by Marc Turner
With a final effort he yanked her sister toward him.
Just as the shark lunged forward. With a clack Senar felt through his bones, its teeth snapped shut—
A handspan from the woman’s feet.
She bundled into Senar. He fell back onto the staircase. His head struck stone, and his vision clouded. Still he was aware of the gray blur as the shark swam past, thought he might have seen its eye swivel to track him.
The sister had landed on top of the Guardian. When his sight cleared he found himself staring at her chest. Her gossamer-thin dress was soaked through, and it clung to her body in a disturbingly revealing manner. Clearing his throat, Senar looked up into the woman’s green eyes, a handspan away.
She grinned.
“Perhaps,” the Guardian said, “we might postpone the continuation of our duel until we find out whether we’re now on the same side.”
Her smile broadened.
* * *
Kempis kicked for one of the corridor’s windows and draped his right arm through it. His ears crackled with water when he moved his head. He silently cursed the Sender, cursed the Matron, cursed every damned immortal he could think of. He’d been on dry land—dry land, for Shroud’s sake!—yet for the second time in as many bells he’d found himself heartbeats away from a salty grave. If it hadn’t been for Sniffer’s help in keeping his head above water he would surely have drowned. Even with her aid it felt as if he’d taken in enough of the sea to refloat that stranded Gilgamarian galleon.
The water in the corridor had reached the bottom of the window and was still rising. Kempis wasn’t going to wait for it to rise the rest of the way. He looked through the opening at the courtyard outside. To his left steps ascended to a roof terrace, while from an archway in the opposite wall the sea poured into the yard. It dawned on him that, with Sniffer’s help, he could escape the flooded passages by swimming round to that archway, but why waste time doing so when he could just as easily leave through this window? He looked at the floor of the courtyard. It seemed a long way down, particularly since he’d be going headfirst. And while the flagstones were underwater, it was only a few fingers’ widths deep and thus not enough to break his fall.
The risk of cracking his skull, though, was as nothing compared to the prospect of another of Sniffer’s fishy kisses.
Kempis considered the dimensions of the window. It would be a tight fit. With a little wriggling, however, he should be able to make it through. By drawing in his shoulders he managed to squeeze them through the opening. He placed his hands against the exterior wall and pushed to lever his upper body out.
He tipped forward and began sliding into the courtyard.
And stuck.
Bugger. It was his sword, he realized—its hilt had jammed against the wall by his left hip. Kempis tried to haul himself back through the window, only to find he couldn’t move because all his weight was tugging him down into the yard.
“Sniffer!” he called. “Pull me back!”
The Untarian heaved on his legs. As he reentered the corridor his head dipped below the surface, and he took in a mouthful of water. Spluttering, he draped his right arm out of the window again.
Sniffer was grinning. “You want me to find you a bigger window, sir?”
“Sword got caught,” Kempis said, unbuckling his sword belt and flinging it outside.
“Right.”
The water now reached halfway up the window, and the light in the corridor was fading. Kempis struggled once more through the opening.
And stuck.
Curse it all! This time it was the buckle of his trouser belt that had caught. He tried to stretch back to undo it but couldn’t fit a hand through the opening, so snugly did his body fill it. Blood rushed to his head.
Sniffer’s muffled voice sounded behind. “Maybe if you breathed in…”
“Can you reach my belt?” Kempis said. “Undo the buckle?”
A pause. “You’re joking.”
“Does it sound like I’m bloody having a laugh out here?”
“Relax, sir. In a few days you’ll have lost enough weight…” Sniffer’s words trailed off, and Kempis heard splashing. Then, “Sender’s mercy!” The Untarian started pushing at his legs. “Move it, you lump! Get out!”
When the septia looked back all he could see was his body plugging the window. “What’s going on?”
“Get out!” Sniffer screamed. “Out!”
The panic in her voice was infectious, and Kempis began thrashing and squirming in an effort to free himself. His struggles, though, served only to grind his belt buckle harder into the stonework, thus pinning him more securely. Water poured through the gaps in the window left by his body. Kempis braced his arms against the wall and pushed with all his strength. His belt strained against his hips, cutting into his skin. He shifted forward a hairbreadth.
Then his trousers rode down his legs, and he fell. He stretched out his hands to cushion the impact, but still his right shoulder jarred as he landed. In an instant he was up again, his trousers flapping round his ankles as he turned to the window. He’d hoped to find Sniffer climbing through after him, but all he saw escaping from the opening was yet more water.
Abruptly the sea spewed from the window in an explosion of spray as if forced out by the movement of something huge along the corridor.
“Sniffer!”
No reply.
Grabbing the window ledge, Kempis pulled himself up until his chin was level with the bottom of the opening. By leaning forward he was able to look a few paces in either direction along the passage, but he couldn’t make out anything in the gloom except pitching water. A wave slapped him in the face, and he dropped back into the courtyard.
He pounded a fist against the wall.
“Sniffer!”
CHAPTER 21
KARMEL STOOD on the roof terrace looking out to sea. Below and to her right Aminex’s corpse bobbed in the waves, while farther out the water had been churned to foaming breakers by the wind. The priestess’s mind took her back to a time when, as children, she and Caval had stumbled upon an abandoned boat and set out to discover what lay beyond the place where the glittering plain of the sea met the sky. After launching the craft they had taken an oar each and rowed for all they were worth. But her brother was so much stronger that their efforts had succeeded only in turning the boat round in circles. Karmel had laughed until her chest hurt, and with their hopes of adventure dashed, she and Caval had banked the oars and lain in the bottom of the craft with shoulders pressed together until the waves rocked them to sleep.
A smile touched the priestess’s lips. For a few short bells the only things in their lives had been the touch of the sun, the pitch of the boat, the lullaby of the sea’s whispering voice.
Then the boat’s owner had swum out to reclaim his craft, and Karmel and Caval had returned home to their father’s cane.
Footsteps sounded behind her. She turned to see her brother climbing the stairs alongside the weaponsmaster. Her smile faded. Caval’s gaze when it locked to hers was empty. Strange, she mused. When he’d suffered Pennick’s beatings there had always been a spark in him. That spark had faded when he’d surrendered to their father’s will and embraced the Chameleon faith, but Karmel had hoped it might return when he ousted Pennick. Instead it had disappeared entirely. Now when she looked at him she saw no trace of the brother who had lain beside her in the boat all those years ago.
She missed him.
Caval opened his mouth to speak, but the weaponsmaster got in first. “We have company.”
From along the roof terrace came the emira’s twin bodyguards, Mili and Tali, hissing like cats. Struggling to keep up with them was a black-haired swordsman with a face too comely to be that of a warrior. Karmel stared at them. Stupidly, she’d thought she would be safe once she was clear of the passages. Had the twins known of Imerle’s plan to flood the palace? Had they been lying in wait for any surviving Chameleons?
Clearly not, since
their clothes were as wet as Karmel’s.
Caval drew his blade and stepped between the priestess and the twins.
Mili and Tali were evidently in no mood to talk, for as one they leapt at the high priest. He blocked their needle-thin swords with a single sweep of his blade, then countered with a backhand cut that had the sister on the left swaying back. With Caval’s power activated he was a blur even to Karmel, and the twins were forced to retreat. Foss, meanwhile, had intercepted their black-haired companion. The weaponsmaster’s sword flickered fast as a viper’s tongue, but his opponent parried each stroke with an enviable economy of movement, seemingly always unhurried despite his assailant’s speed.
Shielded by her two male companions, Karmel released her power. Her right hand hovered over the hilt of her sword. The twins had survived Caval’s initial onslaught and were now making their numerical advantage tell with a succession of skillfully staggered attacks. Karmel should go to her brother’s aid, she knew, but her mind kept replaying the emira’s words in the throne room. There was an inescapable logic to what Imerle had said about the timing of her approach to Caval, and about Caval’s role in recruiting Veran. And while the priestess knew Imerle wouldn’t hesitate to lie if it served her purpose, what reason had she had to deceive Karmel? As had become apparent, the Chameleons had never been a threat that the emira had needed to set them against each other.
Karmel kept coming back to one thing: if Caval had known the truth about the mission, he would have chosen her to accompany Veran only if he wanted her dead. And what reason could he have for that? She recalled his look of relief when she’d entered his quarters earlier—not the look of a brother who had sent his sister to die.
And yet, why had he felt relief at seeing her again? Because he’d been pleased to see her, of course, but then why not just happiness in his expression? Unless he had expected me to die at the gate.
Her musings were interrupted by a grunt from Caval. When Karmel looked across she saw a whirlwind exchange end in a thrust from one of the twins to her brother’s chest. Caval was bleeding from a cut to his sword arm, and the wound must have slowed his reflexes for while he was able to block the strike, his blade would be out of position to meet the next attack.
A throwing knife was in Karmel’s hand. She couldn’t remember drawing it.
She hurled the weapon at the nearest twin.
* * *
Kempis treaded water in near darkness.
At the time, it had seemed like a good idea to go looking for Sniffer. Having climbed to the roof terraces and found a staircase leading down into the flooded passages, the septia had spent an age summoning up the courage to reenter the water, then even longer struggling back to where he had exited the window. It was only as he reached the opening that it struck him Sniffer would have long since moved on, else why hadn’t she answered his calls when he was outside? The sensible thing for him to do now would be to return to the terraces and wait to see if the Untarian reappeared.
If only he could remember the way back to the staircase.
He swam to the next intersection. Along the corridor to his right was the body of a Storm Guard. One side of the man’s face had been sheared away by a weapon blow—
The body disappeared.
Kempis rubbed a hand across his eyes. One moment the soldier had been there, the next he was gone. Must have been tugged underwater. By a shark, perhaps? The septia fingered the hilt of his sword. Like he’d be able to swing the thing if a fish attacked. He peered into the murk.
And saw approaching not a shark but … something else. A dozen armspans away the water in the corridor ended abruptly. Beyond was a gap of perhaps ten paces, and behind that another mass of water into which the corpse of the Storm Guard suddenly bobbed into view again. A pocket of air, Kempis realized.
Water-magic.
Inside the pocket he made out the tops of the heads of whichever strangers were coming toward him. Whoever they were, they wouldn’t be friends. He considered retreating, but what good would that do? He barely had enough strength left to keep his head above water, so what chance did he have of getting away before the newcomers arrived?
As the pocket of air reached Kempis, the sea about him melted away. He fell. His legs were shaky from swimming, and they buckled as his feet touched down. He slumped to the floor. The water had leached the heat from his body, and he lay shivering on the corridor’s mosaic. From his money pouch a handful of coins spilled onto the floor. He watched one roll away until it was trapped by a sandaled foot.
“This one’s alive,” a woman’s voice said.
Kempis winced. The voice was one he knew.
He looked up to find Mazana Creed regarding him with her arms crossed over her chest. There was no hint of recognition in her eyes. Probably just as well, too. Her frown suggested irritation he’d had the gall to drop into her section of corridor. Beside her was a man wearing a bronze cuirass and a white skirt covered with bronze plates—a man who was even now drawing his sword and advancing on Kempis.
The septia tried to coax his weary limbs to move.
A door to his right opened, and a finger’s width of water sloshed into the passage.
“Leave him!” a new voice snapped.
The man in the skirt froze.
Looking round, Kempis saw the Remnerol shaman, Jambar, step into the corridor. The old man’s hands were red, and there was a bloody thumbprint on the monocle hanging round his neck. In his left hand he clutched a bag; its contents clacked as they moved. Jambar did not appear surprised to discover Mazana outside his door, but then the man was a shaman, wasn’t he? No doubt he’d foreseen this meeting as he’d foreseen the assassination attempt on the emira in the throne room.
Mazana looked from the Remnerol to the bag in his hand. “You have Fume’s bones?”
A nod.
“Senar found you, then.”
“We must talk—”
“Where is he?” the Storm Lady cut in.
“Forget him! We have more important things to discuss.”
Mazana held the old man’s gaze for what seemed like an eternity before shrugging. “Speak, then.”
“In private,” the shaman said, stepping aside to allow Mazana to enter the room beyond. Within, Kempis saw an old woman lying on a pallet. Her throat had been cut, and her susha robe was drenched crimson round the neck. Mazana regarded the corpse with arched eyebrows, then shrugged a second time and stepped inside. Jambar followed her in and closed the door.
Leaving Kempis alone with Mazana’s skirted bodyguard.
The septia shuffled over to sit with his back to the wall. Through the door he heard the voices of the Remnerol and the Storm Lady. Skirt was watching him, and Kempis started gathering up his spilled coins to hide the fact that he was eavesdropping. The occasional word reached him: “assassin,” “emira,” “betray”—or was that “betrayal” or “betrayed”? Jambar seemed to be doing most of the talking, and Kempis heard the old man say “stone-skins” before lowering his voice. All that followed was a formless murmur.
The septia’s gaze fell on a window behind Skirt. For a moment he imagined himself wedged in the opening with Sniffer pushing at his legs. How much time had passed between him landing in the courtyard and the water being expelled from the window? Enough for the Untarian to escape whatever was prowling the corridors? Kempis snorted. Who was he trying to kid? He should have been quicker through the opening, maybe let Sniffer go first. More important, he shouldn’t have brought her to the palace in the first place. The debt to Loop was Kempis’s not hers. Now he had another debt to burden him—one he suspected he wouldn’t get an opportunity to repay.
The door beside him opened again, and he hauled himself to his feet. Mazana reappeared, Jambar a pace behind. Kempis’s hand hovered over his sword hilt. If the Storm Lady meant to unleash Skirt on him, he’d make sure he took one of the bluebloods with him through Shroud’s Gate.
Mazana was facing away from Kempis. He heard a tightne
ss in her voice as she said, “Let’s go!” to her bodyguard before starting along the corridor.
Skirt set off in pursuit, Jambar in tow.
As the bluebloods moved away, the wall of water at the rear of the pocket of air advanced with them. Kempis hurriedly fell into step with the shaman. Mazana hadn’t said he couldn’t come with her, and since staying put would mean allowing the sea to reclaim him, Kempis reckoned he would tag along for now. Wherever the Storm Lady was heading in this hellhole, Sniffer was as likely to be there as anywhere else. And if in the meantime he happened upon a flight of steps leading up to the roof terraces …
Kempis scowled.
As if I’m that damned lucky.
* * *
Agenta stepped through the double doors that led to the throne room. The underwater passage was gone, but Balen was able to maintain a pocket of air about the Gilgamarian party as it followed the mosaic path down into the sea. The light began to fade. When the kalisch looked up she could make out the corpse of a Chameleon priest floating on the waves above. Then Farrell placed a warning hand on her arm, and she peered ahead to see blurred figures.
Abruptly the sea ended and the throne room opened out. Agenta had expected to find the chamber full of Storm Guards. Instead it was empty but for the emira, her chief minister, and the executioner. The kalisch halted several paces from the Olairians. The irony of her reaching the throne room did not escape her, for it was only through Imerle flooding the palace—if indeed it had been the emira—that she had made it this far. She realized the last time she’d been here was with her father, but she put the thought from her mind. If her plan was going to work she needed to keep a rein on her anger, to convince the emira she was no less cold-blooded than Imerle herself.
