Dragon Hunters

by Marc Turner

  If the priestess was aware of Senar’s scrutiny, she gave no indication.

  Mazana said to her, “Do I have you to thank for Imerle’s rush of blood last night?”

  Senar shot her a look. Rush of blood?

  The masked woman laughed. “I harrrdly think you need my help when it comes to goading the emira.”

  “And when I do need your assistance, how shall I call on you?”

  “You won’t need to. I’ll be keeping a close eye on what happens in the fortress.”

  “How reassuring.”

  From across the courtyard Artagina’s voice droned on, but Senar had ears only for the conversation of the two women.

  Mazana added, “You’ve yet to tell me the price for your aid. No doubt you will want your Lord represented on the Storm Council.”

  “No doubt.”

  The Storm Lady waited a moment for her to continue then said, “And?”

  “And I’m sure whatever boon I ask of you will be as nothing compared to the help you are about to receive.”

  “Then why not tell me—”

  “I see you still have much to think on,” the priestess cut in, turning away.

  Mazana’s voice brought her up. “What do you know of the assassin who attacked me yesterday?”

  “Assassin?”

  “I was accosted just a few steps from your front door, yet you expect me to believe you knew nothing about it?”

  The masked woman’s gaze flickered to Senar. “What I knew was that you were in capable hands. Is that not so, Guarrrdian?”

  Senar looked at the stubs of his missing fingers. Capable hands? What was left of them, perhaps. He tried to wrap his head round what he’d been hearing. So the priestess had agreed to assist Mazana in the Founder’s Citadel? How? By thwarting whatever accident Imerle had arranged for her? No, there had to be more to it than that, for if the Storm Lady had tricked the emira last night into sending her to the fortress, that could only mean she wanted to go. But why?

  He thought about what he knew of the citadels. Following the titans’ defeat to the pantheon in the Eternal War, legend had it that most of the titans fled their conquerors through portals to other worlds. A few, though, had retreated to the fortresses where they were besieged and ultimately slain by the gods. Whether or not those tales were true, the citadels had been deserted for centuries and doubtless stripped of anything valuable. What could be inside that might have snared Mazana’s interest? Something behind the sorcerous barrier Darbonna had referred to in the throne room? If so, how did Mazana know it was there?

  What disturbed Senar most about this whole business, though, was that the Storm Lady was letting him hear it at all. Mazana had chosen him to accompany her because she wanted to drag him into her schemes. With each passing bell, he was getting pulled deeper into matters that he had no interest in. Any deeper and he was likely to drown.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a distant sorcerous concussion, then a howl that stole the warmth from the air—a howl from a throat that was anything but human. A demon. A Kerralai, perhaps? Had the creature already tracked Mazana’s would-be assassin back from the Shades? Another howl sounded, closer this time, followed by a crackle of lightning. Mazana’s face lost some of its color, and the high priest’s voice trailed off before picking up again with renewed vigor. Only the priestess remained unflustered. Her eyes were smiling, and her fingers fluttered feverishly.

  “It might be better,” she said to Senar, “if you were somewhere else when the Kerralai arrives.”

  The Guardian needed no encouragement, but he paused as the implication of her words sank in. She had said “when” the Kerralai arrived, not “if.” How could she be sure the demon was coming this way?

  “What of you, priestess?” he said. Something told him the woman was capable of looking after herself, but he had to ask. “Will you be safe here?”

  “But of course. I have the high priest and his cerrrtitude to protect me. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”

  * * *

  Kempis gaped at the rubble of the building. Destroyed by the Kerralai’s sorcery, it had collapsed into the passage to block his way. He staggered to a halt and doubled over with his hands on his knees, gasping. It felt as if he’d spent his whole Shroud-cursed life running, yet his body showed no sign of getting used to the exertion.

  Sniffer pulled him into a side alley. “Come on, sir. Temple is only a few streets away.”

  Kempis pushed himself into motion again.

  Bright Eyes had given the two of them the slip in the Artisan Quarter, but the demon circling overhead was not so easily shaken off, and for a while the septia had set his course by the creature’s nightmarish form. Then, when he lost sight of the Kerralai too, he’d followed the sound of its wing beats or the crash of collapsing masonry as it unleashed another eye-watering blast of magic. With each sorcerous detonation Kempis would pray that Bright Eyes’s running days were over. Each volley, though, would be followed by the demon’s growl of frustration, and the chase would continue.

  As Kempis swung into Elder Lane he saw the temple of the Lord of Hidden Faces ahead. A figure darted from left to right past the end of the alley. Bright Eyes. She’d lost her longknives and her limp too, but then having a demon on your tail would cure all manner of minor discomforts, Kempis supposed. Another flash of the Kerralai’s sorcery darkened the air about the woman, followed by a crack and a rumble of stone. Clearly the demon had not given up on its pursuit of the assassin, but was it too much to ask that the creature had finally hit its target?

  As if I’m that damned lucky.

  Kempis labored to the end of the alley. Looking right he spied a two-story house that had been hit by the last burst of magic. It was missing the whole of one wall and part of another. A corpse lay amid the devastation, and the septia’s heart leapt … until he realized the figure was wearing black, not the assassin’s blue. A patter of mortar sounded, followed by a creak of masonry. Then the roof of the building collapsed onto the lower levels, and the walls slumped outward, spilling debris into the street. A cloud of dust billowed up to cloak the house and the road beside it.

  Bright Eyes was nowhere to be seen.

  Damn it, the woman was going to escape again! With the portal just a short distance away she would surely …

  Kempis’s thoughts trailed off.

  For Bright Eyes had emerged at a run from the murk, heading straight for the septia. The flesh round her left eye was swollen, and her hair had come loose from its plait. Seeing Kempis, she swerved toward the temple. The ramp leading up to it was littered with chunks of stone, some of them burning with black sorcery. Bright Eyes tried to weave a path through them, only to stumble on a fallen roof tile.

  A cold wind hit Kempis from behind. He looked up to see the Kerralai glide overhead. The membrane of its left wing was torn, and a broken spear jutted from its shoulder on that side—courtesy of a Storm Guard at the Round, no doubt. With a shriek it unleashed a blast of magic at Bright Eyes’s back, and the street was plunged into shadow again.

  The darkness must have alerted the assassin to her danger, for she flung herself to one side and skidded to the edge of the ramp. The wave of power swept past her, leaving in its wake a glowing pathway of rock.

  The sorcery rolled toward the shrine.

  Kempis’s eyes widened. The shrine! From inside the temple he could hear a man’s booming voice—the high priest’s, probably. Doubtless a congregation had gathered for his sermon, but it was too late for Kempis to shout a warning. Even if the worshippers heard him, they wouldn’t be able to escape before the magic hit.

  The sorcery incinerated one of the masked statues flanking the temple’s porch, then struck the building’s façade.

  And fizzled out like a burning torch plunged into water. Tendrils of smoke curled into the sky.

  Kempis stared. What had just happened? The Kerralai’s magic was as strong as anything he’d encountered, yet someone had neutralized i
t with an ease that was almost dismissive. The temple must be shielded by formidable wards. But then why couldn’t Kempis sense them? A power as strong as that should have been simple to discern. The septia felt nothing, though. Not nothing as of something being hidden, just … nothing.

  Bright Eyes had regained her feet and now entered the temple’s porch. As she vanished inside, the Kerralai landed on the shrine’s roof. Sparks flew as it touched down. It took to the air once more with a beat of its massive wings. Again it tried to alight, and again there was a flash of sorcery. Coils of magic traveled up its legs. The creature gave a snarl that quickly turned into a squeal. Didn’t seem right to Kempis somehow, a noise like that coming from a demon’s throat.

  Four Storm Guards appeared along Princes Street from the direction of the portal, and Kempis understood suddenly why Bright Eyes had returned this way rather than pass through the gateway. Two of the soldiers carried crossbows that they raised to fire at the Kerralai. Stupidity like that deserved a slab in the Mausoleum, but Kempis didn’t want the demon mistaking him for the shooter. He barked at the Storm Guards to lower their weapons. The leader of the quartet, a female octa with the gray eyes of an oscura addict, gave him a disdainful look before gesturing for her companions to stand down.

  The Kerralai was hovering above a house next to the temple. Each beat of its wings buffeted Kempis. Lifting a hand to the shaft of the broken spear in its shoulder, it tugged the weapon free, then licked the blood oozing from its wound. The taste seemed to stoke the fires of its anger. Its eyes blazed, and its wings beat faster until it rose to the height of a hundred armspans. Kempis retreated into the passage. The demon seemed to fill the sky above him, two red eyes in an ocean of black.

  Another shriek, and it plunged toward him.

  Then it leveled off just above the height of the rooftops and sailed away south.

  The septia stared after it, his thoughts a mix of relief and confusion. What, that was it? The demon had given up? But hadn’t Senar Sol said it would hunt down its quarry, no matter where she went or how long it took? It wasn’t as if Bright Eyes could shelter in the temple forever. Why hadn’t the Kerralai waited until the high priest threw her out, or until the assassin made a break for the portal?

  Kempis put such thoughts from his mind. The path to the temple was clear, and Bright Eyes—without her longknives now—was somewhere inside. He needed to find her before she found a different way out.

  Sheathing his sword, he strode toward the ramp.

  CHAPTER 11

  “MAY I join you?”

  Agenta looked across at the speaker and found herself staring into the dark eyes of an overweight man in a lurid pink shirt with a stain over the right breast. A few years younger than the kalischa, he had a round, open face.

  “You’re the one from outside the White Lady’s Temple,” Agenta said.

  “You recognize the stain?”

  “The color of your shirt, actually. You should have taken advantage of the excuse that I gave you to change it.”

  The man chuckled.

  Agenta turned away, hoping he would take the hint that she wanted to be alone. For all the Icewing’s size, the decks felt claustrophobic with so many people on board. Quarter of a bell ago she had descended to join the Storm Guards on the main deck in an effort to escape the prattle of her fellow dignitaries. But apparently that detail was lost on her new companion, because he cleared his throat and said, “My name is Farrell.” He extended a hand.

  The kalischa hesitated before shaking it. “Agenta.”

  “And what were you doing at the temple earlier? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I do mind.”

  To the south and east, Agenta noticed the Crest. It ran ahead of the Icewing on a wave of water-magic half the height of that which bore the emira’s flagship, and the kalischa suddenly understood something of the grip the Storm Lords held over the Sabian League. For if Orsan, who was not even one of their number, could conjure up a wave ten paces high, what damage could the Storm Lords wreak on the cities round the Sabian Sea if they were to act in concert against them? What was power, after all, but possession of the greatest threat of force?

  Even accounting for the difference in size between the waves under the Icewing and the Crest, though, the emira’s flagship was catching up to the Gilgamarian vessel at an improbable rate.

  Farrell must have guessed her thoughts for he said, “We have an air-mage on board. See how the Icewing’s sails bulge, yet the sails of that ship”—he nodded at the Crest—“barely stir?”

  “An air-mage?”

  He pointed to an enormously fat man talking to Orsan on the forecastle. “Selis, he is called.” Farrell grinned. “What else could he be but an air-mage? Without sorcery to lighten the load, how would he ever haul his vast bulk around?”

  “Maybe he can teach you a trick or two before the day is out.”

  Her companion bellowed with laughter, and Agenta frowned as a dozen sets of eyes turned toward her.

  When Farrell’s laughter was spent he said, “It seems Orsan has finally gained a respite from Karan del Orco’s questioning.”

  “Why would the emira invite us aboard her flagship and then not turn up?” Agenta mused aloud.

  “Orsan claims not to know.”

  “Claims, yes.”

  Orsan looked at the kalischa and smiled. He’s hiding something. Up until now Agenta had assumed some urgent business had kept Imerle from taking part in Dragon Day, but what if she’d intended all along not to come? But if that was so, why had she invited Agenta and Rethell on board? To get them out of Olaire, presumably. What was about to happen in the city that the emira did not want them to see? Her coup, perhaps? No, for even if she managed to seize Olaire, her triumph would be short-lived when the other Storm Lords returned from the Hunt.

  A serving-girl approached carrying a tray of drinks. Agenta took a glass of red wine from it; Farrell chose white. It seemed he had no intention of leaving the kalischa to her solitude, so she sighed and said, “How did you come by the honor of being stood up by Imerle today?”

  “Oh, the invitation wasn’t to me. Not really.” He pointed toward the aft deck. “That’s my father there, Samel, speaking to yours.”

  Agenta looked across to see Rethell talking to the man in the gold shirt Lydanto had indicated earlier. She gave Farrell a calculating glance. So this was the son of one of the merchants who had lent money to the emira, was it? Had Farrell been sent to Agenta by his father to determine what she knew about the loans? If so, perhaps she should be taking this opportunity to find out what she could about him. “What do you and your father trade in?”

  “Elescorian brandy.”

  “I didn’t have Imerle down as the Elescorian brandy type.”

  “Nor is she.”

  “And yet she must be a client of yours to have asked you here today.”

  Farrell took a sip of wine, then winced and peered at his glass—a pretense, Agenta suspected, to give him time to think. “Of sorts. My father is one of the emira’s … supporters.”

  “I didn’t realize Imerle’s authority relied on the support of the merchant classes.” She pretended understanding. “Ah, you mean a financial supporter.”

  Farrell’s voice was flat. “It is forbidden by the Storm Lords’ charter to offer monetary inducements to members of the Storm Council.”

  Monetary inducements? Someone’s choosing his words carefully. “I assume there is a way round these edicts.”

  “The councils of Olaire’s merchant guilds are permitted to make certain donations to a Storm Lord’s cause, yes.”

  “So Samel supports the emira in these councils?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And what does he receive in exchange?”

  “Why, the honor of Imerle’s patronage. Along with the chance to be let down by her on occasions such as this.” Then, “Have you ever taken part in Dragon Day before?”

  Agenta was silent, considering.
She’d hoped her questions would prompt Farrell to brag about his father’s relationship with the emira, but for all the man’s youth, there was a glint of intelligence in his eyes. Clearly he was anxious to change the topic of conversation, and if she pressed him further she risked arousing his suspicions. Better to wait for the wine to grease his tongue before steering the discussion back to his father’s dealings with Imerle. In answer to his question she said, “No, I haven’t. You?”

  “Once, three years ago. My father was negotiating a contract with Prince Ellifah of Hardangill. Both my father and I were invited onto Ellifah’s flagship.”

  “And?”

  “And I never saw a dragon all day. Ellifah’s starting berth was to the east of Natilly. By the time we got to the Dragon Gate the Hunt was over. Afterward I learned that three Storm Lords had converged on the dragon as soon as it passed beneath the gate. The honors had to be shared between them because no one could agree on who delivered the killing blow. The poor beast didn’t stand a chance.”

  “Somehow I find that difficult to believe.”

  Farrell’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Are you familiar with the armaments on the Icewing?”

  “No.”

  “Then allow me to enlighten you. The ship has two ballistae, one on the forecastle, one on the aft deck.” He pointed to the giant contraptions. “The weapon on the forecastle can fire weighted nets up to a hundred paces. The one on the aft deck fires bolts attached by ropes to barrels of sorcerously lightened air—see them? Spear a dragon with a few of those, and even the largest creature won’t be able to sink beneath the water.”

  “Spear a dragon? I thought their scales were impenetrable.”

  “They are.”

  “Then what use are missiles against them?”