by Marc Turner
“We’ve got sixteen bells before things kick off,” Veran said. “I suggest you check your gear and get some rest.” Another crash of breaking glass sounded from the room overhead, and Veran cast a dark look at the ceiling. “If the bastards upstairs let us, that is.”
* * *
Agenta watched the sun dip beneath the palace’s roofline. For half a bell she and her father had been kept waiting in the corridor outside the throne room. As the light started to fade, so too did the kalischa’s expectations for the coming meeting. Imerle’s summons had not disclosed the reason for the audience. Agenta had wondered whether that business with Sticks had convinced the emira to strike a more conciliatory tone in their discussions over the stolen duskstones. As the heartbeats passed, though, the kalischa began to suspect Imerle had called them here not to smooth ruffled feathers but to deliver a warning about prying into her affairs. If that were the case Agenta saw no reason to waste any more time in this place. Before she could suggest to her father that they leave, though, the doors to the throne room swung open, and a Storm Guard beckoned them through.
Beyond stretched the underwater passage, its walls rippling like sheets of steel-gray silk. As Agenta descended into the murk behind Rethell, the noise of the waves breaking against the seawall died away.
The doors closed behind her with a noise like rolling thunder.
The throne room was lit by braziers of glowing coals that did nothing to alleviate the chill in the air. Imerle was dressed in a black gown that accentuated the pallor of her skin. To her left sat the chief minister, smiling as if at some private joke. Behind him stood the executioner, his gaze fixed on infinity.
Agenta drew up alongside her father.
Rethell bowed. “You wished to see us, Emira.”
Imerle’s gaze was on Agenta. “We understand you have been keeping yourself busy since we last met.”
“If you are referring to what happened in the Deeps,” Agenta said, “you are remarkably well-informed.”
“You will find there is little that goes in Olaire that we do not know about.”
“Indeed. You’ll be able to tell us who’s selling our stolen duskstones, then.”
“Ah, so you went to meet the hijackers of your ship. Were you able to apprehend one of the pirates for questioning?”
It was plain from Imerle’s expression she already knew the answer to that. Agenta was about to call an end to this charade when her father spoke.
“These were no pirates, Emira,” he said. “They were soldiers.”
“Soldiers?” Imerle repeated. “Did they wear some insignia on their uniforms? Address each other by rank, perhaps?”
“I trust my daughter’s judgment in this.”
“Of course you do.”
What little daylight remained was leaching from the sea, transforming the walls of the throne room into dark mirrors that reflected the smoldering glow of the braziers. Imerle’s eyes, too, were smoldering as they focused on Agenta. “If you are right in thinking the hijackers are soldiers, perhaps you should leave the job of tracking them down to our Storm Guards. The Deeps can be a dangerous place. We would hate for your next visit there to be your last.”
Rethell’s voice was cold. “Oh, there won’t be any need for Agenta to return to the Deeps. She left last night with what she went for.”
“You found your missing duskstones?”
Agenta held up the jewel she had taken from Sticks.
Imerle smiled. “A single stone? We’d have thought you would set your sights higher.”
“I was not referring to the duskstones,” Rethell said. “Agenta returned with something much more valuable: information.”
“You know which pirates stole your cargo?”
“Better than that. We know the identity of the power behind the pirates’ mask.”
“And?”
“And when our inquiries are complete, we will present our findings to the Storm Council.”
The emira looked bored. “Well, if there is anything we can do to help, you know you have but to ask.”
Agenta glanced at her father. She’d told him earlier that Imerle wouldn’t fall for such a feeble bluff, but what now? They had yet to raise the matter of Imerle’s loans, but then Lydanto’s inquiries at the Round had uncovered nothing thus far. Rethell had been reluctant to raise the matter until they had proved the emira was the beneficiary. Even if such proof existed, though, there was no guarantee they would find it. More important, if Imerle was planning a coup, how long did they have before she made her move? A month? A week? If they didn’t confront her now, they might squander their chance to force her to the negotiating table. Because once she’d made her play for power there would be no need for her to strike a deal. Better to kick the nest now and see what came of it than risk leaving their trump card unplayed. Better to do something than nothing, even if it turned out to be the wrong thing.
Rethell must have come to the same conclusion, for a note of resignation entered his gaze. He nodded to Agenta.
She turned to Imerle. “Perhaps there is something you can help us with. It seems a merchant trading in our stolen duskstones has been using the profits to make loans to someone in Olaire—someone who has gone to great lengths to conceal their identity. Naturally we will be doing everything in our power to unmask this person, but if the Storm Council can assist—”
“A moment,” Pernay cut in. “This merchant … He has a name?”
“Galaman Vesta.”
It was the turn of Imerle and her chief minister to exchange a look—a good sign, Agenta decided, for it told her she had their attention at last.
“Vesta is known to us,” Pernay said eventually. He appeared to be sitting a good deal less comfortably than he had been before. “But as a trader in Androsian silks, not duskstones.”
“Perhaps you do not know him as well as you thought. Or perhaps someone made him an offer regarding the stones that was too good to pass up.” That someone had been an agent from the Xiatan Trading House, employed by her father to broker a deal between Vesta and a second merchant already holding a sizable stockpile of the jewels—a deal that had been set up this morning in secret, and at considerable expense to Rethell, with the sole purpose of fashioning a false link between the missing stones and the emira’s loans.
Imerle spoke. “What proof do you have that the recipient of these loans is connected to the Gadfly’s hijackers?”
“None as yet,” Agenta said, “but the possibility of a link needs to be investigated, wouldn’t you agree? Perhaps Vesta is in league with the hijackers and is using the loans to launder his profits. Or perhaps we have read the situation wrongly and the loans have been made for an altogether different purpose. Whatever the truth of it, you may rest assured we will pursue this path to its end, no matter where or to whom it may lead.”
The emira considered this, her mouth a thin line. Doubtless she believed she had hidden her trail well, but with luck the threat of having the spotlight turned on her dealings would be sufficient to make her parley. Agenta looked at the executioner. Unless, of course, Imerle intended to unleash the giant on the kalischa and her father. A pity Agenta hadn’t thought to bring her throwing stars with her.
“Perhaps there is something we can do to help you in your investigation,” the emira said finally. “We will, of course, need to see the evidence implicating Vesta in this affair.”
“Our ambassador has the paperwork,” Rethell said.
“Indeed.” Imerle paused, then went on, “As for your missing duskstones, we have been thinking further on your plight since our meeting yesterday. Perhaps you and your daughter would do us the honor of joining us on our flagship for the Dragon Day festivities tomorrow. We can continue our discussions on board. You can even bring your ambassador with you.”
Agenta’s lips quirked. Yes, they were all friends now. It seemed their gambit had paid off, for why else would the emira have extended such an invitation unless she wanted to build bridges?
And yet, to look at Imerle you wouldn’t know she had just been outmaneuvered. Moreover, when Agenta glanced at her father, it was clear from his frown he didn’t share Agenta’s satisfaction. His gaze shifted from Imerle to the chief minister, then back again. For a moment Agenta thought he would decline the offer.
Then he bowed to the emira and said, “The honor would be ours.”
CHAPTER 8
KEMPIS COULDN’T believe he had agreed to this madness.
It was a sign of his growing desperation, he supposed, what with Hilaire’s breath tickling the back of his neck and his last lead having gone Shroud’s way with Enli Alapha’s death. Earlier he’d drawn a blank wading through contracts and card catalogues at the merchant’s office. But then doubtless anything incriminating was now in Bright Eyes’s hands after she’d snatched whatever papers the old man had taken with him last night. The septia still had the task of sifting through Enli’s remaining contracts at the Round to look forward to, but even if he were to find further irregularities, that wasn’t going to stop the killings—there had been two more this evening alone.
Which left Kempis here in the alley where Bright Eyes had disappeared yesterday, about to take a chance on a harebrained scheme Loop had thought up.
The septia looked about him. A few paces away the sea lapped at the cobbles. To his right a pile of vomit lay against the wall of the brothel, and next to it was a patch of dried blood that marked the place where Joren had fallen. Bright Eyes’s body count had now reached double figures, yet so far as Kempis could determine she’d used her magic only twice to vanish. On both occasions she’d been here in the alley.
“What’s special about this shithole?” he wondered aloud.
“Sir?” Loop said.
“Help me out here, mage. Bright Eyes is a sorcerer, right? Means she has to draw energy for her power from somewhere. Fire-mages draw on fire, water-mages draw on water, I get that. But what energy does someone draw on to make themselves disappear?”
Loop had no answers.
Kempis scanned the moonlit buildings to the south. His gaze came to rest on the yellow house covered in graffiti, and he stared at the scrawled letters as if they held the answer to the riddle of the alley’s significance. There had to be something unique to this location—something that created energies the assassin could tap into. If so, though, the source of those energies was well hidden. This morning Kempis had sent Loop and Duffle to search nearby buildings for anything out of the ordinary. He’d even ordered Sniffer to investigate the flooded lower levels of the partly submerged houses in the hope the sea might be concealing something.
Nothing.
The sound of whistling gills marked Sniffer’s arrival, and Kempis shot her a look. “You bring the ten sovereigns you owe me?”
“You mean our bet last night?” The Untarian shook her head. “You said Enli would lead us to the killer.”
“And?”
“And he didn’t. She came to him.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Sniffer grinned. “Hilaire’s looking for you. Said she left a message for you to come by her office this morning. When you didn’t show, she thought you were dead. I let her down gently, of course.”
“You told her where I was?”
“No. I just said you were avoiding her.”
Loop cleared his throat. “If we’re doing this, sir, we’d best get a move on. There’s rain in the air, I’m telling you.”
Kempis looked up at the starry sky. Barely a cloud in sight. Shame, too, a shower might be the closest thing Loop got to a wash this year. “What’s keeping this spirit of yours?”
“Still got to be summoned.”
“Summoned? By who?”
“Me.”
Kempis’s eyes narrowed. “You ain’t one of them corpse-huggers, are you?”
“Necromancer, you mean? Not likely.”
“What’s your power, then?”
Loop examined his grimy nails. “Oh, bit of this, bit of that. You know, whatever my ma passed down.”
Kempis studied him, then shrugged. He’d be getting a look at the mage in action soon enough. “This spirit—the Drifter who died here—shouldn’t he be cluttering up Shroud’s Gate by now?”
“Should be, yeah. Looks like Shroud and his cronies have got more to worry about just now than gathering souls, though.” In response to Kempis’s questioning look Loop added, “Trouble out west, sir. Seems Shroud is in a bit of a scrap.” He cracked a yellow-toothed smile. “Pity the poor bastard in the other corner, eh?”
A thought came to the septia. “Does that mean there are more of these spirits in Olaire?”
“Yeah. Everyone who’s snuffed it these past few days.”
“Then where in the Nine Hells are they?”
“All about us. You ain’t gonna see them, though, unless they wanna be seen.”
Kempis felt hidden eyes on him, but he resisted the temptation to look round. “This Drifter—Irlon, weren’t it?—you said you had to summon him. Where’s he been all this time?”
“Haunting his missus. Seems the grieving widow weren’t grieving for long.”
Kempis eyed him suspiciously.
“Ain’t me she’s been getting her comfort from, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Who, then?”
“One of the lads—Moric. Went round to break the news of her old man’s death two days ago.”
Sniffer barked a laugh. “Sounds like she needed lots of consoling.”
Kempis said, “Shame this Irlon didn’t think to haunt his killer instead of his other half. If he had, he might’ve been able to tell us where to find her.”
“Maybe he can,” Loop said. “That’s what I’m gonna ask him. Even if he don’t know where Bright Eyes is hiding, though, might be he remembers something about the night of the killing. Something that could help us.”
From the other side of the wall to Kempis’s right, he heard a man’s grunting, a woman’s exaggerated squeals of delight. The squeals rose steadily in volume, and when the septia next spoke he had to raise his voice to make himself heard. “Get on with it, then,” he said to Loop.
The mage spat on his palms and ran his hands through his hair.
A tingling in Kempis’s skin told him Loop was summoning his power. It wasn’t until the temperature in the alley began to drop that the septia realized the mage was drawing on the ripples of energy created by Joren’s death. Not a corpse-hugger, my ass! For a while nothing happened, and Kempis wondered whether Joren’s energies were too weak to fuel whatever Loop was trying to do. Then a deeper darkness gathered in the passage.
A few years ago Kempis had seen the emira calm stormy seas to save a Rastamiran galley driven toward the rocks off Ferris Point. Blueblood she might be, but he’d had to admire her control as she spun myriad threads of energy together like the weaver of an Elescorian carpet. Loop, by contrast, put Kempis in mind of someone trying his hand at the loom for the first time, for the sorcerous shadows he conjured were a knot of tattered threads and discordant energies. The septia looked at the mage. “You’ve done this before, right?”
“Quiet,” Loop said through clenched teeth. “I’m concentrating.”
The unnatural blackness in the alley spread, tendrils of power snaking out to brush Kempis’s skin. He took a pace back. Of all the magics he’d encountered, necromancy spooked him the most. The way he saw it, for him to be able to sense sorcery, the power had to be acting on him somehow. And in the case of death-magic it felt as if the sorcery was stealing more from him than just the warmth of his blood. Why should the act of dying release energy? What if corpse-huggers robbed the departed soul of some of its life force?
Then again, wasn’t it spirit-mages who consumed souls to fuel their power?
Kempis retreated another step. A smell reached him—a mustiness not unlike that of the Mausoleum this morning when he’d gone to search Enli Alapha’s body. Where the septia had been standing moments earlier was now a
yawning emptiness. Within the gloom, wisps of gray began to form. They came together to create the outline of a figure before dissipating again. Irlon is resisting the summons. Loop must have been winning the battle of wills, though, for the figure rematerialized. First Irlon’s body took shape, then his features—hooked nose, widow’s peak, dark eyes set too far apart in his face. Kempis recognized him from when he’d seen him lying next to Enli in the Mausoleum.
Irlon’s gaze took in the alley before settling on the septia.
With a shriek the spirit surged forward, hissing and swearing.
Kempis stumbled backward.
The Drifter jerked to a halt a few armspans away as if he were shackled to a chain that had run out to its full length. He thrashed against his spiritual bonds. Kempis waited for his heart to crawl back down his throat.
A woman’s querying shout came from above, followed by an intake of breath. A window slammed shut.
Irlon fell still. The hatred in his eyes chilled Kempis as much as Loop’s death-magic had done. Puzzled him, too, but then it was entirely possible he owed the man money. A voice sounded in his head.
“Send me back! She was about to … Send me back, damn you!”
Kempis’s expression darkened. “I’ll send you back when I’m good and ready. Till then, I’ve got questions.”
“Is that a fact?” Irlon flexed his arms. “I can sense my bonds weakening, Watchman. When they fail, I will come for you.” His gaze shifted to Sniffer. “Or maybe for you, my dear.”
Kempis stepped in front of the Untarian. “And maybe I’ll tell my mage here to bind your soul to a Shroud-cursed rock and toss it in the harbor. How does an eternity with the fishes and the gallow crabs sound to you?” He had no idea whether Loop could deliver on his threat, but the mage played his part, nodding as if in readiness to carry out Kempis’s bidding.
Irlon edged closer to the septia. Was it Kempis’s imagination, or had the invisible chains holding him slackened a fraction? Joren’s necromantic energies must be dwindling. Loop would need another death to restore his strength, but this was the Shallows, wasn’t it? It could only be a matter of time before one of the locals obliged.
