The Road to Hell (Hell's Gate Book 3)

by David Weber

  Relatha sighed, relaxing her concentration, felt the other woman’s fully trained Talent take up the load she’d supported for an eternity. She sagged back, sitting on her heels, head reeling, and then tried to stand and move out of the medical team’s way.

  She couldn’t. She tried again and made it halfway, then staggered and went down, her head swimming and her muscles water. But Kinlafia caught her. He murmured something—something she couldn’t hear through the tumult around her—and then he was helping her totter unsteadily out of the way. He supported her on one side and his wife took her arm on the other while they guided her faltering footsteps across the wide terrace.

  The firefighters arrived, at last, bells clanging and horses snorting. Men were scrambling down, connecting hoses to the Palace’s water supply, yanking open the valves and racing with long hoses toward the blaze. Water shot upward in massive jets as the hoses filled and sprayed it into the raging inferno.

  Men with ladders scrambled up to reach windows on the rooms not yet burning, trying to contain the blaze before it spread to the rest of the immense structure, and streams of people were evacuating, carrying out art treasures, government records, anything they could salvage.

  Watching the destruction of such a beautiful place made Relatha sick inside, and she wondered, numb with agony, how many people had been killed in the explosion. Servants she knew, maybe even her own mother and cousins, and all those Guardsmen who’d been on the balcony and in the Grand Imperial Salon. And there must have been many others in the corridors surrounding the Salon. How many of them had been injured? Perhaps crippled for life? Heavy chunks of the balcony had smashed down into the crowd out here, as well. People could have been badly injured by that falling debris.

  By the time they reached the stairs leading down the hillside toward the street, she was shaking so badly she could barely stand. She didn’t know where the two Voices were leading her and she didn’t much care, so long as it was away from the horror behind them.

  “Who could have done such a thing?” Kinlafia asked in a voice harsh with horror. “Surely not even Chava Busar would have conceived of something this foul!”

  “You think not?” Alazon snarled. “You don’t know him the way I do, Darcel. He’s evil! Chava Busar is interested in just one thing—Chava Busar! He’ll stop at nothing, he’ll—”

  Her voice chopped off. She stopped dead in her tracks. Stared out across the dark waters of the Ylani Straits. Horror twisted across her face. Relatha followed her gaze.…

  A ship was ablaze, out there. Pieces of a ship. Fuel burned in a sheet of flame that danced insanely across the waves. Two hulking destroyers flanked the sinking wreckage.

  “Oh, dear God…” Alazon whispered. “That’s Peregrine.”

  A whimper broke from Relatha’s throat.

  It couldn’t be real. She couldn’t bear for it to be real. But how could anyone have lived through that? The yacht had been blown to pieces. Kinlafia was cursing. Endlessly. Brutally. With words so foul, Relatha blanched. Some of them, she’d never even heard, before. Relatha turned stunned eyes toward him, saw the wreckage of grief and agony in his face, and wanted to comfort him. But she couldn’t. Her throat was locked tight. She couldn’t breathe past it.

  Then she was falling. Collapsing like a house of cards. Sobs ripped through her. The burning ship and the dark water and Darcel Kinlafia’s voice gyred insanely around her, slid and whirled in crazed circles like a cork caught in a whirlpool. She couldn’t bear it. She found herself sitting on the cold stone steps, huddled in Alazon’s arms, and both of them were crying.

  Kinlafia crouched beside them, one arm around each. Relatha heard another massive crash inside the burning palace. Firefighters were shouting. More fire bells were clanging as additional fire wagons and crews arrived. It was all dim and distant and strange. When a fire crew hauling hoses charged up the steps toward them, Kinlafia lifted Relatha in his arms and simply carried her out of the way while Alazon hurried after them.

  They stepped out into the garden that sloped its way down the hillside, and Kinlafia set her down carefully. He actually went to one knee so that she was sitting down when he let go, rather than standing. She clutched his hand tightly.

  “Thank you,” she choked out.

  “For carrying you?”

  She shook her head. “I’m just a servant…”

  “Just a servant?” he echoed sharply. His hands tightened on hers, painfully. “Don’t you dare say that!”

  She gaped up at him, stunned.

  “By the Triads, you saved the emperor’s life! You’re a Talented Healer, girl, powerfully Talented. Even if you’re only a student, you knew exactly what to do. And you did it. Most of us were running in blind panic. But you kept your wits. Shalana’s mercy, girl, if you hadn’t…”

  He shuddered. Then he brushed wet hair back from her face, pulled loose long strands caught in her mouth.

  “People call me a hero,” he whispered hoarsely. “All I really did was sit in perfect safety at the portal and receive a message. But you…” He touched her cheek. “You ran forward, right toward the explosion, with debris falling all around you.” He tipped up her chin, made her meet his eyes. “There’s only one real hero on this hillside and I’m looking at her.”

  “But—”

  Alazon hushed her. “He’s right, Relatha. It is Relatha, isn’t it? Your name?”

  She nodded, astonished a member of the Privy Council knew her name.

  “Relatha,” Alazon laid one hand against her cheek, “all of Sharona owes you a tremendous debt. One we can’t possibly repay—”

  And then she broke off suddenly and whipped around to stare at the blazing debris in the dark waters of the Straits.

  “Andrin!” The shriek tore loose, high and wild and…exultant?

  “She’s alive! Andrin’s alive!” The Voice was laughing, weeping, gabbling in wild excitement. “That was the captain’s Voice. The Captain of the HMS Striker. The ship’s Voice just contacted me. The Striker’s crew pulled her out of the water. It was the prince consort! He saved them both! Howan Fai threw her overboard. Dragged her overboard, just minutes before the Peregrine blew up. Vothan’s mercy, he jumped off the ship with her!”

  Kinlafia let out a crowing, triumphant whoop and grabbed Alazon and kissed her. Grabbed Relatha and hugged her. He was all but dancing in place, nearly jumping out of his skin in his own wild relief.

  “My Gods,” he gasped, “how in Vothan’s holy name did he know?”

  “Andrin had a Glimpse!” Alazon’s eyes blazed with incandescent joy. “She knew the ship was going to blow up. She was choking it out to him when a boarding party rushed at them, trying to snatch her.”

  Relatha gasped.

  “The prince jumped overboard with her in the middle of a gun battle. Oh, Darcel, they’re alive, both of them!”

  “But—” Relatha said in confusion, “but Her Grand Highness should have drowned! Her gown must have weighed close to sixty pounds! I know it did! I’ve helped her dress, before.”

  Alazon grinned hugely. “It’s sixty pounds at the bottom of the Strait now! Howan Fai cut it off her back, in the water. With his sheath knife. He’s carried it everywhere since the wedding. They were pulled from the water by a search party in a lifeboat. They’re safely aboard the Striker. That one,” she pointed to the destroyer on their left, bathed in the lurid red flames from the burning fuel and the wreckage of Peregrine. The destroyer on the right was mostly obscured by the thick black smoke boiling up from the fire.

  Numb shock vanished. Relatha started to cry again. But this time, oh, gods, this time, her heart was wild with joy, not grief.

  “We have to find Empress Varena,” Alazon said, dragging Relatha to her feet. “We can’t tell the emperor yet, not till his life’s out of danger, but we have to tell the empress and Razial and Anbessa. We have to tell all of Sharona. The crown princess is alive!”

  They were the sweetest words ever spoken.

>   EPILOGUE

  Noristahn 14, 5054 AE

  Kleindyr 13, 206 YU

  [May 3, 1929 CE]

  The Seneschal of Othmaliz lowered his field glasses with a wide, satisfied smile and the flames blazing out in the harbor shrank once more to a patch no larger than the palm of a man’s hand. The blaze consuming the Imperial Grand Salon was much nearer to hand, though not so near as to pose a threat to him, and far brighter. The Grand Palace’s gas mains had contributed so nicely to the unfortunate disaster.

  The flames were really quite lovely, he thought smugly. It was a pity there’d been no opportunity to stretch out Zindel’s suffering, but one couldn’t have everything, and what he had was quite good enough, really.

  The Uromathian emperor had been most helpful, even if he was a crass, boorish man without a proper sense of retribution. And Faroayn Raynarg fully intended to repay him. At the moment, of course, the entire Order of Bergahl was as horrified, shocked, and surprised as anyone else in Tajvana! They had no idea how this could have happened, how an attack could have slipped past the Calirath’s highly trained armsmen and security staffs! But, equally of course, they would be eager to aid in determining how this heinous crime could have been committed. So would the highly trained Imperial Uromathian Police. And in the course of their investigation, they would produce a dead “Arcanan agent” with secret orders written in the Arcanan language on his body, orders instructing him to murder the Imperial family of Sharona.

  The yammering pack of fools who were even now doubtless sobbing in anguish would be so grateful to the Uromathian for “saving” them, he’d end up ruling in his own right. Whereupon the Seneschal would have restored to him what was rightfully his. Chava Busar’s sons wouldn’t get to bed the imperial heiress or produce an imposter, but that didn’t concern the Seneschal in the least.

  He’d hated that nasty hulking cow. She and that damned bird. She’d thought it was funny, watching him sweat in fear of that vicious predator on her arm. Ternathian Imperial falcons were big, mean birds that could tear a man’s face off. There’d been no way to feed it to the sharks alive like its owner, but he could always hope it had at least been crisped in the explosion.

  He poured a celebratory glass of wine and sipped in genuine delight, visualizing the crown princess’ brief horror—but not, one could always hope, too brief horror—when she discovered what Chava’s shark Caller had summoned to meet her. He chuckled aloud at that thought and dipped up a spoonful of the prized Ylani caviar. He spread it on a crisp cracker, biting into the delicacy with gusto and sipping more wine. Ah, such simple joys were finally sweet, once more, without the bitterness of rancor and hatred on his tongue.

  He was mentally planning the move back into his quarters in the Grand Palace when the door crashed open. He jerked around and snarled at Acolyte Raka, who was stumbling into the room, white-faced and shaking. Water dripped from his clothes onto the thick carpets.

  “Your Eminence—”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed!”

  Before he could snatch up something to throw at the intruder, the Acolyte gasped out, “I tried to stop them. I swear by Bergahl I did! They just tossed me into the ocean. I barely survived!”

  “What are you babbling about?”

  Before the shaking fool could answer, the door flew open again. Soundlessly.

  Other acolytes sauntered into the room. But, no, they weren’t acolytes. They wore the garb of his own Order, and they were strong, obviously capable men…yet he didn’t recognize a single face.

  Wineglass and caviar crashed to the floor as he whirled towards one of the chamber’s other doors, but he wasn’t fast enough. The men spread around the room blocking all exits—even the windows. He turned, tried to lunge for a weapon—

  —and froze in place.

  A blade protruded from his belly. A strange symbol was embossed on the pommel. Ever so slowly the Seneschal recognized it as a piece from the Arcanan replica weapon set he’d supplied. A rough twist tore it out of his gut and spilled more than wine on his fine rugs.

  * * *

  Drindel wanted more than anything in his life to run. The men with him were indubitably in Service to Uromathia, and they were worse than sharks. The Acolyte Raka, older in death than he’d seemed while alive, had at least stopped that awful neck bubbling.

  Remarkably, few others had even noticed their entry. Drindel began to suspect the team he was with of boredom. Their Masker had covered their initial approach, but not even a Masker could pass a dozen men through the halls of the Seneschal’s residence without being seen. Their acolyte robes had gotten them through unchallenged, though, and the Masker could easily cover them once again if they left through the chamber’s windows and simply filtered through the ornate garden down to the shore of the strait. Drindel didn’t quite understand why Raka hadn’t raised the alarm or warned his fellow acolytes he might be pursued. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to him that they might be right on his heels. Perhaps he could be excused for not thinking that bit through, though. He hadn’t realized he was a dead man from the moment he’d stayed on the pleasure boat instead of joining the Talent-masked assault team who’d climbed the ropes up the side of the Peregrine and proceeded beyond the range of the Masker’s focused Talent, but he’d probably caught on pretty quickly when one of the other Uromathians kicked him over the side for the sharks.

  Who had somehow missed devouring him…among others.

  Drindel had been distracted in the slow transit back to dock. Monsters he didn’t know were devouring his sharks, and it had taken every bit of his ill-used Talent to conceal the failure from the Masker. Many, many sharks were fighting for their lives even now in that teeming deep-water channel of the Ylani Strait. He took up the field glasses from the dead Seneschal’s table and examined the surface of the water more closely. The flickering bits of charred boat debris didn’t interest him. Only the fins mattered. Drindel desperately wanted to know what was eating his sharks.

  The glasses weren’t good enough and the night was too dark. He couldn’t make out enough in the waves—not beyond the reach of the fires which were finally dying, at least—to guess at the fight under the surface. But the search effort was all wrong. In fact, one of the two destroyers had obviously abandoned the search entirely. It was headed back into port—at a speed which was dangerously high in such crowded waters—and Drindel’s heart skipped. He could only think of one reason an Imperial Ternathian destroyer wouldn’t still be scouring the water for survivors.

  We missed the princess. That was his first thought. They’re going to kill me, was the second.

  “Boy!”

  A gruff voice called him away from the ocean disaster. It was the Masker, and Drindel made himself set the glasses down as steadily as he could. They didn’t know the sharks hadn’t finished off all the Peregrine’s survivors—not yet, at least. They couldn’t know yet, and Drindel did his very best to calm his panic.

  “Sir,” he replied as respectfully as he knew how. He still didn’t know any names, and they’d refused the offer of his own. He regretted very much now that offer of his own name.

  The Masker set a fisherman’s wet bag in his nearly limp hands. He took it without thinking and checked the seals and closure out of pure reflex. The bag was intended to hold wet bait or a fresh catch, and his stomach clenched as he looked down at the Seneschal and realized what was in it. Obviously the others had been busy while he’d been staring out at the channel, but the outside of the bag—thank goodness—was dry.

  Drindel was the only member of the group not dressed as a Bergahldian. He was just in normal fisherfolk clothes—of good quality, of course; Maman wouldn’t supply him with anything less, but it was much the same as anything worn by the men who harvested the two seas to feed Tajvana.

  The others had covered up in acolyte robes after leaving the boat, which was why he was certain they’d planned to kill the Senescha
l all along. The robes fitted them far too well to be a last minute improvisation. Of course, no one had mentioned any of that to him, which suggested some very unpleasant possibilities, but it seemed their plans didn’t—yet—include anything that involved his own demise.

  As long as he didn’t piss them off, at least.

  Drindel weighed the bag containing Faroayn Raynarg’s heart in his hands, uncertain of his next move.

  “Go.” The Masker pushed him towards the back stair. “Feed it to your fish. It’s the sort of thing an Arcanan would do to counter their Healers.”

  Drindel stumbled the first step and then ran. Laughter followed him for a few steps, until his range from the Masker deadened all sound from the Seneschal’s office, but he didn’t care. Let them think he was just new to this sort of work, and that he’d had no experience of getting his own hands dirty. Let them laugh—that was fine with him! All Drindel wanted was to get far, far away, and hope no one ever remembered his name as having any connection to this.