Red Tide

by Marc Turner

  “Because everyone who’s ever claimed to use it before is a liar.”

  Great. “Someone must have crossed it before, though?”

  “Someone probably has.”

  “And that’s the only option we’ve got?”

  Another nod. Galantas was actually smiling at the prospect, but a man such as he would no doubt relish a chance to increase his fame.

  Time to hit him with the last part of her plan. “Of course,” Amerel said, looking through the window at the other Rubyholt vessels in the bay, “your other ships won’t be able to follow us over the crossing after we take it.”

  Galantas sat back down. “Other ships? Is the dragon blood so heavy that it needs a whole fleet to carry it?”

  “No. But you’ll want those ships with you when you chase the stone-skins north.”

  Silence. No smiles this time.

  “Think about it,” Amerel said. “Let’s say we mark the stone-skin ships with dragon blood. Let’s say the dragons then destroy them. Who’s going to believe you when you claim the credit? Who’s going to believe it happened at all? You need witnesses—the more the better. And witnesses from other clans, ideally. Also, after we’ve crossed Liar’s Crossing, Mokinda has to swim to the Dragon Gate to get it raised. He assures me he can swim faster than any ship can sail, but not by much. It’ll take time for the gate to be raised, then for the dragons to pass beneath it and hunt down the fleet. Time you need to buy us.”

  “By harrying the stone-skins?”

  Amerel nodded. “They can’t ignore eight ships at their back.”

  “And when they turn on us?”

  “You turn as well.”

  “Ah, thank the Sender. For a moment there I thought you wanted me to take on eighteen ships with eight. And with skeleton crews besides.”

  “I certainly hope it won’t come to that. After all, I’ll still be onboard with you at that time.”

  Galantas gave her a look. “Yes, you will.” Then, “If we’re not going to fight the stone-skins, how long can we hope to delay them?”

  “Quarter of a bell? Half? Every heartbeat could be decisive.”

  Galantas leaned back in his chair. His expression was hidden in shadow. He tested one of the shark teeth round his neck against a thumb as if he thought it might need sharpening. “You realize,” he said at last, “by destroying the stone-skin fleet, I’ll probably save a Sabian city. Gilgamar, most likely.”

  “And in not destroying it, you’d pass up the chance for revenge on the enemy. How would that go down with your kinsmen?” Time to give him another touch of the Will. “Who’s the greater threat to the Isles, the stone-skins or the emira? When did the Storm Lords last attack a Rubyholt city?”

  “Thirty-one years ago,” Galantas said without hesitation. “Or did you want months and days as well? My people have long memories.”

  “As do mine,” Amerel said. “But I’m sure if you had to, you could find a way to spin our cooperation here to your advantage.” Like the thought hadn’t already occurred to him. She softened her voice. “You think these stone-skins will be the last you see of their kind? You think the next group will treat you better?”

  “Certainly not. Especially if they find out I destroyed their fleet.”

  “You’re right. They’d respect you more if you did nothing.”

  Galantas did not reply. His half smile was back though, and Amerel could well guess the reason. Throughout their most recent exchange, there’d been no animation to his words, no conviction. As if he’d asked the questions of Amerel solely to see how she answered. As if he’d merely been rehearsing arguments he expected to have again with his kinsmen. He knew whatever choice he made today would be denounced by his opponents. He was testing how strong the winds of reason blew in either direction, and he could bend either way, as expedience required.

  Or as Amerel’s Will dictated.

  Not that she would need to use it in this instance. This wasn’t about the future of the Isles, after all. It wasn’t about relations with the Storm Lords, or avenging the deaths of fallen kinsmen. This was about doing what was right for Galantas, and when would he ever get a better chance to stake his claim to be warlord? Who could stand against him if he pulled off such a coup? True, there were a thousand and one ways this plan could go to the Abyss, but when had Galantas ever been one to play it safe?

  Sure enough, he nodded and said, “I’ll speak to the other captains.”

  * * *

  Qinta and Barnick entered by the door Amerel had just left through. Qinta crossed to the window behind Galantas, while Barnick stood beside the chart table.

  Galantas said, “I could swear I’ve seen her before somewhere.”

  “With hair and eyes like that,” Barnick replied, “you’re unlikely to ever forget her.”

  “Maybe. You heard our conversation?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And if we’re going to get ahead of the stone-skins, we need to move now.”

  Galantas’s eyes were gritty from the blayfire fumes, but rubbing them only seemed to make them worse. His clothes and hair smelled of oil, as did the whole cabin. “There are gaps in the woman’s story we could sail this ship through, yet still I found her logic persuasive. Eight ships we brought out of Bezzle. A success, I would argue, but still less than half of what I’d hoped.”

  “It was you who got the crews into the city unseen,” Barnick said. “It was you who broke the blockade.”

  “But Bezzle still burns, along with who knows how many of our ships. Kalag won’t let the other clans forget that.” Galantas leaned back in his chair. “Cayda—if that’s really her name—is giving us the chance to score a victory even the Raptors won’t be able to dismiss.”

  “Assuming we survive long enough to tell of it.”

  There was that.

  A board behind Galantas creaked, and he looked round to see Qinta staring out of the window. There was still no sign of Malek, alas—“alas” because if the stone-skins had killed him, it would make it easier for Kalag to claim the whole night had been a disaster.

  “You hear that?” Qinta said.

  Galantas cocked his head. Hear what? Shouts from another ship? A warning bell from a watchtower? All he could make out was the whisper of voices on the quarterdeck, and the swish of water in the bay.

  Then he heard it. A flap of wings. Birds. Galantas glanced to the heavens. Qinta was looking for birds again.

  “Startail,” the Second said.

  “You can tell that just from its wingbeat?”

  Qinta shook his head. “Thought I glimpsed one earlier.” His forehead creased. “As omens go, there’s few worse things than seeing a startail pass.”

  “Then why the hell are you trying so hard to spot it now?”

  The Second appeared not to have heard. “Coulda been a fishcrawler, of course—its markings are a lot like a startail’s.”

  From the unhappiness in Qinta’s voice, Galantas suspected seeing a fishcrawler was no better than seeing a startail. But then he was beginning to wonder if there was any type or configuration of birds that wasn’t a mask for Shroud’s baleful grin.

  He turned to Barnick. The mage was combing his hair again. “Did you catch a look at Cayda’s Untarian when you were on deck? Is he really Mokinda Char?”

  “How would I know? It’s been a while since I was last wined and dined in Olaire.”

  Galantas let that one go. “Keep an eye on him. If he uses his power, I want to know.” Though by then it would probably be too late.

  “You reckon he’s going to turn on us?”

  “If he’s got any sense.”

  “Then why not take the blood from him now while he’s not suspecting?”

  “What makes you think he’s not suspecting? In any case, we’ll need his help when we try to make Liar’s Crossing. Can the two of you get us over?”

  “Maybe. If this Mokinda lives up to his reputation.”

  Not exactly the
answer Galantas had been hoping for. Reputation wasn’t always matched by reality, as he himself proved.

  Barnick paused, then said, “You’re really planning on shadowing the stone-skins north?”

  “What choice do we have? If our only role in this business is to pour dragon blood into the sea, Kalag will call us the emira’s puppets. We need some way to turn this into a victory, not just over the Augerans but over the Storm Islanders as well.”

  “How?”

  Galantas had no idea. Then a thought came to him. “Who picked up Cayda in Bezzle?”

  “One of our lads, Wex. He and his group traveled with her from the city. But it was her who found him.”

  “You’re sure of that? Who’s to say Wex didn’t catch her nosing around the harbor and drag her here? Who’s to say the idea to put the dragon blood in the water wasn’t mine, not hers? Not Wex, that’s for sure—he’ll toe whatever line we give him.”

  “But the other clans on board won’t.” Barnick looked toward the door. “And if Cayda is supposed to be our prisoner, we’re keeping her on one hell of a long leash. Maybe someone should be out there now paying her a bit more attention.”

  Good point. It seemed people other than Galantas were capable of having them from time to time. He looked across at Qinta. “Do it.” The Second headed for the door. “And Mokinda’s name doesn’t leave this room, understood?”

  Qinta nodded and left the cabin.

  After he had gone, Barnick said, “What are you going to tell the other captains about this?”

  “That the Augeran fleet is on the move. That the clan leaders want us to follow them and make sure they leave the Isles.”

  “And when they do? The other captains won’t go beyond the Outer Rim without good reason.”

  “I’ll worry about that if we make it over Liar’s Crossing.” Galantas rose. “Now, it’s time we were going. Leave the wounded behind on the Spirit and get everyone from that ship over to the Fury.” The addition of those men, along with Wex and his companions, would bring the devilship’s complement up to forty. “If it comes to a scrap with the stone-skins, we’ll need every man we’ve got.”

  * * *

  Ebon followed the path up the sandbank and halted at the top. Ahead and to his right, the wreck guarding the canal’s entrance rose from the sea. The hiss of the snakes swarming over it blended with the susurration of the waves. How long had it been since he’d last seen it? Twenty-four bells. Twenty-four Shroud-cursed bells to end up back where he’d started. Except that now—if Mottle was to be believed—the sands were running out before Gilgamar was attacked. If only the mage had warned him earlier, Ebon might have risked it all on a dash through the Harbor Gate. As ever, the old man’s timing left a lot to be desired.

  Still at least Ebon now had Peg Foot with him. The Mercerien had arrived at the port at the fifth bell to escort the prince and Vale through the Lower City. They’d led a charmed life as they made their way north through the simmering streets. Trouble appeared always to be waiting beyond the next intersection, yet always by the time Ebon reached that junction, the way was clear. Throughout the journey, he had kept his power bunched tightly within him. There seemed little point in Tia betraying him now that she had his money, but equally there seemed little point in her going through with her part of the bargain. Except for professional pride, perhaps?

  Yes, that sounded like Tia.

  To his right, the beach stretched away to the canal. To his left, the sand curled to the northwest, glistening silver-white where the moon shone on puddles trapped by the retreating tide. Farther along was a multitude of fires surrounded by shadows. At the top of a dune, three figures stood guard.

  “Ah, what a beautiful sight,” Peg Foot said as he looked at the fires. “Enough to get the juices flowing, eh? All them sheep nicely rounded up like that.”

  “I thought these were refugees from the Hunt.”

  “Refugees, yeah, but not from the Hunt. From the city.”

  “You can’t blame them for thinking they might be safer out here than in there.”

  “Blame them?” Peg Foot chuckled. “I don’t blame them, I thanks them! Makes my job that much easier when the time comes to give them a shearing—as Tia likes to do from time to time.”

  And where was the shepherd to these sheep? Where were the soldiers who might have protected them from Peg Foot and his ilk? Sheltering behind the walls of the Upper City, of course. The same walls Ebon should have been scaling right now instead of listening to Peg Foot’s poison.

  “What happens next?” he asked.

  “Next we waits for our ride. A boat will be along soon to take us to the fortress guarding the canal. There’ll be a rope there for you to climb.”

  Ebon rubbed a hand across his eyes. The fortress. It had to be, didn’t it? “I had some trouble with that fortress yesterday. At about this time of night, too. Knowing my luck, your man on the inside will be the same man who shot at me then.”

  “Ah,” Peg Foot said with a wink, “but he ain’t gonna sees you this time, remember? If we plays this right, no one will. They might sees the boat, of course, but Tia’s arranged a little distraction at the Canal Gate.”

  “I am touched she should go to such lengths for me.”

  “Ain’t for you she’s doing it. Just protecting her investment. Next time someone needs to get into the Upper City, she’ll want to send them this way too. And she can’t do that if you’re seen tonight. So make sure you gets up that rope and over the wall sharpish.” Peg Foot grinned. “No stopping on the battlements to wave me off.”

  Ebon looked at him. “We’ll see each other again, though, won’t we? Get a drink maybe, catch up on old times.”

  The Gilgamarian laughed and clapped him on the back. “Here he comes,” he said, pointing to Ebon’s left.

  A boat had materialized from the darkness to the west. Its passenger must have been using sorcery to propel it, for there was no splash of oars to accompany its progress. The boatman stood in the stern, robed and hooded like the ferryman in some Manixian fable of the underworld.

  “Let’s go,” Peg Foot said, setting off down the beach.

  Ebon’s boots crunched over a ridge of shells and stones, then he skated down a sandbank and kicked aside a blacktooth snake in his path. Another fifty paces and the sands turned boggy. Peg Foot began to labor as the mire sucked at his peg. The wood left imprints that were quickly erased as water filled them.

  Peg Foot brought them to a halt beyond the reach of the surf.

  “That’s far enough,” he said. “Wet trousers might be hard to explain if you gets stopped in the Upper City.”

  Out to sea the boat had drawn level with their position. It looked like it might continue past, then the boatman brought its bow swinging round.

  Peg Foot said, “You got your cover story straight in case you gets picked up?”

  “We won’t be,” Ebon replied.

  “Course not. Just remember, if you does get caught, keep Tia’s name out of it. There’s worse things that can happen to a man than losing a limb.”

  Like being possessed by Vamilian spirits and driven to the edge of madness, perhaps? Or seeing the hurt in your lover’s eyes each day from a wound you inflicted on her?

  Ebon grimaced. Yes, wasn’t he quite the victim.

  As the boat approached the shore, a wave built beneath it and carried it up the beach. It settled on the sand, just clear of the surf. Peg Foot was the first to climb in, his peg scraping the gunwale as he levered his leg over. Ebon and Vale followed before taking up seats on the rear thwart. The boatman gestured, and another wave of water-magic came foaming up the beach. Ebon gripped the rail. The boat tilted, stuck, then was drawn back onto the sea.

  No one spoke as the boat glided east. It halted a dozen lengths from the wreck. Ebon could see thousands of moonlit characters scored into the ship’s hull as if a storyteller, lacking paper and ink, had carved his tale into the wood instead. Snakes slunk along the masts and spa
rs to drop off their ends into the water. Ebon pulled his cloak more tightly about him. The breeze off the sea was warm on his face, yet as he looked toward the guardhouse he felt a coldness form in his gut like he’d swallowed a lump of ice. What was the boatman waiting for? A signal from the soldiers?

  Voices reached Ebon from along the canal, and small blazing shapes arced out from the Lower City toward the Canal Gate. Arrows, Ebon thought at first. Then they hit the fortress to the sound of smashing glass, and exploded in gouts of fire that ran down the walls like molten tears. Dark twisting shapes followed the incendiaries, thrown high to land on the battlements, or in the city beyond. It took Ebon an instant to recognize those shapes as blacktooth snakes.

  Of course, the distraction Peg Foot mentioned.

  The boat swept toward the entrance to the canal. Yesterday Ebon had lifted his own craft over the spar of the wreck that blocked the way, but tonight the boatman took their boat beneath it, forcing Ebon to flatten himself against the rear thwart. The fortress was only a stone’s throw away now. Ebon’s cold intensified, as if the building were giving off a chill. The tips of his fingers tingled. Something didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t have said what. Perhaps after enduring so many setbacks, he just found it hard to believe he might actually reach his destination without further trouble.

  The boat glided to a bumping halt against the wall at the point where the fortress ended and the canal began. A knotted rope was lowered from the parapet. Vale was first to climb. Ebon didn’t wait for the all clear before starting his own ascent. Grasping the rope, he pulled himself up from one knot to the next, his boots scuffing on stone. From the corner of his eye, he saw Peg Foot’s boat moving off. He forced himself to take his time, make sure of his grip, since a slip now would mean a fall into the snake-infested canal below. And which of the powers he’d inherited from Galea would help him then?

  The battlements edged closer. Vale had disappeared over the parapet. Disappeared and not reappeared. Ebon kept expecting to hear the clash of blades overhead, or see a guardsman reach out to cut the rope. Then Vale appeared above him. The Endorian grabbed Ebon’s wrist and helped him climb the final armspan. Ebon rolled over the battlements and onto the walkway beyond.