Dragon Hunters

by Marc Turner

  Trust his luck that the sea should have come to him.

  After what seemed like an age Sniffer broke off her fishy kiss. Kempis opened his eyes as the Untarian untangled her limbs from his. She pointed a finger at herself before gesturing to the hole in the eastern wall. Then she was off, her kicking legs almost catching him in the face. Beyond the house Kempis could make out nothing but murky water. Yet the sorcerous wave must have broken by now on the rooftops of the Shallows. The septia considered following Sniffer out, but if he left too soon he might find himself caught by the back swell and swept out to sea.

  After the wave had retreated, though …

  For the first time since the surge struck, Kempis began to think he might live out the next bell. He pondered his next move. The temptation was strong to find a tavern and drown the memory of this morning’s ordeal, but the sight of Loop’s accusing eyes kept coming back to him. Kempis hadn’t known the man well. Truth be told, he hadn’t liked him much either. Something gnawed at him, though—a feeling he owed the mage for dragging him here when he would rather have been lining his pockets with the other looters. But how was he going to settle that debt? He wasn’t seriously thinking about going after Loop’s killer, was he?

  That wave must have knocked something loose in his head.

  There was always a chance, of course, that the stone-skin had been flattened by the wall of water, but the fact Kempis had seen him wading toward the swell rather than away from it told him the man was a water-mage. And if that was so, the stone-skin wouldn’t have suffered so much as a bruise when the wave fell on him. Normally Kempis would have been able to hunt the sorcerer down in the same way he had the female stone-skin. Except that the septia hadn’t been paying attention to the bastard’s power’s signature when he fled. No way he’d recognize it if he came across it again. And while Sniffer could follow the stone-skin’s trail out to sea, that meant the two of them would have to split up once more.

  In any case, Kempis already had an idea where the stone-skin was going. The man had probably come here to help his kinswoman after the beating she’d taken from Mili and Tali. Odds were, he wanted to finish the job she’d started, and that would make his destination the throne room.

  It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all Kempis had just now.

  By the time Sniffer reappeared between two pieces of floating furniture, the septia’s lungs were burning. She blew another gust of fishy air down his throat, then gestured to the hole in the outer wall and gave him a thumbs up. Time to be going. It proved harder getting out of the fireplace than it was getting in. In the end Sniffer had to grab one of Kempis’s arms and haul him free. He twisted round to get his bearings, then braced his legs against the chimneystack and kicked off.

  Outside he broke the surface coughing and gasping. The sounds of the city were loud in his ears: the bells of the Maudlin Watchtower, the fighting from the docks, the cries of those who’d survived the wave. The waterline had advanced to Kempis’s left, and the square was now completely submersed. Bodies bobbed on the breakers amid froth and scum, knots of fireweed, and pieces of wood.

  A current was drawing the septia out to the sea, and he thrashed against it until Sniffer took one of his arms and guided him toward the shore. Eventually the water became shallow enough for Kempis to stand up. He waded the final distance before collapsing onto the slick flagstones of Queens Street.

  “Sender’s mercy,” Sniffer breathed. “I’ve known fish foods that could swim better than you.”

  The septia was too busy savoring each lungful of air to retort.

  When the Untarian next spoke there was an edge to her voice. “Sir, look.”

  Kempis gazed in the direction she was pointing. Thirty armspans away and high above the street was the Gilgamarian galleon, wedged between the roofs of two houses. Water streamed from its blackened hull to spatter onto the road, and more water poured from a fissure between two planks. The top of its mainmast was bent at an angle. As Kempis watched, the mast toppled, bringing down a tangle of rigging and sails.

  “Not something you see every day,” he muttered.

  The ship was listing to the left, and people were scrambling from the deck onto the roof on that side. From there, ropes had been lowered to the street. Kempis looked for the water-mage and the flint-eyed woman he’d spied earlier, but there was no sign of them. Perhaps they had been thrown overboard when the ship came down. He could always hope.

  At street level one of the survivors was peering along the road toward him, and the septia looked away. He’d recognize that gray skin anywhere, together with those strands of gray hair draped absurdly across the man’s bald pate. Pushing himself to his feet, Kempis strode toward a side street, his boots squelching with every step.

  “Come on,” he said to Sniffer. “We’re out of here.”

  “Septia!” Dutia Elemy Meddes called. “Septia Kempis Parr!”

  Kempis ducked his head and kept walking.

  * * *

  Agenta scrambled over the port gunwale and onto the roof alongside. She looked round. Orsan had vanished, but then doubtless the traitor was already scurrying back to the emira to report on what had happened here. The city throbbed like a migraine. In a street to the north, four men were beating a prostrate figure senseless, while to the west a shrieking crowd had gathered about a burning building, taunting the occupants who were shouting for help from the upper windows. One might have thought the threat of conquest would have seen the Olairians unite to repel the invaders, but having witnessed the blackweed riots in Karalat last year, Agenta knew only too well how thin was the skin of civilization over the rotting flesh beneath.

  When her turn came to descend, she shimmied down the rope to the street. Dutia Elemy Meddes approached. When he bowed, his carefully arranged strands of hair fell across his eyes. “Kalisch, I am taking my soldiers to the Harbor Barracks. You and your men are welcome to join us.”

  “My destination is the palace.”

  His brows knitted. “Our priority should be the defense of the city. Leave the emira to the other Storm Lords.”

  “What other Storm Lords?”

  “We don’t yet know what has become of Mazana Creed or Mokinda Char. Even Cauroy may still be alive. We saw his ship go down, yes, but he is a water-mage, is he not? Perhaps he was able to swim clear.”

  Agenta’s voice betrayed her scorn. “And if he was? You think he will come to challenge Imerle?”

  Elemy regarded her thoughtfully before unbuckling a scabbarded dagger at his waist and passing it to her. “I cannot spare you any of my Storm Guards, but if you make it to the palace some of the soldiers there may still be loyal to the Storm Council. Show them this and tell them you command them in my name.”

  Agenta nodded her thanks.

  The dutia moved away, and the kalisch turned to see Lydanto, Farrell, and Warner watching her. “So,” she said to the ambassador. “You told me earlier that we should gather our allies together. How many of our passengers will be coming with us to visit the emira?”

  Lydanto had the good grace to look aside. “None, Kalisch.”

  “I am touched by their gratitude.”

  “They will not be forgetting their debt to you. But they are thinking it wise to strike back at Imerle from a position of strength.”

  “Or they think it wise to let someone else fight their battles for them.”

  The ambassador made no response.

  “I want you to take my father’s body to the embassy. Farrell’s father, too.”

  Lydanto hesitated then sighed. “My personal residence would be a safer choice.”

  “As you will. Warner, arrange an escort for him.”

  The trita frowned. “If we’re to reach the palace we’ll need every—”

  “An escort, I said!” Agenta snapped. “And, Trita, the next time you see fit to question my orders, I will find someone else who likes them better. Do I make myself clear?”

  Warner kept his expression even. After
a pause he nodded.

  The Crest shifted, sending water raining down onto the road. A handful of roof tiles followed, and Lydanto ushered them out of the vessel’s shadow.

  “What of the ship, Kalisch?” he said. “You will be leaving some guards to protect her?”

  She shook her head. “We cannot spare the men.”

  “She will be picked clean when we are going.”

  Agenta did not doubt it. Olairians had already gathered on the nearby rooftops like a flock of redbeaks eyeing a corpse. And yet what did it matter if the ship was looted? With the wind from the west, the fires Agenta had seen earlier would likely soon claim the vessel in any event.

  Lydanto made one last effort to dissuade her. “Kalisch, I am begging you to reconsider. The streets of Olaire will be swarming with the enemy.”

  Farrell spoke. “I know a few shortcuts to the palace. If we stay clear of the main roads, we should avoid any soldiers.”

  “And the rioters?”

  Agenta ignored him. Passing Elemy’s dagger to Warner, she checked that her throwing stars remained strapped to her wrists. “Let’s go,” she said.

  * * *

  “Where is my brother?” Karmel asked.

  Two men guarded the entrance to the Chameleon Temple, neither of whom the priestess recognized. The first was of an age with Karmel and had a pimpled face and a sneering smile. His companion, an older man with receding blond hair, stared back at her with a look so blank it bordered on insolent.

  “Am I talking too fast for you? The high priest. Where is he?”

  The older man’s expression did not change. “Which high priest?”

  Tutting her disgust, Karmel shouldered past. Either the fool was simple, or he was mocking her. Whichever was the case she had no intention of spending any more time in his company.

  The temple’s corridors were alive with the sounds of rustling armor and whispered prayers, while in the courtyards priests and priestesses honed weapons or buckled on armor or simply watched from the shade of colonnades as Karmel hurried past. For each observer she knew there were three she did not, and the presence of those strangers robbed the shrine of its familiarity. Not the triumphant homecoming she’d envisioned when she set out for Olaire. Doubtless Caval had summoned the newcomers here from other temples to supplement the emira’s forces. But then why were they sitting on their hands as battle raged across the city?

  On board the Gilgamarian galleon, Karmel had played out in her mind a dozen times how her meeting with Caval would go. She’d considered keeping quiet about Veran’s attack to see whether her brother asked any revealing questions. She’d even wondered whether she should claim Veran told her it was Caval who had ordered her death. Her brother would deny it, of course, but if he was deceiving her it would be harder to maintain his innocence in the face of her feigned certainty. Whatever ploy she used, she would be watching him like a crakehawk. She knew him too well for him to mislead her.

  And yet, hadn’t he misled her all too easily over the purpose of the mission?

  When she reached the door to his quarters, she heard voices beyond. She entered without knocking. In the chair she’d occupied three days ago was a man with skin so dark he looked like a shadow bedecked in clothing. Behind the desk stood Caval. He was staring down on Olaire through the transparent western wall. At the sound of her footsteps, he spun round. She searched his eyes, knowing his first reaction to her return would be the most telling. For an instant he gaped at her, his expression one of such bewilderment that, on another occasion, she might have laughed.

  Then a look of relief broke out across his features, and she found herself blinking back tears.

  How could I have doubted him?

  Caval recovered his poise. He glanced at the man across the desk and said, “Ah, would you excuse us for a moment?”

  It was a while since Karmel had heard such deference in his voice. She remembered the words of the guard at the gates: Which high priest? Evidently Caval’s companion was the head of another Chameleon Temple.

  The man shifted his gaze from Caval to Karmel, and the priestess was abruptly conscious of how she must appear to him with her bruised neck, tangled hair, and salt-stained clothes. She met his look, and after a pause he nodded and withdrew.

  As the door clicked shut Karmel turned to Caval, her verbal plan of attack forgotten. “He tried to kill me.”

  The high priest stared at her.

  “He tried to kill me!”

  “Veran?”

  “Of course Veran!”

  Caval’s voice was flat. “Where is he?”

  “Dead.”

  “Ah, you killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  Karmel had expected to see shock or confusion or guilt in her brother’s expression, but his face showed nothing. “Why?” he said at last.

  The priestess’s blood was rising. “Why did he attack me? I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Still no reaction. “You think I had something to do with it?”

  “He said he was following orders. Orders, Caval!”

  “What else did he say?”

  “What else were you expecting?” Karmel snapped, conscious her brother was asking the questions instead of answering them.

  Caval turned away and looked out over Olaire once more. Above the docks a sorcerous concussion sent clouds of fire-flecked smoke mushrooming into the air. “What happened in Dian?” he said.

  Karmel’s face darkened. He was trying to buy himself time, she thought. To find out what she knew before he showed his hand. She should have insisted he answer her questions before she answered his, but the words were suddenly spilling out of her before she could stop them. She told him about how she and Veran had scaled the Dragon Gate and gained access to the control room. When she reached the part where Veran revealed to her the change of plan, Caval swung round and held up a hand.

  “Wait,” he said. “You’re saying he wanted to stop the gate from being lowered? And you went along with it?”

  Karmel opened her mouth and closed it. Then opened it again. “You told me to do what he said! What he said!”

  “I also told you the gate was not to be raised. Which part of ‘not’ didn’t you understand?”

  “I thought—”

  “You thought what? That I lied to you?”

  Yes, Karmel wanted to say, but the word tripped on her tongue. She struggled to marshal her thoughts. Of all the ways she’d imagined this meeting going, not once had it played out like this. She searched for some way to wrest back the initiative. “Whose place did I take on the mission? Who pulled out at the last moment?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the mission until the day I left?”

  Caval threw up his hands. “Because I wasn’t told myself! You forget, this is the emira’s game, not mine.”

  The implications of what he was saying were beginning to sink into Karmel’s mind. Chameleon’s mercy, what have I done? The plan had never been to release the dragons into the Sabian Sea—or at least not so far as the Chameleons were concerned. Meaning it had been Veran and not Caval who had deceived her as to the reason she’d gone to Dian.

  The priestess looked away from her brother’s penetrating gaze. How could she have let herself be fooled? Why had she doubted Caval? Because he’d ordered her to do as Veran said? If Veran alone knew the plan of attack, then of course Karmel would have to follow his lead. Because Caval had told her so little about the mission? From what he’d said, he had been kept in the dark as much as she had. Karmel felt color rise to her cheeks. The one thing he had told her was the aim of the assignment, yet when Veran had contradicted that in the control room she’d swallowed his lies without a second thought.

  Veran had been clever, she realized: he’d planted doubts in her mind as to Caval’s integrity on the journey to Dian and let those doubts fester during their stay in the city. Then, once he and Karmel were in the control room, he’d timed his revel
ations such that the priestess had no chance to think things through. And yet that was only half the truth, she knew. If she’d trusted her brother, Veran would never have been able to dupe her. She hung her head. In the citadel she’d convinced herself Caval didn’t trust her, when all along it was her trust in him that had been lacking.

  The high priest broke the silence. “The emira has played us for fools.”

  Karmel looked up. “Why would she tell you she was plotting to remain in power but not how she was going to do it?”

  “Ah, because she knew I’d never go along with her scheme, that’s why. Gods below, do you know how many will die today? Not just on the ships, but in Olaire itself?” He brought himself under control with an effort. “Imerle needed my help—needed our help—to sabotage the Dragon Hunt, but she didn’t trust me enough to reveal all the cards in her hand.”

  “And yet she trusted Veran?”

  “Have you asked yourself why? Do you even know why he left the priesthood?”

  “He was disillusioned—”

  “He left because he was our father’s man. When Pennick’s star fell, so did Veran’s. And he was too ambitious to settle for a place in the priesthood’s rank and file. Clearly he thought he could do better for himself by throwing in his lot with the emira.”

  Strange. If Veran had been their father’s man, why had Karmel never seen him around? Then she remembered Veran’s wedding band in her pocket. “He said his wife was sick. The gray fever. He said the Chameleon agreed to heal her if he performed one last service.”

  “And you believe him?”

  She heard the unasked question in her brother’s tone: Do you believe him over me? Of course not, she almost said, but then Veran’s last words on the boat came back to her. Don’t let her be alone at the end. Why would he have lied to Karmel with his final breath? Why had he given her the ring? Caval was watching her closely, and she struggled to meet his gaze.

  “There’s something else you don’t know,” she said to change the subject. “About what happened in the control room.” She told him of the stone-skinned stranger that she’d encountered in the fortress.