Red Tide

by Marc Turner

  Perhaps he should have been using this opportunity to get his story straight before he talked to Avallon, but instead he found himself thinking about his confrontation with Romany. He’d considered telling the emira who the priestess was, but something had made him hold back—a suspicion that, had he done so, Mazana would have asked him why he hadn’t worked it out sooner. Plus if he told her about his conversation with Romany, he might end up having to tell her about the knife too—which would make the task of stealing it all the harder when the time came.

  Not that he’d actually resolved to do so, of course. Odds were, Romany had been telling the truth about the dagger’s influence on Mazana. But he didn’t so enjoy being manipulated that he would leap to do the priestess’s bidding without first questioning the color of her motives.

  In the meantime, he would watch her like a crakehawk.

  The door to the emperor’s quarters opened, and Avallon’s bodyguard, Strike, emerged. He wore a sleeveless white jerkin together with white trousers and sandals. The man was flintcat-aspected, and he motioned Senar inside with characteristic feline grace. Even flashed the Guardian a smile to see him on his way, showing off his gold front teeth.

  The door closed behind Senar, Strike remaining outside.

  The room beyond was five times the size of the Guardian’s own, but the air was just as musty, as if this whole wing of the Alcazar had stood empty before the arrival of Mazana’s and Avallon’s parties. The floor was covered in white tiles the Guardian could see his reflection in. Across from him, doors opened onto a balcony, and in the distance he could make out the seawall as well as the masts of the ships in harbor. Inside, against the wall to his left, was a bed with mock-pillars for bedposts, while to his right was a desk so vast it could have fitted the Guardian Council around it. Behind it sat the emperor.

  Senar blinked. And only the emperor. So this was to be a meeting between just the two of them? Most leaders saw enemies in every shadow, yet Avallon apparently saw no threat in a man he’d tried to kill ten months ago. Then again, Strike was doubtless waiting outside in the corridor. Senar glanced toward the open balcony doors. And the emperor had probably stationed someone out there, as well. Kolloken, perhaps, since Avallon would want him to hear Senar’s story in order to verify it against what he’d learned in the Storm Isles.

  Senar could do with some things being cleared up himself. In Olaire, Kolloken had told Mazana the emperor wouldn’t be coming to Gilgamar. Had there been a change of plan? Or had Kolloken been lying all along? Because if he had been lying, maybe he’d lied too about the things he’d told Senar on the Raven. Like whether Erin Elal had been attacked. And whether the Guardian order still existed.

  Senar studied the emperor. The man’s skin was sallow, his eyes sunken. Thick black hair protruded from his creased shirt round the collar and cuffs. From the smell of him, he was still wearing the clothes he had traveled in, but there was no fatigue in his movements as he rose from his chair and came round the desk to greet the Guardian. He offered his hand. Senar looked at it. This was the man who had strong-armed him through the Merigan portal last year, yet now Senar was supposed to pretend it was design rather than chance that had seen him come out safely in Olaire? He shook the hand anyway; it seemed childish not to.

  As if that had ever stopped him before.

  “Emperor,” he said.

  “Guardian.” Avallon’s voice was the growl of a blackweed smoker. He leaned close, locking gazes with Senar for a moment longer than was comfortable before pointing to a chair. “Sit.”

  Senar did so.

  The last time they’d talked, the setting had been very different: a room in the heart of Avallon’s inner sanctum in Arkarbour filled with scowling portraits and high-backed leather chairs. It was a few days before the Betrayal. Senar hadn’t been a member of the Guardian Council then, but the emperor had sought him out all the same, and tried to convince him of the need to act against the Black Tower. Senar recalled few of the words they’d exchanged. What had stayed with him, though, was the emperor’s presence. Avallon’s manner had been relaxed, but not familiar; earnest, but not insistent—so earnest in fact that at one point he’d overturned a lantern with an impassioned sweep of one arm. It had been a performance even Senar’s master, Li Benir, would have been proud of.

  But a performance all the same, as Senar had quickly come to realize. For with the Guardians weakened after their attack on the Black Tower, the emperor hadn’t seen fit to make Senar’s acquaintance again, even to explain why he had chosen to risk the Guardian’s life by sending him through the Merigan portal. He’d done it for the good of the empire, Avallon would say. He might even believe it too. The problem was, what was good for the empire had a habit of being also what was good for the emperor personally.

  Avallon poured himself a glass of wine from a decanter and took a sip. He looked at Senar over the rim.

  “You still blame me for the Betrayal?” he said after a pause. “You still think I made up that stuff about the high mage contacting the Augerans?”

  Senar shifted in his seat. It was a fair opening, albeit a predictable one. Two years ago, a whistleblower among the ranks of Erin Elal’s mages had claimed the Black Tower was seeking to make contact with the Augerans. When the high mage refused to surrender himself for questioning, the emperor had ordered the Guardians to seize him. The seriousness of the accusations, together with the intransigence of the mages’ Conclave, had left the Guardian Council feeling it had no option but to side with Avallon. The result had been an attack on the Black Tower that had seen the ranks of both mages and Guardians decimated—and the emperor’s own hand strengthened as a consequence. At the time, Senar had believed the whistleblower was Avallon’s puppet. But the mage had mysteriously, and conveniently, vanished before anyone could cross-examine him.

  Could it really be a coincidence, though, that the Augerans should appear now, so soon after the whistleblower had made his claims?

  “I think,” Senar said to the emperor, “that the incident could have been settled without bloodshed, if that was what you wanted.”

  “And maybe if I hadn’t acted when I did, the stone-skins would have turned up at our door sooner.”

  Senar did not reply. What was the point in arguing? They’d trodden this same ground so many times before, their prints were now well set. “Does the Black Tower know the Augerans are coming? The Senate?” He’d asked the same question of Kolloken, but it never hurt to get a second opinion.

  Avallon’s glass paused on its way to his lips. “The Senate!” he snorted. “Do you know what they did when I told them about the stone-skins? Called a Shroud-cursed vote to decide on how to respond. As if extending the hand of friendship were an option! For all I know, they’re still talking about it now!” He made a gesture that set wine sloshing over the rim of his glass. “But enough of this. The Senate, the Conclave, it doesn’t matter what they think. With war coming, even you can’t deny the empire will face up better to the Augerans with a single man at the helm. Or that I’m the best person to steer our course.”

  Senar nodded. If only because the emperor had made sure there was no one else.

  “Good,” Avallon said. Then he smiled as if by yielding that point the Guardian had yielded all the others as well. “Good!”

  Senar knew well enough not to relax his guard.

  A breeze set the balcony doors rattling. From the direction of the harbor came the clang of a bell, the splash of water, the grinding of the chains as they were drawn tight across the Neck.

  “Where did the Merigan portal take you when you went through?” Avallon said.

  “To Olaire,” Senar replied without hesitation. There was no escaping the need to share that truth. Better to seem open now in case he needed to keep something back later.

  “Go on.”

  “I came out in a chamber next to the cells in the Olairian palace. They held me there until a couple of weeks ago.”

  Avallon stared at him.
“They kept you locked up for ten months?”

  “Yes. Perhaps Imerle couldn’t decide what to do with me.”

  “I’ve heard a lot of words used to describe that woman. ‘Indecisive’ isn’t one of them.”

  Senar shrugged. “If she’d released me straightaway, you’d have known the portal I traveled to was in the Storm Isles. By keeping me hidden, she hoped to muddy the waters.”

  “You agreed to keep it secret?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Imerle believed you.”

  Senar’s voice was flat. “Strangely, she didn’t take much convincing. For some reason she thought my loyalty to the empire might have been tested by your sending me through the portal. For some reason she thought that gave me cause for grievance.”

  Not a trace of awkwardness showed in Avallon’s expression. “And you allowed her to continue in that misapprehension.”

  “It seemed the safest course.”

  Outside, the clanking of the chains died away. The sky had dimmed to a sullen gray.

  “Why were you released before Dragon Day?” Avallon asked.

  The tone of the emperor’s questioning was beginning to irritate Senar. Avallon had no authority over him, yet was interrogating him as if he were a subordinate. “Imerle never said,” he replied. “But whatever the reason, she kept me on a leash short enough to make her distrust clear. I knew it was a matter of time before she turned on me.”

  The emperor’s mouth was a thin line. He’d be wondering what Senar was holding back. He’d be wondering why Imerle had trusted the Guardian to keep quiet about the portal, but not about anything else. “So you threw in your lot with Mazana Creed.”

  The Guardian nodded.

  “What do you make of her?”

  “Mazana?” Senar wasn’t sure how the question was meant, but he would use it to steer the conversation in a direction of his choosing. He intended to leave here with as many answers as he gave. “She is sharp enough to question your motives for calling this meeting, but also prudent enough not to sit idly by and wait for the Augerans to make their next move.”

  “Oh?”

  Senar told him about Caval and Karmel’s mission to the Rubyholt Isles. Avallon would hear about it anyway from Amerel.

  The emperor’s reaction was not what he expected. Avallon set his glass down on the desk with a crack, his look darkening. “When did the Chameleons leave?”

  “Yesterday evening.”

  The emperor considered. “Meaning they’d have arrived in Bezzle this afternoon.”

  “Is that before or after Amerel did?”

  Avallon’s eyes narrowed dangerously—no doubt he thought Amerel’s presence in the Isles was a secret. Senar, though, met his gaze without flinching. He’d survived the executioner’s stare for the past two weeks; the emperor’s look wasn’t going to trouble him.

  “Mazana’s shaman, Jambar, knew Amerel was in the Isles,” Senar explained. “He even anticipated she might run into trouble. The Chameleons were sent to lend a hand.”

  Avallon said nothing.

  “What is she doing there?”

  The emperor ignored the question. Snatching up his wineglass again, he started pacing the room. “This, this, is why the League should be working with us! This scheme of Mazana’s … even if it works, the best the Chameleons can do is give the stone-skins a bloody nose.” He rounded on Senar as if this were all the Guardian’s fault. “The League, the Rubyholters, even the Corinians—they have to realize it’s their war too, whether they like it or not. The Augerans may hit Erin Elal first, but they’re not going to stop there.”

  “What’s happening in the Isles?” Senar asked.

  “What do you bloody well think’s happening? The stone-skins are trying to negotiate safe passage. They want to attack our eastern seaboard.”

  A part of Senar had known that would be the case. But after Dragon Day, he’d let himself hope it might be the League, and not his homeland, that bore the brunt of the enemy’s first assault. “And how do we stop them if they do?”

  “We don’t! That’s why we’ve got to destroy their fleets before they reach us. That’s why the Storm Lords are so important—or would have been if there were any of them left.” He scowled. “Absurd, isn’t it? If the Augerans hadn’t sabotaged the Hunt, we’d have stood no chance of persuading the Storm Lords to back us. Yet now that they have done, there aren’t enough Storm Lords left to make a difference.”

  So why are you so keen to ally with Mazana? Senar thought. He kept his silence, though.

  Avallon gulped down his wine before wiping a hand across his mouth. “Tell me about Dragon Day. I want to know everything.”

  Senar told him, leaving out any mention of the events in the Founder’s Citadel. When he reached the part about how he’d fought the dragon on the terrace, Avallon’s gaze flickered to the scales at his neck.

  “You didn’t cross blades with a stone-skin, then?” the emperor said. “Did you see any of them fighting as a group?”

  Senar shook his head.

  “What’s your assessment of their warriors?”

  “From what I’ve heard, they are formidable. But the Augerans would have sent their best.”

  “Their best, yes.” Avallon began pacing again. “These last few months I’ve had everyone I can spare poring over texts from before the Exile. Most of the writings can’t even agree on whether the Augerans’ skins are made from stone or not. And even when they do agree on some detail, how do we know that what was true then remains true now?” He refilled his glass from the decanter. “There’s one thing we can be sure of, though, and that’s the skill of their fighters. The Syns, the Honored, the Spawn—names to scare children with for eight hundred years.” His gaze took on an intensity that pressed Senar back in his chair. “If they get a foothold in Erin Elal, we won’t dislodge them again.”

  * * *

  Ebon walked up and down the waterfront. The ninth bell had rung so long ago it seemed someone must have forgotten to ring the tenth and eleventh bells both. Tia’s minions were late to collect the first half of Ebon’s payment. There was no way, though, that they wouldn’t show. If they vanished for good, it would be after they’d taken his money.

  So where were they?

  Ebon had watched the Harbor Gate close at the eighth bell, still undecided as to whether he should have been trying to break in. Now the decision was out of his hands, and he could only wait and hope that Tia came through. The more time that went by, though, the more stupid his choice seemed to be.

  He pulled his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. Earlier he’d changed into his best clothes so he wouldn’t look out of place when he reached the Upper City. Admittedly that meant he now looked out of place in his present surroundings, but there weren’t many people around to show an interest in his attire. With the coming of night, the crowds at the harbor had melted away to leave only a handful of wretched souls, and the attention of those few was fixed on a woman atop an upturned barrel. She wore a white robe like a Beloved of the White Lady. Ebon had thought her a preacher at first, until he caught the smell of the tollen in the cups her assistants handed out. A Seeker. Oblivion in a glass she was serving, and there was no shortage of takers among her crippled and impoverished listeners. She had picked her audience well.

  Ebon looked toward the Lower City. Above the creaks from the ships at quayside, a delirious hum was building as if someone had thrown wide the gates to the madhouse. In one of the streets a fire was burning, and shadows cavorted around it like they were engaged in some demonic ritual. As yet the bedlam showed no signs of spreading to the harbor—

  “We got company,” Vale said.

  The prince stared along the waterfront. From the shadows of an alley appeared Peg Foot, and behind him strode four heavily armed men. Peg Foot’s peg tapped a hollow note on the wooden quay.

  “You’re late,” Ebon said as the man drew up.

  “So we are. You got the money?”

  Ebon
nodded to Vale. The Endorian crossed to Gunnar in the boat and accepted from him two small chests. Vale carried them to Peg Foot and put them on the ground before retreating. One of the walking weapons racks collected them.

  Ebon said, “The rest is deposited with a moneylender called Jilan Galamer.”

  “I know,” Peg Foot replied with a smile.

  Ebon didn’t like what that smile signified. This afternoon Jilan had been only too happy to take the prince’s gold. He’d even had a standard set of terms upon which it would be held pending the completion of Ebon’s dealings with Tia. But then doubtless every moneylender in the Lower City was in Tia’s pocket—together already with the money Ebon had deposited with Jilan, probably. “We’re ready to go.”

  “Then you’re early,” Peg Foot said. “Ain’t nothing gonna happen till the sixth bell.”

  Ebon stared at him. “The sixth bell? As in tomorrow morning?”

  “That a problem? You asked Tia when you’d be going in, and she said ‘tonight.’ In these parts, morning don’t start till the sun reaches its peak in the sky.”

  Ebon spoke through gritted teeth. “Tia also said I’d have time to conduct my business before first light.”

  Peg Foot shrugged. “Relax, man. Undo a button of that fancy shirt of yours. You’re an intact, ain’t you?”

  “An ‘intact’?”

  “As in you still got all your bits on you. Once you’re in the Upper City, you should be able to move around without no one asking questions. Or that’s the way I sees it. Besides, it ain’t as if we got a choice. Our man inside starts his posting at the sixth bell, so that’s when we goes in. You could show up early if you wants, but the reception you gets will be a good deal less friendly.”