by Marc Turner
* * *
Agenta stood on the Crest’s forecastle, looking at Olaire in the distance. For nearly two bells the ship had sped north on a wave of water-magic. During that time it had overtaken two smaller vessels apparently heading for the Storm Isles, one flying the Cinsarian flag, the other flying colors the kalisch did not recognize. Within a short while of the Crest passing the Cinsarian ship, the latter vessel had been caught by the gold dragon trailing the Crest from Dian. Agenta had watched impassively as the creature closed its massive jaws about the waist of the small craft and snapped it in two. Meanwhile, another dragon—an enormous copper-colored beast—had approached the Crest on an intercept course from the east. The combined powers of Balen and Selis had taken the Crest away from its would-be attacker, and the dragon had fallen behind until it vanished in the glare of the sun on the waves.
Since Agenta had come on deck her fellow passengers had shown enough sense to keep their distance, but now she spied movement to her right and glanced across to see Farrell advancing. He halted beside her.
“I’m sorry,” the merchant said.
“Don’t be.”
“If you need to talk, I understand—”
“You understand nothing!” Agenta said, rounding on him. “Are you going to tell me that I should treasure my father’s memory? That I should be grateful for the time we had together? Save your platitudes for when you—”
“My father is dead,” he cut in.
Agenta stared at him blankly. She’d seen a man in a gold shirt on the quarterdeck earlier and assumed he was Samel. But then there had been another man on the Icewing dressed in gold, she remembered. She studied Farrell with new eyes. Now that she knew to look for it, she could see the cloak of self-pity about him. It seemed he had come here not to ease her sorrow but to burden her with his own as well.
“He couldn’t swim,” Farrell went on. “Can you imagine? A man who’d lived his entire life on an island. I looked for him in the water, but I couldn’t see him. I hoped he would find his way to one of the masts, or that someone would help him stay afloat.” He let out a shuddering breath. “His body was found under the mizzen course, less than ten armspans from where I stood on the Icewing helping others climb aboard.”
The merchant paused as if he expected Agenta to say something, but she kept her silence. Did he think she didn’t know what he was doing? Like Lydanto, he thought that by speaking of his own loss he could encourage the kalisch to talk of hers. He was wasting his time, though. Her grief was already spent.
“I wish I’d had a moment with him,” Farrell said. “A chance to tell him…” He looked across. “What did your father say to you at the end? When he held you.”
“Nothing.”
The merchant nodded as if some deep truth had been revealed to him.
Olaire was rushing closer. Agenta could make out the Founder’s Citadel in the northwest of the city, the white-plastered buildings on the slopes of Kalin’s Hill, the flooded streets of the Deeps, bright with reflected sunlight. A pall of smoke rose from the western districts and drifted east on the breeze.
Farrell said, “You’re going after the emira, aren’t you.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Agenta did not respond, hoping the man would leave her alone now that he’d said his piece.
Instead he gestured to the sword scabbarded at her waist. “Are you as skilled with that as you are with a bow?”
“After my brother’s death, my father insisted that I be trained to fight. He said a ruler must know how to defend herself, but how many duels have you seen in a council chamber? The truth is, he wanted me to replace the son he’d lost.”
Farrell made to say one thing, then appeared to change his mind. “When you questioned me on the way to Dian … You know about my father’s dealings with the emira, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Imerle never told him what she wanted the money for, and my father didn’t ask. He was curious, though, so he made some inquiries. You have heard of the Revenants?”
Agenta shook her head.
“Neither had I. They are mercenaries from Elipsos—a place to the east of here. The company has just a thousand warriors in it, yet last year they held the walls of Kybor against a Corinian force twenty times that number. The only way to join the group is to defeat one of its members in single combat, and there is no shortage of people willing to try. Such are the fees the Revenants charge, it is said a man need only serve in their ranks for a few years before he can buy himself a kingdom. Before today I had wondered what the emira wanted with a company of mercenaries.” He nodded at Olaire. “I guess I have my answer.”
Olaire’s harbor was partly visible over the Shallows at the western end of the city, and there Agenta could see the masts of a handful of ships with gray sails. Two more vessels were stationed at the entrance to the Causeway. The docks themselves, along with the streets around them, were filled with a heaving melee of combatants, while to the south and east smoke rose over one of the Storm Guard barracks complexes. The kalisch smiled without humor. “I’d been trying to work out how I could convince the Storm Guards to grant me an audience with Imerle. Now it seems I won’t have to.”
“Where will we dock?”
“The palace fronts onto the sea, does it not? Perhaps we will land there.” The closer they could get to the palace, the fewer guards they would have to fight to reach the emira.
“If we circle the island to the west, we risk drawing the attention of the ships guarding the Causeway…”
His words trailed off. The Crest had begun to lose speed. Its sails still bulged with air-magic, but the wave on which it rode was receding. As the rustle of water died away, the noise of the city became audible—an angry buzz like a beehive shaken to life. Agenta turned to see Balen standing beside the galley chimney.
“Mage,” she said, “why have we slowed?”
Balen blushed. “Water-magic, Kalisch. Someone is challenging my control of the seas.”
“Who?”
The mage gave an apologetic shrug.
Agenta spun back toward Olaire, her gaze raking the shoreline. Waves foamed over the flooded buildings of the Deeps. On the rooftops of the Shallows she saw a dozen strangers, all facing away from her, and all apparently watching the battle for the city.
Then she spotted him: a bald man standing at the end of a submerged street, dressed in blue robes and with his hands raised in the air. Agenta was too far away to make out his features, but she knew who he was all the same.
Orsan.
* * *
Ripples of power drew closer to Kempis along one of the flooded roads. A bald man in blue robes swam between two boats at the far corner of the square. When he reached shallower water, he waded out of the sea before pausing to brush a strand of fireweed from his sleeve. Kempis stifled a groan. Orsan. What was the emira’s pet mage doing here? Had Imerle sent him on the trail of the stone-skin? Didn’t she trust Kempis to track down the assassin alone?
Out to sea, a wall of water half a dozen armspans tall was rushing toward the Deeps. On its crest rode a three-masted galleon. Was this another enemy vessel come to take part in the attack on Olaire? No, its sails were white, not gray. Orsan set his power in opposition to the sorcerer on board …
Duffle leaned in close. “We got trouble.”
A figure had materialized in an alley behind Orsan. There was no mistaking the emira’s would-be assassin, for her skin glittered in the shadows of the passage. Not here to guard the mage’s back, Kempis reckoned. Sure enough, she produced a crossbow and started wrestling with the crank mechanism. The weapon was half as tall as she was. How had she known Orsan would be here? Had she expected one of Imerle’s minions to follow her from the palace?
Kempis considered. The woman wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings. If he could circle behind her, he might catch her unawares.
He looked at Loop. “Are you thinking what I�
�m thinking?”
Plainly not, for the mage’s eyes flashed. “You said we was here for Sniffer!”
“And I meant it. But we ain’t going to get a better shot at taking the stone-skin down. She’s distracted, ain’t she?”
Loop said nothing.
“What’s your problem, man? We’ve already done the hard part getting here. Raiders are gone, right? And if they show up again, hells, you ain’t even wearing a uniform. We walk away now, we could spend a month later trying to sniff out the stone-skin’s trail again.” To Kempis’s mind, it didn’t bear thinking about. Another month with Hilaire on his back. Another month reporting to the emira in that watery hellhole she called a throne room.
Still Loop kept his silence.
“Best make your mind up quick, mage, else the stone-skin’s going to make it up for you.”
Scowling, Loop looked out to sea. Orsan must have gained the upper hand over the sorcerer on the ship, for the wave of water-magic under the galleon had dwindled to a ripple. Closer now, Kempis could see the flag the vessel was flying—the crakehawk of Gilgamar.
For a heartbeat longer Loop stared at it. Then he shook his head in resignation and said, “What’s the plan?”
* * *
Karmel looked toward the commotion on the forecastle. She was too far away to hear the voices of the people there. But having kept her head down for the past bell and a half, she wasn’t about to risk drawing attention to herself by moving closer to eavesdrop. When she’d first set foot on the galleon she’d resolved to find somewhere out of the way to engage her powers and disappear, but with the decks full to bursting she’d been forced to hunker down on the main deck near the surviving Storm Guards from the Icewing. For once she was relieved her face was unknown beyond the walls of the Chameleon Temple, for she’d yet to see any hint of recognition in the eyes of her fellow passengers. And while the bruising round her jaw and neck was drawing curious glances from the Storm Guards, such was the air of stunned solemnity about the ship that none of the soldiers had mustered the heart to start a conversation.
There were a handful of people on board that the priestess knew: Dutia Elemy Meddes; Grand Magister Dewar; Lady Maida Saxby. Karmel did not, however, recognize the woman who commanded the vessel—Kalisch Agenta Webb, she’d heard her called. Earlier when the kalisch emerged from the captain’s cabin and stalked onto the forecastle, those already there had moved to leave a space round her. It was not difficult to see why, for there was a sharpness to the woman’s gaze that could cut. Karmel looked along the main deck to where the bodies of some of those who’d died on the Icewing were laid out beneath scraps of sail. From the conversation of the Storm Guards, the priestess had learned Agenta’s father was among them. And while the kalisch effected a stern indifference to his fate, Karmel could see her grief in the lines that scarred her forehead.
She tried not to think about what would happen if the woman discovered Karmel’s role in his death.
The priestess was struggling to shake off the lingering effects of the shock of Veran’s attack. Her hands trembled where they gripped the rail. She looked at Olaire and the gray-sailed ships in the harbor. It had come as no surprise to find the city under assault—the chaos wrought by the dragons gave Imerle the perfect opportunity to sweep aside the remaining elements of the Storm Lord dynasty. Fortunately for Karmel the fighting appeared to be concentrated around the port and the two Storm Guard barracks complexes, so when the time came to disembark it would be a simple matter for her to pick her way through the turmoil to the Chameleon Temple …
A shout from one of the Storm Guards brought her head round, and she looked in the direction the soldier was pointing. A ripple of movement blurred the southern horizon, indistinct through the glare off the sea. At first Karmel thought it was another ship fleeing north from Dian.
Then it sparkled with copper light.
A dragon.
* * *
Kempis peered round the corner at the stone-skinned assassin. Standing thirty paces away, she was still struggling to load her crossbow, her efforts apparently hampered not just by the weapon’s size but also by the wounds she’d taken in the throne room. In the square beyond, the septia could see nothing of Loop or Duffle, but they should by now have used the cover of the rubbish to crawl within striking distance of the stone-skin. All Kempis had to do was distract her long enough for Loop to hit her with a broadside of death-magic—and pray he didn’t also get blasted in the attack. There was little risk of that, though. From where Loop was stationed he would be firing at an angle to the alley rather than along it, so Kempis should be safe provided he didn’t get close to the woman.
Something he had no intention of doing.
Tendrils of smoke from a nearby burning building curled about him, making his eyes water. As he dabbed at them he heard a sound behind, and he spun round to see a figure approaching.
Sniffer.
Kempis cracked a grin. For once, she’d shown excellent timing. The Untarian’s clothes were wet, and she stank as if someone had emptied a piss pot over her head. The image made the septia’s smile stretch wider. In one hand she held a half-eaten honeyfish; in the other, her boots—her webbed feet were bare. There wasn’t time to explain the plan, so Kempis gestured for her to join him, then whispered, “Follow my lead.”
Sniffer took a last bite of her fish before tossing the carcass aside.
When the septia looked round the corner again, he saw the stone-skin had finally locked the crossbow’s crank and was placing a quarrel in its slot. Kempis scanned the ground about him. A shout would do fine as a distraction, but much better if he could find …
His gaze settled on a rock to his right, and he crouched to pick it up. It fitted snugly into his palm. Who knew, with a good throw he might even take down the assassin without Loop’s fireworks.
To the south a rustle of water was building, but there was no time now to worry about what it signaled. The stone-skin was sighting along her crossbow. The weight of the weapon on her supporting arm must have caused her discomfort, for she shifted position before settling again. Kempis hesitated. It was tempting to delay his attack until she’d finished her business with Orsan, but he knew the woman would be at her most vulnerable while her attention was on the kill. If Orsan survived the encounter, that was just a price Kempis would have to pay.
Stepping into the alley, he hurled the rock.
Just as the assassin’s head came round.
But not to look at Kempis. Something in the square had caught her eye, and she swung her crossbow over. Her new target couldn’t have been Loop or Duffle, because the Watchmen wouldn’t have broken cover until Kempis sprung his diversion. Who, then? A looter? One of the raiders, perhaps?
It hardly mattered now, because the die had already been cast. Kempis’s thrown rock arced through the smoky air, straight for the stone-skin. It thudded into her shoulder at the same time as the string of her crossbow twanged. The woman did not look round at the septia. Her gaze remained fixed on something in the square. She cocked her head as if she were listening for a sound.
Then she dropped her weapon and flung herself across the alley, rolling against the wall to her left.
Kempis’s spirits sank. He knew what was coming next.
A wave of scintillating blackness cut through the space where the stone-skin had been standing. To the noise of cracking rock, Loop’s burst of death-magic slammed into the house on the corner, and the walls of the building crumbled. There was a muffled thud from within, followed by an explosion that blew out a shutter. A section of wall groaned and shifted as if the entire structure was about to come down on the stone-skin.
But it remained intact. The woman rose, unhurt.
The best laid plans …
Kempis hadn’t discussed with the others what to do if plan A failed. With the element of surprise gone, though, there was no point in trying anything fancy. The septia drew his sword and charged.
Dust hung heavy in the alle
y, but the glittering points in the assassin’s skin marked her out in the gloom. As she spun to face Kempis, her right leg—the leg stabbed by one of the twins—almost gave way. He parried her first thrust, then retreated, forcing the woman to come to him. Sniffer took up a position to the septia’s left, her right arm drawn back in readiness to hurl one of her knives. There was no need for them to press the attack; all they had to do was keep their foe busy until Loop and Duffle arrived to cut her down from behind. Four on one, even the stone-skin couldn’t beat those odds.
Amid the clouds of dust beyond the assassin, a shadow appeared. The newcomer’s features were invisible in the murk, but Kempis knew Loop’s stink when he smelled it.
“Heads down!” the mage yelled.
Kempis threw himself to the ground.
The stone-skin couldn’t have understood Loop’s warning, for she turned toward him.
Right into a blast of the mage’s death-magic. It struck her at the level of her chest. Fiery darkness enveloped her, clinging to her like burning oil. She shrieked. Her raised sword shattered into shards of glowing metal. Her skin swelled and split like overripe fruit, and her flesh sloughed away to expose organs that spat and hissed like meat on a fire. Then they too disintegrated to leave behind nothing but charred bones.
The sorcery winked out.
The stone-skin’s shoulders and upper arms were gone, and her lower arms now fell to the ground. An instant later her legs buckled, and what remained of her body toppled over. Scorched entrails flopped onto the road. Kempis felt the bile rise in his throat. The smell of rotting meat filled the passage.
A few paces away, Sniffer sat with her back to a wall. She seemed puffed, but in response to Kempis’s raised eyebrow she nodded to indicate she was unharmed. The septia heaved himself to his feet. A stiffness had settled on him as if he had aged ten years. It was the feeling he always got around necromancy. There was a hole in the left knee of his trousers, and he was bleeding from a cut to his chin. All in all, though, things could have gone a lot worse …
Then he remembered the crossbow bolt the stone-skin had fired into the square.
