by Marc Turner
“There’s a shock,” Kempis muttered.
“So Bedel decided to take matters into his own hands. Unbeknownst to Thetharo, Bedel was a blood-mage, and he began butchering members of the guild master’s family, then bathing in the blood of each victim in order to acquire the power to subdue his next target.”
“Hair-raising stuff,” the septia said.
“Kempis was the man who succeeded in tracking Bedel down when all others had failed.”
Elemy nodded absently. The sun pouring through the window to his left had breathed some color into his gray skin. The dutia must have been concerned for his complexion, though, because he rose and moved to stand in the shadows. “Is there anyone else on your staff,” he said to Hilaire, “who has this ability to track magic?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
The needlefly was now buzzing round Kempis’s head, but he ignored it. It was clear Elemy was weighing up whether to entrust him with a mission, and Kempis searched for a way to swing the decision against him. He’d run out of hair gags, though. And something told him if his antics thus far hadn’t sent Elemy running for the hills, then nothing would. Sure enough the dutia’s shoulders slumped, and Kempis knew his fate was sealed. The only consolation was that Gray-Face seemed as happy about the whole business as Kempis himself was.
“You are familiar, Septia,” Elemy said, “with the fellowship of water-mages known as the Drifters? Their job, amongst other things, is to ensure the sea in the Shallows continues to circulate, thus preventing the accumulation of nightsoil and other unpleasantries.”
Kempis smirked. Nightsoil. He’d have to remember that one.
“As you may have deduced,” Elemy went on, “the Drifters on duty last night failed to carry out their responsibilities.” When Kempis returned his look blankly, Elemy wrinkled his nose and said, “You must have noticed the smell.”
“I thought that was Pompit, sir.”
Hilaire’s voice was cold. “Three Drifters were murdered in the early hours this morning, Septia—one in Waterside Road, one in Char Lane, and one in Stocks Alley. The killer got sloppy with his last victim because he left a couple of witnesses behind.”
“We got a description?”
“No. One of the witnesses, though, mentioned seeing the assassin … disappear after the killing.”
“Disappear as in do a runner?”
“Disappear as in disappear.”
“Right. Puff of smoke, was it?”
Hilaire did not reply.
Kempis looked from the quina to Elemy then back again, expecting one of them to continue the brief. When it became clear they were waiting for him to speak he said, “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”
Gray-Face paused, then nodded to Hilaire.
“We lost another Drifter the night before last,” she said, “along with some water-mage in from Cinsar. The night before that it was a stormcaller from the Uscan Reach. We thought nothing of their deaths at the time, but now…”
“You reckon someone has a bone to pick with water-mages?”
Elemy said, “That is for you to determine. In case it has slipped your mind, the Storm Lords are also water-mages, and it just so happens Mazana Creed’s ship docked in the harbor quarter of a bell ago. With Dragon Day approaching, the other Storm Lords are likely not far behind.”
“It’s one hell of a step up from a Drifter to a Storm Lord.”
“And I intend to ensure the assassin never makes it. Last night’s sighting of the killer is the only lead we have, so I suggest you begin your inquiries at the scene of the third Drifter’s murder. If the assassin did just … disappear, it is safe to assume sorcery is involved. But we will know for certain if you detect any of those ripples you mentioned earlier.”
“And if I find nothing?”
Elemy’s expression made it plain he thought that unlikely. “When you track the assassin down, I want him brought in alive. I have questions.”
“I’ll try to keep Sniffer on her leash.”
The crash of wooden swords in the Watchstation’s exercise yard sounded suddenly loud. There was a strangled shriek and a stream of curses so colorful they brought a glow to Hilaire’s cheeks.
Gray-Face’s gaze remained fixed on Kempis. “I trust I don’t need to tell you the Storm Lords will be most grateful if you succeed in catching the perpetrator.”
Kempis made a sour face. He’d had a taste of blueblood gratitude before, and it hadn’t agreed with him one bit. Last month he’d intercepted a thief climbing through one of the windows of Magister Nayak’s home, and the judge had shown his appreciation by presenting Kempis with a bill for a statue destroyed in the ensuing struggle. On this occasion, though, it was clear from Hilaire’s look who’d be taking any credit that was going.
“Well, then, that’s settled,” Gray-Face said, marching toward the door. “Keep me informed of developments, Quina.”
“Of course, sir,” Hilaire replied, moving round her desk. In her rush to open the door for Elemy she almost bundled Kempis from his feet. She trailed the dutia outside.
“I should be making a move too,” Kempis said. “Them ripples won’t be getting any stronger…”
Hilaire shut the door on him.
He scowled, knowing what was coming next.
Another peal of Hilaire’s laughter sounded from Pompit’s room, followed by a moment of silence. Then the quina reentered the office and slammed the door behind her. Her hands were clenched into fists. She looked Kempis up and down once more, her expression darkening all the while.
“Gods below, Septia,” she said, “did you spend the night in a gutter? And where in the Sender’s name are your stripes?”
“Must have come loose,” Kempis replied, hoping she wouldn’t ask him to turn out his pockets.
Hilaire jabbed a finger at his chest. “Unless you want them to come loose permanently, you’re going to give this case your undivided attention. You don’t rest until the killer is caught, you understand? You don’t eat, you don’t sleep, hells, you don’t take a shit until this is over…”
Inspiring stuff, but Kempis was only half listening. It wasn’t as if he needed any encouragement to catch the assassin. The sooner he was out of the blueblood spotlight, the better.
“… and until the killer is in one of our cells, I’m going to be over you like a rash…”
An unpleasant image stirred in Kempis’s mind—one he suspected he wouldn’t be able to shift for days.
“… you stay away from the dutia, do you hear me?” Each of the quina’s words was accompanied by another poke of her finger. “If you sense one of those sorcerous ripples, you report it to me. You hear a whisper from one of your sources, I want to know. And when you track down the killer, you don’t move against him unless I’m there…”
Normally Kempis would have been happy to have another pair of eyes watching his back. In Hilaire’s case, though, he suspected it was just so she could decide where to bury her knife.
The pep talk ended, and the quina tugged loose the medal pinned to her breast and slung it onto the desk. “Anything you need, you come to me. In the meantime I’m giving you Loop and Duffle.”
“I don’t want—”
“I don’t care what you want, you’ll take them anyway.”
Kempis frowned. It was bad enough nursemaiding Sniffer, now he had two more fools to dog his heels? “That business at Lappin’s gambling den—”
“Has been reassigned. Nothing gets in the way of this job, do I make myself clear?” Hilaire looked him up and down a final time, then shuddered. “I’ve sent Loop and Duffle ahead to secure the crime scene. Sniffer should be on her way there as we speak. Now, get out of here, Septia. You’ve got work to do.”
* * *
Senar Sol trailed the emira’s party down the steps from the roof terrace and along the palace corridor. He kept expecting a squad of Storm Guards to pounce on him, but for the time being it seemed his stay of execution was a genuine one. The
emira came to a set of double doors in the wall holding back the sea. Two Storm Guards tugged the doors open to reveal a shimmering barrier of water. Imerle gathered her power, and Senar watched openmouthed as that barrier receded to form a passage bounded above and to either side by the sea, and below by a mosaic path that sloped down into the deep. The emira, Pernay, and Jambar set off along it, and the Guardian followed.
All about, the sea was bright with trapped sunlight. Senar reached out a hand to one of the walls and felt a tingle of sorcery as his fingers entered the water. A warm wind was at his back, and when he looked behind he saw the seawall covered in swaying fireweed. After thirty paces the passage opened out into a chamber that was still expanding like an air sac. Here too the walls and ceiling comprised barriers of water, while covering the floor was a mosaic depicting a hugely muscled blue-skinned figure clutching a fish-spine sword—the Sender, Senar presumed. The god was battling a shadowy, many-tentacled beast with a scaled hide. Threads of watery light shifted across the image, making it appear as if the combatants were in motion. Beyond the edges of the mosaic, the seabed fell away on all sides.
Set into the floor near the far wall were six thrones made from the vast yellowed bones of some creature—a dragon, probably. The beast’s teeth, each a handspan long, crowned the back pieces of the chairs. Imerle settled into the throne left of center, and the chief minister sat to her right. The Remnerol shaman moved behind them. Unsure where to stand, Senar took up a position apart from the others beside the left-hand wall. Strange how he could be among people once more, yet feel no less alone than he’d felt during his captivity.
The throne room was a different kind of cold and gray from the Guardians’ Sacrosanct, but a flood of memories still came pressing in upon him, sharper than he’d endured them for months: he saw again the time he’d first got past Li Benir’s guard in a duel, and the smile in his master’s eyes afterward; the day he’d met Jessca; the time he’d stood in the Great Hall and been sworn in as a member of the Council, his sense of pride tainted by the knowledge that his seat was available only because of the Guardians’ losses in the Betrayal. He forced the recollections down. Sometimes memories warm you, but more often they serve only to remind you of things lost. To live with the past, you need to have a future too.
Pernay was whispering to the emira, and a certain steel in her eyes suggested sparks would fly in the imminent meeting with Mazana Creed. A part of Senar wondered why, but another part warned him to keep a tight rein on his curiosity. His only interest in the Storm Isles’ business was in steering a safe course through it until an opportunity to slip away presented itself. For he would find a way to get back home. He must. The “how” could wait for another day.
And yet, what was there in Erin Elal for him to return to? Li Benir, Jessca, Ul Rettel, all dead. Erilon retired. Jeng Elesar and Amad Adala gone through the Merigan portal ahead of Senar. Most likely the rest of the order would soon go Shroud’s way too, if indeed it hadn’t done so already. Perhaps it was a blessing he wouldn’t be around to witness the death stroke when it fell. Perhaps he should be grateful for this chance to start over.
The twin swordswomen approached. Blond-haired and thin as willow reeds, they walked with the grace of dancers, yet their arms showed knotted muscles beneath tanned skin. Up close, they seemed even taller than they had on the roof terrace. One of the women was holding Senar’s sword.
“Your blade, Guardian,” she said, offering him the weapon.
Senar accepted it with a bow. Gods, that felt better. “My thanks.” He looked between the sisters. “You are the emira’s bodyguards?”
“We are,” the one who’d given him his sword said.
“Amongst other things,” the other added.
“I am called Tali.”
“And I am Mili.”
Senar studied their faces but could see no difference in their fine-boned features. Evidently conscious of his scrutiny Tali said, “We are identical…”
“… except for our scars.”
“Perhaps we will…”
“… show you some time.”
If Senar had been minded to look he suspected he could have seen for himself, because the wispy material of the women’s susha robes left little to the imagination.
Tali reached up a hand to stroke his cheek. “So pretty.”
Senar flinched, then hastily said, “Who is this Mazana Creed the Storm Guard mentioned?”
Mili shrugged, uninterested. “A Storm Lady.”
“And not a favorite of the emira, I take it.”
“The emira has no favorites…”
“… unless it is us, of course.”
“Of course.” Senar looked between the twins again. “I am curious, how do the two of you converse when the other is not around to finish your sentences?”
“We will never know, Guardian…”
“… we do everything together.”
Tali leaned in close, smiling. “Everything.”
Senar was saved from having to respond by the arrival of the executioner. The threads of metal across the giant’s shoulders and at the top of his back glowed softly, and as he passed Senar the Guardian felt a wash of heat. Moments later four other figures entered the chamber. In front was a woman with copper-colored hair. She wore a red dress cut just the right side of indecent, and she walked with a muscular stride that had her companions hastening to keep up. Around her neck was a chain from which hung a jewel that must have been invested with air-magic, for it shone like a star in the meager light.
Behind her came three men. The first was barrel-chested and wore a puffed blue shirt and leggings. His black hair was braided close to his scalp, and his small, close-spaced eyes kept flickering to his female companion as if he feared she might steal away when his head was turned. Next to him was a tall, blond-haired man with an ageless face and skin as bronze as the cuirass he wore. His left arm from the hand to the elbow was a lighter tan than the rest of his body. The third man walked with a pronounced stoop. His teeth were stained with blackweed, and his shirt was open to his navel. A curious fashion, that. What was the point in having clothes if you didn’t actually wear them?
The woman halted her party just inside the chamber, then stepped into the center like an actor taking to the stage. Her gaze lingered on Senar before shifting to the emira. “Imerle,” she said. “So good to see you again. Allow me to present my companions. You know my dutia, Beauce”—she indicated the black-toothed man. “To his left is Greave”—the fat man—“and to his right, Kiapa”—the man in the cuirass.
Imerle did not spare them a glance. “Why are you here, Mazana?”
Ignoring the question, the Storm Lady looked from the emira to Senar, then back again. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Imerle hesitated. “This is Senar Sol, a Guardian from Erin Elal.”
“A Guardian,” Mazana repeated, crossing to stand before him. She offered him her left hand. There was something in her gaze that left him acutely aware of the shabbiness of his clothes. “And what business does the acquisitive Emperor Avallon Delamar have in the Storm Isles?”
Senar lifted her hand to his lips. “The business here is not the emperor’s but mine,” he said. “As is the pleasure.”
The Storm Lady’s lips quirked.
Imerle said, “You have not answered our question. Why are you here?”
Mazana withdrew her hand. “Why? I come as summoned, obedient as ever to your orders.”
“Summoned?”
“Your summons, my dear. Surely you remember sending it.”
Silence.
Senar was watching Mazana. She glanced at Pernay before looking back at the emira and rolling her eyes. “You didn’t know? Really, Imerle, you must keep our esteemed chief minister on a tighter rein. I appreciate the two of you are close but—”
“What are you talking about?” Pernay cut in. “No summons was sent.”
“I received it two days ago. The parchment bore the
emira’s mark.”
“You have it here?”
Mazana looked at her three companions. “Did we bring it?”
The black-toothed dutia made to spit on the floor, then stopped himself. “We left it behind.”
Mazana turned back to Pernay. “We left it behind.”
“Of course you did.”
“You flatter yourself if you think I would choose to come here of my own volition.”
“Enough of this! We are tired of your games!”
The Storm Lady’s eyes glittered. “If you are so sure I’m playing you false, Chief Minister, perhaps you can explain why the flagship of our perfumed friend, Cauroy, came in to dock just as I was disembarking.”
Pernay regarded her skeptically before looking to the emira for guidance. Imerle’s eyes, though, were closed, and after a moment the chief minister pushed himself to his feet. “What did this summons say?” he asked Mazana.
“The clue is in the word ‘summons.’”
Senar cleared his throat to cover a chuckle.
“I meant precisely!”
“Precisely it said that I was required to present myself here today. Really, Chief Minister, the dots aren’t so hard to join up if you try.”
Pernay’s hands were shaking, and he clasped them behind his back. “The parchment bore the emira’s mark but not her signature, I take it.”
“Indeed.”
“And you did not think that strange?”
Mazana waved a languid hand. “I have been thinking of little else these last two days.” An idea seemed to come to her. “Perhaps it was our quarrelsome colleague Gensu who called this gathering. Perhaps he wants to reopen the question of your employment.” The Storm Lady looked at Imerle, her expression hardening. “Or perhaps I am not the one playing games here.”
Senar frowned. Gensu? Another Storm Lord? The names slipped his mind even as he heard them, and no one was bothering to provide him with a commentary. But he didn’t need to know who the players were in order to learn from Mazana and Pernay’s exchange. The suspicion on both sides was palpable, as was the dislike. Mazana had appeared genuinely surprised to discover the emira knew nothing of the summons, but she had quickly recovered her poise and now seemed to be taking great pleasure in goading the chief minister. As for Pernay, his hostility suggested he and Mazana were resuming a long-standing feud—though Senar suspected the feud was in truth between Mazana and Imerle, and that Pernay was simply shielding his mistress from the brunt of the other woman’s verbal barbs.
