Honeylegs sprang from his shoulder to the wall and darted up it in a blur of legs. In moments she scuttled among the red clusters. She coiled a pedipalp around the key and yanked it free, then dropped. Gorgo reached out and caught her. He took the key from her grasp and wrapped his fist around it.
The cavern vanished. Relief surged through him. Then he smelled the heavy stink of the sea, heard the splashing of the waves, the rough voices of sailors. Around him stretched rows of cheap buildings, shoddy even in the darkness. Bright lights spilled out of taverns. A sickle moon, an old crone moon, hung low in the sky.
He had landed in the Sealord’s District. The Fence District was miles away. Panic welled up. Had he taken a wrong turn somehow? Or maybe using Honeyleg’s help to conquer the Fence had been cheating? He had broken the rules and failed. Now the Warlord would die and Wyverna would fall. He tasted the dust of despair in his mouth.
A thump sounded at his back. A hand gripped his shoulder, and something cold shot through his chest, like a wall of ice. He looked down and saw the point of a dagger protruding from his breast. Blood blossomed over his tunic. The point had gone straight through his heart. Gorgo stared at it, not comprehending. He was dead. In a moment he would fall and the world would grow dark. He collapsed to his knees, his mind gibbering.
Even as he fell, rage rushed over him. Devourer, this couldn’t be real. He wouldn’t believe it. He would not die like this. Not like this. His fury coursed hot and fierce as his blood.
Gorgo flung his head up to look at the sky, saw the old crone moon hanging there… but the moon was not a crone tonight, it was still half-full. Triumph flashed through him. “Yahsta’s blood,” he breathed. “None of this is real. All an illusion!” There was no knife, no Sealord’s District. Nothing around him was real. Gorgo willed himself to burn a hole through the veil with his stare, to see the truth. The scene wavered as though under mist. He glared until his eyes burned and his head ached. Slowly the false world shredded and fell away like wet seaweed.
The sounds changed, the smells changed. Before him lay the quiet cobbled streets of the Fence District. There was no knife anymore, no blood on his chest, but he was still on his knees; his fall had been real, it seemed. Gorgo gasped deep breaths of air. He felt weak with relief, every muscle unstrung. He had made it through the Fence wards.
It was several moments before he could think clearly. “There were five Fence layers, Morbid,” he whispered. Of course there were five Fence layers, just as there were five Fence lords. A moment later Gorgo registered that his leg still throbbed and burned where the squid had lacerated it. His shoulder still oozed blood from the thing’s bite. The fourth Fence layer had not been illusion. He had been in a real place, with real beasts. Honeylegs still perched on his shoulder, regarding him from racks of golden eyes.
“Time to go,” he told her, staggering to his feet. Morbid had told Cockatrice to kill the Warlord by dawn. He must hurry. He nearly fell, and caught himself against the side of the nearest building. He stood in an alley. The sky above him looked pearly and bright, and the waning moon had faded to a green ghost. Night had nearly fled. He had spent more time than he dared imagine crossing the Fence wards. Gorgo took a few shaky steps toward the street, and looked down it to the east. A faint peach glow colored the sky. The sun was rising. He stared at it, feeling his stomach knot. He would be too late.
11: The Noose Tightens
Morbid slept little the night of the assassination attempt. It was not that she was troubled by worry, of course; there were simply too many things that needed to be done. By midnight, however, she was satisfied enough to allow herself a few hours sleep. She lay down on a sofa in the dark of her tactics room high in the Cataracts. Her eyes lingered on the bowl of glowing ruby crystals that sat on her desk. She had given a matched crystal to Cockatrice, for the golem to crush beneath her feet after she killed the Warlord. The stones were magically linked, and its destruction would douse the light of the others. After they all went dark, the crystals would crack. Morbid closed her eyes, primed to wake at once when she heard the sound.
By three in the morning she woke on her own. The only light came from the crystals, shining steadily. Morbid shivered as she swung to her feet, and reached for a heavy wool jacket to wrap around her narrow frame. Too impatient to sleep more, she prowled across the room lighting oil lamps. She rang for slaves, and sent them to wake the rest of her coterie. Her comrades had arrived earlier that night from their several sections of the city, and slept now in rooms down the hall. While she waited, Morbid buttoned up the jacket and brushed down her trousers, and checked that her rapier was honed and polished. Satisfied that her appearance met the correct standards, she paced the room until the other Kharvays arrived.
Chassi came first, as might be expected. She was a ship’s lieutenant of the fleet, and had been one many years. A hardened professional, everything she did was quick and efficient. She could roll out of bed ready to fight on the instant—and had done just that, no doubt, many times in the past. She was close to forty years of age, lean and hard-muscled, and as bitter as old seaweed. Morbid liked her, because she understood her.
Morbid had promoted Chassi to her inner circle only two days past, and she reflected on that decision with satisfaction. In the tradition of the ice islands, a leader must surround himself with an odd number of councilors, because in any decision, each councilor had one vote, and the leader two. With an odd number of councilors, there would never be a tie. True, Morbid had only three in her circle, whereas the Warlord had five, but still it was an important step in establishing herself as a leader of consequence.
“The signal has come?” Chassi bit out as she entered.
“Not yet.”
It was not long before Babinsa arrived. Morbid’s eyes narrowed on her old friend. She could hardly make a greater contrast to Chassi. Babinsa was a small woman, comfortably plump, her skin like milk. Her thick bronze hair fell unbound now, streaming over her robe of watered silk. She was one of the wealthiest of the Kharvay nobles, and owned an enormous mansion in the River District. Well-known in social circles and friendly with all the leading citizens of the city, her prime value to the plot was that few suspected her closeness with Morbid. Yet sometimes Morbid despaired of her: soft, pampered, and gentle as she was. Still, she was loyal unto death, and the best duelist among them.
“What news?” Babinsa asked.
“None,” Morbid snapped.
“You’ve grown cranky,” Babinsa said, her voice pitched low and soothing. “I doubt there’s any need to despair yet. You gave the beast little enough time.” Going to a table, she poured herself wine and offered a glass to Morbid.
Morbid waved it off, resuming her pacing. Typical, that Radice would be last. He seemed to delight in trying her patience. Annoying that she needed him so. She depended on him to conduct most of her business in Ilkour. He was a socializer and slipped from house to house and party to party unremarked and always pleasant, in both high circles and low. No one would think him a revolutionary.
She spun to glare at him as he sauntered in, looking as relaxed and indolent as always. “You’re late,” she hissed. She wheeled about to face her council, assembled at last. “I’ve called you together to go over our plans for dealing with the Fence lords.” She turned to Chassi. “We’ve analyzed it at length. Even with that Oribul hellspawn dead, the Fence lords could pose a serious problem. We need them to confirm me as Warlord. If they accept me, Wyverna will accept me. If they do not, if we have to use the assassin against them, the city could turn on me. Then it will get ugly, and bloody. It is crucial, therefore, that I win a vote of confidence in the Fence.”
Chassi nodded understanding.
Babinsa yawned. “We’ve discussed this before.”
“But we have not put it to the vote; we did not have the correct numbers before.” Morbid’s eyes narrowed on Babinsa. “It’s too much to hope, I suppose, that those records you planted in the Library of the Past caus
ed any serious dissension among the Fence lords. Are you sure Tiolt sent them to the Fence this night?”
“He was quite intrigued when I pointed them out to him yesterday. He thought them very important. I was there when he sent the slaves out with the box.”
Morbid gave a short laugh. “I hope the Fence dined well on them. Nevertheless I count on nothing. Let us consider the Fence lords as a problem, then. Winning them over is the crux of our plan.”
Radice shrugged. “But eventually you want to reorganize the Fence anyway, don’t you, Morbid dear? You’ll want your own people in it. You can’t trust the Warlord’s creatures. Kill them at once and be done with it. Save time and trouble.”
Morbid turned on him, snarling. “Even you aren’t that stupid—”
Chassi interrupted. “He has a point. Think about it, Morbid. With the power of the assassin at our beck and call, we can enforce our rule easily enough. Show the golem to the Council of the District Lords. They speak for the families, and they are both cowardly and pragmatic. They will quickly agree to accept both you and a new Fence. The current members are far too dangerous to control.”
Morbid’s temper rose. She turned to pace again, devouring the width of the room in three strides. “Not one of you is thinking. Their deaths would not be easily overlooked. Would you like to kill Ciano and declare feud with the entire Slythe family? No? Or the Implementer—not that anyone would much mourn him, but his sister would want to avenge him. Try not to forget that she’s a highly competent assassin. And the little monk is not to be messed with. If we slay him, we could lose his whole family, quick as that.” She stamped one iron-shod heel against the floor for emphasis. “But it’s the Hologrim harpy who worries me the most. Are you so convinced even the Assassin of the Kahlrites could kill her? With the arcane powers at her command? And if we fail to squelch her—well, you know how restive the Hologrim family is even under the Warlord. She could easily lead a rebellion against us. Has not one of you thought?”
Chassi favored Morbid with her cold stare. “You exaggerate. It is unlikely the entire Slythe family would declare feud over one death, and we are not in a position to say what the monk’s line would do. Perhaps nothing. They rarely do. As for Mayden’s sister, we can turn the golem on her first. It seems to me your only valid point is Wormlight, and whether she is a match for the golem. The rest is hysteria.”
“Well said, Chassi, well said!” cried Radice, applauding.
On the point of scolding Chassi for her insolence, Morbid snapped about and stalked toward him instead, each beat of her iron heels on the floor like the crack of a whip. She closed with him until their noses nearly touched, her narrowed olive eyes pinning his dark ones. Radice did not move or lose his smile, which sent her rage spiraling higher. Did he really believe he was untouchable? Her fingers twitched over the hilt of her rapier, and her voice hissed out barely above a whisper. “Do you dare to challenge me?”
While they remained locked, steel rang. Babinsa padded to their side on slippered feet, her own sword drawn. “Enough of this. Anyone who wishes to duel may meet me first.” She slid the cold steel of her rapier between their bodies. “This is not the time to be fighting among ourselves. At any moment the signal may come, and we must be prepared.”
Her words recalled Morbid. Babinsa was right, for once; there was a bigger game afoot. Morbid stepped back from Radice, dismissing him from her attention. “Very well. Let’s put it to the vote. How many are for killing the five Fence lords at once?”
“Yes,” Chassi said.
“Yes,” Radice said.
“No.” Babinsa shook her head, sheathing her sword.
“And I cast my two votes as No. Any further discussion?” No one answered. “Good.” Morbid turned to pace across the room again, her gaze sweeping over the ruby crystals that glowed on, unchanged. The sky outside the window had begun to lighten. She gritted her teeth. By the time her pacing brought her around to face the others, her expression was controlled again. “With the Warlord dead, rule must pass to the head of the Catsclaw—a military martinet who is utterly unsuited for it. Disagreements?”
Silent head shakes answered her.
“The Catlord is not ambitious for leadership, either. I foresee no trouble from her.” Morbid’s gaze raked over her cadre. “Therefore I will ask the Fence to confirm me as Warlord. And they will respond—?”
“Do you still insist on going to face the Fence alone?” Babinsa asked, worry in her soft voice.
“Absolutely.” Morbid made a quick chop with her hand. “If something goes wrong, I want you all clear of it. You will stay underground until the game is won. No discussion.” Morbid paced for a moment. “I still await your thoughts on the Fence.”
Chassi answered, her tone cold. “Jonlan we can dismiss from our concern, at least. He will vote to confirm you as long as you leave him his post. He cares little who rules if he has his piece.”
“I have never met Jonlan,” Morbid said. “I know nothing of him.”
“The rest of us know him.” Radice yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth, and returned to nursing his glass of wine. “It doesn’t pay to snub Heizhen, Morbid love. You meet the world at her parties.”
“That useless little twit of the Warlord’s?” Morbid scoffed. “It’s small loss that I haven’t met this Jonlan. He is apparently of little consequence. Are you all three in agreement as to how he will vote?” There were nods, disinterested. “Then Ciano. Her I have met. Your opinions?”
“What Slythe has ever cared for anything except himself?” Radice snickered.
Babinsa looked serious. “She’s a close-mouthed one. I’m not aware that she’s ever expressed much opinion on any point. I’m inclined to agree with Radice. She’ll vote her own interest.”
Chassi shrugged. “What can it matter to her who holds the reins?”
Morbid nodded. “I agree. That two will confirm me seems certain enough. Now for the Implementer.”
Radice barked a laugh.
Chassi murmured, “Ambitious, dangerous, and without loyalty. Mayden has been waiting his chance to climb higher for years. All that stood in his way was the Warlord. He’ll seize this chance at once to forward his own cause. Nor does he lack cleverness. He’ll be a serious danger to you.”
Morbid looked around the faces. “No disagreement here either. He’ll vote no. Now—the Hologrim harpy.”
“The Head of the Ancients,” Babinsa corrected mildly.
Radice snorted. “Why even bother asking? She’s been a thorn to the Warlord for years. Do you think she’ll be less to you?”
“I’m not convinced,” Morbid said. “She objected to the Warlord taking power in the first place. She once supported my claim. She said I had the greatest right to rule. She might welcome a return to the rightful line.”
“You don’t truly believe that,” Babinsa said. “You know her as well as we all do. For you to try to take the Warlord’s place now will put you in the same category as the Warlord in her eyes—a usurper. Worse, since you will have gained it by murder and revolt. You’ll earn her complete enmity.”
“She hates any government,” Chassi said, with a tone of contempt. “She’s a believer in anarchy. She has never left the ice islands in spirit.”
“And she’s bloody dangerous,” Radice added. “She’ll be your most serious threat, Morbid. Don’t even try to imagine otherwise.”
Morbid looked at each of their faces in turn, her upper lip twisting in a sneer. She waved a hand, conceding the point. “If she chooses to stand against me, she will be formidable. That was never in doubt. Her I would kill at once, if I were certain the assassin could do it.” Morbid growled low in her throat. “All right. Two for me, two against. And how will M’Chay vote?”
“He will abstain,” Chassi said. “The monks sit back and let the world pass by. They are cowards at heart. He will smile, intone something philosophical to be thought wise, and abstain.”
Radice clucked. “Think more on yo
ur history, Chassi. Whatever his cloak of philosophy, M’Chay has always done the prudent thing. He’s a pragmatist; one might say, an opportunist. I like M’Chay. He rode on the Warlord’s back to success, and he’ll catch the next rising star if he can.”
“I concede the possibility,” Chassi said coldly, “that he’ll vote yes. It may seem like the path of least resistance.”
“What do you think, Babinsa?” Morbid spoke sharply. The younger woman stared into her wineglass, as though lost to the discussion at hand.
She did not look up. “You already know what I think. M’Chay is the Warlord’s oldest supporter. He has never been anything else since he met her. What makes you think he will change now?”
Impatience surged through Morbid. “The Warlord will be dead, for one thing.”
“Not to the mind of a monk,” Babinsa said.
“Monks are not sentimental,” Chassi said with icy scorn. “They do not form friendships.”
Morbid stalked to the window to stare out at the greying sky. “It all hinges on this one man, then. It all comes down to the cursed monk. Who knows his mind?” She paced again, torturing the floor with more hard strides. Resolve hardened her, and her mouth twisted in a grim smile. “He had better confirm me. Otherwise he will be replaced.”
Chassi’s lips stretched in a reptilian smile, and Radice clapped his hands together and cried, “Splendid! You’ve come around to my way of thinking at last.”
Babinsa looked up from her wineglass to observe Morbid. Her old friend was like an angry rattlesnake this morning, Babinsa decided, all hisses and strikes. Self-willed, passionate, ambitious: so she had been at 22, and so she remained at 42. It had sat better on her then.
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