Red Tide

by Marc Turner

  Lydanto took a breath and blew it out. His gaze on Caval was steady, but his hands had a tremble to them. Karmel studied the man, trying to read his thoughts. There was suffering there, she realized. A suffering beyond that of an ambassador inquiring after the fate of his citizen. What had this Agenta been to him? How far was he prepared to go to hunt her down? Something in his expression told Karmel he wanted to believe the Chameleons’ story, but how could he be sure of their honesty? Maybe a more … vigorous mode of questioning would get him better answers. Could he afford to pass up this opportunity?

  Karmel looked toward the open door, wondering if Lydanto had reinforcements outside. Would he risk a confrontation with the Chameleons on home ground? Would he gamble his soldiers’ lives when he had no guarantee Caval and Karmel were holding out on him? More to the point, could he question them more forcefully if he had to? Did he have the steel? The ruthlessness?

  He stared down at his hands, perhaps deliberating the same.

  Then he replaced the cap on his flask, rose, and crossed to the door. Without a backward look, he walked out.

  * * *

  Floating in spirit-form above the bailey of Dresk’s fortress, Amerel looked up at the Great Hall’s solitary tower. Where in the Matron’s name was Talet? The spy was supposed to be at the second-floor window, ready to signal Noon when the stone-skins arrived. But with the seventh bell fast approaching, the opening remained dark and empty.

  She’d been a fool not to make sure of Talet’s allegiance at their meeting. Instead of using a nudge of her Will, she should have bludgeoned him with it until he was a mindless husk incapable of independent thought—until he’d forgotten the name of that son of his, along with the name of every friend he had in this godforsaken city. When had she ever settled for half measures before? Why should she start now with the stakes so high?

  Never again. When you took half measures, you only got halfway to where you wanted to go.

  Not a breath of wind stirred the rag that passed for a flag on the Great Hall’s flagpole. From the distant harbor came laughter and shouting and whistling ashpipes. By contrast the Old Town round the fortress was silent. The sun had set below the western battlements, plunging the bailey into shadow. At the center of the yard, a group of Rubyholters waited to greet the stone-skins. Among them was Galantas, standing a pace ahead of his kinsmen and doing his best to look like his presence conferred an honor on the others in attendance. He wore a sharkskin cape and a necklace of shark’s teeth.

  Okay, he had a shark thing going on. Amerel got it.

  A dozen guards were scattered around the bailey, and another thirty manned the battlements. They might as well have been made of straw for all the use they’d be in a scrap. A group of them sat with their legs dangling into the yard, passing a bottle between them. The next woman to receive it leaned back drunkenly and ended up tipping its contents over her face to a chorus of hoots and giggles. Farther along the wall, a man with a crossbow resting on his shoulder was standing in the exact place Noon’s bolt would pass on its way to the engraved flagstone. But what did that matter now that Talet wasn’t around to give the Breaker his signal?

  She looked up at the tower window.

  Nothing.

  The seventh bell rang, and as the echoes faded Amerel heard footsteps outside the guardhouse. The stone-skins. Right on time, damn them. Looking left through the gates, Amerel saw a group of twenty Augerans approaching, eight of whom carried four huge chests between them. Only twenty warriors? It spoke of the stone-skins’ arrogance that they considered twenty a sufficient guard to escort twenty thousand talents through the streets of a pirate city. But who was to say they hadn’t started the journey with more men?

  Behind them came a hungry-eyed crowd, drawn to the weight of gold as if it exerted its own gravity. A man shouted, “Just one coin, that’s all I’m asking!” Another called, “Drinks are on Dresk tonight!” and his words drew a cheer. Somehow Amerel doubted the warlord’s generosity extended even that far. He’d have to spend the money soon on something, though, that much was clear. When his subjects had spent their lives stealing whatever they wanted from whomever they wanted, they were unlikely to change their ways just because the “whomever” was Dresk himself. And while the warlord had a fortress and guards to keep the rabble at bay, who would protect him from the guards themselves?

  The stone-skins entered the bailey, resplendent in their crimson cloaks. One of Dresk’s men on the battlements gave a mocking wolf whistle, but the laughter that followed was forced. Even Amerel had to admit she was impressed by the size and build of the Augerans. Yet even more striking was their sense of self-assurance—a sense that, were the entire city to turn against them, they would still expect to win through unscathed. Judging by the quality of the forces arrayed against them, they might be right too.

  Amerel recognized the commander, Eremo, from Talet’s description. An upright man with a receding hairline, he wore an expression that just failed to disguise the disdain in which he held his hosts. Next to him was the man mountain Amerel had noticed from the brothel’s window. His skin was a darker tone than that of his companions, and on his cheeks were golden tattoos in spiral patterns that marked him as one of the elite Augeran warriors referred to in the ancient texts as Syns. Behind him was a handsome man with a whiff of power about him—a power that felt so alien to Amerel he seemed like nothing less than a tear in the fabric of reality.

  His was not the most unsettling presence among the group, though. For at the rear came the man with the spiked hair, skipping along like it was the first day of spring. His face was a patchwork of scars, and blood trickled from a cut beneath his left eye, making it seem as if he were weeping red tears. Just looking at him left Amerel feeling like there were bloodroaches crawling over her skin. That sense of being watched was back, too—the sense she’d first experienced when she’d observed the Augerans crossing the market. The urge to withdraw was strong, but what if Talet suddenly appeared in the tower window? Besides, having died a thousand deaths at the hands of the Deliverer, there was nothing in this world that held any fear for Amerel now.

  No fear for herself, at least.

  Galantas did not move to greet his guests, but instead held his ground so the stone-skins had to come to him. Eremo took in the defenders on the battlements, then went to join him. Walking a step in front of his kinsmen, the commander would have presented a clear target for Noon’s crossbow bolt. But there was still no sign of Talet in the window.

  Galantas and Eremo shook hands.

  What now? Amerel wondered. All was not yet lost. Dresk and Eremo still had to negotiate the treaty, meaning there was time for Talet to take his position before the stone-skins made their exit. And if he never showed, Amerel could always return to her body when Eremo reemerged from the fortress, and tell Noon to shoot his crossbow blind into the yard. It wouldn’t matter if he missed the commander, provided the stone-skins saw the missile and misinterpreted it as a Rubyholt attack.

  In the meantime, Amerel would look round the fortress and see if she could find whichever rock Talet had crawled under.

  * * *

  As Galantas watched Eremo scrutinize the guards, a suspicion gripped him that Dresk had been played for a fool. That this talk of gold and treaties had been nothing more than a ruse to get the stone-skins into the fortress so they could mount an assault. Those chests didn’t really contain twenty thousand talents. Hells, the black-cloaked warriors who’d carried them from the harbor weren’t even out of breath. A couple of Red Cloaks had their swords out, and they seemed in no hurry to sheathe them. But no, he told himself, if the Augerans intended treachery, they would have brought more than twenty warriors.

  Then again, being outnumbered hadn’t exactly hindered them against Yali’s ships.

  Eremo looked less than pleased to find Galantas waiting for him. Either he was anticipating a rough ride in the negotiations to come, or he’d heard about the Falcon boy Galantas had rescued. In his pa
rty was the warrior Ostari whom he had spoken to on the Eternal. The man was trying to catch Galantas’s eye now, but Galantas ignored him. He watched the Black Cloaks set down the four chests. They hit the ground with a reassuring clink. Meaning the money was real. Twenty thousand talents! All that gold, and Dresk’s plans for it probably extended no further than tipping it across the Great Hall and squatting on it like some dragon of legend. When Galantas replaced his father, he would use it to build a capital worthy of the Isles, to unlock the wealth tied up in the karmight mines to the south, to recruit a force drawn from the best warriors and sailors and bring an end to the years of infighting between the tribes.

  Soon now. It would start with the clan leaders’ meeting at the Hub the day after tomorrow.

  Dresk appeared in the fortress’s archway. Judging by the glaze to his eyes, he’d been drinking again. He beckoned Eremo to him, and the commander set off across the yard, flanked by Hex and the warrior with the golden tattoos. The chest bearers lifted the chests and followed, Galantas a pace behind. Dresk stepped aside to let the stone-skins pass, but blocked Galantas with an arm.

  “Run along and play, boy. This is men’s work.”

  It was a moment before Galantas could speak. His father was spoiling for a fight, but Galantas knew this was a contest he couldn’t win. “Are you sure you won’t need help with the big words?” he said at last.

  Then, before Dresk could reply, he spun on his heel and walked away.

  Near the guardhouse, Qinta was speaking to two of Krel Faloman Gorst’s men. Galantas crossed to join them. He struggled to compose himself. Not for the first time, Dresk had tried to shame him in front of his kinsmen, but the fool probably thought he owed Galantas for the indignity of Galantas saving his life in that Raptor raid nine years ago. The irony wasn’t lost on Galantas. As a child, he’d been warned not to dishonor the warlord—had been pushed into excelling with both sail and sword. Yet in the end it was Galantas’s skill with a blade, rather than his lack of it, that had shamed Dresk.

  Or shamed him in his own eyes, at least. To Galantas, his father had been immense that day, carving holes in the enemy ranks with each sweep of his broadsword. He’d saved Galantas’s life a dozen times, so why should his son repaying the favor have caused such humiliation?

  Pride. It was the only explanation.

  And yet where is that pride now? Galantas wondered, remembering his father’s drunken gaze.

  The shadows in the yard were deepening, making the points of light in the Augerans’ skin glitter. Galantas heard two guards speculating in overloud voices about whether those points would be valuable if they were cut out. The stone-skins’ response was a scornful silence. Galantas understood their contempt. On the Ribbon Sea, the coming of a Rubyholt ship was feared like the coming of Shroud himself. Yet here the Islanders looked like nothing more than a gaggle of beggars, sniggering at the man handing out the alms.

  So much would change on Galantas’s watch.

  At that moment, he noticed Talet moving through the guardhouse gates. Late for the meeting with the stone-skins? So who was advising Dresk in there? The chamberlain shuffled across the bailey like a condemned man on his way to the gallows, his cane tap-tapping on the flagstones. As he passed Galantas, he kept his gaze on the ground. Galantas’s eyes narrowed. Talet was the closest thing Dresk had to common sense among his followers, yet Galantas had never trusted the man. He was about to call him back when he heard voices from the Great Hall.

  Approaching voices.

  He frowned. Was the meeting with the Augerans over already? Had Dresk changed his mind and sent Eremo packing? No, the stone-skins sounded relaxed—good-humored, even—and above them Galantas heard the rumble of his father’s laughter.

  Understanding came to him.

  Dresk had signed the damned treaty without even reading it.

  * * *

  Amerel watched Talet cross the bailey. Had the spy experienced a late change of heart? Or was he only now returning from making arrangements to protect his son? Whatever the reason for his tardiness, his arrival had drawn all eyes to him like a pair of tits. Galantas in particular was looking at him, and if he was suspicious now, how would he feel when Noon’s crossbow bolt found its mark? Once the dust settled on this evening’s proceedings, Amerel would have a few loose ends to tie up.

  Now wasn’t the time to worry about that, though, for with Talet on his way to the tower, the game was back on.

  The spy entered the fortress.

  And not a moment too soon. From inside the hall came footsteps, a babble of voices. The Augerans back already? Amerel’s first instinct was that it must be the chest bearers returning. But the first person to emerge from the building was the man mountain with the golden tattoos. And where the bodyguard goes … Sure enough, the next figure to appear was Eremo, rubbing his hands together. Good bit of business he’d done inside, apparently, and it wasn’t often you could say that when you were the one handing over twenty thousand talents. Scarface followed him out of the door.

  So much for the negotiations.

  Amerel silently cursed. Talet had only just entered the fortress. The Guardian had to slow the stone-skins down, but how? What could she do that wouldn’t alert them to her presence?

  She gathered her power, still no idea what her next move would be.

  Galantas came to her rescue. He stepped in front of the man mountain. It was like stepping into the path of an avalanche, and for a heartbeat Amerel thought the Syn would roll right over him. Instead the Augeran drew up. The two men stared at each other. Galantas had to crane his neck to look into the giant’s eyes, but he wasn’t backing down. It took a placatory word from Eremo to separate them.

  Amerel looked back at the tower. Through the first-floor window, she saw a shadow—Talet’s?—glide across a wall, but it moved slowly, slowly.

  Galantas was talking to Eremo. Complaining about the speed with which the treaty had been signed, no doubt. The commander was all smiles and nods, but there was no mistaking the strain in the exchange. The Matron alone knew what Galantas hoped to accomplish here. Perhaps he wanted to show his kinsmen he could stand up to the stone-skins, but if you wanted to look big in front of your friends, you didn’t do it standing next to a bodyguard the size of a cliff.

  Did Amerel really care what Galantas was doing, though? All this tension meant that Noon’s crossbow bolt would land like a spark on dry kindling.

  A shout came from her left. The gates had been closed to keep the crowds outside, and a handful of people had pressed their faces against the bars, looking as resentful as sinners at the gates to paradise. Amerel shot another look at the tower window. Still no Talet, but maybe he was keeping out of sight until the instant came to give Noon the signal.

  Time for her last preparations.

  Floating up to the height of the battlements, Amerel checked to ensure she remained aligned with the engraved flagstone and the brothel’s window. Then she sank back into the yard. Eremo must have grown tired of stroking Galantas’s ego, for he broke away from the other man and started making his way toward the guardhouse again. This time Galantas let him pass.

  Here we go.

  Scarface skipped ahead of his commander. Amerel couldn’t shake the feeling she would have been better off making this freak her target rather than Eremo, but it was too late to change the plan now. A clank sounded as the guards opened the gates. Amerel focused on the section of wall where Noon’s bolt would appear. The sky above the rampart was darkening to bronze. Hard to stare into that relative brightness after peering so long into the gloom, but she dared not look away.

  Any moment now.

  Eremo was an armspan from the engraved flagstone. Assuming Talet had signaled to Noon, the Breaker’s bolt would already be on its way. Amerel felt a blink coming on, opened her eyes wider against it. But the harder she tried to fight it—

  A flash of black above the battlements. Noon’s crossbow bolt seemed to hang in the air before dipping as it
passed over the parapet.

  A heartbeat for Amerel to judge its speed and trajectory.

  It was the shot she needed—a fraction high and behind Eremo’s position, but nothing she couldn’t rectify with a nudge of her Will. A nudge was all she could afford to give it, too, for anything heavy-handed would rob it of its momentum. The bolt plunged into the shadows of the bailey, and Amerel squinted to follow its flight. On the battlements, a female Rubyholt guard must have heard the whisper of its passage, for she flinched as if she thought the missile was meant for her. Perhaps Eremo glimpsed her from the corner of his eye, for he paused and turned toward her.

  Making himself a bigger target for Amerel to hit.

  A last feather-touch to alter the bolt’s flight.

  Got you.

  With Eremo facing away from her, she didn’t see precisely where the missile struck, but it was somewhere high on the chest. He stumbled back under the force of the impact, his hands reaching up to the wound.

  Then his legs buckled, and he collapsed.

  There was a collective intake of breath from the Rubyholters. For a moment, the stone-skins stared at their commander as if their minds were trying to catch up to what their eyes were telling them. Amerel felt the scales of history waver on their pivot. Then one of the Augerans reached for his sword.

  The yard exploded into motion.

  Amerel didn’t see what happened next because her blood-dream was already upon her. As she killed, so her victim’s pain was reflected on her through the Deliverer’s visions. It wasn’t just one bolt striking home, though, it was six, seven, eight, each thudding into her body with the force of a horse’s kick. Blood bubbled in her spiritual throat. Her vision was a blur, her chest a knot of agony, but she smiled nevertheless.

  Here was justice.

  * * *

  What the hell?

  It took Galantas an instant to register what had happened. Eremo down, and there was no mistaking the cause with that crossbow bolt sticking from his chest. The nearest stone-skins closed around their commander to shield him with their bodies.