Dragon Hunters

by Marc Turner

  “To what end? You said yourself, we have no proof Imerle is behind this.”

  “We have the merchants. Perhaps now they will be willing to tell us about their dealings with the emira. Given time—”

  “Time?” Agenta cut in. “What time do you think we have? With every heartbeat, Imerle’s stock will rise. If the other Storm Lords are dead, the Sabian League will have no choice but to tow her line. Who else but the emira can hunt down the dragons now they are loose? Who else can keep open the shipping lanes the League relies on for its precious trade? We have to act now!”

  “You are forgetting your teachings—the words of Gorbel and Tsufon, yes? ‘To proceed without proper intelligence is to seek to cross blindfolded the stepping-stones of a river in flood.’ There is still much we are not knowing. For what purpose was Imerle borrowing money from the merchants? What other schemes has she set in play?”

  “We will find out when we reach Olaire.”

  “And if you are walking into a trap? The emira has been trying to kill you once already. Why should the lion not snap shut its jaws if the alamandra is placing its head inside?”

  “She is welcome to try.”

  Lydanto took a breath. “It is not so simple, Kalisch. You are having your father’s responsibilities now. Be reckless with your own life if you must, but you should be thinking also about the lives of your men.”

  Agenta’s voice was cold. “I had not forgotten.”

  Footfalls sounded outside the cabin. Lydanto looked across at the unseen newcomer before shaking his head. Then he entered the cabin and closed the door behind him. The pieces of the broken statuette crunched beneath his sandals as he crossed to the traveling chest and sat down. He held Agenta’s gaze for a while then said, “I was hearing the rumors about you joining the Seekers. Are they true?”

  The change of subject took her aback. “No.”

  “But you were taking the tollen?”

  Agenta did not respond. What, was he going to give her a lecture? Did he think he could take on her father’s role now Rethell was dead?

  Lydanto said, “The tollen took your grief at Zelin’s passing, yes, but that was not all it was taking, am I right? You lost also some of the memories from before his illness—memories of better times.” Again Agenta kept her silence, and Lydanto nodded. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Was your father ever telling you how I came to enter his service? The reasons for my—how do you say?—fall from grace from the Ruling Council?”

  Agenta looked at him, wondering where this was heading. “No.”

  “Fifteen years ago Rethell and I were both minor players on the Council when a business opportunity was presenting itself. Pasha Ygren of Kal Kartin sought a buyer for a shipment of ganda spices. Naturally both your father and I were having an interest. Of more importance than the profit we stood to make was the prestige that would come from gaining the pasha as a patron. I was determined to beat whatever price Rethell bid, but your father had something to offer Ygren that I could not match. You.”

  Through the window Agenta could hear voices raised in argument on the quarterdeck. She ignored them.

  “You were a beauty even as a child, Kalisch,” Lydanto went on, “and the pasha was wanting you from the moment he set eyes on you. He asked your father to give you up as part of the price for the spices. Rethell said no.”

  “You think I should respect my father for not selling me out?”

  “I think a daughter should not be needing to look for reasons to respect her father.” The ambassador’s tone softened. “When Rethell refused to hand you over, I offered Ygren my own daughter to seal an understanding between us. He accepted. As for the remainder of the price for the spices, the pasha was insisting on settlement in advance. I agreed to pay half. You can no doubt be guessing what happened next. The caravan carrying the shipment from Kal Kartin was attacked by tribesmen on the Sun Road west of Arandas. Or so I was being told. The pasha sent me the heads of one hundred of the soldiers who died protecting it—though they could have been the heads of anyone, it is true. Ygren declined to return my money, for he argued he had lost both the merchandise and the unpaid half of the fee. I was still having his patronage, however, and he promised me another shipment soon. Then three weeks later, he and his entire household—my daughter included—were put to the sword by an Erin Elalese Guardian.”

  Lydanto’s voice faltered, and an uncomfortable silence descended. Perhaps he was waiting for Agenta to console him, but if so he would be disappointed. He’d given away his own daughter? When Agenta looked at him now she felt nothing but contempt. Though judging by the ambassador’s expression, she wasn’t the only one.

  Lydanto continued, “I had borrowed heavily to fund the cost of the spices, and now found myself unable to settle my debts. I had lost my money, my reputation, my seat on the Ruling Council … and my only child.” He bowed his head. “Your father took pity on me—gave me a position on his staff, even helped to repay my creditors. Perhaps the kindness came from knowing how close he had been to making the same mistake I did.”

  “Or perhaps he put you with me as a lesson—to remind you of what you had lost.”

  “Perhaps. But if so it was a lesson worth the learning.”

  “And what is the moral of this story for me, Ambassador?”

  “Moral?”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Lydanto’s eyes glittered. “In my culture we are honoring the dead by sharing tales of their memory. Is it not the same among your people, Kalisch?”

  Agenta looked away.

  * * *

  Karmel hauled her weary arms through the water. The wind had stirred up waves an armspan high, and each breaker picked her up and tossed her back so that whenever she glanced up to check the Icewing’s position, it appeared no closer than when she’d last looked. On another day she would have reached the ship by now, but the events of the past few bells had left her battered and bruised and tired beyond measure. It was as much a weariness of the spirit as of the flesh, she knew, and all the more sapping for that.

  It was only after Karmel had swum clear of the cave that she’d seen the approaching Gilgamarian galleon, now drawn up on the opposite side of the Icewing. She’d also spotted the motionless body of the silver dragon a short distance to the west, rising from the sea like the upturned hull of a metal-plated ship. A cloud of starbeaks had descended to blunt their beaks on the corpse, and now all Karmel could see of the dragon was the occasional twinkle of scales beneath a blanket of white feathers. More birds hovered in the sky overhead, squabbling as they tried to alight.

  Currents bore the carcass across the priestess’s path, and as she swam up to it a handful of the starbeaks took flight. She’d come as far as her strength would allow, yet she remained over a stone’s throw from the Icewing. More troubling still, she’d seen a shark’s fin skidding through the waves to the west, and while the fish had been moving away from her, she had no wish to stay in the water when others of its kind might be prowling nearby. If she wanted to evade the creatures—and make sure she was spotted by the ship at the same time—she would have to climb onto the dragon’s back.

  Scanning the huge silver carcass, she saw she was at the creature’s rear end. To her right the covering of starbeaks was broken by a ridge of triangular plates—hooked and tapering to wicked points—that traced the line of the dragon’s spine. She swam to where those plates entered the sea. Boosting herself out of the water, she raised a leg and swung round so she was seated between two of the scales. Then, by shuffling forward and lifting her buttocks over each plate in turn, she began inching her way up the dragon’s back, her sopping robes dragging at her all the while.

  The vast corpse rocked and tipped in the water like some wallowing scow. With each plate traversed, more scolding starbeaks took flight, only to land again behind the priestess. The dragon’s scales were slick as ice, yet warm to the touch as if blood still fl
owed in the creature’s veins. The triangular plates were getting bigger as they rose up the dragon’s back, increasing the chance of Karmel goring herself if she slipped. She paused to look round. This was as high as she was going to get. From her new vantage she could see another ship to the northeast. The vessel was sinking, its prow pointing almost vertically into the air. A few passengers clung to what remained of the bowsprit as if they thought being last into the sea would save them from whatever horrors lurked beneath the waves. Dozens of figures were swimming toward the cliffs, but as Karmel watched, a steel-scaled head broke the water and scooped a shrieking woman into its maw.

  The priestess looked away.

  Then swore. Farther east a second dragon had surfaced, golden-scaled and twice the size of the beast on which she perched. It was heading for the Icewing and the Gilgamarian galleon. By now the Icewing’s passengers had all moved across to the other vessel, and the crew of the Gilgamarian ship were casting off. Cries of warning rang out at the dragon’s approach, followed by the shouted orders of whoever was in command—a woman. The emira? No, what Veran had said in the cave made sense: there was no way Imerle would have risked coming here if she knew the dragons were going to be released.

  The last line between the vessels was thrown clear, and the ships began to drift apart.

  Karmel was about to get left behind.

  By gripping the dragon’s carcass with her thighs she was able to steady herself enough to raise her arms, but the instant she let go of the triangular scale in front of her, she almost slid down its flank. Grabbing the scale again, she lifted a single arm this time and started waving to the ship, expecting to be plucked into the air like the man she’d seen from the cave. Nothing happened. The focus of those on board must have been fixed on the gold dragon, and Karmel had little enough time in which to bring their heads round. Rising on one knee, she tried calling to the vessel—“Here, over here!”—but her throat was so raw after Veran’s attack that her voice came out as a mere rasp.

  “Here, here!”

  A wave of water-magic burgeoned beneath the Gilgamarian ship. If the vessel fled, not only would Karmel be left marooned on an island of dragon flesh, she might also find her efforts at drawing the attention of the galleon’s crew brought the onrushing gold dragon down on her. And yet if she used her powers now to hide herself from the beast, how would those on the ship know she was here?

  Not that being visible was helping at present, for the Gilgamarian galleon had begun to move away to the west. The sails bulged as the air-mage on board released his power, and the ship jolted forward. The dragon, seeing its prey escape, trumpeted its fury. Startled by the sound, the birds round Karmel took flight.

  And in doing so saved her life, most likely, for the raucous explosion must have drawn the gaze of someone on the ship. Moments later the priestess was snatched into the air.

  She let her arms fall. Her stomach was doing somersaults from the swiftness of her ascent, but she had more important things to worry about just now. The Gilgamarian ship had swung toward her. She looked from the vessel to the dragon, gauging their respective speeds. The creature was quick, seeming to double in size in as many heartbeats, but the galleon was faster still as it came rushing toward her on its wave of water-magic. Karmel could now make out individual faces among the crowd of people on board. Her spirits lifted.

  She was going to make it.

  Now she just had to hope the emira wasn’t waiting on board to welcome her.

  CHAPTER 16

  SENAR LISTENED to Cilin’s retreating footfalls. The septia must have been using his sword as a crutch, for along with the tread of his boots the Guardian heard the occasional scrape of metal on stone. Then a scuff and a grunt sounded as if Cilin had fallen, but Senar did not take his gaze from Greave. It hardly seemed fair now he should have saved the man from Darbonna’s followers only to have to fight him, but he doubted the champion would see it that way. Greave had crouched to clean his blade on the robe of one of the dead librarians. Rising again, he reached into a trouser pocket and took out a black gourd with a wax cap.

  The champion said, “Mazana ever tell yer why I’m with her, pretty boy? What she said she’d give me to follow her?”

  Yes, what better time for a story? They should pull up some chairs, make themselves comfortable. “No,” Senar replied. “Nor do I wish to know.”

  Greave barked a laugh. “Yer think yer any different from the rest of us? She’ll give herself to yer like she has to every other sword in her pay, then keep yer sniffin’ round for more till something better comes along.”

  Senar’s tone hardened. “This is not the time.”

  “Oh, but it is. This is the Shroud-cursed perfect time. Yer weren’t listenin’ to the bitch, were yer? No sorcery down here, she said. Means yer Will has gone to the Abyss!”

  Senar’s eyes widened. Was he right? The Guardian hadn’t tried to use his power against the librarians because there had been no need. Now when he groped for his Will he felt it melt away like a half-remembered dream. Shit. Again he reached for it, and again it eluded him, seemingly just beyond his grasp. For an instant he considered using one of the Guardians’ mind exercises to hone his concentration, but such an exercise would require him to block out the world around him. And Greave would surely attack when he lowered his guard.

  The champion used a thumb to flick off his gourd’s cap. He poured liquid from the gourd onto the blade of his fish-spine sword, turning the weapon round so the liquid ran down to coat its barbs. Senar caught a smell of rose petals. Red solent, he realized, his chest tightening.

  Greave flung the gourd aside. “First blood again, pretty boy? One scratch is all it’ll take.”

  “That sword cuts both ways.”

  “What do yer mean?”

  “I mean, unless you’re expecting to take me down with your first strike, some of the poison will transfer from your blade to mine when our weapons touch.”

  Greave scowled. “Then I’d best make this quick.”

  He attacked.

  Without juripa spirits to dull his senses, Greave wielded his sword as fast as an arrow’s flight, yet his strokes were no less weighty than Senar remembered from Mazana’s house. No doubt Greave would argue the loss of Senar’s Will had put the two of them on an equal footing, but things weren’t as simple as that. The Guardian had disciplined himself over the years to use the Will only when it was necessary—too much power can become a crutch, if you let it—but still it had become an integral part of his fighting style. So when Greave now aimed a thrust at Senar’s midriff, the Guardian’s first instinct was to block with his Will, and he lost a precious heartbeat overriding that instinct before bringing his sword up to parry.

  On this occasion he succeeded in deflecting Greave’s weapon, but next time the heartbeat might cost him his life. When one dueled an opponent of the champion’s skill, one relied as much on instinct as on training. Each move and countermove was effected without conscious thought because in the time it took to frame that thought, Greave’s blade could have pierced Senar’s defenses. The Guardian found himself battling his natural instincts as much as his opponent, and with red solent on Greave’s sword it needed only one slip …

  When Senar blocked his adversary’s next stroke, the champion pinned Senar’s blade on the barbs of his fish-spine sword, then stepped in close and shoved the Guardian back. Senar’s head slammed against a pillar behind, but he recovered in time to spin away from an attack that would have cut him in half. Greave’s blade clanged against the column in a shower of sparks.

  Senar retreated.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the torches abandoned by the librarians atop a broken pillar. He picked it up in his halfhand before turning to face Greave again. The champion came on, his sword held high. The corpse of a female librarian lay on the floor to Senar’s left, and the Guardian edged away from it, then thrust the burning torch at Greave’s face.

  The champion sidestepped.
>
  Senar lunged with the torch again, only for Greave to bring his blade whistling down to intercept. The brand was severed in two, and as the flaming part hit the floor it flickered and died.

  Shadows closed in.

  The remaining torch lay on top of a column to Senar’s right, the circle of light surrounding it a mere dozen paces across. The Guardian retreated toward it, flinging the stub of the first torch at Greave. If he could reach that second torch he could extinguish it, but how was darkness going to help him, exactly?

  The champion rushed him.

  Senar parried two cuts and countered with a thrust to his opponent’s chest. Greave twisted his body as the blow landed, and Senar’s sword glanced off the armor hidden beneath his shirt.

  Chuckling, Greave came on again.

  * * *

  Kempis and Duffle passed through the Watchstation’s gates and entered the exercise yard. It was deserted but for a lone temlock cropping the weeds that grew between the flagstones. The door to Pompit’s office was half open, and a gust of wind sent it crashing into a wall. Inside, papers swirled across the floor. There was no sign of Pompit. Someone had smeared temlock dung on the door to Hilaire’s office, and there was more dung on Pompit’s desk.

  “Where in the Nine Hells is everyone?” Kempis mused aloud.

  As if he didn’t know. Without Hilaire to crack the whip, the Watchmen had fled rather than be enlisted into the defense of the city. Kempis couldn’t blame them. On the contrary, he just hoped whatever place they’d found to crawl into, they’d left enough space for him. The invasion of Olaire was no business of his. The raiders’ targets would be the Storm Lords, and so far as the septia was concerned a few less bluebloods round the place could only be a good thing. Whichever side emerged victorious, Kempis’s world wouldn’t change. The boot pressed to his neck would remain even if the foot inside it was different.

  The door to Hilaire’s office opened, and Kempis feared the quina had beaten him back from the palace. Then Loop emerged. The mage had swapped his uniform for a black shirt and trousers, and he was carrying the medal Hilaire had worn when Dutia Elemy Meddes came calling three days ago.