Dragon Hunters

by Marc Turner

  Again Senar looked for mockery, and again he saw nothing. It had to be there, though, didn’t it? No one could truly believe the nonsense the shaman was coming out with.

  “I am not stupid,” he said. Whatever the evidence to the contrary. “Nor is Imerle. If word gets back to Avallon that I am here, he may come to realize there is a back door to the Storm Isles. Why should the emira risk letting me live?”

  “You think I convinced her to spare you? Do you consider yourself in my debt, then?”

  “You saw something in the bones, didn’t you? Something in my future.”

  The Remnerol spread his hands, his smile unwavering. “Dragon Day is almost upon us. As I said in the throne room, the days ahead are little more than a blur to me.”

  “And yet you knew I was coming to see you just now.”

  “It takes no skill to interpret the meaning of approaching footsteps.”

  Just as it took no skill to figure out the old man was keeping something back. “If the next two days are a blur, what about after Dragon Day?”

  The shaman shifted in his seat. “Time is a river, Guardian. No sooner does one thing come into sight than it is hurried past and another is borne along, only to be swept away in turn.”

  In other words, he knows nothing. A thought came to Senar. “What of your own fate?”

  Jambar’s smile flickered but held.

  “You must have seen something of yourself after Dragon Day,” the Guardian pressed. Then, when Jambar did not respond, Senar nodded and said, “It cannot be easy witnessing one’s own death—”

  “I see everyone’s death,” the shaman cut in, “a hundred times over.” There was an edge to his voice his inane smile could not conceal. Good. The more Senar rattled the old man, the more chance there was of something being shaken loose. “Would you like to know the manner of your own passing? Who strikes the killing blow?”

  “Nothing is certain. You said so yourself, all you see is possibilities.”

  “The difference between us is that I have prior warning of those possibilities and thus an opportunity to influence them.”

  There was no arguing that, and Senar realized belatedly he might have made a mistake in baiting the old man. Not because of their shared kinsmanship, but because the shaman’s gift of prescience could have made him a useful ally. Too late for that now. Then again, alliances were founded on trust, and that was not a word he would ever associate with the old man. “Then I had best disturb you no longer,” he said, making for the door. “Two days does not give you long to think of a way to cheat Shroud.”

  He left the Remnerol smiling.

  Outside in the corridor, the Guardian’s mind raced. Jambar had neither confirmed nor denied Senar’s suspicions over the shaman sparing him from Imerle, but the Guardian was convinced the old man knew something he wasn’t sharing. Was Imerle in danger? Was Senar destined to save her? But save her from whom? And if he did so, wouldn’t that mean he had outlived his usefulness?

  One thing was certain, a storm was brewing in Olaire. The warning signs were not difficult to read: the approach of Dragon Day; the assassinations in the Shallows that Senar had heard about; the gathering of the Storm Lords in answer to the mysterious summonses. There was a connection there if only he could see it. While he remained in the dark, he would have to watch Jambar carefully. If anyone was going to end up on the winning side it was the shaman, and Senar intended to be there with him.

  At the moment he didn’t even know what the Shroud-cursed sides were.

  Footfalls sounded along the corridor, and he looked up to see the chief minister. Pernay halted. “What are you doing here?”

  Yes, that would take some explaining. Senar should long since have reported to the emira about his meeting with Mazana Creed, but he’d had much more important business to attend to—such as tracking down a decent tailor and making an enemy of the Remnerol.

  “I seem to have lost my way,” he said. “I was looking for the throne room.”

  Pernay’s gaze flickered to the Remnerol’s door. “Do not be fooled by the shaman’s false humility and crass philosophy. He is an abomination. In the past month alone, three servants sent to convey messages to him have disappeared.”

  “And yet here you are.”

  The chief minister continued as if he had not heard. “The emira should have disposed of him long ago.”

  “Perhaps she knows better than to try. Doubtless Jambar would see the ax falling before it was even raised.”

  “If he weren’t a complete charlatan, yes.” Pernay’s hands were shaking, and he hid them behind his back. “What did you learn from Mazana Creed?”

  “Little,” Senar conceded. “She continues to protest her innocence over the summonses, but if she did not send them, I suspect she knows who did.” He paused as a serving-girl scuttled by. “I was, however, able to find out something about her companion, Greave. He is a former champion of the blood pits in Bethin. He is also, I believe, not so much Mazana’s bodyguard as her associate, for he appears to command a sizable following within her entourage.”

  The chief minister’s look seemed to say, Is that all? but then what had he expected, the Storm Lady’s signed confession over the summonses? “Stay close to her, Guardian,” he said at last. “Mazana is too shrewd to let slip whatever twisted scheme she has dreamed up, but your presence may force her to tread softly.”

  Senar frowned. He had hoped last night’s encounter with Mazana would be his last—and hoped it wasn’t, all at the same time. “What news of the other Storm Lords?” he asked.

  “They are here now, barring Gensu.”

  “And they all deny sending the summonses?”

  “Of course.”

  “That leaves Gensu, then.”

  “And yet if he is the one who called this gathering, does it not seem strange he should be the last to show his face?” Pernay shrugged aside his own question. “A conference has been called for this evening, by which time Gensu will no doubt have arrived. We will sort this out then. In the meantime, I will report your words about Mazana to the emira.” He smiled without humor. “No need for you to continue your search for the throne room.”

  The chief minister turned to knock on Jambar’s door.

  It was already opening.

  * * *

  Karmel opened her eyes. The powder-blue sky told her it was morning, yet it felt like only heartbeats had passed since she’d nodded off. The spare cloak she had used to plug the leak in the hull must have done its job, because there was only a finger’s width of water sloshing about in the boat. Only. That water, though, had seeped into her shirt and trousers to leave them drenched and stinking as strongly of fish as if she’d been hauled out of the water in one of the boat’s nets. Still, at least she had a change of clothes in her pack.

  Then she remembered she’d stored her gear under the oar-bench—where the water was deepest. Doubtless it too was now soaked through.

  Scowling, she looked at Veran. The priest sat cross-legged on the bench, facing her. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing deeply, but Karmel could tell he wasn’t asleep because with the fingers of his left hand he was turning round and round a Chameleon ring on the index finger of his right. She took the opportunity to study him more closely. There were bruises beneath his eyes and worry lines across his forehead. Whatever his prowess with his throwing knives, he was clearly less than capable with a sword because his forearms were crisscrossed with scars. There was another scar running from his right ear to the neckline of his kalabi robe. Karmel noticed he wasn’t wearing a blade and that hers was the only sword in the boat. If trouble came calling, what was he planning to do, dazzle his enemies with his charm?

  Veran had evidently been careful to avoid the main shipping lanes between Olaire and the Dragon Gate because Karmel could see just half a dozen boats on the sea around her, and none of those vessels were close enough for their passengers to make out the Chameleons’ faces. Dian and Natilly were to the south, p
erched atop the cliffs that flanked the Dragon Gate. Still leagues away, the gate itself was visible only as a continuation of those cliffs, giving Karmel the impression that she was sailing toward an unbroken wall of rock. Above Dian and Natilly, flocks of limewings swirled on the breeze like carrion birds over a battlefield.

  Karmel retrieved her pack from under the oar-bench and took out her throwing knives and a cloth. Drawing one of the blades, she began to polish it.

  Veran did not stir.

  “Perhaps now would be a good time,” the priestess said, “to tell me more about our mission.”

  Her companion’s eyes remained shut. “We’ll talk in Dian.”

  “Are you worried the fish might overhear?”

  No reply.

  Karmel bit down on her irritation. There was no reason for him to keep the information from her, except that it made him feel like a big man to do so. It was clear he saw her not so much as a partner but as an underling. Worse, he expected her to feed off the scraps she was given and be thankful for them. It was time to set him straight on that. “Whose place did I take on this mission?” She’d pondered that question last night while she was waiting for sleep to come. The names weren’t difficult to conjure up: Foss undoubtedly, Zaman, maybe even Wick.

  Veran opened his eyes. He stared at her blankly.

  “There’s no way,” she went on, “Caval would have given me such short notice unless I was stepping into someone else’s shoes. No way.”

  “Why don’t you ask your brother?”

  She made a show of looking round the boat before her gaze finally came to rest on the sailcloth cover beside her pack. “Is he hiding under there?”

  Again, no response.

  Off the port quarter a single-masted galleon flying the gold-and-silver-striped flag of the Goldsmiths’ Guild came into view. It must have had a water-mage on board, for it rode the crest of a wave several armspans high. In a matter of heartbeats it drew level with the Chameleons’ boat, and both Karmel and Veran turned their faces away. The edge of the sorcerous wave broke against the craft, setting it rocking. Karmel watched the ship speed southward, then looked at Veran.

  “I didn’t get a chance in Olaire to ask Caval about you—”

  “Good.”

  “So I did some asking round at the temple instead. Respected, I was told, but nothing more. Apparently you left the priesthood last year, and no one seems in any hurry to talk you into returning. No one. Naturally I was curious why someone who had turned his back on the Chameleon would agree to go on this mission…” She left the thought hanging.

  “None of your business.”

  “I thought you’d say that, so I did a little digging.” Glancing at Veran’s left hand, she saw a gold wedding band on his ring finger. “Rumor has it your wife fell ill after you walked out on us. That’s when you requested an audience with Caval, right?”

  Veran closed his eyes as if to signal the conversation was at an end, but Karmel was just getting started.

  “I’m guessing you thought it was no coincidence that your wife fell sick after you abandoned the priesthood. That the Chameleon was responsible for her illness.”

  Her companion was a long time in answering. “I thought he might heal her.”

  “And did he?”

  “Her sickness lifted. For a while.”

  “So you believed in him enough to go begging for his aid, but not enough to credit him with your wife’s improvement when it came?”

  “I know he could heal her if he wanted to. Just ain’t sure he gives enough of a damn to lift a hand.”

  “But you want to believe, don’t you? Why else would you have gone to Caval for help? Why else would you still be wearing that ring you keep twiddling?”

  No reply.

  Karmel’s anger was building. She was prodding him in the hope it would make him open up, but no matter what she said she was met by a wall of indifference. It was almost as if he couldn’t be bothered to react to her goading. “There’s more to the story, though, isn’t there?” she said. “You go to see Caval, and afterward your wife’s condition improves—briefly. Then a few weeks ago you come to see my brother a second time, and now here you are.” She leaned forward. “You know what I think?”

  Silence.

  “I think after you visited Caval that first time, you agreed to do something for him in exchange for the Chameleon healing your wife. Then, when her sickness returned, you came back to the temple and were told if you wanted more help you’d have to take a trip to Dian, maybe pay a little visit to the citadel while you were there. How am I doing so far?”

  Veran’s fingers were white where they gripped his Chameleon ring. “You ever seen someone struck down by the gray fever, girl?”

  Karmel shook her head.

  “Then you’re lucky. First your limbs swell up so bad you can’t move. Then your tongue swells up, so you can’t speak. Eventually your throat swells up, so you can’t breathe. Ain’t no one ever caught the gray fever that’s recovered from it. Ain’t no one taken less than a year to die from it either.”

  Karmel pitied his wife, but she couldn’t find it in herself to do the same for the priest. Most likely his wife had just a few more months among the living. Though no doubt Veran was foolish enough to think it might be longer. “When you last did what the Chameleon wanted, your wife’s symptoms eased for only a short while. What makes you think this time will be any different?”

  Veran did not respond, but from the set of his mouth he knew it wouldn’t.

  “Poor Veran,” Karmel said. “A few months ago you must have thought you were free of the Chameleon forever. Instead your wife’s illness means you’re as much his servant now as you ever were.”

  Veran half rose from the oar-bench, his eyes flashing. Nerve touched. For an uncomfortable moment Karmel was grateful she was holding one of her throwing knives. Then the fire in the priest’s gaze died, and he sat down again. A heavy silence settled on the boat. Karmel found herself disinclined to break it. Part of her wanted to take back her words, but another part feared it would make her look weak. She finished polishing her first throwing knife and took out a second.

  In the distance the guild ship passed close to a red-sailed catboat, throwing up a shower of spray that drenched the smaller craft’s passengers. Curses rang out across the water.

  “You ever spoken to your god before?” Veran said suddenly. “He ever answer any of your questions?”

  The change of subject took Karmel aback momentarily. “I’ll let you know when I think of something to ask him.”

  Her companion’s look was a mixture of disgust and disbelief. “You never stopped to ask yourself why we’re doing what we’re doing? What interest does the Chameleon have in what tribute Piput’s paying? Who do we serve now, the god or the emira?”

  “You serve my brother.”

  “And who does he serve?”

  The priestess laughed. “You think it might be Imerle? Caval could never remain high priest if he wasn’t doing what the Chameleon wanted. Never.”

  “So your father wasn’t doing what the Chameleon wanted when he was kicked out, is that it?”

  Karmel stared at him, unsure what he was getting at. When Pennick was high priest, he’d been despised by his fellows for his cruelty and aloofness, but no one had ever questioned his devotion to the Chameleon.

  Veran nodded as if she’d spoken the thought aloud. “Why would the Chameleon want Caval as high priest instead of your father? Caval, a man who’d been a mere initiate a few years previously. A man prepared to betray his own flesh and blood—”

  “What do you know of betrayal?” Karmel cut in, surprised at the vehemence in her voice. “Were you there when my father gave Caval his gap-toothed smile? Were you there when he beat him so badly he coughed blood for a fortnight?” And all because he’d failed to recite the Benediction perfectly. All six hundred and thirty-four lines of it.

  Veran shook his head.

  “Then maybe you sho
uld keep your mouth shut instead of talking of things you know nothing about.”

  “Right,” the priest muttered. “Forgot you had the monopoly on that.”

  Karmel mastered herself with an effort. Veran was trying to provoke her, just as she had provoked him. And he’d succeeded far too easily for the priestess’s liking. “When my brother was young, he wanted nothing to do with the priesthood. My father had to beat it into him.” She drew another throwing knife. “So you tell me, how exactly did Caval betray him? He did what our father always wanted—he followed in his footsteps and became high priest.”

  Veran was stony-faced. “The Chameleon doesn’t give a shit about family spats. He wouldn’t have raised Caval up just so your brother could settle a score with Pennick.”

  “So?”

  “So the only reason the god would want a changing of the guard is because Caval offered him something your father couldn’t.”

  “What if he did?” Karmel said, trying to appear uninterested. Truth be told, she had long suspected there was more to her brother’s rise to preeminence than he’d admitted. Throughout his childhood he had resisted taking his final vows, yet within six years of doing so he’d become the most powerful man in Olaire’s priesthood? There was a time when Karmel had felt hurt that he hadn’t told her the full story. But she wasn’t going to sit there and listen to a stranger like Veran—a man who had turned his back on the temple, no less—throw mud at her brother.

  Veran said, “Maybe I’d like to know what deal Caval struck with the Chameleon. Maybe I’d like to know just what it is I’m supposed to be fighting for now.”

  “You’d question the will of your god?”

  “If it means we become the emira’s playthings, damned right I would.”

  Karmel wondered if his wife shared his high ideals.

  An urge took her to shake out some of the kinks the night’s sleep had left in her body, and so she returned her throwing knives to her pack and moved to the bow. Taking off her sandals, she ran a hand along the prow to check for splinters, then stepped up. The breeze was strong at her back. She remained still for a time, settling the sea’s rhythm in her mind. With a final breath to compose herself, she took her right foot in her hand on that side and lifted her leg.