed up. Above Ocarn’s gurgling whimpers came distant screams, questioning shouts. A good sign, Ebon decided, for even if Vale wasn’t already waiting outside, a blast like that was sure to draw him.
Or more of Ocarn’s guards, perhaps.
Ebon, expecting the Mercerien guard behind him to strike, threw himself left. His chair jerked free of the man’s grasp and teetered on two legs before toppling. The room pitched. Ebon tensed his neck muscles to stop his head hitting the floor. Instead it was his left shoulder that took the impact, sending a spike of pain along his arm.
The room stretched tall above him. Through the hole in the wall he saw hazy shapes in the dust. He waited with held breath for one to resolve itself into Vale, but the shapes weren’t moving. It dawned on him then that he didn’t know what lay beyond the wall. He’d been dragged into a room at the rear of the embassy. Did the building back onto a road? A courtyard? He cocked his head, straining to hear a crunch of wood or glass that would indicate approaching footsteps. Nothing. He thought to call for help, but the destruction of the window was surely call enough. If Vale hadn’t heard that, he wouldn’t hear Ebon’s shout either.
From behind him came a ringing of steel as swords were drawn from their scabbards. Ebon glanced at Ocarn, still on his knees. The Mercerien looked through the hole in the wall, clearly conscious of the risk posed by Vale. Let him look. His men wouldn’t move against Ebon without his say-so, and every heartbeat he spent watching was another heartbeat for Vale to get here.
Then the spell broke. Ocarn shook his head to clear it.
Ebon needed a way to slow him down—to buy Vale more time. “It’s not too late to end this,” he said to Ocarn. “Release me now and we can—”
Ocarn’s growl cut him off. “Xable,” he said to one of his men, “get him out of here.” He nodded toward Ebon, then clambered upright, cradling his injured hand. “You others, drag that desk over to the wall and block the hole.”
Oh no you don’t.
Gathering his power again, Ebon struck out at Ocarn. The blow lacked the force of the strike that had shattered the window, but it was enough to send the Mercerien reeling backward. He tripped over the rolled-up rug and fell against the desk. Then the rug slid from under his feet, and he slumped to the floor.
Something thumped into the side of Ebon’s chair—a weapon most likely. One of Ocarn’s men must have aimed a blow at him, but the chair stole the force of the attack, so that when it hit Ebon in the ribs, it only bumped rather than cut. He lashed out behind with his power. Facing the wrong way as he was, he couldn’t see who he was aiming at. With his assailant so close, though, he couldn’t miss, and he was rewarded with a hiss of expelled air, a clatter of metal on stone.
Ocarn was back on his feet. With his left hand he drew a dagger—
Vale’s battle cry, sped up to double time, seemed to warble as the Endorian leapt through the hole in the wall. His sword, held two-handed, struck sparks off the stone to one side. He slipped as he landed on the carpet of glass and splinters, took a wobbling step to get his balance. An eyeblink was all he needed to read the room. Then he flashed to engage the soldiers behind Ebon, his movements so fast they appeared jerky.
Ebon liked his odds better all of a sudden.
A part of him expected Ocarn to run for the door, but instead the Mercerien surged forward. Light glinted off his knife. If he reached Ebon, he could hold the blade to his throat, make Vale stand down until more guards arrived.
No way Ebon was going to let that happen.
A scream sounded from behind him. One of the soldiers was down.
Ebon made of his sorcery a wall to keep Ocarn at bay, and the Mercerien leaned into it like he was fighting a headwind. Just five paces away now. Four. Three. This wasn’t a contest Ebon could win, he realized, and so he lowered his wall abruptly. As Ocarn lurched forward, Ebon lashed out at his lead leg just as his weight came down on it—crack. The Mercerien cursed and fell on top of him, sending another jolt of pain through Ebon’s trapped left arm.
Ocarn shifted his weight, tried to lever himself off—
Thud.
Ebon felt as much as heard Vale’s sword pommel strike the Mercerien’s skull. Gurgling blood, Ocarn reeled back on legs as weak as willow reeds before collapsing to the floor. His eyes rolled back in his head.
Dead?
Ebon hoped not.
Vale cut through Ebon’s bindings and hauled him upright. The prince’s wrists were prickling sore where the ropes had bit, and he rubbed life back into them before stretching out the cramps in his arms and legs. He could hear no movement in the embassy. If more Merceriens were inside they had the sense to keep it to themselves. Ebon caught Vale’s eye. It seemed he should thank his friend, but what did you say at a time like this? What words would suffice? Instead he simply nodded, and the Endorian returned the gesture.
“You hurt?” Vale asked.
“No. You?”
Vale shook his head. “We should go.”
“One moment.”
Ebon scanned the room. Ocarn’s three guards were sprawled unconscious, while Ocarn himself lay in a heap at Ebon’s feet, his chest stuttering up and down, a lump forming on his brow where Vale had struck him. Ebon rubbed a hand across his throbbing jaw, felt again the sting of Ocarn’s punches. Could he complain at his treatment, though, when Ebon himself had planned something similar for the other man? Ebon had told Vale to find a quiet place for them to interrogate Ocarn, had resolved to make him talk one way or another. How far would he have gone if the Mercerien refused to speak? Perhaps he’d been lucky he hadn’t had to find out.
What was he supposed to do with him now, though? This wasn’t over. When Ocarn came to, he would want revenge. And with Rendale and Lamella in Tia’s control,
what was to stop him trying to reclaim them? If Ebon had to buy their freedom, he didn’t want to find himself in a bidding war. What were his choices? Take Ocarn with him when he left? Something told Ebon questions would be asked if he tried to exit the Upper City with an unconscious man on his shoulder. What did that leave? With Gilgamarian soldiers probably on their way here to investigate the explosion, there wasn’t time for anything fancy.
He could kill Ocarn, of course. That would make the problem go away. But only at the cost of another, larger, problem when Ocarn’s father found out. For while Galitia could not afford a war with Mercerie, the same could not be said in reverse.
Ebon frowned. Kill Ocarn in cold blood? Was he really considering it?
Beyond the hole in the wall, the dust had settled to reveal a walled courtyard with a gate at the far end. From far off came shouted orders, the jangle of armor. The noises were closing in on the embassy, but Ebon still had time to finish Ocarn if that was what he wanted. He reached down and pried the Mercerien’s knife from his fingers. Just one lunge, and it would be over. Such a small thing when you looked at it that way.
Ebon dropped the knife and headed for the door.
* * *
At Mazana’s call, Senar opened the door to her room. The last quarter-bell had been one of the longest of his life, shared as it was with the executioner in the corridor. Thinking to fill the silence, the Guardian had told the giant about what he’d discovered on the Eternal, and about the time he’d spent afterward trying to find someone at the harbor who had seen the Augerans leave the ship. The executioner had taken the news in typically animated fashion. Senar had then made the mistake of suggesting that, with the whereabouts of the stone-skins unknown, the giant would need to be especially vigilant with Mazana’s safety. The executioner’s only reaction had been a tightening of the lines about his eyes. Considering his usual dispassion, though, Senar reckoned he’d been lucky to escape the encounter unscathed.
He closed the door behind him.
Mazana was collecting wooden soldiers from the floor, and as she crouched she gave Senar a view down the front of her dress. It took him an instant longer than was proper to avert his gaze. Outside in the passage he’d heard her reading to Uriel, but the boy was not present. The closed door to Senar’s right doubtless led to his bedchamber.
The emira scooped up the last soldier and placed it on a desk before sitting on the bed. There was something about the way her hair fell across her face that put Senar in mind of Jessca, and he was conscious suddenly of Jessca’s ring on his little finger. What moment from his past had sparked the recollection? He couldn’t recall. Now when he thought about Jessca, the image that always came to mind was of her lying on a block of stone in the Sacrosanct’s crypt. Her face was the color of clay, and the top of her head had been ripped away by some demon’s claws. For some reason, the memory was not as raw as it had been when Senar first arrived in Olaire. The realization left him feeling strangely uneasy.
“You heard about the Eternal?” he asked Mazana.
She nodded.
“We’ve tried to find witnesses, but no one saw a thing. Not of the stone-skins leaving, not of the Revenants being slaughtered. The Gilgamarians are making their own inquiries, but in the meantime, the guards on the seawall have been put on alert.”
A smile touched Mazana’s lips. “The Gilgamarians on alert, eh? I feel safer already.”
“You find this amusing?”
“Maybe a little. You know of course that Hex has reappeared? He returned to the Alcazar a bell ago.”
Senar stared at her. “Have you talked to him?”
“Sadly, no. By the time word reached me about the Eternal, our fidgety friend had disappeared again.” She paused. “But then just about everything seems to be going missing these days. And turning up in the most unexpected places, too.”
Senar wondered where this was heading. Somewhere with a trapdoor and spikes, probably.
“Tell me,” Mazana went on, “did you see the bodies of the Erin Elalese soldiers who were killed at the inn? The ones who were supposed to be keeping an eye on the Eternal?”
“No.”
“Meaning we have only your kinsmen’s word that they existed at all.”
Now Senar understood. “You think the Eternal was Avallon’s work. You think he made up the deaths in the Bloodfish to hide his trail.” Senar had had the same thought, so he couldn’t begrudge it to Mazana. “If the emperor killed the Revenants, though, it stands to reason he seized the stone-skins too. Yet you said Hex came back to the Alcazar. Why would Avallon snatch the man just to let him go again?”
Mazana inclined her head to acknowledge the point. But there was an expectation in her look that told Senar he was missing something.
Someone knocked at the door.
“Enter!” Mazana called.
A young female servant slipped inside carrying a tray on which was a plate of sandfruit slices together with a decanter of red wine and two glasses. Was that second glass for Senar? Or was the emira expecting company? Eyes downcast, the girl made to set the tray down on a table beside the bed. As she passed Mazana, her hands shook, making the glasses rattle.
“Shall I pour, ma’am?”
“Why not? One for you, Guardian?”
Senar hesitated, then nodded.
The servant picked up a glass, only for it to slip in her grasp. She stooped and tried to grab it as it fell. Missed.
It smashed on the ground.
The servant gasped and pulled back her left hand as if she’d been stung. There was a cut to her palm, a shard of glass protruding from it.
Too late Senar saw the danger.
The emira reached out and seized the girl’s arm.
The servant flinched, tears in her eyes. Blood ran down her wrist. It reached Mazana’s hand, and the emira’s skin absorbed it like blotting paper. Senar stepped forward. Mazana was turned away from him, so he couldn’t make out her expression. The servant could, though, and her face paled at what she saw. She tried to pull free, but the emira’s grip was too strong.
“Mazana,” Senar said.
A moment passed as the servant continued to struggle. Mazana turned her head as if to check that Senar was still there. He wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t been.
Then the emira released the girl.
The servant staggered back. Where Mazana had gripped her arm, there were white impressions, slow to fade. She hitched up her skirts and fled.
Senar heard the door slam behind him, but he didn’t look round. His gaze was still on the emira—or rather on the back of her head, since she remained facing away from him. The girl’s blood had left a purple-red blotch on Mazana’s arm the size of a sovereign. Senar remembered the last time she’d got blood on her skin, and what had happened afterward in the corridor outside Darbonna’s cell.
He braced himself.
The emira kept still. She was trying to gather herself, he suspected. To reestablish control. She tutted as she took in the pieces of glass on the floor. When she finally looked across, her eyes had a glow to them.
“That was your glass she broke, by the way,” she said.
No matter, Senar thought. The way he was feeling just now, he’d be happy to drink from the decanter.
Mazana picked a path through the broken glass to the table. She filled the remaining glass with wine, then drained it in one go. After refilling the glass, she returned to sit on the bed. The stain on her arm started to fade. From Uriel’s room came a muted cough.
“How far is it from here to the Rubyholt Isles?” Mazana asked suddenly.
The Guardian was slow to answer. The emira would know better than he. “To the Outer Rim? Maybe fifty leagues.”
“And to Bezzle?”
“I don’t know. Twice that?”
“Let’s say one hundred and twenty-five leagues. On the open sea, I could cover that distance in half a day, but if I had to weave a way through the Rubyholt Isles … maybe f
ourteen bells? For a lesser mage the journey could take anything up to a day.”
Senar waited for her to get to the point.
She drank from her glass. “I’ve been thinking more about our friend Hex’s appearance this morning. We got here yesterday at around the third bell, yes? And it was another two bells before your esteemed emperor arrived. So, let’s imagine the stone-skins had a spy in Gilgamar. Let’s imagine that spy left the moment Avallon was unmasked to inform the Augeran expeditionary force—and that he had a Rubyholter on hand to guide him through the Isles. And let’s also imagine Subcommander Sunder responded immediately to the news by dispatching Hex to Gilgamar. By my calculations, Hex should have arrived here”—she glanced down, her lips moving silently as she pretended to work it out—“about twelve bells from now.”
Senar struggled to gather his thoughts. “You’re saying the stone-skins knew the emperor was coming before he arrived?”
Mazana snapped her fingers. “Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“That means they must have a spy in Erin Elal,” Senar said, his pulse quickening. The spy would have to be one of Avallon’s closest advisers too, for the details of his journey to Gilgamar would have been kept secret from all but a select few.
“Or…” Mazana prompted.
He looked at her blankly.
“Or Avallon himself found a way to tell the stone-skins he was coming.”
“And dig his own grave at the same time? He’d be trapped here, far from home and among uncertain friends.”
“But think of what he stands to gain.” The emira set down her glass, then rose and crossed to the desk. “If the stone-skins knew he was coming to Gilgamar, they might be tempted to strike. True, Avallon could fall with the city, but equally he could slip away when the assault started. And of course it doesn’t matter to him whether the stone-skins take the city or not, because either way the result would be to draw the League into the war.”
Senar frowned. There was sense in what Mazana said, but she was seeing only half the picture. “So where is this strike coming from? You’re forgetting, the stone-skins who came with Hex can have numbered only a few dozen. I think even the Gilgamarians can be relied upon to repel that threat.”