by Marc Turner
He turned and walked away.
* * *
Ebon’s boat drifted through the night. On the beach south of Gilgamar were dozens of fires, and about them were clustered figures wrapped in blankets, as if some ragtag army had arrived to besiege the city. A brooding silence hung over the camp that was broken by a distant scream from the town. Farther east, the echoing clang of metal against stone started up as if someone were trying to beat down a wall with a sword.
Ebon sat hunched on the oar bench, giddy with fatigue. Ahead and to his right, a line of torches marked the route of the canal through the city. As he approached the entrance to it, the hulking shadow of a wreck loomed out of the darkness. Each wave that lapped against its hull prompted a chorus of creaks. Gunnar—curled up now asleep in the stern—had warned Ebon about the blacktooth snakes infesting these waters, and the prince saw their moonlit forms twisting over the wreck. There were hundreds of them. Thousands, even. But they wouldn’t be able to scale the outward-curving sides of his boat, he reminded himself. Strangely, that came as scant consolation as he steered the craft over the rustling black swell.
The wreck tilted acutely to one side, its rigging tangled between the shattered masts and spars. One of the spars extended across the entrance to the canal, just above the water level. Ebon released his power in a burst to lift the boat over it and into the channel beyond. To his right was an area of scrubland along with a collection of shanties. To his left was a two-story guardhouse with lights showing in its ground-floor windows. Beyond, a wall ran the length of the canal, built high enough to prevent someone in a boat such as Ebon’s from scaling it. That wall gave the waterway the feel of a moat flooded to bar access to the eastern half of the city from the west.
At the end of the torchlit canal, Ebon could make out the dark curl of the harbor wall along with the masts of the ships at quayside. So few ships, but who was to say Ocarn’s wasn’t among them? One way or another, he’d be finding out soon. Worn thin as he was, he knew he should rest once his boat was tied up at harbor. But he also knew he wouldn’t be able to stop himself—
A crossbow bolt flitted past his eyes and hit the water behind him with a plish. A second thudded into the oar bench beside him, throwing up splinters.
“Hold your fire!” Ebon shouted.
He didn’t wait to see if the crossbowmen complied. Surrendering his power over the waves, he fashioned a shield between himself and the place where the bolts had come from—the guardhouse. One, two, three more missiles slammed into the barrier and cannoned away.
“Stay behind me,” he said to Vale before looking at Gunnar. The mage had woken, but remained curled up in the stern. He watched Ebon through narrowed eyes.
The prince’s outstretched hand signaled him to remain still.
Another crossbow bolt struck Ebon’s sorcerous shield. If the shots were coming from the guardhouse, that meant the shooters must be Gilgamarian soldiers. He felt a rush of blood to his face. Were they so bored for something to do that they had to use him for target practice? He surveyed the battlements. Shadowy shapes had materialized atop the tower and the wall alongside it.
“Hold your fire!” he snapped again.
A voice floated down from the wall. “Canal’s off limits between dusk and dawn. Toss your weapons overboard and throw us a line.”
“We are strangers to Gilgamar. We seek news of a Mercerien ship that took part in the Dragon Hunt.”
“Save it for the magister tomorrow. Toss your weapons overboard.”
Surrender? Not likely. If Ebon gave himself up, he faced a night in a cell. And when he finally appeared before the magister, what was he supposed to say? That he was a Galitian prince? Galitia wasn’t part of the Sabian League. It didn’t have an embassy here, so there was no one in the city who could confirm his story. And who would believe that a prince had arrived in the dead of night with a mere two companions as escort? To make matters worse, Ebon had revealed he was seeking word of a Mercerien ship. If Ocarn was here, might not the magister summon him to verify Ebon’s identity? Ebon couldn’t expect help from that quarter. And if Ocarn was holding Rendale and Lamella against their will, the last thing Ebon wanted to do was give notice he was in town.
If he wasn’t going to surrender, though, what options did that leave? Run the gauntlet of the canal in the hope of reaching the harbor? The waterway was only a few hundred armspans long, but there was no way of knowing how many soldiers lay in wait along its length, or indeed in the port itself. Ebon could probably extend his sorcerous shield to cover the whole boat, but this wasn’t the time to experiment. For while he might be prepared to risk his life in his search for Rendale and Lamella, he couldn’t expect his companions to take the same chance.
He ground his teeth together. If going forward wasn’t possible, that just left going back.
Ebon looked up at the sky, trying to judge the hour. Somewhere around the fourth bell, he guessed, meaning it wouldn’t be long until first light. He took a breath. Patience. If Rendale and Lamella were here, they weren’t going to leave before sunrise. Perhaps it was best that he waited if it meant he could snatch some sleep.
“Gunnar,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the tower’s battlements, “get us out of here—back the way we came.”
As the boat rose on a wave of water-magic, a guard shot a crossbow bolt to speed them on their way. It struck the boards a handspan from Ebon’s foot and stuck there, quivering.
CHAPTER 8
SENAR HESITATED at the door to Mazana’s bedchamber. He’d been tempted to ignore her summons from earlier, but his curiosity had won out in the end, what with the rumors sweeping the palace this morning. Were they why the emira had sent for him now? He knocked and heard her call to enter.
This was the first time he’d been in Mazana’s quarters. To his left, a huge fish tank was set into the wall, screened behind a pane of sorcerously strengthened glass. The floor mosaic showed a beach of black pebbles, bright with spray. To Senar’s right was an unmade bed, and on it sat Mazana wrapped in a towel. Her bare arms showed no sign of yesterday’s blotches. Senar could see the shape of her body through the towel.
Next to her sat her half brother, Uriel, his fringe hanging over his eyes, his feet dangling over the bed. On his lap was a wooden bowl full of water.
Mazana looked up as Senar entered. Her gaze lingered on his swollen lip, and she gave a half smile. There was no shadow in her look from their encounter last night. Perhaps she’d forgotten it already.
“You wanted to see me, Emira,” he said.
“So formal, Guardian? I can call you Guardian, can’t I?”
“If you must,” Senar replied.
Uriel spoke. “It’s not working,” he said to Mazana.
She turned to him. “Show me.”
The boy tightened his grip on the bowl, his forehead creasing with that look of concentration only the young can muster. Nothing happened.
“Can you sense the flow in the water?” Mazana said.
“You mean, like currents?”
“Like currents, yes. Only these currents are there all the time.”
“But the water isn’t moving.”
The emira smoothed his hair. “Remember when I put ink in the bowl that time? How the color spread through the water even though it was still?”
Uriel frowned some more.
“Shall I show you?” Mazana said.
He nodded.
“Follow what I’m doing. Close your eyes if it helps. The currents I’m talking about can’t be seen.”
The boy kept his eyes open.
Senar felt Mazana release her power. The water in the bowl began to glisten.
Uriel shifted on the bed. “It’s getting cold.”
“Yes. The slower the currents move, the colder the water becomes. Until…”
The surface of the water clouded to ice. The boy placed a tentative finger on it. It cracked, and he snatched his finger back. His look was disbelieving. “Can I have ano
ther go?”
“Of course. Why don’t you stir the currents to life again, see if you can make the ice melt.”
His brow furrowed once more.
Senar looked from Uriel to Mazana. He was struck by the resemblance between them: the copper hair, the full mouth, the high cheekbones. To look at them, you wouldn’t know they were merely half siblings. Mazana must have sensed his regard, for she glanced up before looking away again. Senar felt like he was intruding on something, but the emira didn’t appear to mind.
The ice in the bowl started to melt. Perhaps it was just the temperature in the room that caused it, for Senar had detected no more than a trickle of power from the boy. Uriel clearly did not think so, though, because his face split in a grin.
“I did it!”
“You did it,” Mazana agreed.
He beamed pink, bounced on the bed and spilled some water. Then his smile faded. “Can I show Mother?” he blurted.
Mazana did not respond. Her gaze flickered to Senar in warning. Clearly the boy didn’t know his mother was dead, or that Mazana had killed her—just as she had killed their shared father. That particular news would take some breaking when the time came.
“Is she coming here soon?” Uriel asked.
“I don’t know,” Mazana said.
“She’s not coming soon, is she?”
“No.”
“Because of the dragons?”
“Because of the dragons.”
“But you’ll hunt them down, won’t you? Like you promised. When the bad men are gone.”
The bad men?
Mazana nodded. “We’ll talk about this later.”
Uriel’s face fell. He opened his mouth to protest.
“Later,” the emira repeated. “I have to speak to Senar now.”
The boy seemed to notice the Guardian for the first time. He flashed him an uncertain smile, then stood and carried the bowl of water to a doorway in the wall to Senar’s right.
Mazana sat staring after Uriel as if she could see through the door that now closed behind him.
Senar flicked dust from his shirt collar. Beside the bed was a table, and on top of it was a breakfast tray. Mazana crossed to it and poured water from a jug into a cup. From the corridor behind Senar came the tread of feet as someone moved past the room. The footsteps died away again.
“Are the rumors true?” he said to break the silence. “Is Cauroy alive?”
Mazana searched his expression. He didn’t know what she was looking for there, but he stilled his features so she wouldn’t find it.
“Does it matter?” she said. “It’s not as though he’s going to come here and challenge me.”
“He was ahead of you in the succession.”
“So was the sadly departed Gensu. I count him more of a threat than I do Cauroy.” She took a sip from her cup and looked back at Uriel’s door. After a while she said, “You think I’m being too easy on him?” Then, before he could reply, “By his age, I was able to vaporize water and raise a wave as tall as you are. But then my father was such a good teacher. He always found ways to … motivate me to my best efforts.”
Senar said nothing. He’d often wondered about Mazana’s history, yet now that she’d opened a door on her childhood, he wasn’t sure he wanted to look through. He had to say something, though, so he picked what he hoped was a less awkward avenue of inquiry. “What about your mother? Is she still alive?”
Mazana nodded. “She’s on Kansar, sulking. My father treated her like a broodmare for five years, then set her aside when she couldn’t give him a son. She still hasn’t forgiven me for killing him, though. I don’t know what’s more stupid, that she thought he might one day invite her back, or that she would have accepted the offer if he did.”
Senar looked at his feet. Less awkward. Right. He was beginning to see a pattern in his dealings with Mazana.
“What about you?” the emira asked. “Where are your parents?”
“Both dead. My mother died giving birth to me, my father in a mission when I was six.”
“He was a Guardian too?”
“Yes.”
“A good one?”
Senar inclined his head, wondering at the question.
Mazana’s look was far away. “When I was growing up, I had a friend whose father was accused of trading in stolen cargoes. The charge was never proved, else he would have been fed to the dragons on Dragon Day. But thrown mud always leaves a mark, not just for the suspect, but also for their family. My friend never forgave him for that. The shame of it was something she always carried with her. She never stopped complaining about the unfairness of it all. But it is harder to be burdened with a parent’s successes than it is to be burdened with their failures, wouldn’t you agree?”
Again, Senar did not answer. When he thought of his parents, the word “burden” wasn’t one that came to mind.
Mazana replaced her cup on the tray and stood. “But I did not call you here to talk about that.”
Something in her voice gave Senar pause. “Oh?”
“I thought you might be interested to know a boat arrived last night bringing a messenger from Erin Elal. He’s waiting for me in the throne room.” Mazana’s mouth twitched. “Whatever could be so urgent that he should have braved the Sabian Sea to speak to me now?”
* * *
Karmel blew into the mouthpiece of the blowpipe. A feathered dart shot across the cabin and caught the edge of the already-pockmarked bedpost. It tore out a splinter before deflecting off and under a table.
She lowered the blowpipe. Impressive. Ten darts fired, and all but the first had found its target. She’d been skeptical when Mazana Creed presented her with the weapon. Made from wood and wrapped in vine skins and resin, the blowpipe looked like it had been plucked from the hands of some jungle primitive. There was no denying the quality of its craftsmanship, though. The bore had been filed as smooth as a diplomat’s tongue, and it was this smoothness that gave the blowpipe its consistency. Of course, Karmel still had to test it over distances greater than those permitted by her cabin. For while her targets in the Isles would be more difficult to miss than hit, the precise point where she struck those targets would determine the success or failure of her mission.
Blinking sweat from her eyes, she reached for another dart. The air in the cabin felt heavy, as if too much of the stuff had been crammed into too small a space. Over the rustle of water outside, she heard footsteps on the companionway ladder—Caval’s, she knew instinctively. She’d barely said anything to him since their discussion with Mokinda. Another time, the Storm Lord’s words might have had her seeking the reassurance of her brother’s presence, but now she felt a greater sense of loneliness with him than she did when they were apart, for what loneliness was more lonely than that of distrust? Would that ever change? Karmel would have to try harder to make it so. The closer they got to the Rubyholt Isles, the less time they had to bridge the gap between them.
But wanting to do so didn’t make it any easier.
Caval knocked at the door and entered. He was holding a roll of parchment—the crude map of Bezzle that Mazana had given them to memorize. He tossed it onto his bed, then looked at Karmel.
“You’re going to want to see this,” he said, nodding back the way he’d come.
Karmel set down the blowpipe on the sweating boards and followed him out.
Emerging onto deck, the priestess saw Mokinda standing alone by the starboard rail. He was frowning up at the cloudless sky like a farmer hoping for rain. Tracking the sun’s course to gauge their progress? Were they running late for an appointment in the Isles? They’d only left Gilgamar at the fifth bell. At first the harbormaster had refused to lower the chains before dawn so they could leave. He’d changed his mind only after the intervention of some dew-eyed member of the Ruling Council, who had descended from the Upper City seeking news from the Grace’s captain. It would be a simple matter, of course, for Mokinda to make up time by throwing his will behind that
of the ship’s two water-mages. In doing so, though, he would signal his presence to the crew.
Along the port rail, a handful of sailors had lined up to cast a collection of objects into the sea: a bloodstained handkerchief, a lock of hair, a blackened bone, and so on down the row. Propitiations to the Sender, most likely. But that was not what Caval had called Karmel to see. A stone’s throw ahead of the Grace, and stretching as far as the eye could discern, the waves were tinted black as if the ship were about to sail out over the Abyss. Bubbles rose from the depths, carrying on them the stink of rotten eggs. At the edge of the murk, dozens of dead honeyfish floated on the sea. As the fish drifted into darker water, they were sucked down beneath the waves.
“Gods below,” Karmel breathed.
“You could be right,” a voice said, and she turned to see their Rubyholt guide, Scullen, approaching. He smiled a slippery smile. “But round ’ere, we call it the Rent.”
Karmel made no attempt to hide her scowl. The need to practice with her blowpipe hadn’t been the only reason she’d chosen to stay belowdecks for the past couple of bells. After Scullen boarded the Grace last night, she’d felt his gaze lingering on her more often than she would have liked. His eyes explored her now.
She turned her back on him. “What is it?” she asked Caval.
It was Scullen who answered. “No one knows, petal. Ain’t many souls volunteering to swim down for a better look, neither. The few that’ve tried ain’t come back to tell what they seen. But the sharp ones round ’ere”—and from his tone, he considered himself among them—“reckon it’s a gateway like them others scattered ’bout the Isles.”
The stink of eggs became stronger as the Grace crossed the divide between blue waves and black. Karmel covered her nose with her sleeve. All that darkness below her, it made her feel as if the sea might drop away at any moment to leave her falling. Abeam to starboard, a kris shark flitted through the murky waters.
Caval pointed to it. “Ah, I thought nothing could swim here,” he said to Scullen. “I thought everything was pulled down into the Rent.”
“Not everything with fins,” the Islander said. His lips curled back. “Barring water-mages, even the best swimmers will struggle t’keep their heads above water for more’n a heartbeat. My last captain once threw an Untarian over the rail to see how long she’d stay afloat. Woman went under before I could piss on her.”
