by Marc Turner
Ebon kept his silence, not trusting himself to speak. He should have seen this coming. He should have pressed Tia more about timings at their meeting. But it was too late to remedy that now. What was he going to do? Ask Peg Foot for his money back? The man was more likely to give up his remaining foot. And while Ebon had little doubt that he could take back the gold by force, how was that going to make the sixth bell come sooner?
Peg Foot said, “We’ll be back at the fifth bell to collect you and lead you to where we’re gathering. Wouldn’t want you to stumble down the wrong alley, now, would we?” Or not stumble down the wrong alley, perhaps. “Anyhows, look on the light side of things. A few extra bells means you gets a chance to sample the delights of the Lower City.”
Ebon had seen enough of those delights already. Along the street leading to the Canal Gate he could make out a horseman dragging a motionless figure behind him by a rope. Then a swordsman emerged from an alley and cut the horse’s legs out from under it. More attackers descended with flashing knives upon the squealing animal and its toppled rider. Dressed as Ebon was, he wouldn’t last a quarter-bell down there, with or without Vale at his back. The best chance he had of avoiding trouble until morning was to get in his boat and sail to the center of the harbor.
“This city is sliding into the Abyss,” he muttered.
“Every night, my friend,” Peg Foot said. “Every night. And let me tells you, it’s right cozy down there in the dark, damned if it ain’t.”
With that, he turned and hobbled away along the waterfront. His four companions fell into step behind.
Ebon watched them retreat until they disappeared down an alley, then looked over at Vale.
The Endorian said, “Told you you should have picked the other option.”
Before Ebon could respond, a crackle sounded in his ears as if his hair had been set alight. He flinched and turned—
To see on the quay where the noise had come from … nothing, no one.
No, that wasn’t quite right. There was something there, but it was hard to make out what in the gloom. A misty quality to the shadows. A hint of a form, insubstantial as smoke. Yes, Ebon was sure of it now: a figure, maybe a head shorter than the prince, wearing a tattered robe. It looked familiar.
Understanding dawned. Mottle!
But how? Ebon had heard nothing from the mage since they parted in the Forest of Sighs. When the old man hadn’t returned to Majack, the prince had assumed he was dead.
Who cared, his friend was alive! He stepped forward to embrace the mage, only to stop in midstride as he remembered he was seeing just a spirit, a sending. Still he found himself grinning like a youngling.
Then his grin faded as he noticed more details of Mottle’s ghostly image: the sunken eyes, the melted flesh, the scars on the old man’s neck from what might have been tooth marks. He remembered Parolla telling him of her clash with a creature of fire—a tiktar—on that hilltop overlooking Mayot’s dome. Of how the beast had engulfed Mottle before the two of them were snatched up by the vortex. Ebon had left the mage to face the creature when he set off to find Mayot. Left him because he couldn’t let Parolla face the tiktar alone. Another friend abandoned in the name of his duty.
“Greetings, my boy,” Mottle rasped. He sounded as dried out as a drunkard craving his next drink.
“You’re hurt,” Ebon said needlessly.
“The burns? Pah! The tiktar fared worse in our encounter. In any case, Mottle was able to use his arts to ease his discomfort until he found a Beloved to take away the pain. The scars remain, but Mottle believes they add a certain rugged allure to his otherwise scholarly gravitas.”
“Perhaps I can help with those scars when we’re next together.”
“Perhaps you can,” the old man said, regarding him with a beady eye. “Mottle has heard whispers of how you healed your father.”
“Only whispers? Does that mean you are not in Majack?”
“Furies bless me, no, my boy. Mottle is in Olaire! The storm bore him east from the Forest of Sighs, yes? And your humble servant allowed … carried thence, believing … merited a rest…”
The old man’s voice was becoming softer by the moment. “You’re fading out, mage. I can barely hear you.”
Mottle puffed out his chest like he’d been paid a compliment. “But of course Mottle is! Your humble … fifty leagues away! The Furies themselves could not … over such a distance, and even Mottle’s … sorely tested by…” He waved a finger in the air. “In but a short time … fail, but before that he … usual brevity and insight. Now, as he was saying, the storm … east where by happy circumstance … momentous proceedings culminating … answer perhaps to the riddle … most cruelly in the Forest of Sighs…”
Ebon’s impatience grew even as Mottle’s voice dwindled. “Riddle? What riddle?”
“The riddle of … and the Vamilians, of course! The cause … ancient enmity. Mottle discovered … in a fortress not unlike—”
“Enough! Please tell me you did not track me down just to give me another of your history lessons.”
The old man was taken aback. “Well,” he said after a pause, “not just for … it is true.”
“You know where Lamella and Rendale are?”
Mottle’s face lit up. “Aha! So that is why … in Gilgamar!”
Ebon took a breath. And to think he’d been happy to see the old man again. But perhaps that had been as much to do with what he’d thought Mottle could bring to the search for Rendale and Lamella as it had to do with the mage’s reappearance. It was an unworthy thought, but there would be time later to celebrate the old man’s return. “How did you track me down?”
“… Currents, of course. The Currents reveal all—”
“Good. Then they will have revealed to you where Lamella and Rendale are being held.”
“No doubt … yet your humble … intent solely on your own—”
“Could you find them now?”
Mottle’s expression changed, but Ebon couldn’t read it because the old man’s image was too faint. “Alas … storm is coming … clamor of impending conflict … drown all else. Like trying … one voice over … of battle.”
Ebon cocked his head, tried to isolate the mage’s whisper from the murmur of the Seeker’s voice behind. “Conflict? Who? Where?”
“Why, Gilgamar … no less dread than the Vamilians … must flee … city fall…”
“Mottle, I can’t hear you. Can you get to Gilgamar? Can you meet me here?”
Nothing.
“Mottle!”
The last shreds of the old man’s image dissolved like smoke on the breeze.
* * *
Last light, and Galantas sat on the sandy ground of the Hub, listening to the cry of a blueback whale lost among the Shoals. Hundreds of Rubyholters sat round him, silent and still as they watched the shadowy figures of the clan leaders in the circle of standing stones. They were speaking in hushed tones, but Galantas could guess what they were discussing. Word had reached the Hub from the survivors of Bezzle: Dresk’s fortress had been taken by the stone-skins, and the warlord himself was dead. Perhaps the reports should have sparked some reaction in Galantas, but he’d been expecting the news since the Augerans attacked, and in any event his father had been dead to him for years. Of more interest was the fact the clansmen thought Galantas was dead too—a misapprehension he had encouraged by keeping his hood up and his gaze down.
When he chose to make his appearance, he wanted it to be suitably dramatic.
Drama was never in short supply when the clan leaders met at the Hub. The last time they had been here was two months ago, when Kalag of the Raptors was accused of taking Erin Elalese gold to pick a fight with the Tridents. Some entertainment that had been. It was forbidden to draw weapons inside the stone circle, but there were no such rules for the rest of the island. More than twenty clansmen had finished the wrong side of Shroud’s Gate that night. Galantas doubted even the coming of the stone-skins would stop the old riva
lries flaring up now. He could see the tension in the postures of the clan leaders. Hardly fertile ground for Galantas’s message of reconciliation, but that would just make his victory all the sweeter when it came.
Of the eight Rubyholt clans, only four were currently represented. There was no mistaking Kalag—Dresk’s long-standing adversary—with his grating voice and his bushy beard, nor Malek of the Needles with his inch-long fingernails. Enigon was here from the Squalls with his blond good looks and his easy smile. Last of the four was Tolo of the Keels—a youth with watering eyes who had risen prematurely to his clan’s headship following the deaths of his father and his elder sister to a fever last month. Rumor had it he had poisoned them both, but Galantas doubted he had the stones for that. Hells, the man hadn’t even attempted the Shark Run yet.
Galantas had shaken hands with all of the other clan leaders in his time, but they’d known more of his reputation than they did of him. Enigon’s Squalls were traditional allies of the Spears, yet Enigon had always been Dresk’s friend, not Galantas’s, meaning his support here was far from assured. Neither Tolo’s Keels nor Malek’s Needles had strong ties to the Spears, but Galantas hoped he’d find an ally in Malek at least. There had been half a dozen Needle ships in Bezzle’s harbor when the stone-skins attacked. Malek would want them back, and he was the sort of man who would take any chance to get them.
Galantas shifted his gaze to Kalag. The Raptor leader had been the one who’d ordered the raid nine years ago in which Galantas lost his arm, and the man took delight in reminding Galantas of that fact whenever possible. In Kalag’s own mind, he had probably already assumed the mantle of warlord. Of all the clan leaders, he had the strongest claim. Perhaps Galantas should have been content to cede it to him. Perhaps he should have concentrated on securing his own position as head of the Spears, but his gaze was set on the ultimate prize. Fortunately, no vote could be taken on the matter of Dresk’s successor until all of the clan leaders were present, and it would be some time yet before the likes of Starboard Stonne and Ysabel Tremeval arrived, so far were their territories located from the Hub. That gave Galantas time to prove his worth. And he had a plan in mind to do just that.
Qinta nudged him, and he looked up. Striding toward the bloodline—the circle of shark’s blood surrounding the stones that marked the point beyond which only clan leaders could pass—was a middle-aged man wearing his hair in a topknot. A blow from a mace had knocked out the teeth on his right side, giving his face a crooked look. Ravin, ruler of the Falcon Clan. Here was the man whose arrival Galantas had been waiting for. Here was the man above all others he had to win to his cause tonight. For if the Spears and the Raptors were the strongest clans in the Isles, the Falcons were an undisputed third. If it came to a clash between Galantas and Kalag, it was Ravin who would hold the balance of power. Fortunate, then, that he was also the uncle of the boy Galantas had saved from the stone-skins in the South Corridor yesterday.
Ravin kicked dust over the bloodline in the ritual gesture, then strode toward the standing stones. The conversation among the other clan leaders briefly broke off.
Galantas stood and brushed sand from his trousers. The stage was set, the other players assembled. He lowered his hood and paused to give the nearby clansmen a chance to recognize him. A murmur of anticipation went up, and he felt an answering buzz in his blood. This was his moment. This was his destiny, and his kinsmen’s destiny too. He knew the path they must take to greatness, and if a thousand men, or ten thousand, or a hundred thousand must fall on the way, then so be it. The best leaders were those who could see farther than others. And that would be Galantas’s task here tonight: keep his kinsmen’s gazes directed to the horizon so they didn’t notice him digging the ground out from under their feet.
He kicked sand over the bloodline. The chiefs had not seen him yet. Ravin was speaking to Tolo in his distinctive mangled voice.
“… what I want to know is why the first warning of the attack came from Bezzle. What happened to the other watchtowers?”
“I’d like to hear the answer to that myself,” Galantas said, stepping into the circle.
Ravin turned. He didn’t look pleased to see Galantas. None of them did. Kalag in particular was scowling.
“Well, well,” he said. “Seems some of the rats made it off the sinking ship after all. How’s the arm, by the way?”
Galantas glanced at his empty short-cut sleeve. “What arm?”
The Needle chief, Malek, chuckled.
Galantas looked about the gathering. “Gentlemen,” he said by way of greeting. Enigon gave him a nod. Tolo didn’t spare him even that. The youth had acquired a tattoo since Galantas last saw him—a thin stripe along the line of his chin that was doubtless intended to look like a beard, but instead resembled a helmet’s chinstrap.
Ravin was solemn as he offered Galantas his hand. “My commiserations about your father.”
The man actually looked like he meant it, too. Evidently he expected Galantas to play the dutiful son, and it was a role Galantas could perform as well as any other. “Thank you,” he said gravely, shaking the offered hand. Then he turned to Tolo. “You were telling us about your watchtowers,” he said. The towers along the South Corridor—the direction from which the stone-skins had come—were mostly in Keel territory.
Tolo had the sullen eyes and uncertain speech of a boy half his age. “I don’t answer to you.”
“You answer to us,” Galantas said, gesturing to take in the other clan leaders.
Tolo considered. At last he said, “The stone-skins attacked the towers just after the second bell. We’ve heard nothing from any of them since.”
Ravin said, “Even Black Point?”
“Even Black Point.”
The Falcon’s brow furrowed. “Black Point is a Shroud-cursed fortress. No way the stone-skins could have taken it before someone rang its bell.”
The accusation behind his words was clear: Tolo had accepted gold to ensure his men looked the other way when the Augeran ships came. And why not? If the stone-skins had twenty thousand talents to throw at Dresk, odds were they had money to buy the Keels’ cooperation too.
Tolo looked at the ground. “Maybe they did ring the bell. Maybe the other towers didn’t hear it ’cause they had already fallen.”
“But how could they have fallen?” Galantas said. “Even I don’t know where half your towers are, so how could the stone-skins?”
It was Kalag who answered. “You tell us. You got towers south of Bezzle too. Any o’ them ring a note before the stone-skins came knocking?”
Galantas nodded as if that was the answer he’d wanted. “That shows the stone-skins were well prepared. That shows they’ve been planning to attack us for some time.”
Kalag didn’t let that slide. “Attack us? It was your damned city they hit.”
“Tell that to the families of the Keels who died in the watchtowers. And what of the ships that were lost in Bezzle?” Galantas turned to Ravin. “The Reef was docked there, was she not?”
The Falcon nodded.
“Did her captain make it off the island?”
No response.
Galantas moved on to the Needle chief, Malek. “And the Black Tide came in this morning, didn’t she?”
“Aye,” Malek spat. “Shroud’s own cursed luck. And she weren’t alone there, either.”
Galantas looked round the clan leaders. “The fact is, we all lost ships in the attack. Do you think the stone-skins didn’t know that would happen? Do you think they’ll give them back if you ask nicely?”
“You’re forgetting your own part in this,” Kalag said. “You owe us, boy. You stirred up the shit when you shot their commander. You can damn well clean it up now.”
“What makes you so sure it was the Spears who shot him?”
Ravin spoke. “You know something we don’t?”
“I know that by the time the stone-skin commander was shot, my father had already taken his gold. I know the Spears had n
othing to gain from his death.” Galantas made a dismissive gesture. “But that is a matter for another time. The reason we’re here is to decide how to respond to the stone-skins’ attack. And I say we strike back.”
Kalag laughed. “The way I heard it, the stone-skins needed only five ships to take your city. They’ve got more than double that now.”
Galantas raised his voice to carry to those beyond the bloodline. “What are you saying? That we should surrender before the war has even started?” Then, before Kalag could reply, “So what if the stone-skins have taken Bezzle? If the watchtowers had told us they were coming, we would have given them the city anyway. On land we may be no match for them, but on the sea we have no equal.”
A murmur of approval from the clansmen met his words, but Kalag spoke over it. “If you had the ships, maybe. Pity, then, that you lost the best part of your fleet in Bezzle.”
Enigon said, “Ah, but my dear Kalag, you’re forgetting the stone-skins’ twenty thousand talents.” It was said with his usual grin, but there was an edge to his voice that suggested he was still smarting from Dresk’s refusal to share the loot. “Easy to replace a few ships when you’ve got that sort of money in your pockets.”
Galantas matched the clan leader’s smile. “Alas, it seems my pockets have holes in them.”
Kalag was loving it. “You lost the money? What, all of it?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Hear that, lads? The fool’s lost twenty thousand talents!” The Raptor fished in his own pocket and pulled out a sovereign that he tossed to Galantas. “Here, boy, take this! Let no one say the Raptors didn’t help the Spears in their time of need!”
Galantas caught the coin and looked down at it to see the face of Emperor Avallon Delamar looking back at him. Kalag was making this too easy. “Thanks,” he said, tossing the sovereign back. “But I don’t take Erin Elalese gold. Besides, while you might be prepared to surrender your ships without a fight, I don’t give in so easily. Which is why I intend to take them back.”
