By Blood Hunted: Kingsblood Chronicles Part Two (The Kingsblood Chronicles Book 2)

by David J. Houpt

  Lian clapped his hand on Virinos’ shoulder approvingly but gently. “That’s a good plan, Vir,” he replied. “Won’t be able to tack against the easterlies, but we can give the rudder some steerage and make some way.”

  “My thought, too, Mr. Alan,” the nervous man said with a brief smile. “I’m no sailmaker, but I’ll get to work on some of the spare cloth right away, with your leave.”

  “Snog’s a good hand with needle and thread,” Lian said. “He can help if you can explain what you want.”

  The sailor was pleased on several fronts: that he’d have help, that he wouldn’t be alone—he’d taken to sleeping at Naryn’s feet every night—and that Lian had given him charge over the task despite Snog being his man-at-arms. It was also true that a man could remain terrified only for so long, and simple work could help to distract one from such fears.

  Virinos actually forgot his terrors for almost an hour as he worked alongside Snog, and the goblin marveled at Lian’s skill with men. Gods know, if we don’t keep them with us, we’ll have little choice but to slit their throats, the goblin thought to himself as they cut cloth and sewed it into a passable sail. My prince won’t like that business, no, not at all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Silei have not always been the rulers and head of the three elven races, but it was they who led the Elven Empire to ruin at the hands of the Pelorians.

  It was Silei arrogance that cooled relations between the elves and the great dragons, and that in turn critically reduced the number of dragons Emperor Virenthios could call upon in time of war.

  It was the air of Silei superiority that drove many of the fair-haired Avani and storm-haired Vileni away from the Empire, although once the war with the Pelorians began in earnest, they both came to the Eternal Emperor’s aid, of course.

  And that Silei arrogance is just as strong today as it was then, and undoubtedly that arrogance is a weakness in war, to a given extent.

  Do not, however, make the mistake the Pelorians did in the end. They assumed that the arrogance of the Silei was because the elves are immortal, because they have a culture spanning countless thousands of years, because they are among the first of the Elder races, or simply because they are more beautiful than most.

  All of these are true, but the true source of their arrogance is earned, for they have control of such forces and such power so as to shake the world.

  -- Address by the Wizard-King Eodolph to his wizard-generals, arguing the case against war with the elves, 2113 PE

  Something had gone wrong. As Iliuthien cut her way south, Celewyn had made regular observations of Indigo Runner’s position—actually, Lian’s position, of course—and the other ship had passed the doldrums without altering its course.

  They’d passed the latitude of the merchantman shortly after the two-thirds point of the journey, and while Celewyn had kept a careful watch on that horizon, the ship hadn’t appeared. Not surprising—the Southern Ocean was large and the two ships were taking different courses as the shape of their sails dictated—and more than a little irrelevant. He might have been able to convince Iliuthien’s master to rendezvous with the spice hauler, but it would have been too memorable to the two crews and drawn attention to Lian and the elf neither could afford.

  Still, he had kept watch.

  About five or six days later, Indigo Runner’s course had changed, though it had been impossible to detect by Celewyn’s relatively crude method for a time. At that point, Iliuthien was, by Celewyn’s estimate, nearly two hundred nautical miles ahead of the other vessel, and whatever had happened was far over the horizon. He stood on the afterdeck most of that day and the days thereafter, hands gripping the rail, helpless to do anything to alter whatever was happening to Lian and his companions.

  By the time Iliuthien was within a day’s sail of Kavris, it was clear that Indigo Runner was far off course, heading west. He’d stolen into the captain’s cabin to memorize some of his better charts of the southern continent, committing to paper what he could not remember. He felt a little guilty about doing so to another Avani, but this was duty. He’d mastered navigation along with many other skills, so the charts were of great use.

  After plotting Lian’s movements carefully and triangulating on the prince by making assumptions of Iliuthien’s steady southward progress, he still had a large margin of error in his quarry’s position. It seemed that the merchant ship was drifting in the easterlies; if it was making much headway, it would have to be doing so directly toward or away from the elven ship, and that made no sense given their relative positions and heading.

  “Brother,” Baenriraelin said, approaching the blonde assassin as he stared out at the waves astern of Iliuthien. The way he said it was a question of sorts, the undertones asking if Celewyn had need of aid.

  Celewyn arched an eyebrow at the ship’s captain, questioning his implied question with an expressive glance. It was, in their culture’s terms, permission to proceed.

  “Something troubles you, it is clear,” Baen said. “Less than a week ago you were intent only upon our destination, and now your focus is solely astern.” His query was carefully phrased and carefully said, the tone and tense implying an offer of help could be entertained, but without committing to help.

  Celewyn nodded slightly as he considered Baen’s words carefully. “My situation has changed,” he said, “but Iliuthien cannot help me.” Meaning that the problem couldn’t be solved by the warship, but Baenriraelin might be able to help.

  The captain gestured the taller assassin to go on.

  “I will need to head west, out of the Empire and into the wilderness, and it will be far faster to hire a ship to take me than to buy mounts and move overland,” Celewyn said, adding, “I have little knowledge of the captains of Kavris.”

  A less perceptive being than the slayer might have missed the captain’s reaction—Baen started to protest but then stopped himself. Celewyn got the impression he wanted to offer the warship’s aid but recognized that he could not. Such a thing, diverting the warship for personal reasons, would cost him his command. Even a Silei captain would have been stripped of his ship; an Avani such as Baen could face far worse, they both knew. “I will leave unloading to my chief mate,” the captain said after a brief pause, “and go ashore. I will make inquiries as to which captains are in port, and I can provide you a list of those I have found trustworthy in the past within a day of arrival.” His tone was carefully neutral.

  “I am grateful for this aid,” Celewyn replied. “I could deal with a different sort of captain, but it would waste time.” He didn’t bother to hide his need for haste; Baen had already recognized it from his demeanor. “I will be happy to compensate you for the time…?”

  Baen shook his head. “A favor, only,” he said, and the assassin nodded, accepting that a favor was now owed. It went without saying between the elves that Celewyn was paying for not only Baen’s help, but the warship captain’s discretion.

  Normally, Celewyn would have preferred to pay the Avani captain for his errand, but the truth was he might need every coin he had to hire a ship, and more besides. In this instance, he was glad Baen had asked him to remember a favor. It might take five hundred years for Baen to need one and to be in a position to ask the assassin, but both of them knew Celewyn would answer the call when it came. It was a small favor, fortunately, and one the assassin would be able to repay fairly easily.

  It was possible that Celewyn would be able to reclaim the markers he’d hidden in Kavris decades ago and replenish his dwindling reserves of coinage, but it was also possible they’d been discovered and what he carried was all he was going to be able to muster without resorting to burglary. He was good at burglary, but that path would have many potential pitfalls and, worse, would take time. Whatever happened to Lian, time might now be in critically short supply.

  Baen chuckled. “Humans don’t seem to grasp the concept of debt properly,” he said. “Even when they sign a contract they’re as li
kely to cheat you as look at you.” While his words were critical of humanity, they also implied he knew Celewyn would not shirk his debt.

  “Not all of them, brother,” Celewyn chided. “And I’ve known an elf or two who could have been taught a lesson about taking and repaying favors, especially in these latter days.”

  Baen snorted. “That one or two have lost their way,” he replied, “does not mean our race has.” He seemed mildly offended by the assassin’s comment.

  Celewyn knew it was hardly one or two, and in fact many of the elves, from Avani to Silei to Vileni, had found the need to compromise the ancient rules regarding hospitality, honor, and obligation in order to survive in a world dominated by men. Baen was correct in that the great majority of elves remained true to their ancient traditions, but most of that majority had little dealing with men. It was not a popular view, that elven culture was being corrupted and changed by its interaction with the more powerful human nations, and Celewyn apologized for saying it.

  Baen snorted again. “You might be right,” he conceded. “But I don’t have to like it, and I certainly don’t have to tolerate it aboard Iliuthien.” He softened his blunt statement with a short grin, but it was still surprisingly direct for an Avani. The captain nodded at the assassin and moved away to tend to his duties.

  What sort of human are you, Prince Lian Evanson? Celewyn mused. Elowyn thought highly of you, but that was before your family was murdered, before you had to flee the power of your uncle. Who are you now?

  ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

  The slender elven warship glided into Kavris’ huge harbor effortlessly, foresails fully furled. Motive power was provided by the jib and the fore-and-aft-rigged aftersail alone, and Iliuthien still made more headway than the human-built ships around her. The galleons common in the south were built for cargo, not maneuverability and speed, and the wizard watching the elven ship come into port imagined the looks of jealousy no doubt painted on the faces of the captains of the wallowing merchant ships.

  The Easterner was familiar with a variety of sailing ships, having been restricted to more mundane means of transportation in his younger days. He’d ridden the seas aboard Southron galleons, the huge square-rigged frigates of the Island Kingdoms, and the high-prowed, curved-hull ships from his own homeland. None of them had the graceful lines and sheer agility of Iliuthien, and he wondered for a moment what the ancient dragonships had been like.

  From his vantage in the apartments he’d rented above the bay, he had seen Iliuthien’s sails crest the horizon, for he’d known the exact heading from which the ship would come. They made good time, thought Ammon as he observed their movement through the harbor. That should give me the time I need to learn how he’s tracking Lian and either duplicate it or wrest it from him.

  If the ship had made a difficult crossing and Indigo Runner had somehow beat the elves to Kavris, Celewyn would make haste to find Prince Lian and disappear from sight. Such speed was almost certainly unwarranted, for Iliuthien was far faster than the lateen-sailed merchanter carrying their mutual quarry.

  He didn’t look forward to the attempt to spy on and steal from the Avani assassin, even with a sample of his blood to focus spells through. In the world of Tieran, assassins like Ammon and Celewyn had to develop defenses against the arcane arts or they wouldn’t be in business for long. Although he believed himself to be more than Celewyn’s equal in magic, he didn’t believe for a moment that it would be easy.

  He’d underestimated the power of the Companion Sileth, and it had cost him. She hadn’t followed his body through the portal into his sanctum, fortunately, so he’d managed to recover from her attack. Celewyn, he knew, would be much more apt to finish the deed, or even to have magic on or around him that would prevent such contingency magic from functioning. After all, the elven assassin known as Shadow had preyed upon commoner and mage alike in his long career, and if the deathcurses of the great wizards of old hadn’t dissuaded him, Ammon doubted his own arrangements would hinder the elf. Should he discover that Ammon was acting against him, Ammon’s life was very likely to be forfeit.

  Across the wide sea, Ammon’s scrying magic had only given him a sense of direction toward Celewyn’s location. As Iliuthien had grown closer, the Easterner’s scrying efforts began to give him a sense of distance, followed by dim, smoky images of the assassin’s movements on the elven ship. At this distance, with his quarry literally within line of sight, his scrying bowl would be able to show him Celewyn’s actions in much greater clarity and detail and would require far less effort to sustain.

  Knowing well that he was weak in the divining arts, he had considered bringing in a mage specializing in divination but rejected it as another loose end to tie up. Such a one would not, after all, be easy to influence with magics of the mind and was likely to detect such an attempt anyhow. Uncompelled, the diviner would be impossible to trust. It was far too likely that a diviner would discern some clue as to the identity of Celewyn’s target, and that risk made it out of the question. In the end, he decided he could not afford anyone else knowing that Prince Lian was the Avani’s quarry; it would be hard enough to proceed against the elf without competition.

  Ammon had grown so used to the sense of Celewyn’s direction through the various magics he’d used to track the elf that he didn’t have to sustain the spells consciously. He merely knew, unfailingly, in which direction the assassin lay at all times, so long as the tiny phial of spell-preserved blood was on his person. From his vantage on the shaded balcony of the apartments, he could watch the warship tie up and try to observe Celewyn’s actions directly and without further magic, without worrying that the elf might slip off the ship unnoticed. If the elf and ship parted ways, Ammon would know it.

  He’d chosen the apartment’s location carefully. The complex of towers had once been an academy of magic in the Pelorian Empire, thousands of years ago, and built through magical means such that they were still intact and architecturally sound despite the long years. The towers had passed through a number of owners over the millennia, eventually becoming expensive dwellings for the nouveau riche of the city.

  Those were mostly merchants recently become successful, wishing to display their power and status by extravagant living arrangements, but a few of the apartments were inhabited by adventurers and mercenaries living high off of some recent exploit or contract. It amused Ammon to see fat merchants huffing and puffing their way up the long external stairways to the private apartments, for the stairs were far too steep for palanquins, their preferred mode of travel through the city.

  He knew that the older and more successful merchant houses looked down upon the traders living in the Eightfold Towers, as the entirety of the complex was known (despite there being actually ten towers all told). With sufficient wealth to buy lands commanding the cliffs around Kavris’ harbor, the truly wealthy had built vast homes of their own, ones that were further above the bay than the towers, single- or two-story affairs spread out to demonstrate their owners’ wealth and prestige.

  Only the “lesser rich,” as the Kavris upper crust referred to them, had to dwell upward to try to be ostentatious. To say someone was up could be an insult in Kavris, at least among the wealthy, implying they dwelled in the Eightfold Towers or similar structures elsewhere in the vast city. Ammon’s apartment—acquired at a reasonable cost from the merchant whose fortunes had risen and who no longer needed such plebian quarters—stood overlooking the long wharf where foreign-flagged ships were required to tie up, and he had a very good chance of having a vantage on Iliuthien that would let him watch the gangplank.

  Was Celewyn paranoid enough to slip off the ship in an attempt to be undetected? Ammon didn’t know, but it would matter little with the directional spells active. Still, he doubted the elven assassin would bother; after all, who in the south would know he was here or what his mission was?

  Don’t be complacent, he admonished himself. Just because Celewyn wasn’t likely to practice extra caution didn’t mean t
hat his normal state of readiness wasn’t going to be a problem. Far from it.

  As he’d hoped, his balcony had a line of sight to the port side of the ship whose name meant Three Stars. The ship’s captain had ignored the pilot boats, using a combination of skill and magic to bring her into the slip, and the crew had tied her up in record time, literally leaping ashore from the deck to catch the monkey’s fists thrown by their compatriots and haul the longlines over the mooring cleats. The dockworkers clearly didn’t appreciate the elves’ disdain for normal protocol—the dockmen usually made a pretty penny for catching the lines and securing the big ships’ longlines—but if that bothered the elven crewmen, it didn’t show. Ammon suspected that the dockworkers were used to this treatment by elven ships despite the fact they didn’t show it.

  When the gangplank was secured, to Ammon’s mild surprise, the captain himself disembarked, quickly heading off down the wharf toward destinations unknown. He left operations to his first mate, which was not so surprising. Any elven officer had more experience than a dozen human ship captains, especially a chief mate like the Silei Baenriraelin had left in charge.

  Ammon’s quarry appeared half an hour after the captain’s departure, carrying his belongings. He stopped to speak to the mate briefly then strode down the gangplank and onto the pier. With a friendly gesture toward the working elven sailors, the Shadow walked away from the warship and toward the Eightfold Towers. This, too, Ammon expected, for the better inns in the Sea Quarter were to be had in this direction, and an elf like Celewyn would value the privacy a good inn would offer.

  Ammon watched the elven assassin carefully, trying to judge his mental state from his movements, but gave that effort up after a short while. Celewyn was too controlled, at least in public, to allow the slightest emotion to appear in his body language or motions. By chance, the assassin turned up Spar Street, a long, straight cobbled avenue that served as one of the main spurs between the wharves and the upper city. Spar pointed directly at the Eightfold Towers, and so Celewyn appeared for a time to be walking directly toward Ammon’s position.