by Marc Turner
He sprang to meet her.
* * *
Kempis turned into Princes Street to see a man and a woman battling on the ramp outside the temple of the Lord of Hidden Faces. There was no mistaking the assassin with her luminous blue eyes. Her long blond hair hung in a plait down her back, and she wielded two longknives in a blur of glittering steel. Her opponent was a black-haired man with skin so pale it marked him as a stranger to Olaire. Not a Drifter, clearly. So why in the Sender’s name had Bright Eyes picked a fight with him?
People had gathered in the street to watch the duel, but they melted away as Kempis and Sniffer approached. All except for one figure standing at the foot of the ramp. The septia’s face twisted. Mazana Creed. So Bright Eyes had gone after one of the Storm Lords, had she? Just as Dutia Elemy Meddes had predicted. Were the deaths of the Drifters so much smoke, then, to conceal the assassin’s true targets? No, that made no sense. Why risk putting the Storm Lords on alert by killing the Drifters first? Why not go straight for the big game? Kempis thought back on his meeting with Elemy two days ago. The old man knew something—something he hadn’t seen fit to share with the septia. Perhaps a night in the cells would loosen his tongue, especially if he was sharing that cell with Bright Eyes. It was almost worth doing just to see the look on Hilaire’s face when she found out.
Kempis drew up a handful of paces from Mazana. Her attention seemed to be fixed on the duelists, yet her eyes were glazed as if she was staring not at the fighters but through them. She was in shock—still reeling, no doubt, from the realization there were people in the world who didn’t love her as much as she loved herself. The pale-skinned man must be her bodyguard, but the Storm Lady appeared in no hurry to go to his aid. Not that the bastard needs it, Kempis thought as he watched the swordsman counter a series of cuts and thrusts with precise, unhurried strokes.
Then the man went on the attack. A lunge at Bright Eyes’s chest was only half parried, and the bodyguard’s sword scored a hit to her right side. He followed up with a backhand slash. When the assassin lifted her left blade to block, it struck an invisible sorcerous barrier, leaving the man’s weapon unimpeded as it flashed for her neck. Somehow Bright Eyes managed to duck beneath it before stepping back and raising her guard in time to meet her assailant’s next swing. Parrying frantically, she was driven backward up the ramp.
Kempis considered. If he went to the bodyguard’s aid, he would probably be more hindrance than help. And yet, if Bright Eyes landed a lucky strike and Hilaire found out he’d just stood by and let it happen …
The septia drew his sword.
Bright Eyes leapt back and hurled one of her longknives at the bodyguard. He batted it aside with his blade, but the assassin used the moment’s respite to dive off the edge of the ramp. Rolling on the flagstones below, she came up running and set off along Princes Street. Kempis looked at Mazana’s bodyguard, expecting him to follow.
The man held his ground.
Cursing, the septia lurched after the woman.
Every muscle in his body ached from yesterday’s dash across Olaire, and his legs felt so heavy he might have been wading through water. If Bright Eyes meant to lead him on another chase, he had no hope of keeping up. Then suddenly he noticed she was limping, her left hand clutching her thigh on that side.
The septia slowed. There was only one thing worse than trailing Bright Eyes across Olaire, and that was catching up to her. For having seen her in action against Mazana’s bodyguard, Kempis knew he was outmatched, even with Sniffer behind him. He didn’t need to fight the assassin, though; all he had to do was keep her in his sights while he waited for reinforcements to arrive. At the pace she was going, she’d have half the Watch for company by the time she reached the Shallows.
Just then power rippled outward from Bright Eyes. A portal opened before her with a sound like snapping sailcloth. The buildings ahead and to either side of the street were overlain by the shadowy image of a boundless gray plain broken only by a circle of standing stones. In the sky were two small blue moons that bathed the landscape in a ghostly glow. Bright Eyes hesitated on the portal’s threshold before stepping through. Her form lost focus.
Kempis ground his teeth together. And to think he’d believed she could only do her disappearing act in the Shallows. Damn the woman, she wasn’t playing fair! A heartbeat ago he’d thought she was done for. Now he’d have another near miss to explain to Hilaire. He didn’t even have a spear this time to speed her on her way—
With a start, he realized he was just a few paces from the portal and in danger of following Bright Eyes through. He tried to draw up, only for his left boot to catch on a raised flagstone. He sprawled to the ground and rolled forward before coming to rest on his stomach.
He froze.
Mist clung to his eyes. Bright Eyes stood a handful of paces away. Looming all about her were Olaire’s spectral buildings, but Kempis suspected she wasn’t seeing them because she was peering across the plain at a range of mountains the septia hadn’t noticed before. The overlapping images made his head swim. Sheets of dust blew over him. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes, only to discover he could feel neither the grit nor the wind that stirred it. And yet the crash of waves against the Olairian cliffs was still audible.
Kempis struggled to order his thoughts. Had he passed through the portal or hadn’t he? Beneath him he felt the reassuring solidity of flagstones, but he could barely see those stones for swirling dust. Had he fallen on the gateway’s threshold? Was he straddling two worlds, his body as much in Olaire as it was in whatever place the portal had opened onto?
He wasn’t hanging around to find out. While the portal remained open he still had a chance of returning to the city, and he began rolling back the way he had come.
Before he’d completed his first revolution, though, the mist about him thickened to the consistency of the winter fogs that swept in from the Sabian Sea at the turn of each year. Another snap of air sounded, loud enough to make Kempis’s ears pop.
Then the mist and the plains and the mountains vanished, and the septia was back among Olaire’s shadow-clad buildings.
Breathing hard, he stared up at the sky—a sky lit by just one moon, not two. What in the Nine Hells had just happened? He hadn’t got clear of the mist when the portal shut, so how had he made it back to Olaire? More important, where had Bright Eyes transported herself to? Yesterday when she’d vanished in the Shallows, Kempis had seen waves beyond the gateway. If the assassin could choose where the portal took her, why had she paused on the threshold just now as if she were unsure whether to pass through? If the place with the two moons didn’t suit her, why open a gateway to it? Why not choose another destination she liked better?
Kempis felt a ripple of power to his left—an echo of the portal’s closing, perhaps? He clambered upright. Looking round, he saw Mazana’s bodyguard had descended the ramp to join the Storm Lady. The bastard wasn’t even out of breath. It would be unreasonable, Kempis knew, to berate him for not chasing Bright Eyes, because in doing so he would have left Mazana at the mercy of any other assassins skulking in the shadows.
Kempis, though, was in no mood to be reasonable.
He made his way back to the ramp.
Mazana did not spare him a look. That suited the septia fine, though, if it meant he could give her yes-man the once-over. Standing half a head shorter than Kempis, the bodyguard wore an expression that told the septia his interruption was unwelcome. With his fine-boned, almost feminine, features and immaculately tailored clothes, he looked more like a courtier than a swordsman.
“You let her get away,” Kempis said.
The bodyguard shrugged. “The woman will be dead soon, anyhow. I caught a glimpse of the world beyond the portal. Two blue moons, correct? It seems your friend has wandered into the Shades, third of the Nine Hells.”
“So?”
“So the Kerralai demons that live there do not look kindly on unwanted visitors. They will hunt the woman down and kill
her, no matter where she flees to or how long it takes.”
“Well, if they’re hunting her, they’re doing a worse job of it than even I am. This ain’t the first time she’s done her disappearing act. And there ain’t been so much of a sniff of a demon since.”
“Was it here? That she last jumped between worlds, I mean.”
“Does it matter?”
The bodyguard looked at Mazana Creed, perhaps hoping she would step in to end Kempis’s questioning. The Storm Lady, however, would not meet the man’s gaze. There was something here Kempis was missing—something important, since he’d never known a blueblood woman to keep her mouth shut for so long. While Mazana’s silence lasted, though, he’d take it as permission to carry on quizzing her yes-man.
“I asked you a question,” he said.
The swordsman was a long time in answering. “Are you familiar with how portals are created—the idea that the release of strong magic can burn a path through to wherever the sorcerer gets his power from?”
“Maybe if you spoke real slow.”
Senar sighed. “When a mage draws on the power of another world, he draws that world closer to his own. If the power unleashed is great enough, the two worlds will overlap, creating a gateway between them. Some people—your assassin among them—are able to jump between those worlds before the connection is strong enough to form a portal.”
Kempis was silent, thinking. If what the bodyguard said was true, it meant the gateway Bright Eyes had fashioned here—insofar as it existed at all—was one that only she could use. Which in turn explained why Kempis hadn’t followed her through. It also explained why the assassin couldn’t jump between worlds whenever she liked, and why the portals here and outside the brothel opened on to different places.
It didn’t explain, though, how Mazana’s bodyguard knew so much about this business. “You crossed paths with Bright Eyes before?”
“No.”
“One of her kind, then.”
The swordsman nodded. “A Kalanese man. Fifth campaign—”
“You’re from Erin Elal?”
He held out his right hand. “Senar Sol.”
Kempis didn’t shake it. A Guardian. He’d forgotten how much he hated Dragon Day. Ships had been arriving in Olaire for the past week, bringing with them nothing but trouble from the Sabian League and beyond. Mazana Creed’s crowd in particular was said to be a regular freak show, and this Senar Sol was certainly living up to his billing. True, he didn’t have the arrogant air of most bluebloods, but Kempis wasn’t fooled by the polite words and extended hand. The more courteous a blueblood was, the more likely he had something to hide.
“This Kanalese—” Kempis began.
“Kalanese,” Senar corrected him.
“How did you catch him?”
The Guardian withdrew his hand. “We didn’t.” He gestured to where Bright Eyes had vanished. “Like your friend here, I suspect he traveled blind through a portal he hadn’t used before and found himself … out of his depth.”
Out of his depth? Was that aimed at Kempis? Showing his true colors at last. “You’re saying Bright Eyes didn’t know where she’d end up when she opened the gateway?”
“Either that or she didn’t know what greeting Kerralai demons extend to uninvited guests.”
“Imagine that.”
Sniffer had crossed to the doorway of a house fronting the temple and now returned with a small crossbow. Over the wooden stock were plates of tarnica engraved with writhing wither snakes. “This the assassin’s?” she asked Senar.
The Guardian shrugged, then looked at Kempis. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, much though I’ve enjoyed our conversation—”
“I ain’t finished with you yet.”
Senar seemed unsure whether to be amused or insulted. “I must have missed your name.”
“Careless of you. How many of these crossover points are there going to be in Olaire?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Then how’s the woman going to get back to the city?”
“The same way she left.”
Kempis started. “Hang on, you mean we’ve just got to wait here till she shows her face again?”
“It’s too late for that. You did not sense the second burst of power when you were lying on the ground?”
The septia stared at him.
“The point at which worlds overlap will cover an area greater than this road. When the assassin came back, she must have returned a street or so away from here, out of sight behind a building.”
“And you didn’t think to warn me sooner?”
Senar looked like he might finally be running out of patience. But gods, Kempis had had to work hard for it. “You must forgive me,” the Guardian said. “I was unaware until now of the depths of your ignorance.”
“You mean there’s something you don’t know?”
The ninth bell roused Mazana Creed from her reverie, and she looked at Kempis as if seeing him for the first time. He braced himself for a tongue-lashing, but instead the Storm Lady said to Senar, “Let’s go,” before spinning on her heel and making her way along Princes Street in the direction Bright Eyes had taken. The Guardian inclined his head to Kempis, then set off in pursuit.
Sniffer whistled through her gills. “Nicely done, sir,” she said. “You ever thought of becoming a diplomat when you hand in your stripes?”
“Damned blueblood,” Kempis grumbled. “He’s hiding something. They all are.”
“Well, if he thinks of anything he’s missed, I’m sure he’ll now be beating a path to your door.”
CHAPTER 9
SENAR WAS beginning to regret escorting Mazana to the palace to inform the emira of the assassination attempt. The Storm Lady had been silent during their walk through the city, but her old spark was now returning as she recounted to Imerle in colorful terms Senar’s encounter with the assassin—leaving out any mention of Greave and the Lord of Hidden Faces, of course.
“So you see,” the Storm Lady said, “were it not for Senar’s intervention you would have been forever deprived of the pleasure of my company.”
The emira occupied her usual throne. Her gaze bored into Senar. Beside her sat the chief minister, his expression as sour as sandfruit juice.
Mazana twisted the knife a little deeper. “I am touched you were so concerned about my safety that you thought to send Senar to watch over me.”
Imerle let the silence fester. “Anything you’d care to add to that, Guardian?” she said finally in precisely the same tone that she might have said, “Any last words?”
Senar cleared his throat before repeating what he’d told the belligerent Watchman about the assassin’s abilities. It wasn’t the answer the emira had been looking for, but then he suspected there wasn’t any answer that would have satisfied her.
Imerle closed her eyes as she listened. “If the assassin did indeed pass through to the Shades,” she said when he finished, “we had best hope she does not stay long in Olaire—or that she leaves again promptly when the demon tracks her here. It is a pity that we did not get an opportunity to speak to her.”
Mazana said, “To wish her better luck next time, you mean?”
“We mean, to find out who sent her.”
“Oh, I agree. It can be no coincidence, surely, that an assassin should strike at me so soon after Gensu’s death. Perhaps the attempt on my life is linked to these mysterious summonses. Perhaps someone wanted all of the Storm Lords in the same place so we could be picked off one at a time.” She gave Imerle a pointed look. “I would have been particularly interested to hear why, of those in Olaire, the assassin chose to target me first.”
Pernay clasped his trembling hands together. “Hardly first. Almost a dozen water-mages have been killed in the city over the past few days.”
“Really? And you didn’t think to warn me?”
Senar’s gaze flickered to Mazana. Her indignation was feigned, he knew, for even the Guardian had heard about the
wave of assassinations sweeping the Shallows.
Pernay licked his lips. “There was no reason to think the Storm Lords would be targeted.”
“Not even after Gensu’s death? Thane and Cauroy should be informed.”
“Mazana is correct, of course,” Imerle said. “And we are grateful to her for bringing this matter to our attention so promptly.” Her eyes opened to reveal flames in their depths. “Just one thing puzzles us. The assassin attacked you half a bell ago, you say? Whatever were you doing wandering around the city at this time of night?”
Before the Storm Lady could respond, footfalls came from the underwater passage. Senar turned to see two figures enter the throne room. The first was the Storm Guard officer who had escorted him to the roof terrace two days ago. The second was an old woman with rheumy eyes and the suggestion of a mustache on her top lip. She wore a white robe, and there was an ink smudge on the right side of her nose. Her mouth hung open as she looked about the chamber, and Senar realized he’d stopped noticing the walls of black water around him.
“Emira,” the Storm Guard said, bowing. “Mistress Darbonna of the Founder’s Citadel,” he introduced the old woman.
Darbonna cocked her head. “What’s that?”
“I said, Mistress Darbonna of the Founder’s Citadel.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I am she.”
The Storm Guard muttered something, then inclined his head a second time to Imerle before spinning on his heel and retreating. The old woman watched him go with a puzzled expression.
Mention of the Founder’s Citadel had made Senar stand straighter. The building bore an unsettling resemblance to certain other fortresses he’d encountered on his travels. Built by the titans, it was said. Senar didn’t know if that was true, but what he did know was that people had a habit of going missing in them—and that they were the source of only bad memories for him personally, not least that time in Karalat two years ago.
And this woman, Darbonna, lived there?
The chief minister spoke. “Mistress Darbonna.”
