White-eyed Onix Oolat, leader of the Cult of Dzur i’Oth, leaned forward in his basalt-and-diamond throne, deep within the black stone bowels of the Dragon Temple. The fingers of his right hand, encased in silvery metal, clicked against the stone. “What did you say?” he murmured, his strange, whispery voice carrying eerily through the open chamber.
The initiate trembled, dropping to her hands and knees, not daring to look at anything other than the floor. “M-master, Bailik says the thief has disappeared. The searching spells are returning only emptiness. He cannot explain.”
The Hand of Power frowned down at the quaking initiate. “And so he sends you.”
The initiate squeezed her eyes shut, trying to still her shaking limbs. Oolat’s lip curled in disgust. Fear was healthy within the cult, but panic was a sign of weakness.
Oolat steepled his fingers, flesh against magic gauntlet, losing himself in thought. The trembling messenger was forgotten as he considered what might have caused the ancient thief to disappear entirely from detection.
She may be dead, somehow, finally. The thought brought him no cheer, however. If her body had finally been killed, they would have to seek the key itself, which was unable to come to them of its own accord. Seeking the key entailed leaving the magic-rich shores of Shanal, and no earth-mage felt comfortable leaving his seat of power.
Oolat’s fingers brushed the diamond-embedded arm of his throne. Seat of power, indeed.
And then he had it. How had he not realized it earlier? He exhaled through his nose in irritation. This thief was causing him no end of difficulty. This latest trick of hers proved that she was going to be more trouble than he had anticipated.
His eyes fell on the initiate woman again, and he bade her stand up. When she did so, keeping her eyes on the floor, he rose to his feet and stepped down from his throne, pausing right in front of her. He could feel the heat of her body radiating onto his skin, and he breathed in her fear, a heady fragrance.
“Do not worry, Initiate,” he murmured to her gently, his eyes trailing along her features. “The Hand of Power is eternal.”
The woman nodded jerkily; the phrase was part of their daily chant.
“The Hand of Power is infinite.” His metal-shrouded hand slid up her arm, pausing briefly at her shoulder.
She nodded again, a tear slipping down her trembling cheek as she closed her eyes.
“The Hand of Power is life.”
She bit her trembling lip as the gleaming gauntlet slid down her breastbone. Its razor claws drew ragged furrows through her clothing.
“The Hand of Power…is death.”
The woman staggered from the shock of his silvery gauntlet ripping into her chest. A choking cry escaped her mouth. Oolat twisted his grip and jerked, then focused his magic into the beating heart he held in his hand, while its blood pumped out onto the dark stone floor. Its former owner froze in a huddled crouch—dying, yet bespelled.
“Walk,” he commanded. The woman’s body straightened, and even as her death rattle slithered over her tongue, she turned around and walked away. Blood poured from the gaping hole in her chest for several paces before it lessened to a mere trickle. Only the woman’s bloody footprints marred the floor as she entered the hall and turned the corner.
A distance away, Bailik was busy reviewing an old parchment, a sheen of sweat atop his hairless pate, when the door to his study swung open. He turned to chastise the one who had interrupted him, and his jaw fell open at the sight that met his eyes. In walked the initiate he had just sent to Oolat. The gaping hole in the animated corpse’s chest was clear evidence that the Hand of Power had not been pleased with her message.
“Master,” Bailik said in as calm a voice as he could muster.
The corpse’s mouth moved, and Oolat’s voice issued forth. “She is hiding from us.”
Bailik blinked, his mind racing. “Then she knows our intent.”
“She is coming, nonetheless.” The corpse’s eyes stared up and to the left; it nearly distracted Bailik from his master’s words. “If she still has others with her; she will seek to protect them too.”
“Excellent,” Bailik said. “I’ll have the harbor and border crossings monitored day and night. We’ll intercept them.”
“Good. Recall the Enforcers I sent north; the Blood Plague won’t be striking those three villages along the Emerald after all. And, Bailik.”
“Yes, Master?” The bald man inclined his head toward his master’s avatar.
“The next time you fail me, don’t send someone else to take your punishment.”
The corpse tumbled to the floor, its limbs tangled, its mouth agape.
Bailik waited a long moment to make sure his master’s presence had left the body, and only then did he approach. He knelt and closed the woman’s eyes.
“I’m sorry, Lillimin,” he murmured. “I’ll miss your warmth at night.” He squared his shoulders and sighed, standing and dusting his hands off. “Better you than me, though.” I could have spared you, but it would have shown Oolat my hand, and I’m not ready to make my move yet.
He gave a final glance to the lover who had died in his place, then summoned a slave to clean up the mess in his study so he could return to his research.
~~~
By morning, the wind had settled down to a brisk breeze. While Ruel got some well-earned rest, Rhona, Geret and Sanych perused sea charts on Rhona’s cabin table. The red silk curtains Geret had hung were pulled aside, and Meena lay on Rhona’s bed—a wooden frame suspended on ropes like a hammock—carving on a bit of toothy bone with a small knife.
“We’re here,” Rhona said, pointing to a spot on the top chart. “Out of Juala proper. There are a few more islands scattered ahead of us, but we’re pretty clear of pursuit, even what with stopping to get the Circuit working right.”
Geret fingered the heavy medallion Rhona had given him; it peeked out from the open collar of his dark green silk shirt. A new silvery ring glinted on his pinky finger. “Now we only need to worry about the open sea and local Clan ships.”
Sanych was glad that Rhona’s prohibition on his speaking hadn’t lasted as long as his had on her. She turned her attention to the islands west of Rhona’s finger. “Your chart doesn’t name these islands,” she said, tapping them.
“These aren’t Clan charts,” Rhona said, waving a lax hand in their direction. “I stole them somewhere north of Ha’Lakkon. As for the islands, they’re just flotsam. Tiny bits of dirt. What could possibly be worth naming?”
“Maybe nothing,” the girl allowed. “After the Sea God ship Kazhak made landfall for repairs on the northern Eirant coast, Captain Galanishav had me memorize his charts. They labeled those islands as Nadoth vri Fron. I’m curious why they’d be named on a Kazhbor chart, but not a local chart.”
“Nadoth vri Fron?” Rhona’s eyes snapped up to Sanych’s. “That’s an old Clan word: ‘foothold’. You’re sure that’s what it said?”
The frown that raised Sanych’s eyebrows showed her disdain for such a foolish question. “It was clearly marked,” Sanych said, crossing her arms.
Rhona tipped her head. “I’m not sure I can take the word of a landlocked girl about what was or was not labeled on a Kazhbor captain’s charts.”
“Rhona,” Geret began, a hint of irritation in his voice.
“Aye, poppet?” she asked, her sugary voice at odds with the daggers in her eyes.
He frowned at her. “Sanych doesn’t forget anything. Just because she’s not Clan doesn’t make her memory faulty when it comes to charts.”
Rhona lowered her brows at him.
“I’m not arguing with you,” Sanych said, opening her arms in a harmless gesture, “I’m just saying what the islands were labeled on his chart. What’s the fuss?”
“Captain!” a sailor burst in, tension in the lines of his face. Everyone looked to him.
“Report,” Rhona barked.
“Three ships ambushed our scouts. They were lurking behind the
nearest islands ahead. They’re driving our ships to deeper water.”
“Gods’ folly,” Rhona swore. After a dark look at Sanych, she hurried out of her cabin, the sailor following in her wake.
“‘Gods’ folly’?” Sanych repeated quietly.
Geret grinned. “I think I’m rubbing off on her.”
Sanych blushed bright pink.
“Um. That’s not…um.” Geret looked to Meena, who gazed back at him from Rhona’s bed.
“Yes, princeling? You lose your smallclothes under the bed last night? Or am I on your half of the mattress?”
“I’m not—I didn’t—Folly,” Geret cursed, huffing out his breath. He headed out after Rhona. Meena sat up with a giggle at the prince’s embarrassed exit.
Sanych’s hands made fists for a moment, then she sighed through her teeth. “Why did you tease him like that?”
The Shanallar looked at her as if she were dense. “Didn’t his reaction tell you what you wanted to know?”
Sanych blinked. I suppose it did.
“Nadoth vri Fron is Old Kroilen,” Meena continued, as if on the same topic. “The language of a millennium ago, before the Sea Clans had even taken to the sea.”
“I…never thought about where they came from,” the girl said, recovering her poise. “I suppose they had to live on land at some point.”
“They were a coastal country at war with the Kazhbor people, and their enemies pushed them into the sea. As a seafaring culture, they had plenty of ships, especially in time of war. But they never regained their homeland. Now they live at sea, and have scattered to nearly every part of the map, though as far as I know, all Clans still retain their matriarchal structure.”
Meena stood and came to the table, leaving the bed frame to sway gently on its ropes. “Rhona was right about the translation, even if she doesn’t know its significance. ‘Foothold’ isn’t the name of the islands. It’s a description of their purpose. The term is a pun used by the Jade Sea Clans: little toes, little islands. It refers to a place that is sympathetic to them. A foothold is a fringe settlement, filled with runaway slaves, debtors, opportunists, and regular pirates.”
“A place where they don’t have to fight for what they want?”
“That too. It also gives them a handy spot—” Meena indicated the wavy outlines of the islands, “—to lie in wait.”
Sanych’s eyes widened. “Swordfish!”
Meena nodded. And stood there.
“Shouldn’t we—” Sanych began.
“By all means,” Meena said, flapping fingers at her, “go, save everyone with your mysterious powers of deduction. Me, I haven’t got the garrim’s tusks pointy enough yet,” she said. At Sanych’s blank stare, she held up her scrimshaw carving.
It was a four-inch replica of the Deep One that had consumed the giant cephalopod which had eaten Meena on the deck of the Sea God Kazhak. Sanych gulped, then hurried out of cabin.
~~~
Sanych came up on deck and spied Rhona up on the aft castle. The young captain had her spyglass out and was gazing through it, still as a post. All around her, sailors were in motion, and anticipatory shouts filled the air. Sanych made her way through the din to the aft staircase.
Kemsil, already atop the castle, moved to Rhona’s side. “It appears you’ll need me soon,” he said.
Rhona watched the chase off the port bow for another minute, and then replied. “No, I don’t think so.”
Kemsil jerked his eyes to hers. “You’re not going after them?”
She shrugged a shoulder. “Even with their sails peppered with shot, they’re nearly outrunning their pursuers. They’ll lead them on a merry chase, and we’ll get a clear shot past their ambush site. No one will ever know we were here.”
“You’re abandoning two of your ships and all the sailors on board?” Sanych asked, pausing on the castle stairs.
Rhona sighed and collapsed her spyglass, tucking it into a pouch on her belt. She fixed Sanych with a direct stare from her height atop upper deck. “We’re invisible to the enemy. Why should we risk death and damage to these crews and ships? If my captains overcome or outrun their attackers, they’ll catch up to us later. If not, we sail to Shanal with five.” She turned and asked loudly, “Any of you scabrous goat-swivers have a problem with that?”
A chorus of “Nay, captain” came back at her.
“Looks like the only one with a problem is you,” she said to the Archivist.
Geret looked away, jaw tensing. Kemsil studied the deck boards.
But Sanych was done being intimidated. She swallowed and said, “It’s not fair to abandon them. They had no choice in following you out here. They’re your responsibility.”
“And they’re mine to use as I see fit,” Rhona countered, putting her hands on her hips. “If I think they’ll best serve my task of delivering the Seamother to Shanal by dying as a distraction, then by Scattersea’s shiny golden pearls, I’ll let them do it.”
“Losing two of seven ships is an acceptable loss to you, on a mission of this magnitude?” Sanych retorted.
Rhona met Sanych’s eyes. “Aye.”
Sanych bit back her angry denials, drew herself up to her full height and swallowed the lump in her throat before saying, “I disagree with your tactics, Captain m’Kora. However, it’s your ship and your command, and I do respect that. I came up to advise you that these islands are a stronghold for Clan Swordfish; as Kemsil can tell you, they’re rather aggressive. Please excuse me, however, as I don’t feel like idly watching while you abandon dozens of your own people.” She backed down the steps and turned away.
“Sanych,” Salvor greeted her, coming up on deck with Ruel at that moment. She shot him a hurt look and brushed past, descending to the lower deck with a clatter of boot soles.
~~~
Salvor frowned after her for a moment, then looked to the aft castle, where Rhona held a spyglass to her eye and gazed off the port bow. He and Ruel jogged up the steps to join her, Geret and Kemsil.
“Is there any chance they get away?” Geret was asking.
“There’s always a chance, as long as they don’t take a heavy ball below the water line,” Rhona replied. “And the locals will only use those if they decide to sink their targets instead of raiding them.” She murmured a greeting to her cousin, who rubbed the sleep from his eyes and drank a dipperful of water from a nearby bucket.
“You mean,” Salvor interjected, looking ahead to the seaborne chase, “like if they find out they’re rival Clan ships from another sea, encroaching on their territory?”
Rhona slapped the spyglass against her palm. “Sanych doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Those ships aren’t Clan; they’re common pirates. No sigil on their prow.”
“Then our captains could outmaneuver them in their sleep,” Ruel commented, wiping water from his chin with his sleeve. “Not even worth breaking out the case shot.” Just then, his eyes caught movement a few points off the starboard bow. “Rhona, someone else wants to play.” He pointed, and she sighted along his arm with the spyglass.
Just as quickly, she lowered it, eyes wide. “Gods’ folly,” she swore. “A swordfish on every prow.”
Salvor turned and squinted into the bright distance. Six massive galleons shot out at full sail from among the small, rocky islands. In two columns of three they came, their sails bellied, their gun ports open. Bronze cannon mouths yawned in the sun. Their pursuit of the common pirates encroaching on their territory and prizes put them on a collision course with the invisible Princeling and his companion ships.
“Look lively, you dankish whoreson dogs; we’re about to be run through! Hard to port! Let down and haul to run free!” she cried. “Kemsil—”
“Wait!” Geret grabbed her arm. He gave the Jualan a knowing smile, then looked at Rhona. “I have an idea.”
Rhona shifted her gaze to the oncoming vessels. “Belay that,” she called to her flaggers. To Geret: “Quickly.”
He spoke his plan in a
few short sentences, and Rhona’s eyes widened.
“Well, are you Clan or not?” he asked.
She barked a laugh. She slipped from his grasp, hollering orders as she leaned over the fore rail of the castle. Her crew scrambled, flagging messages to the other ships, adjusting the sails, loading and manning cannons on both decks and retrieving missile weapons from the ship’s armory. She strode back and took the wheel from her cousin.
“Ready?” Geret asked Kemsil.
The Jualan’s face was tense, but he nodded, fingers poised over the symbols on the Circuit. “And I thought the Agonbloom school of thought was mad.”
Geret gave him a broad grin.
As one, the five Agonbloom vessels heeled sharply to starboard, falling into a single line and drawing dangerously close to one another. Crews constantly adjusted the sails on each ship as their captains bellowed orders.
“I hope to Wisdom this works,” Salvor said, gripping nearby rigging for balance as the Princeling plowed through the sea in third place among the five vessels. The crossbow in his other hand was cocked and ready to fire.
Meena came up on deck, the finished garrim in her hand, as the ships came parallel to the oncoming Swordfish vessels. “Stars and darkness,” she said as she joined the others on the castle. “Are you starting a war?”
“Aye, Seamother, but not the one you think,” Ruel replied from the port rail, holding his crossbow at the ready. He briefly explained the situation.
“Child,” Meena said to Rhona, “this is a wicked idea. You should be keel hauled for your audacity.” The small smile at the corner of her mouth belied the seriousness of her words.
Rhona grinned. “Only if it doesn’t work. And if that happens, I’m not the one you should keel haul.”
Meena raised her eyebrows.
The captain tipped her head toward Geret.
Meena looked at the trickster prince. “I should have known.”
“What?” he asked. “All of my plans work. More or less.”
Kemsil brought the Circuit’s barrier in tightly, looking overhead to make sure he didn’t expose the ships’ rigging through its orange border.
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