by Ree Soesbee
“Devious wretch, that Edair,” Sykox snarled. “He’s been planning this for a long time, hasn’t he? He was just waiting for ol’ Baede to die to kick it all off. Stupid human.” He looked up quickly, adding, “No offense intended, of course.”
Cobiah pulled off his hat and tossed it disdainfully on the table. He ran his hands through his hair, mussing it up with frustration. “None taken. I don’t want to be related to the man, either, even if just by the mutual ancestors of our race.” He sighed, struggling with the idea of a Krytan armada poised at the edge of their harbor. “From what Isaye says, Edair’s so eager that he’s willing to put off his own coronation just to hurry the seizure of Lion’s Arch. I’m surprised he didn’t lurch through the asura gate screaming, ‘Hello, city! I’m your new king!’ ”
Once more, Nodobe climbed the stairwell to the deck, this time with a weary step. “I instructed two of our port guards to escort the Nomad on the next tide,” he said. He gave Cobiah a slow smile and sat down in one of the wicker chairs. Taking up a piece of fruit, Nodobe pressed his fingers into it, allowing the juice to run over his fingertips as he picked away the peel. “Also, there was a scout downstairs from the lighthouse at Lion’s Gate. He’s already noted sails on the horizon. It appears that Prince Edair’s armada is assembling. Apparently, he wasn’t willing to wait and see if Isaye’s mission would prove fruitful.” Nodobe’s usually broad smile was wan. “It seems we’re already trapped.”
“It’ll be a fight, then.” Cobiah crossed his arms grimly. “But that’s all right. So long as Lion’s Arch has a fleet, we have a chance.”
People were shouting, soldiers bellowed commands, and the bells at the docks were ringing and clattering in cacophonous noise. Cobiah’s eyes flew open. He was in the large, half-empty bed at his manor house, and darkness still surrounded him. The night was still late, then. Not yet morning. For a moment, Cobiah’s mind was still tangled in a dream: he was on the Indomitable, surrounded by the still-moving corpses of drowned friends. In a panic, he rolled over and reached to grasp the sword that lay on the ground tangled in his pants belt, but his hand fell instead upon a limp rag doll. Polla. She’d been tucked beneath his pillow, but apparently, he’d tossed and turned so much that he’d knocked her onto the floor. In a moment of curious pause, Cobiah lifted it, tucking the faded yellow curls behind her shoulders.
Then the world shifted into focus around him.
The city’s alarm bells were ringing, and a heavy smell of smoke filled the air. Quickly, Cobiah set the doll down and snatched up his coat and sword. He rolled out of bed and landed with his feet in his boots. The shouts were coming from the docks, and by the sound of it, trouble was already so far along that half the city was running about in the night. Cobiah rushed to the balcony door, throwing open the curtains and stepping out onto the half-circle veranda that looked out over the inner harbor and the Gangplank Bridge. Black smoke hung thickly in the air, covering everything with a layer of fog. Lionguard—both in and out of armor—raced through the streets, carrying buckets of water. Cobiah lifted his head and followed them with his eyes as they headed west, toward . . .
The docks were on fire.
Massive flames leapt from ship to ship at Macha’s Landing, encompassing the levees all the way down to White Crane Terrace. Across the bay, the city’s main portage area was flaring up in brilliant shades of orange and red. A sudden explosion rocked the Gangplank Bridge as a charr frigate on the docks went up like a firecracker, armaments exploding with a blinding flash of white light. Sailors scurried like ants, desperate to stop the flames before they could spread farther, but more than three-fourths of the ships at dock were already suffering damage from the blaze. Without thinking, Cobiah leapt over the balcony rail, climbed down the tiered roof, and dropped to the street below.
“Commodore!” The shout came from a slender figure in the Grand Piazza. Through the haze, Cobiah recognized Benedict, the messenger lad. He was carrying an armload of empty buckets back along the fire-brigade line.
“What’s happened?” Cobiah grabbed half of the youth’s load and ran with him toward the water, where other citizens were filling them with sea and sand to douse oily areas of the blaze.
“Gamina said it was Krytans. She was on watch at the docks and saw four men dressed in black setting fire to fuses. They hurled the bombs into the portholes of our munitions ships—the ones we were readying for an attack on the blockade. I heard her yelling right before they exploded.” Benedict dropped the buckets on the sandbar and tried to wipe smoke from his eyes. “She called the Lionguard, but the men ran across the Gangplank, and we lost sight of them.”
The Nomad II had sailed back out into the Sea of Sorrows four days ago, and Prince Edair’s ships had blocked all passage into or out of the city’s harbor. Clearly, the impatient prince wasn’t going to just sit by and wait while the city readied a defense. “Did Gamina see their faces?”
“Yeah.” Benedict brightened. “She said she saw them real well by the light of the first fires. She went across the Gangplank to the portage, in case they had a rowboat there.”
“Clever girl. She’ll need our help. Come with me; we’ll go see if we can lend her a hand.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Benedict saluted.
Yomm stood on the long slope that led up to the Gangplank, standing in the shelter of one of the massive sea-horse arches. The asura rocked back and forth on his feet, rubbing his ears in distress as he stared down at the fire. “Oh, Cobiah. What are we going to do?” he whimpered.
“We’ll keep fighting,” Cobiah said.
“I wrote to Rata Sum. I wrote the Arcane Council. I wrote every genius-level asura I knew, even the bad ones. Surely someone will help us.” Covered in soot, his ornate robes blackened by smoke and wet with seawater, Yomm looked like a drenched cat. “There’s got to be a way.” Over the years, Yomm had become an excellent quartermaster for the city. When he’d been told that the harbor was going to be blockaded, the shopkeep-captain immediately created a detailed system for organizing what food was left in Lion’s Arch, apportioning it, and ensuring it would last as long as possible. Cobiah paused to pat Yomm gently on the shoulder, wondering how asuran parents consoled their children. Probably by giving them crystal wands and mechanical widgets to chew on. “There, there, Yomm,” Cobiah said awkwardly. “It’ll be all right.”
“Will it?”
“Can you fix the gate? Turn it back on?” Cobiah sat up hopefully.
“No. I graduated from the College of Statics,” Yomm said, pressing a three-fingered hand to either side of his forehead. “If the gate had, say, fallen over, I could get it back up, build a house around it, and shore up the architectural supports so that even an ettin couldn’t knock it over again! But I can’t fix the etheric ambulation. You need a graduate of Dynamics, and Captain Tarb’s half-senile. If you let him fix it, it’ll start teleporting people’s parts to random locations! Imagine it! Your head’s in the citadel, your feet are in Rata Sum, and your butt’s all the way up north among the glaciers! Nobody wants that.”
Cobiah stared at him, alternating between bemused and annoyed. “Go back to your shop, Yomm, and take inventory. We’ve lost everything stored on the docks, and that means we’ll have to start rationing.”
Yomm clambered to his feet, still muttering. “Fine, I can do that.” The asura grumbled and turned, slogging down the slope toward his shop in the Trader’s Forum. “ ‘Fix it, Yomm, fix it.’ Hmph. What does he think I am?”
Benedict grinned. Cobiah rolled his eyes and hurried across the wide wooden bridge.
On the far side of the bridge was a massive plaza, larger than the main trade terraces in the city square. It was far less ornamented as well, covered with scuff marks where the Lionguard prepared for duty. Racks of weapons stood beneath shady awnings topped with gold flags, their edges blunted for use in training exercises. Cobiah was passing the archery range when Gamina stepped out of the shadows, her snub nose and impish smile far m
ore suited to meadows than murder.
“Benedict said you were tracking the saboteurs?” Cobiah asked, trying not to look too surprised by her sudden appearance. He was good at stealth—or had been in his youth. She was better.
“Keep your voice down, Commodore,” she warned him. “I doubt they’ve gone far.”
When Captain Tarb had retired, the pixielike blonde had left the old asura’s service and joined the Lionguard. Bronn, now the captain of the guard, praised her to the skies. He even kept trying to give her command of one of the major traveler’s Havens, but Gamina always refused. She rarely accepted honors and often chose to work in the background.
Cobiah had discovered the reason she preferred a low profile when Gamina approached him with an offer from the Order of Whispers, a legendary underground agency of spies, infiltrators, and scouts. If he gave her access to the Captain’s Council—not to vote, just to watch and stay informed—she and her fellows would keep him apprised of activity happening in the underbelly of the city. He’d agreed. Since then, Gamina had proven to be even more valuable, rooting out thieves, smuggling rings, and other dangers in the newly established city. Without the order’s aid, Lion’s Arch might have fallen to any number of petty tyrants willing to trade the city’s future for their own gain.
“They headed out toward the tugboat dock,” she said quietly, pointing with the blade of her dagger. “I haven’t seen a boat leave. Unless they swam, they’ll be down there.”
“You can’t swim out that far. They’re still here, probably waiting until the area’s clear before they try to make for the ships offshore.” He glanced at Benedict. “Can you wield a sword, Ben?”
“Yes, sir.” Benedict grinned. Cobiah gestured to the training weapons, and Benedict picked one up and strapped it to his waist. “Might not be very sharp, sir, but it’ll do.”
Gamina murmured, “That charr ship dropped a bellyful of oil when she went up in flames. It’s spread across the harbor, and most of it’s alight. The Krytans can’t row out right now, or they’ll be seen; the city’s bombard guns would make short work of them.” She gestured lightly toward the gun emplacements on the cliffs. “Keep to the shadows and stay quiet.” Cobiah and Benedict followed her into the shadows of the tugboat docks as Gamina continued. “The order got word that the Krytans might try something like this, but we had no timetable. We thought Prince Edair would wait at least a week before he tried to torch the docks.” She glanced back at Cobiah. “You must have really gotten on his bad side.”
He scowled and didn’t answer.
They moved from building to building, peering through windows and checking doors for any sign of forced entry. Gamina’s slippered feet passed silently over the cobblestones, leaving Cobiah and Benedict to scurry behind like hounds in the wake of an alley cat. Once again, Cobiah blessed his childhood on the streets; if he hadn’t learned thiefcraft, it would have been incredibly difficult to keep up. “It’s not surprising that Edair’s overreacting,” Gamina murmured. “Even his father was afraid of you. Didn’t you wonder why Baede never tried to take Lion’s Arch?”
“I assumed he didn’t care for the climate,” Cobiah joked.
“No dice.” She chuckled. “He didn’t have the guts to take on the finest navy in the world—or their commander.” Gamina glanced back at him. “Taking this city by force requires an attacker to be ruthless. You’d have to destroy the navy and slaughter the populace before they’d kneel to a ruler who’s not born and bred in the waves.”
“Which ruins the point of taking the city in the first place,” Benedict surmised. “Isn’t that right?”
Gamina nodded. “Baede respected that and tried to deal with you, hoping Lion’s Arch would return to Kryta in time. Edair doesn’t care. He’s not that patient. Remember that, Cobiah, and remember that pride is Edair’s weakness.”
“Remember?” Cobiah peered out past the edge of one of the buildings on the wharf, ensuring that the way ahead was clear. “Gamina, I’m not exactly planning to have tea with the pox-faced prince of Kryta.”
“You might not be planning it, but I can assure you, he is.” Suddenly Gamina dropped to a crouch and scooted behind a pile of cargo. “Look—over there.” She pointed toward the other side of the wharf. Cobiah and Benedict scrambled to either side of her and peered down through cracks between the cargo crates for several minutes, looking quizzical. Growing impatient, Gamina pushed Cobiah forward, indicating the slope that led beneath the pier. “You go that way and get their attention. I’ll come up behind them.”
Moving silently, she glided around the far corner of the cargo pile and vanished into the night. Cobiah and Benedict shared a glance. “Uh . . . do you see a . . . ‘them’?” Cobiah asked. Benedict shrugged and shook his head. Cobiah sighed. “Me neither.”
Awkwardly, Benedict drew the longsword he had gathered from the training ground, holding the weapon as if it were a club. Cobiah frowned in concern, but there was very little he could do about it. Hopefully, Benedict was better in action than he looked standing still. Cobiah drew his cutlass and gestured for the youth to follow him down the slope. “You can’t use a sword at all, can you?” Cobiah asked. Benedict shook his head sheepishly, and Cobiah sighed. “All right. Stay close.”
As they approached, Cobiah slowly began to make out four men beneath the pier, all huddled around a rowboat hidden beneath the shadow of the farthest dock. They’d been talking in low tones, voices barely audible over the hush and swell of the ocean waves, but Cobiah saw one of them gesture quickly, pulling his fist close to his face in warning. The others instantly fell silent.
In the light of the oil fires scattered over the water of the harbor, Cobiah saw that two of the men were holding daggers. A third pulled a thick-handled mallet from his belt. Looking inquisitively at the fourth, he tapped the heavy work hammer in his hand the way a tree cutter might swing his axe. The fourth moved around the rowboat, peering in Cobiah’s direction. Cobiah reached back and gripped Benedict’s hand, making sure the boy wasn’t moving. Both groups stood in silence for a moment, and then the fourth bandit scowled. He’d seen them.
Raising his voice in the tongue of magic, the fourth bandit pulled a strange-looking dagger from his belt. The blade was twisted like an animal’s horn, and the hilt was embellished with blue stone. The man cast a quick spell, and a clawlike burst of fire shot forward from his weapon. The talons raked Cobiah’s flesh, searing his skin—and more important, showing exactly where he was standing.
“Get them!” the saboteur elementalist demanded. “Don’t let them flee.”
“Flee?” Cobiah said, challenging them. “Hadn’t even crossed my mind.” He charged directly into the group, hoping to scatter them. One on one, Benedict might have a better chance against the Krytans . . . and it would give Gamina an opportunity to do whatever she was planning. The elementalist skittered aside, and the two dagger-wielding thieves darted in opposite directions, planning to flank Cobiah and Benedict. The scruffy-looking man with the mallet blocked Cobiah’s cutlass with the hilt of his weapon, a surprised “oomph” of effort escaping him. Cobiah smiled as his sharpened cutlass bit deep into the wood. Surprised at his opponent’s skill, the ruffian scowled.
The warrior spun the hammer, and where Cobiah’s blade was stuck in the wood, the metal of the cutlass shrieked, bent, and then shattered. “The old geezer’s all yours, boys.” The scruffy thief said mockingly, “A little bit of a breather, and he might have another solid hit left for you.”
The two dagger-wielding thugs approached Cobiah, one to either side. Benedict pressed forward, his back against Cobiah’s back, and Cobiah could feel the youth shaking. As is, they were no match for these saboteurs. “Give me your sword!” Cobiah ordered, reaching back to take it from his young friend. Benedict paused only a second before obeying.
“But, sir, what am I supposed to fight with?”
“Give me a minute. I’ll get you a dagger.” Cobiah shrugged off his coat and began to twirl it in one
hand, slapping the ground in circles as he warded off the attacker on his left side. Before the two saboteurs could formulate another plan, Cobiah swung his sword viciously at one of the dagger men. The thug ducked, lunging in beneath the reach of Cobiah’s weapon. The dagger cut through the fabric of Cobiah’s coat with a vicious swipe, but the old captain was too quick for the steel to touch his flesh. He tugged the coat aside, nearly pulling the dagger out of his opponent’s hand, and swung again. This time, he felt his sword scrape against the man’s leg. A good blow but hardly crippling.
The bandit elementalist changed his footing and chanted another spell. This time, heaviness pressed in the air around Cobiah, weighing on his shoulders with a damp, cold pressure. Recognizing the spell from his time with Verahd long ago, Cobiah reached back and thrust Benedict aside, jumping forward himself as a spike of ice coalesced above them both. It drove into the ground where the two men had been standing, showering the area around them in chunks of frozen snow.
Using the distraction as an opportunity to attack, one of the other brigands thrust in with his dagger, but this time, Cobiah swirled his coat around it, fouling the blade. Letting the coat fall over the dagger, Cobiah grabbed his assailant’s wrist through the fabric. He jerked forward and drove his other fist—still wrapped around the hilt of his borrowed sword—into the man’s face. Cobiah struck once, twice, then a third time, following up with a knee into the thug’s extended arm. There was a sharp crack, and the man fell with a howl, clutching a broken wrist. Cobiah scooped up the assailant’s dagger and tossed it to Benedict. “Better?”
The youth smiled. “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir.” He gripped the lighter weapon more assuredly than he had the sword. Clearly, the messenger’s childhood had not been so different from Cobiah’s own.
