Deathcaster (Shattered Realms)

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Robert’s mouth was full, so Rives continued the story. “The scum-sucking bastard’s dead, thank the Maker. There’s all kinds of rumors flying about what happened. Some say it started when Karn disagreed with the kinglet about whether to send the army to meet us or go after the witch in the north.”

  “Let me guess—General Karn wanted to come after us.”

  “Right,” Rives said. “Maybe he thought he’d have better luck against us than he’s had subduing the queendom.”

  To be honest, it was the decision any field commander would make. You protect your rear. You deal with the bear charging at you before you go hunting wolves in the mountains. In over twenty-five years of war, except for the debacle in Delphi, the northerners had never come south. Still, it seemed improbable that General Karn would go toe-to-toe with Jarat on a matter of strategy.

  “There’s more,” Robert said. “Apparently, General Karn was spying for the empress all along. He was in league with that pirate who came here just after Solstice.”

  Hal practically choked on his cider. “General Karn . . . was spying for the empress? That’s what they’re saying?” Somehow, in Hal’s heart of hearts, he knew that wasn’t true. It would be easier to believe that about the younger Karn, the spymaster and keeper of secrets.

  Rives picked up the story. “I guess they found all kinds of evidence that the general had been feeding information to the empress. In fact, General Karn and the empress were behind the attack on the capital.” Rives leaned closer. “In fact, General Karn killed Luc Granger, the captain of the King’s Guard, himself, and left him lying in the street.”

  Hal looked up and met Robert’s eyes. Robert winked. Hal decided to pour himself more cider.

  “When he was confronted,” Rives went on, “the general attacked the king and was killed by his own son—Lieutenant Karn. People are saying the spymaster’s a hero.”

  Hal shook his head in wonder. How the hell did Destin Karn pull that off? He hoped they’d both live long enough that he could find out.

  Rives stood. “By your leave, General, I’d better go see how much ordnance was stolen while we were gone.”

  “Dismissed, Sergeant. And thank you.”

  With that, Rives saluted, then departed, leaving the Matelon brothers on their own.

  “What about . . . the other thing?” Hal said. “Were you able to speak with any of the officers on my list?”

  Robert nodded. “Three said no, but four are in.” He handed Hal a coded list, with the four marked off.

  “Four?” Hal stared at his brother. “I thought maybe two would sign on, at most.”

  Hal had given Robert a list of seven officers who’d fought under him in the past—good, experienced men that he trusted. He hadn’t much to offer, put up against the risk of court-martial and execution, but these were men who wouldn’t turn his brother in. Especially since most had known Robert since he was little. Some had even fought beside him during his brief career.

  “There seem to be lots of men eager to fight with you, big brother. Part of it is your godlike reputation . . .” Robert paused, while Hal rolled his eyes. “But there’s a lot of resentment, too. Here, they’ve been busting their asses in the north every summer, getting blamed for every setback. Then rumors were flying that Jarat was going to put his man Granger in to replace General Karn. Not going to happen now, of course, but it left a sour taste in everyone’s mouth.”

  “What about enlisted men? Did they think it was feasible to bring some of them along?” That was definitely the tricky part. It wasn’t like his officers could put out a general call for traitors willing to fight against their king.

  “We might get more than we thought. Jarat’s still inconsistent about paying his soldiers, especially in the winter months,” Robert said. “Stupid, really, if a war is staring you in the face. If your army is there for the money, then you’d better make sure they get it. You can’t treat them like a farmer’s militia.”

  “So who’s in command of the army?” Hal said. “Have they chosen anyone?”

  “King Jarat has promoted Colonel Bellamy.”

  “Bellamy!” Bellamy had been on Hal’s wish list.

  Robert nodded. “He said no to us.”

  “Saints,” Hal said. “I wish Jarat had picked somebody else.” He didn’t relish the idea of going up against his friend, who was by far the most talented officer, the most skilled tactician still fighting for the king. He’d much rather have met Granger in the field.

  Robert looked to his right and left, then leaned toward Hal. “No worries. Jarat’s not coming here. He’s still planning to march on the northern capital.”

  “He hasn’t changed his mind?”

  “Jarat seems determined to take his talents north. He says it’s high time to add the queendom to the empire.” Robert laughed. “Apparently, he doesn’t see you as much of a threat, big brother.”

  Hal shook his head. “Maybe it’s a ruse. He’ll take the North Road, pretending to be marching on the Fells, but he’ll turn off when he reaches Temple Church.”

  Robert shrugged. “You may be right, but that’s not what I’m hearing.”

  What is it about the north that turns our kings into fools? Hal thought. Either Jarat’s still hot to prove he can succeed where his father failed, or he’s made some kind of deal with the empress to split the Fells between them.

  Hal scanned his list, considering assets and liabilities. “I wish we had some mages on our side,” he said. “Even a few would make a big difference.”

  “The officers who are coming over are going to try and recruit some mages,” Robert said. “They have no love for the empire, either.”

  “Maybe not, but if they’re in the army, they’re collared and under the king’s control.” Hal wasn’t forgetting his experience in Queen Court, where mages that were supposedly on his side turned on him.

  “Speaking of mages,” Robert said, “that reminds me. I received a peculiar message while I was in Ardenscourt.” He leaned toward Hal. “I’d gone outside of the inn we were staying at, to use the privy. This drunk stumbled up to me, and I thought she was going to ask me for money or something, but she gripped my arm and said, sober as could be, ‘Corporal Matelon. You and your brother should know that nearly all the flashcraft in the Ardenine armory is special issue.’”

  “Special issue?” Hal said. “What does that mean?”

  “I asked her, and she handed me a pouch and said, ‘This is a gift from the clans in the north. You can thank Lila Barrowhill.’”

  “Barrowhill?” Hal rubbed his chin, remembering what she’d said. Everybody’s girl.

  “She said they’d send more information later. She turned to leave, and I grabbed her arm, and . . . she decked me.”

  “This drunk girl decked you?” Hal couldn’t help grinning, even though Captain Alyssa Gray had done pretty much the same thing to him.

  “Like I said, she wasn’t drunk,” Robert said defensively. “Anyway, I was lying there in a puddle of piss and she leaned down and said, ‘You’ll need at least one loyal mage in order to use this.’ Then she left.”

  “What was in the pouch?”

  “Have a look,” Robert said, fishing inside his coat and handing it over.

  The pouch was heavy and clinked with the sound of metal on metal. Hal dumped the contents into his hand. It was a pendant, gold and silver, obviously clan-made. It resembled a key, with a long shank connecting the bow end and the toothed blade. When he looked more closely, he could see a clever joint where the grip met the shank. As he turned the grip, notches on the edge lined up with tick marks on the shank. He pulled on the two ends, but they didn’t come apart. What was it? An amulet with power settings? A locket with a combination to open it? An explosive device with a detonator?

  Or was it an actual key to something?

  Knowing Lila, it was probably some kind of trick that would move ahead her secret agenda. And yet—what if it really was a tool that could help them?
<
br />   “Any ideas?” Robert said.

  Hal ran his fingers over the pendant and returned it to its leather pouch. “Like Barrowhill’s messenger said—maybe what we need is a loyal mage.”

  Hal locked the pouch away in his strongbox and unfurled his maps again. He didn’t need more mysteries—he needed a battle plan. While he was dithering around in the south, the empress was marching in the north, where his sister and mother were, and Alyssa Gray was still a captive in the east, if she wasn’t already dead. He couldn’t shake the notion that he was running out of time. That by the time this was over, everything and everyone he cared about would be lost.

  17

  SHIPLORDS

  After settling Prince Adrian and Talbot in their rooms, Evan and his bodyguard Helesa made their way toward the seaward gallery, where he was to meet with his shiplords.

  Evan wasn’t looking forward to it. When he’d received the message from Destin, he’d bought the baby dragon at the market and sailed the next day. It wasn’t unusual for him to slip away unannounced—it was the one way he could make sure the empress couldn’t intercept him. But he’d never stayed away this long before.

  Evan had once hoped that Tarvos could be more than a pirate’s stronghold—that it could be a center of commerce and scholarship for the entire coast. He believed that a free port should be a marketplace of ideas as well as goods. He wanted peers, not subjects.

  He’d made a start. His library was the best in Carthis, built with books in a multitude of languages, carried in from all corners of the known world.

  But pressure from the empress had prevented his sanctuary from becoming the commercial center he’d hoped for. Trading ships gave the Desert Coast a wide berth. Only the cagiest, bravest, most ruthless ship’s masters were willing to risk drawing Celestine’s enmity by signing on with the stormlord. Which meant that, whatever shine you put on it, it was still a nest of pirates, struggling for power over a shrinking dominion.

  For Evan, power was just a means to an end, the price of survival. Before he met Jenna Bandelow, he’d always assumed that if he tired of the game, he could leave the fight and find a hole deep enough to hide in. But if Celestine could find Jenna in the mines of Delphi, she would find Evan eventually. Worse, she might discover that the way to Evan led straight through Destin Karn.

  Sometimes it seemed that his entire life had consisted of the steady dismantling of dreams, the narrowing of horizons, a battlefield that would one day shrink to this narrow strip along the sea. It was risky, allowing other ship’s masters the use of his harbor. But he couldn’t quite let go of his dream of a free port, and the businesses in Tarvos needed a steady stream of commerce to survive.

  The gallery was cool and high-ceilinged, with stuccoed walls and tiled floors, built for the climate. Its large, arched windows caught the breezes that came off the water, and a fountain splashed in one corner. It was a peaceful setting, but Evan knew he would find no peace here.

  Eight pairs of eyes turned toward him when he walked onto the terrace, each face hungry in its own way. Five men, three women. All older than him, and none of them gifted. All of them bound by their need for this sanctuary that Evan had created where the sea met the shore.

  Here, they could ply their trade independently, knowing they had a safe harbor to return to, where Celestine couldn’t reach them.

  At best, the alternative would be bending the knee to the empress, who extracted exorbitant port fees; at worst, there was the possibility of blood enslavement, although, these days, fewer and fewer of Celestine’s ship’s masters were bloodsworn. She’d learned that they couldn’t outsmart Evan’s free shiplords, let alone Evan himself.

  While the ships’ masters were free, the ships’ crews were all blood-bound, to Celestine or Evan, respectively. They were unfailingly loyal, hardworking, and reliable—as long as they were told what to do. And as long as they were convinced that the orders served their bloodlords. Any whiff of betrayal, and they were likely to tear their officers to bits.

  Evan walked a tightrope every day. Fear of Celestine kept the shiplords in line. Fear of Evan’s magic kept the empress at a distance. And the threat of the empress had been the driving force in Evan’s life for nearly as long as he could remember. It was a delicate balance that could fail at any time.

  Deep down, Evan knew that he would eventually lose this battle of strength and wits, because he would never match the empress for ruthlessness. He could justify binding the already bloodsworn. He couldn’t bring himself to bind free men and women, nor did he want the burden of their unquenchable need.

  The shiplords knew his expectations by now. The burners were going, the water was heating, the cups were prepared—waiting for the Stormcaster to provide the final ingredient, if he cared to. Evan always insisted that they participate in the ritual of tay whenever they came together. That gave him the option of forging a stronger bond, if need be, by adding his blood to the brew. Any who refused lost access to the harbor at Tarvos.

  So far, he’d served up only unadulterated tay.

  Jagger spoke up first, as always. “Strangward,” he said, rising to his feet, spreading his arms in a deep bow. “You have been missed.” He moved toward him like the predator he was, silent as death save the soft music of his jewelry—necklaces, bangles, multiple earrings, gold beads threaded onto his braids. Like most of the other shiplords, he wore his wealth on his person, where he could keep both eyes on it. His gold and his ship—those were his most valuable assets. In Jagger’s world, the sand and rock, trees and flowers and olive trees of Carthis were worthless—they served only to divide one sea from another.

  “We worry when you disappear like this,” Roshan Sangway said, licking his lips nervously. Despite the breeze from the harbor, his forehead shone with sweat.

  “Worry sharpens the mind,” Evan said. “You worry about me when I disappear, and I worry about you while I’m gone.”

  “You should have an escort,” Jagger said. “The empress’s ships are everywhere. If anything should happen to you, we would all be . . .”

  “Ruined,” Riggs grumbled. He was gray-headed and creaking, always talking about leaving the sea for good after his next voyage.

  “Then you’d better make sure nothing happens to me,” Evan said.

  “How can we do that if we don’t know when you’re leaving or where you go?” the Mongrel whined.

  “An entire fleet of ships would offer little protection against Celestine. My best protection is to escape her notice.”

  “We are not afraid of a fight,” Jasmina said. She was the youngest and hungriest of the shiplords, tough and muscular, with the personality of a badger. When she looked to the other shiplords for support, it was late in coming and less than enthusiastic.

  “Then, by all means, sail out and fight her,” Evan said. “If you kill her, I’ll give you free use of the port of Tarvos in perpetuity.” He said this knowing that, without Celestine, they would have no need of the port of Tarvos. And without him, they had no chance of defeating the empress.

  “At least allow one of us to sail with you,” Jagger said.

  “Who’s going to nanny him—you?” Jasmina said, showing her teeth in a sharkish smile. This was likely a quick preventive strike in case the other shiplords thought she should be on stormlord-sitting duty.

  “I’m thinking of more of a lieutenant,” Jagger said, “or a first mate.” The pirate gripped Evan’s arm, his long nails digging deeply into his flesh.

  “Let go of me, Jagger,” Evan said, his voice deadly calm, “or look for another bolt-hole.” Evan had been a stripling when he’d arrived in Tarvos. It was easier to stare the shiplord down now that he was tall enough to look him straight in his dark, hooded eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, Jagger let go, though his nails left red half-moon welts along Evan’s arm.

  You’ll pay for that, Evan thought. Out loud, he said, “I don’t need a nanny. That doesn’t put money in my pocket. I need you prowling the wetland
coast, taking ships and bringing the profits back to our port.”

  Unbuckling a bulging pouch from his belt, Evan distributed the contents among the steaming pots. Immediately, the air was filled with the seductive scent of the steeping leaf. When he was home, Evan always handled the ritual himself. It kept his options open.

  When he was gone, he depended on Kel and Helesa to handle the ceremony for the bound crews. One dose was enough to bind a person; after that, they had an unquenchable thirst for more.

  As Evan served each shiplord a small cup of tay, he or she murmured the expected pledge of homage. Those were about as honest as a fancy’s kiss, but it was a lovely ceremony, anyway.

  When everyone was served, Evan took his accustomed seat, cross-legged on the cushion with the best view of the water and the best access to the breeze coming in the window. That was one of the few privileges he claimed.

  He waited until they had all emptied their cups, then set his cup down without touching it and rested his hands on his knees. “So,” he said, “what are the numbers?”

  Helesa had, in fact, already given him the numbers. Nothing came into the harbor that wasn’t inventoried by his stormborn harbor crew. Evan took a fifth of whatever came in or out—that was the price of dockage.

  Two ships had been taken in the past month; both off the southern coast of the wetlands—one by Jagger, the other by Jasmina, who had been captaining her own ship for three years. It was no wonder she had no interest in signing on as first mate to him.

  “The empress is on the move,” Sangway said, wrapping his thick fingers around his cup as if someone might try and take it away. “I ranged up the wetland coast toward Middlesea, and her ships were thicker than ever before.”

  “Were they?” Evan said, pretending ignorance. He wasn’t going to offer any clues as to where he’d been or what he’d been up to. “Were they hunting wetland ships or spying on the wetlanders or taking a much-needed holiday?”

  Sangway shook his head. “I don’t know, but they seemed to be concentrated in the west, away from Carthis.”