“How is this wrong?” the harbormaster suddenly burst out. “What is wrong with anything I have done? Bring my plan to fruition and everyone wins! You”—he pointed at Aisa—“despise slavery as inhuman. Go along with this, and slavery will indeed end, and we will instead have an army of workers who don’t think or feel pain or get tired. Our economy will change with almost no damage. And you”—he pointed to Danr—“hate being the center of attention. You brought back the power of the shape, and your fame will soon evaporate. Do you want the Obsidia to have this power?”
“Vik, no,” said Danr truthfully.
“Everyone has won!” the harbormaster said. “I should be praised, not pilloried!”
“Except,” Aisa said, stepping forward, “that this plan makes you the single most powerful person in the world. You are already the most powerful priest in Balsia. The golem monopoly will make you the wealthiest man alive. And the power of the shape will put the might of a hundred armies at your disposal.”
“So I gain a little something for my trouble,” the harbormaster said. “Is that wrong?”
“Did you intend to share this power with the crown?” Karsten asked. “The power of the shape?”
“Don’t lie.” Danr tapped his left eye. “I can see it.”
The harbormaster started to answer, then glanced at Danr and folded his lips.
“I see.” Karsten glanced at Danr as well. “That’s an interesting power you have, Danr, your ability to see truth. None of the stories mention it.”
“I’ve kept it quiet,” Danr muttered.
“Maybe you should be a judge,” Karsten said. “Anyway, I don’t think we’ll allow your plan to come about, Harbormaster.”
The harbormaster looked genuinely shocked. “Why in Ashkame’s name not?”
“It’s treason, or did you forget what happens when you plot against the crown?” Karsten said grimly. “Men, take the harbormaster—”
The harbormaster moved so fast Danr didn’t quite understand what was happening. A knife leaped into the man’s hand and he slashed at Danr. Danr automatically grabbed the harbormaster’s wrist to yank the weapon away. Not long ago, the harbormaster would have had no chance, but Danr’s new shape was far weaker. The harbormaster’s knife fell, and red-hot pain sliced Danr’s chest. Blood spattered the deck. Aisa shouted.
The deck bristled with sudden weapons. The prince’s guards, the blue-clad acolytes, and Greenstone’s sailors all produced swords, knives, and truncheons, but none of them seemed to know who they should fight. Captain Greenstone jumped in and grabbed the harbormaster easily enough. The knife spun away. Danr went to his knees, clutching his bleeding chest. He was so weak! The harbormaster was grinning in Captain Greenstone’s bear hug while warm blood ran down Danr’s arm. More of his blood dripped down Willem’s face.
“The poor half-blood. It’ll make me rich.” The harbormaster laughed and licked a scarlet drop from his cheek. His body glowed with golden light. Startled, Greenstone released him, and the men on the deck took a step back. The harbormaster’s shape lengthened. He grew taller, thinner. His features, already handsome, sharpened into preternatural beauty. His hair changed from white to silver, and the tips of his ears poked through.
“Half-blood!” Danr said. His chest hurt like hell, and he felt stupid for letting the harbormaster get the better of him. “You’re a half-blood. Human and elf.”
“You would have seen it if you had thought big enough,” the harbormaster said. “My father would be pleased. And …” He stretched out his arms. His sleeves fell back, now too short. “Now I can feel it. I always had a little of the glamour and none of the Twist, but now I can feel both. Thank Bosha!”
“You hated half-bloods, including yourself,” Danr spat. “So you hid.”
“I’m not half-blood now, you Stane moron,” the harbormaster spat back. “I am Fae!”
“Men!” Karsten barked. “Take him!”
The soldiers, none too happy to see a hostile elf in their midst, turned their iron swords toward the harbormaster, who blanched.
“You don’t have me yet,” he said, and with a flicker Danr recognized from countless Twists with Ranadar, the harbormaster vanished.
A moment of silence followed. Then Greenstone said, “Hidden in plain sight.”
“That was … frightening,” Karsten breathed. “And incredible! Will your blood let anyone do that?”
“It only works for a few people, my lord,” said Danr. “Some feel horrible pain from it before they change. Some die.”
“You looked at him with that true eye,” Karsten said. “Why didn’t you see he was a half-blood?”
“I … don’t know,” Danr said, surprised. His chest still hurt. Droplets of blood spattered the deck. “I didn’t see Aisa was a half-blood, either, so maybe a true eye doesn’t tell you that.”
“The bigger question,” Aisa said, “is what delightful plan will the harbormaster drop on us next?”
“We need to find him,” the prince said. He raised his voice. “Men! I want the harbormaster arrested! Occupy the temple of Bosha. Find out if they’re making golems. Meanwhile, detain these men for questioning in the Gold Keep!”
The guards on deck turned their swords toward the acolytes, who were just now recovering from the surprise of seeing their high priest transform into an elf and Twist away. The acolytes, who matched the soldiers man for man, snapped their own weapons to readiness. Danr realized he was staring at the sharp, shiny beginning of a civil war. Karsten, meanwhile, at last seemed to notice that while his ship was only a few dozen yards away, a number of priestly blades were pointed at his heart. The sailors on the deck backed up several steps and folded their arms. Karsten shot them a glance, then looked at Captain Greenstone. She shrugged massive shoulders.
“Five gold hands,” Karsten said to her.
“Up the prince!” Greenstone boomed.
Knives and cutlasses leaped into the sailors’ hands. The priests’ blades wavered. Danr tensed. He’d seen more than enough fighting in his life, and every swing of a sword put Aisa in danger. Before the sailors and soldiers could react further, however, the acolytes all leaped overboard and, lithe as porpoises, swam toward the harbormaster’s ship. Karsten watched them go, mouth set.
“Will the harbormaster’s ship try to smack us around?” Greenstone asked.
“Not without the harbormaster himself to give the order,” Karsten said grimly, and turned to one of his men. “But they’re getting away, and they know what’s going on. Lieutenant, I want you and the men to row to shore and take my commands to the Gold Keep. I want the harbormaster found and arrested.”
“My lord,” Aisa said, “if a former slave could offer some advice?”
The prince looked at her and seemed to see her and her beauty for the first time. He straightened his tunic. Danr suppressed a growl. Karsten said, “Advice?”
“It will take time for your orders to reach the Gold Keep, and then it will take more time for the guard to assemble men and carry out your orders. But I would guess that the harbormaster is already at the temple, giving thrilling commands to his loyal acolytes. If he now has the full elven glamour, his people will be breathtakingly eager to obey him.”
Karsten folded his arms. “What are you saying?”
“Prepare for a long fight. That temple is a fortress, and they are readying for war even as we speak. The harbormaster has stolen our magic to commit treason, and such men do not seek mere money.”
“You think he wants the crown,” Karsten said flatly.
“Along with the head that holds it up,” Aisa returned. “Can you stop him from taking both?”
“We’ll take his filthy life,” the lieutenant said, heading for the longboat. “You can’t trust a shape-shifter.”
He said the word exactly the way other people said half-blood. A chill crawled across Danr’s skin.
Karsten didn’t seem to notice. “Lieutenant, I’m going with you.” He climbed down the side of t
he ship, and the men followed, including the two who were guarding Talfi’s room. Danr heard measured footsteps thudding up from below. The golem!
“Aisa,” he urged, “very soon the Obsidia are going to find out that something went wrong. We have to get to their house soon or they’ll kill Ranadar and Kalessa. Can you change into a mermaid again?”
“Easily.”
“Then we’ll need another longboat and a small favor from you, Captain.”
“Oh, a small favor,” Greenstone groused. “Just as long as it’s small. The prince didn’t even pay me the hands he promised.”
“You’ll like this favor, and that’s the truth.”
He spoke quickly as Talfi scrambled out of a hatchway with hair disheveled and eyes wild. He rushed over as the golem thumped up the ladder behind him. “What’s—”
Danr clapped a small hand over his mouth. “Don’t ask. Not yet. Captain, the boat.”
When they climbed down the rope ladder into the craft, the golem started to follow.
“How about a stroll across the bottom?” Greenstone asked. With that, she heaved once, and the heavy golem splashed into the water. It sank in a blizzard of bubbles as thunder rumbled in the distance.
“What did you do that for?” Talfi gasped.
“So we could hurry,” said Danr.
• • •
With a flick, Willem appeared atop one of the tall, domed towers within the temple of Bosha. There was a bad moment when his boots skittered on the smooth stone of the dome and he nearly slid over the edge, but at the last moment and with Bosha’s grace, he managed to grab the spire at the top. He stood for a moment, catching his breath and slowing his heart, while the chill, wet breeze pushed at his hair. The storm was coming.
And he was an elf.
Since no one was around to see, Willem allowed himself a moment of giddy elation. He shouted and he thumped his feet against the dome. How grand it felt to be freed of the human pollution, to no longer be a half-blood. The childish inner part of him wanted to see the look on Father’s face as he, Willem, strode into the house—through the front door—and claimed a place at the table as a son. Maybe he would Twist to Otrania right now and—
His face hardened. No. He had sworn he would never again set foot in Otrania, or any part of Alfhame. He smiled. Not unless he was bringing order to the place. No more family fights. No more children crying in corners. No fathers who refused half-blood offspring because there would be no half-blood offspring. Everyone would know his and her proper place.
The temple of Bosha, azure beneath the gathering clouds, spread beneath Willem’s boots in sharp, tidy perfection. Tiny people moved about like blue and white shards while the gardens, laid out by Willem himself, kept to their rigid rows. Beyond the temple walls sprawled the city of Balsia, a fat and lazy wyrm wrapped around a gleaming jewel. There wasn’t a part of it that Willem didn’t know. The counting houses in the Diamond District, the weavers at the Tenner River, and the dyers at the Niner, the whorehouses near the Docks and in the Rookery, the desperate souls in the Sludge near the Shallows, the cooks ringing Old City—everything in its place. From up here, it looked unspoiled, perfect. Exhilaration made his elven chest thrum. This was to be a god!
Blasphemy. His grip on the spire wobbled. For a sickening moment, the world bobbled beneath him. Then he caught his balance again, and a few moments’ scrambling got him under control. Control. That was the key. Keep it controlled.
The trouble was, control came harder and harder to maintain. The new prince made rash, hotheaded decisions. Hector and Sharlee Obsidia, fond as he was of them, let their obsession with power run them into the mouth of a wyrm. They didn’t understand that Willem had a harbor to run, a city to oversee. Until now it had been relatively easy. Willem had used what little glamour he had to keep the old prince under a heavy thumb, and the mayor was barely worth bothering about, but now … now everything was getting away from him. The new prince resisted his weak, half-blood power. He allowed the Stane into the city so they could quite literally undermine it. He had brought the so-called Hero of the Twist into the very heart of the palace and listened to his demands. Despite all Willem’s subtle attempts to interfere, Sharlee and Hector were inches away from getting their hands on the power of the shape.
Initially, Willem had been positive the power of the shape would involve an object, most likely the legendary knife used in the sacrifice. All the books pointed toward it. But the books had been wrong. The knife only spilled the blood, the true source of the power. He had planned to take the power for himself, rid himself of his half-blood status, destroy the prince’s army, and then parcel out the power to selected humans who had fallen under his newly powerful elven glamour. Unfortunately, that didn’t seem possible now, or even feasible. Danr and Aisa were already escaping into the city, and Bosha only knew how many people they had already infected with their half-blood magic. His plan was a chaotic wreck.
His eye fell on the long, L-shaped building that had received all the clay. Where the dwarfs lived and worked. Willem laughed, overjoyed again.
Destroy the prince’s army. He had always planned to do that. He only had to think bigger.
Below, Willem caught a glimpse of a familiar pudgy shape crossing a courtyard. Punsle. Now that Willem could Twist, he was amazed that he couldn’t see how to do it before. Willem reached through space, feeling for the route he wanted. It was like bending the branch of a tree toward himself, stepping onto it, and letting the branch snap back into place, sweeping him along with it. Willem Twisted and popped into the air two feet above the courtyard a little behind Punsle. A little breathless, he dropped to the ground, scattering a startled flock of acolytes and possibly scarring them for life. Quickly, he drew his hood over his new ears. The time would come to reveal his true self, but not yet. At least his voice hadn’t changed.
“Summon the Whitecaps!” he barked at an acolyte who hadn’t fled quickly enough. “Tell them to meet outside the manufactory at once!”
The acolyte scurried away.
Punsle whirled. “Excellency?” His blue and white robes were even more impeccably maintained than Willem’s. You could shave with the creases in his sleeves. “When did you return? And you’re … you’ve …”
“Not now, Punsle.” Willem tried to straighten his own robes, short as they were. He drew himself up. “Bar the gates and seal the entrances. We’re going to war.”
Punsle recovered himself. “Yes, Excellency,” he said as if Willem had just ordered a plate of chips for dinner. “Against whom, Excellency?”
“The prince. I’ve committed treason, and it’s time to make our move.”
Punsle’s expression didn’t change, which was one thing Willem liked about him. “I thought we were moving next month, Excellency, when the golem army was fully completed.”
“Plans have changed.”
“As have you, Excellency,” Punsle apparently couldn’t help saying.
“The Tree tips, Punsle.” Willem wrapped his cloak about him like a suit of armor. “We can drop with it, or control the fall.”
“As you’ve said, Excellency. Do you need anything else?”
Willem was already striding toward the L-shaped building. Behind his back, Punsle snapped out orders to acolytes and priests, principals and primatures. Word spread quickly, and activity burst over the complex like water from a broken dam. The followers of Bosha lit fires, set pitch to boil, opened weapon stores, checked traps and barbicans at the entryways. In the distance the main gates grumbled shut, adding to the tension and urgency that already rode the air. Swords came out, and troops of armed Whitecaps in their pale leather armor scrambled toward the manufactory. Willem drew the hood on his cloak farther forward to hide his face as they joined the stream of men. None of them seemed to recognize Willem, or wonder why a priest of Bosha was wearing robes that were blatantly too short for him.
“The sea washes everything toward us, Punsle.” Willem turned aside and entered the buil
ding through a side door with Punsle in tow while the Whitecaps hustled to the courtyard in front.
The moment Willem entered the building, a sick nausea nearly brought him to his knees. Clangs and thuds echoed through the great hall and bounced off the ceiling three stories above them. Smells of wet clay and wood smoke tanged the air, and through it all mixed the horrid, acid smell of hot iron. Iron had never bothered Willem in the slightest before this, and he had forgotten how difficult it made life for the elves. A headache ground at the back of his eyes.
He straightened. This was nothing. He would move forward, iron or no iron.
All the windows were bricked up, and the only light fell from a few torches and a pair of glowing forges—more iron—that also heated the room to sweat-inducing levels. A small mountain of clay sat in one corner. On the wide floor, a dozen golems stood motionless as chess pieces, their azure eyes staring eerily at nothing. Four dwarfs—two for each forge—moved among them, their sensitive eyes protected from the sun by the manufactory’s thick walls. Parts for more golems were stacked on worktables amid tools Willem still didn’t recognize. Some of the tools were sharp and, of course, made of iron. Willem forced himself not to step away. He was stronger than this.
Behind them all, against the far wall, a much taller shape crouched beneath the high ceiling. Scaffolding made a spidery lattice all about it. Truly, Willem mused, the troll boy thought he could see the truth, but even the truth could be wrong.
One of the dwarfs recognized Willem and scuttled over. His twisted spine bent him so far sideways he had to look up to hold a conversation. “Excellency?” he mumbled.
“When will the golems be ready?”
The dwarf coughed. “Hikk is only now carving runes on their thoraxes, and then we’ll need blood to bring them to life.”
“They aren’t alive,” Willem spat. “Nothing men create can live.”
“As you say, Excellency,” the dwarf said in a tone that made it clear Willem was wrong in every way possible but who nevertheless decided how far the purse might open.
Blood Storm: The Books of Blood and Iron Page 27
