by Marc Turner
Karmel looked at the fortress. Was this basket how Veran planned to get inside? No, she decided, for whoever manned the contraption was unlikely to lower it at the request of strangers. And then even if it was lowered, who knew what welcome might await the Chameleons when they reached the guardroom above?
No witnesses, Caval had said.
The boat rocked as Veran came to stand behind Karmel. He’d spoken little since sunset, and the priestess had sensed his mood darkening as the color leached from the sky. Now when she glanced back she saw him gazing at the Dragon Gate with an expression so bleak he might have been staring at his own headstone. Perhaps the enormity of the task he’d taken on was finally coming home to him, or perhaps he’d seen his death written in the flames billowing from the mouth of the dragon’s skull. If he wanted someone to hold his hand, though, he’d have to look elsewhere.
“Maybe now would be a good time to make peace with your god,” she said.
When Veran met her gaze, the night was heavy in his eyes. “I was thinking the same of you.”
“I’ve never been at war with him. Never. In any case, I intend to leave this place alive.”
“You don’t know what’s waiting for us up there.”
Something in his tone sent a prickle along the priestess’s skin. “And you do?”
“Some.”
“Well?”
Veran did not respond. Naturally.
Returning to the oar-bench, he shipped the oars before turning the boat west. Karmel studied his back for a moment, then shrugged. The man was clearly trying to unsettle her, but if he thought she would scare so easily he was even more of a fool than she’d taken him for. True, her heart was hammering, but that was from excitement. This mission was the chance she’d been waiting for to prove herself.
And yet there was no denying she would have liked to know a little more of what the next two days held in store.
Her gaze shifted back to the Dragon Gate, now partly obscured by the flank of the cliff. The guild ship lay between her and the portcullis, and to see the vessel’s mast rising to only a third of the gate’s height gave Karmel a new perspective on the structure’s size.
“How could anything so big have been built by human hands?” she wondered aloud.
Veran surprised her by answering. “Took them thirty years, it’s said.”
“The Storm Lords?”
“Storm Lords didn’t take power until after the gate was built.”
Karmel raised an eyebrow. “But the construction of the Dragon Gate marked the start of the Seventh Age, didn’t it? I thought the Storm Lords were on the scene long before that.”
Veran tutted his disgust. “Read your history, girl. At the end of the Sixth Age the Storm Lords were just so many water-mages employed to protect Sabian shipping from dragons and pirates.”
The priestess succumbed to her curiosity. “And?”
“And as the cities of the League grew, those mages came to realize their value to trade. So they started banding together, elected leaders to bargain for higher fees. The League had no choice but to pay. Pirates they could take their chances with, but only a ship with a water-mage on board could hope to outrun a dragon. In the end the mages got greedy and began demanding a cut of the profits from the shipments they were transporting. League decided it would be cheaper to build the Dragon Gate than keep paying.”
“Then why weren’t the mages sent packing when the gate was finished?”
“Because they weren’t idiots, that’s why. Thirty years for the League to build the gate meant thirty years for the mages to plan their response. They formalized their ties, took the Storm Isles for their own, started calling themselves the Storm Lords. When the gate went up, piracy went up with it.” Veran paused to check his bearings before hauling on the oars once more. “Oh, no one could prove the Storm Lords were the pirates, of course, because no one could hunt down their ships on those waves of water-magic. Back then there were dozens of the bastards too—Storm Lords, I mean. Slowed trade to a trickle until the League caved in and agreed to pay them tribute.”
Karmel’s mouth twitched. “So the League spent thirty years building the gate and ended up paying the mages anyway.”
Veran grunted.
As the boat passed the last cliff terrace, the Dragon Gate disappeared from view. On that terrace a storm dance was being performed by torch-bearing dancers, and Karmel watched the flaming brands swirl through the night. “If there were dozens of Storm Lords in those days, why are there only six now? What happened to the others?”
“Fell fighting among themselves most likely, or died and weren’t replaced. Fewer to share the Levy, that way.” Veran adjusted his grip on the oars. “Of course, today’s rabble won’t let the numbers fall any further. Have to be enough Storm Lords to stop whoever’s in power from trying to stay on once their time is up.”
Karmel covered a smile. Evidently the emira hadn’t been deterred from taking her chances, but then the woman was said to be the most powerful sorcerer ever to have sat Olaire’s throne. Karmel wondered whether Caval had told Veran about Imerle’s scheme to hang on to power. Probably not, for her brother couldn’t trust him with such information in the same way he could Karmel.
From the city above, the ghostly melody of an ashpipe floated down—a Hundarian elegy Karmel remembered from her childhood. One of her few memories that didn’t sting, in fact. As the boat glided westward the music of the pipe, together with the babble from the terraces, faded beneath the splash of oars and the lapping of waves against the cliff. Quarter of a bell later the boat drew level with the edge of Dian. The city was bounded by a fortified wall so high Karmel could not make out its battlements in the blackness. The torches of the soldiers patrolling the fortifications drifted through the darkness like firewights.
As Dian fell behind, Karmel noticed Veran had turned the boat toward the cliff. Tapping him on the shoulder, she gestured to her left. “West is that way, I believe.”
Veran grunted. “There are caves at the base of the cliff.”
Karmel could see them now she was looking for them—black arches in the rock face ahead and to her right. She could also make out a cluster of submerged rocks off the bow, their presence betrayed by the foaming waters around them. As the boat edged forward, Karmel used her scabbarded sword to push off from the rocks—the hardest she’d worked the blade, she realized, since she’d won it three months ago. Still the hull scraped against stone, and the priestess glanced nervously at the bottom of the boat, expecting the trickle of water seeping through the boards to become a torrent. “What happens when we reach these caves?”
“We’ll secure the boat and swim round.” Veran gestured with his head to the west. “There’s a beach with a stairwell cut into the cliff. Once up top we’ll find somewhere to sleep, then enter the city in the morning. Less chance of attracting attention if we go in at dawn.”
Karmel peered in the direction he indicated. “How far is the beach?”
“Quarter of a league, maybe.”
“I’m supposed to swim a quarter of a league with my pack on my back?”
“We take what we can carry, nothing else.”
The priestess cast an eye over the boat before looking back at her companion. “You seem to have traveled light. You can help me with some of my things.”
Another grunt was Veran’s only response.
* * *
“Told you he’d do something stupid,” Kempis said.
Half a bell had passed since he’d parted company with Enli Alapha, and the merchant was finally making his move. As the old man left his offices, the mole on his nose was visible in the light coming through the glass door. In his right hand he clutched what might have been a book or a batch of cards.
“How do you know he’s doing anything?” Sniffer whispered. “He could be going home. Hells, he could be on his way to complain to Hilaire…”
Her words died away, for the merchant had turned to look toward the alley w
here the Watchmen were waiting. Had Enli heard them? No, the old man’s gaze was already moving on to scan the main street. A scattering of lights showed in the windows of the offices and countinghouses, but the road itself was deserted. The only sounds were the hum of voices floating up from the lower city, along with the ululating cry of a prayerseeker in the Temple District.
“Five sovereigns says he leads us to our girl,” Kempis said to Sniffer.
“Let’s say ten.”
She could make it a hundred for all he cared. It wasn’t as if he had the money to pay if he lost.
Kempis could almost hear Enli’s bones creak as he shuffled in the direction of the Round. The septia frowned. The coiffured secretary hadn’t yet left the offices. What if the old man was a decoy? What if he’d told his secretary to deliver a message to the assassin? Perhaps Kempis should leave Sniffer behind to watch—
The Untarian touched his arm. Enli had walked barely a dozen paces along the street when a figure—a woman judging by her height—detached itself from the shadows ahead. Her features were hidden by a hood. The merchant had seen her too, and his footsteps slowed. The two figures came together—a chance collision, it seemed to Kempis, though what were the odds of that when they were the only people in the street?
Then Enli was on the ground. The woman crouched beside him.
Comprehension dawned on Kempis. He drew his sword. Not something he ever did lightly, since there was always the risk he’d have to use it.
At the scrape of steel, the hooded stranger raised her head. Within her cowl her blue eyes shone with some inner light. The assassin from the Shallows. How had Colm Spicer described her eyes? So bright they glowed in the dark. She must have seen Kempis arrive at Enli’s office earlier and was taking no chances on the old man’s silence. And yet, now that she had killed her agent, how was she going to collect her fee? Hope kindled in Kempis. What was the point in continuing the job if she wasn’t going to get paid at the end of it? Could her killing spree be over?
As if I’m that damned lucky.
Kempis left his hiding place, and Bright Eyes straightened. She was holding whatever Enli had been carrying.
“Stay where you are!” Kempis called.
The assassin cocked her head.
Then she turned and bolted along the road. Just like they always did.
Kempis set off in pursuit, Sniffer at his heels.
Bright Eyes tore round a corner into Junction Street, her sandals skidding on the flagstones. Ahead was the Thaxian embassy, and Kempis saw four soldiers in yellow cloaks standing outside. He shouted at them to stop the assassin, but the soldiers just watched as first Bright Eyes, then Kempis and Sniffer, ran past. The guards’ laughter followed the septia into the night.
A right turn took his quarry into Templer Avenue. She flowed like a shadow through the gloom, her footsteps sounding on the metal plaque on the pavement outside the Petty Court. Kempis was already struggling to keep up, his heart pounding, his scabbard bouncing against his thigh and threatening to tangle in his legs. Gods, the woman was quick. She ducked beneath the fish-spine sword in the outstretched hand of a statue of the Sender. At any other time Kempis would have lost sight of her already, but at this hour the streets were empty of people—
A man stepped into his path from the door to the Commodities Exchange.
Kempis had time only to register a whiff of expensive scent before he hammered into the stranger. The blueblood, his eyes as large as plates, gave an “oof!” then lurched back into the doorway. Kempis was half spun round by the contact, and he found himself momentarily running sideways, his legs overtaking the rest of his body. He threw out his arms to regain his balance, but the ground seemed to buck and heave. He stumbled.
Then he realized the ground was moving. A wave rippled through the street, pitching Bright Eyes from her feet and depositing her on her ass. It might have been funny if it hadn’t been Kempis’s turn next to go down. As the tremor reached him, he fell and scuffed his palms on the flagstones. To either side the buildings wobbled, their windows rattling. A rumble shook the air, then crashes sounded as roof tiles came raining down. Sniffer crouched beside Kempis, her webbed hands over her head. From all around came the tinkle of breaking glass, the cries of people inside buildings.
Earthquake. Or rather, another earthquake. Last week a quake had opened up cracks in the walls of the Watchstation’s armory, but the tremors now were far stronger than they had been then. They went on for a dozen heartbeats, though at the rate Kempis’s heart was beating, perhaps that wasn’t saying much. A crack opened in the road. Bright Eyes was in its path. In you go, Kempis thought, but the woman pushed herself upright and rolled aside just as the road yawned wide.
The fissure reached toward the septia.
The tremors subsided.
Kempis groaned. The road had stopped moving, yet a part of him still felt like he might fall off it at any moment. He swung his gaze to Bright Eyes to see her levering herself to her feet using the railings in front of a building. What, up already?
She staggered off.
Kempis rose on legs as shaky as a newborn foal’s. Shouting at Sniffer to follow, he set off after his quarry.
In the wake of the quake, an eerie hush had descended on the city. The slap of Bright Eyes’s sandals echoed off the buildings to either side. It was clear the woman was a stranger to Olaire from the way she would veer into side streets as if she hadn’t known they were there. Her route took her downhill in the direction of the Untarian Quarter. With each corner turned, the distance between her and Kempis grew. It would not be long now before she shook him off entirely, but why was she running at all? When she’d been spotted by Colm Spicer two nights ago she’d just vanished, so why not repeat the trick here? Did she need time to work whatever sorcery she used?
Kempis’s lungs were burning as if the blayfire from Enli’s office had moved down from his nose to his chest. He wished he had more backup. What was the point of being a septia, after all, if you couldn’t get someone else to do your running for you? Behind, he heard Sniffer’s steady breathing. She didn’t seem to be busting a gut to get ahead of him, but then when had she ever not taken things easy in the Watch?
The assassin passed between two of the trees that lined Orchard Lane before swerving into Park Alley …
Kempis smiled. Dead end.
He drew up outside the passage. Bright Eyes stood at the far end, a deeper smudge of black within the pooled shadows. To her left was a windowless wall three stories high, while to her right was a wall only four armspans tall but still too high to scale. Beyond, a gate set into another wall led to the Golding Cloister. But that gate would be locked at this hour, and sure enough Kempis heard it rattle as the woman tugged on it.
He hesitated. He didn’t want to take on Bright Eyes alone. The alley was only two paces across, meaning there wasn’t room for both himself and Sniffer to attack. There was no need for him to play the hero here, though—he only had to keep the assassin from escaping while he waited for a Watch patrol to pass by. And if he stayed outside the alley there would be space for both himself and Sniffer to bring their weapons to bear. No matter how formidable Bright Eyes was, there was no way she could take on the two of them together, right?
Kempis licked his lips. The woman had turned and was studying him with those infernal blue eyes. She hadn’t drawn a weapon. Must know the game is up. He was about to tell her as much when she raised her right foot and placed it against the left-hand wall. Kempis snorted. Did she think she could climb three stories without so much as a handhold …
His thoughts trailed away.
For the assassin had pushed up and off with her right foot, twisting in midair across the alley to plant her left foot an armspan or two higher on the opposite wall. She repeated the maneuver once, twice, gaining height each time, until she was level with the top of the single-story wall. She landed nimbly on its roof and flitted away into the darkness.
Kempis’s mouth dropped
open.
“Sender’s mercy,” Sniffer said.
The septia moved to the wall and put his hands together to form a cradle. “Here,” he said to the Untarian, “I’ll give you a leg up.”
Sniffer stared at him.
“You can follow her across the roofs and shout to me where she’s heading.”
“Right. Or I can lose my footing, take a fall, and come down on that thick skull of yours.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Yes, as it happens—”
“It’s you or me, Untarian,” Kempis cut in, gesturing to his interlocked hands. “And last time I looked, the septia’s stripes were in my pocket, not yours. Now shut up and climb.”
* * *
The sea about Senar was black as the Abyss. Braziers lined the walls of the throne room, and the barriers of water beside them rippled in the heat from the coals. The ceiling was smeared with streaks of light. A memory stirred in the Guardian of a night two years ago in Erin Elal’s capital, Arkarbour. Senar had been waiting in the shadow of the Black Tower—the stronghold of Erin Elal’s mages—and the building’s sorcerous defenses had shimmered the sky like a heat haze, making it seem as if the stars were weeping. The tower itself was quiescent, but Senar knew that that stillness was a sham, for the mages could not have failed to notice the Guardians massing outside.
Li Benir had been with Senar as they waited for the signal to attack. His master’s good cheer was forced, and in his eyes Senar saw his own doubts reflected. That night had been the last time he’d stood at Li Benir’s side, for while his master had initially survived the assault on the Black Tower, the sorceries unleashed against him had condemned him to days of suffering before he finally succumbed to his wounds. Other memories of the attack came flooding back to Senar: Kylin Jey engulfed in black fire, shrieking as he threw himself from a window; a nameless Guardian apprentice cut in half by a demon summoned to the mages’ defense; Jessca’s face pale with shock as Senar wrenched a knife from her shoulder …
Grimacing, Senar shook himself free of the images.
