by Marc Turner
“If you say so, Guardian. I bow to your greater experience.” A thought seemed to come to the mercenary. “As I recall, you crossed swords with the giant on Dragon Day. How did that go, remind us?”
* * *
From atop the bluff, Galantas looked down on the boy standing in shallow water at the midpoint of the channel. Nine sharks prowled the waves about Lassan, lured here by the blood dripping from a self-inflicted cut to his arm. Briar sharks and razor sharks mostly, but it was a blackfin that seemed to have taken most to his scent as it swum lazy circles about him. Always the blackfins. It was a blackfin that had given Galantas the scar on his leg that drew whistles when he showed it. The same blackfin, as it happened, whose teeth now adorned the band around his neck.
Who laughs last, and all that.
Years ago, Galantas had been first to make the Shark Run. After his mother’s death, he had attempted the crossing for no reason that he could have articulated. He should have died that day. Caught in waist-deep water, he’d been helpless to evade a blackfin bearing down on him. Maybe it was shock that had caused him to freeze when others might have fled and, in doing so, drawn the creature to them. Or maybe he just hadn’t cared whether he lived or died. Whatever the reason, the shark had paid him no mind, merely brushing his leg as it glided past.
It was only later that Galantas had recognized the opportunity for notoriety the Shark Run offered. He’d spent countless nights mapping out the seabed in the channel until he could walk it in his dreams. Only then did he risk a crossing in daylight, with both sharks and witnesses in attendance. He had repeated the Run many times since, earning grudging admiration from the fools who respected such acts of bravado. In time, more and more Rubyholters had sought to replicate his feat, until it became a rite of passage for the youths of every clan. More than that, though, it became the stone upon which Galantas’s legend was founded. By his example were you judged an adult among your tribe. By his example did you prove your courage to your fellows. Every man who now risked the Run followed in his shadow. And succeed or fail, their imitation served only to add to that shadow’s reach.
It was a hundred heartbeats since Lassan had last moved. Some of the spectators on the far shore jeered, perhaps thinking the boy’s courage had failed. Galantas knew better. There was no such thing as a safe route across the channel, still less a guaranteed one, but there were paths less dangerous than others. In front and to Lassan’s right was a stretch of shallow water that offered a straightforward means of progress, yet the route beyond that was treacherous. The simpler course lay directly ahead, but Lassan first had to traverse a section prowled by the blackfin. Patience. The key to success lay in reading the odds offered by each route, and in having the courage to run those odds when circumstances demanded it.
And luck, of course.
The blackfin finally moved away, and Lassan edged forward to ironic cheers from the spectators to Galantas’s right. He scanned their ranks. Needles mostly, though there were a few Falcons and Squalls too. All sitting in their separate groups, naturally. Among the Needles was a girl in a red dress—a lover or a sister, perhaps—watching Lassan with hands over her mouth. There were no clan leaders or krels here, only sons and daughters: the next generation of Rubyholters. It was easy to tell those who had completed the Run from those who had yet to attempt it. For while the old hands followed Lassan’s progress in silence, the virgins wearied Galantas’s ears with their bluster and their feigned good humor.
Lassan appeared oblivious to them all. He’d taken a dozen steps along the deeper path, apparently unnoticed by the blackfin. But the cut to his arm was still dripping blood, and one of the briar sharks swam closer. Lassan didn’t panic. Maintaining a steady pace, he waded toward shallower water. Soon the sea reached only to his calves. The briar shark was forced to halt. Its snout emerged from the waves, and Lassan played to the crowds by punching the creature on the nose. Galantas nodded his approval. The boy had spirit. He’d make a good leader if he ever commanded the Needles, and the odds of that happening were shortening by the moment. Galantas could see Lassan’s elder brother, Flint, farther along the bluff. His expression showed the same conflicting emotions Galantas had felt when he’d watched his own brother make the Run seven years ago. Flint hadn’t attempted the channel himself yet. If Lassan survived, he would have to do so.
A skittering of stones behind Galantas marked the arrival of Qinta and Barnick. Barnick lowered himself to the ground alongside Galantas, then took out a comb and started combing his hair. Qinta squatted on Galantas’s other side. He looked down at the channel.
“That’s Lassan, right?” he said. “Needle Clan.”
“Yes.”
“So what are we doing here?”
“Trying to watch.”
The hint missed its mark. “You been giving the lad pointers?”
“Maybe.”
Silence.
Galantas knew what his Second would be thinking: Galantas hadn’t helped his younger brother, Kalim, when he had attempted the Run, so why was he helping this Needle boy? The answer was easy enough: because Lassan, unlike Kalim, had nothing to prove to Galantas. A memory came to him of his brother flailing in bloodstained water, but he scowled and pushed it aside. He was done blaming himself for Kalim’s death. Hells, no one had helped Galantas when he made his first Run. So what if he’d pressed his brother into attempting the crossing? Kalim had been old enough to make his own decisions. And even with Galantas’s help, there was no guarantee he would have survived.
No, the real fault here was Dresk’s for making Kalim believe he was the warlord’s rightful successor—and Kalim’s for swallowing the lie. Once Kalim had made it clear he would challenge Galantas, he’d been left with no choice but to try the Run.
He brought it on himself.
Qinta dragged his gaze from the channel to track the course of a flock of limewings overhead. He frowned as they veered west.
“Are the birds speaking to you again?” Galantas said.
“They’re heading dead away from us—you see how they changed direction as they passed over?”
“And that’s a bad sign?”
“Means the omens are against our runner, aye. Means he needs to be careful.”
Galantas clucked his tongue. “Careful on the Shark Run? I hope someone thought to warn him before he set out.”
Qinta did not respond.
“If you’re so confident about the outcome,” Galantas added, “why don’t you put money on it? There must be someone round here who’s opened a book.”
“I don’t make money off the dead.”
“Tell that to the crew of the last merchantman we took.”
Another shark approached Lassan from the north. Galantas didn’t recognize it from its fin—white, with a crimped edge—but there were lots of fish in these parts from beyond the underwater gateways. One of the spectators shouted a warning to Lassan. The boy had moved farther south than he should have done. But there was time yet for him to correct his course if he acted swiftly.
Galantas looked back at Qinta. “You delivered Allott to the Falcons?”
“Aye,” the Second said. “Made sure plenty saw me doing it too. When they question Allott, wouldn’t want him leaving out the part where we saved him.”
“Was Ravin there?”
“No. But I got collared by one of his krels, Corm. He’d heard about Dresk’s meeting with the stone-skins. Wanted to know if the rumors about the twenty thousand talents were true. News spreads fast, it seems.”
Galantas had done a bit of the spreading himself—just a word or two in the right ears. Sometimes you had to shout to make yourself heard, but when the talk was of gold, a mere whisper sufficed. “You denied everything, I take it.”
“Aye. That seemed the best way to convince Corm the rumors were true. He told me Ravin has called a meeting at the Hub to discuss the stone-skins.”
“For when?”
“The day after tomorrow, at noon.”
�
�Just the other clan leaders, or Dresk too?”
“Dresk too.”
Galantas smiled.
“What, you don’t think he’ll go?”
“Of course he won’t. He can’t take twenty thousand talents with him, and who’s he going to trust to look after it while he’s gone?” Those talents had become a chain around Dresk’s neck, shackling him to the fortress. A golden chain, perhaps, but no less restrictive for that.
Qinta said, “Maybe he’ll send you in his place.”
“I hope not. I’d hate to have to obey one of his orders.”
The Second blinked. “You’re going to the meeting?”
Galantas nodded.
“To support the claims of the other clans?”
Another nod.
Qinta chuckled. “Nothing quite like being generous with your old man’s money, is there?”
“The money doesn’t belong to Dresk. It belongs to all the Isles.”
“And you’re gonna offer to share it round if you take your father’s place?”
“No.” When it came to spending the gold, Galantas didn’t trust the other clan leaders any more than he trusted Dresk.
Lassan was in trouble. He must have realized by now that he’d strayed off course, yet he seemed uncertain whether to continue on or retreat to safer ground. His attention was fixed on the white-finned shark. He’d forgotten the briar he’d punched, though, and the creature now drifted toward him from the north. Again the crowd shouted a warning. Lassan turned to face the new threat.
Galantas pursed his lips. The boy had just one option left: remain motionless and hope the shark passed him by. Instead he started thrashing through the water in the direction he’d come. He lost his footing and went under. Moments later he resurfaced, pleading for help. Kalim had cried for help too at the end. As if Galantas could have waved a wand and magicked him to safety. As if Kalim would have helped Galantas if the roles had been reversed.
The briar closed in on Lassan. A woman on the opposite shore screamed.
“Feeding time,” Galantas said.
Qinta gave him an “I told you so” look.
Galantas pushed himself to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”
* * *
Romany stretched out on her bed, her heart aflutter at the recollection of her time in the throne room. A bell had passed since the meeting with the Chameleons, yet still she was struggling to put the memory of that watery hellhole behind her. It didn’t help, of course, that she could hear the distant rustle of waves. She’d chosen as her quarters a room far from the sea, but even here there was no escaping its sound, just as there was no escaping the damp air and the salty whiff that seemed to pervade every corner of this godforsaken palace. After the Forest of Sighs, she’d thought nothing would ever measure down to Mayot’s hospitality and the discomforts of the ruined city of Estapharriol. Now she was beginning to wonder.
If there was a saving grace to Romany’s day, it had come in the form of a bottle of Koronos white. And last year’s vintage, no less! It was her new servant, Floss, who had found it. At Romany’s command, the girl had spent most of the afternoon hunting it out in the palace’s stores. Any goodwill Floss might have earned in so doing, though, had been promptly squandered when she revealed herself to be a devotee of the Lord of Hidden Faces and asked the priestess to say prayers with her at sunfall. Romany had declined, of course. It had been decades since she’d last sullied her lips with a prayer, and she saw no reason to start again now. It wasn’t as if the Spider would have listened, after all.
She hadn’t listened all those years ago when Romany had prayed for her parents to come back for her.
A mouthful of wine, then the priestess closed her eyes and surrendered her mind to her sorcerous web. Time to do a little exploring.
Something drew her to one of the courtyards.…
The clash of weapons greeted Romany, and she watched the Revenant subcommander, Twist, battling the Everlord, Kiapa, in the middle of a ring of cheering spectators. She rolled her spiritual eyes. Spider’s mercy, didn’t the fools have enough enemies outside the palace that they had to go fighting each other? A swing of one of Twist’s flails tangled the sword of his opponent, leaving his second weapon unimpeded as it whistled for Kiapa’s head, but the Everlord ducked beneath it and retreated. Twist surged forward, feinting with one flail before attacking with the other. Kiapa must have read his intent, for he stepped smoothly to the side before retaliating with a lunge that his adversary blocked.
Romany found her muscles twitching as she anticipated each move and countermove, mentally thrusting and parrying with the two men as they battled back and forth. And all the while a part of her wondered how she would fare with her newly acquired assassin’s skills if she were ever pitted against one of them …
A knock sounded from the door to her quarters. A visitor. An uninvited one, needless to say. Floss, perhaps?
Sighing, she flashed back to her room along the threads of her web. Well, well, she thought as she hovered by her door. Not the servant after all, but someone far more interesting.
She would have to step carefully here.
Opening her eyes, she sat up in her bed. She’d taken off her mask earlier to give her face a chance to breathe, but she slipped it on again as she rose and made for the door. Outside waited the Remnerol shaman, Jambar. He wore a vacuous smile, but the stiffness of his posture betrayed his agitation. In one hand he held a bulging bag containing the knuckle bones he used for his readings. With the other hand he raised his monocle to his sole remaining eye and peered at the priestess through it.
“Greetings,” he said. “May I have a few moments of your time?”
A welcome that courteous surely spelled trouble, but Romany nodded her agreement all the same. Her curiosity was piqued. While scouting the palace last week, she’d watched the shaman carry out numerous readings with his bones. Romany couldn’t deny an interest in the workings of his craft, yet she’d been unable to make sense of his divinations, and alas he hadn’t thought to provide his secret watcher with a running commentary.
Once inside, Jambar started pacing. “What is your Lord up to?” he said.
Romany stared at him. A strange opening gambit.
“More importantly, what are you up to?”
“You mean, at this precise moment?”
“Your Lord helped Mazana kill Fume in the Founder’s Citadel, did he not? He must have known the god’s bones would fall into my hands.”
Even if Romany had been minded to speak, her guest didn’t give her a chance.
“Why permit that to happen,” the shaman pressed, “if he intended all along to rob me of the bones’ usefulness?”
Rob him? “Has someone stolen the god’s bones?” Romany asked, glancing at the bag in his hand.
Jambar clutched the bag to his chest as if she’d said that was her intent. For a while he studied her like he was trying to read her thoughts in her eyes. His smile began to irritate her.
“There are millions of possible futures,” he said finally. “Every act of every person shapes what is to come. A shaman’s art lies in distinguishing the momentous from the mundane—the actions that determine which path the arrow of time will follow. The deeds of a single person can change everything, you agree?”
Romany looked around the room. Perhaps there was something else she could be doing while she waited for him to get to his point.
“Then you must appreciate,” Jambar went on, “that if just one person’s part in the future’s tapestry was missing, the whole picture would become at best distorted, at worst meaningless.”
And finally he was starting to make sense. This one person … Romany herself? And her presence here was interfering with his readings? When she considered it, it wasn’t surprising that he should have failed to predict the events that had seen her sent here by the Spider, or that the subtle spells she routinely weaved about herself should make it hard for him to see her future. Not surprising, but
undeniably satisfying.
“I imagine that must be quite frustrating,” she said. “To spend all your time piecing together a picture of the future only for someone to put their fist through the weave.”
Jambar somehow managed to keep his smile in place even though the corners of his mouth turned down. “The question that interests me is why. Why am I unable to perceive you in the futures?”
“The answer seems obvious enough.” Then, in response to the shaman’s expectant look, “You’re just not very good at what you do.”
A muscle flickered in the Remnerol’s cheek. “I know my worth. A man is no worse for being criticized than he is better for being praised. If you take note of what you are inwardly, you need not pay attention to what others say of you.”
Romany retrieved her glass of wine and took a sip. It wasn’t easy drinking while she wore a mask, but the important jobs were worth persevering in. “And yet you failed to predict the attempt on Mazana’s life earlier. Unless, of course, you did predict it but chose not to warn her.”
“You think my attention can be everywhere at all times? You think I just scatter my bones and read the future like a book?” He shook his head. “For a reading to be meaningful, I have to focus upon an individual or event—to assign value to each symbol on my board.”
“And where has your attention been fixed of late that you’ve had no time to look to the safety of your patron?”
Jambar stepped forward. “Mazana Creed is not my patron. But perhaps my services can be of use to your Lord.”
Romany raised a skeptical eyebrow.
“Do you think it is just my pride at stake here?” he said. “Do you consider me so small-minded? A man is born to help not himself but his fellows. I seek nothing more in my duties than the opportunity to serve the common good.”
Romany had been taking another sip of wine as he spoke, and she had to swallow to stop herself snorting it out of her nose.
“If you know what happened on Dragon Day,” Jambar continued, “you must be aware of the threat that is coming. The fate of the whole Sabian League is at stake, not to mention the lands about.”
