Deathcaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  They entered by the postern gate, fanning out across the sleeping city. To the palace, to the barracks, to the walls. Taking out sentries, unlocking some doors and locking others. Hal ran past the ruins of the armory and the Cathedral Temple, both destroyed during the escape with the hostages. Neither had been repaired.

  In less than fifteen minutes, the first waves of soldiers were pouring into the city. Hal himself led a company over the drawbridge and into the palace. They went room to room, routing people out of bed and herding them into the great hall on the ground floor. Children were crying, officials were blustering, servants were praying, and many of the citizens were trembling in fear.

  Tensions eased somewhat when they realized that they were not under attack by the queen in the north. But only a little.

  Hal could hear people whispering to each other. “That’s young Matelon, isn’t it?”

  “It couldn’t be. Matelon’s dead!”

  “Well, he’s back from the dead, then. I should know—I danced with him at a party last Solstice.”

  “Where are our mages?”

  “It looks like they’ve all gone over to the rebels.”

  And so on.

  The city was secure in a space of two hours. Hal knew there might be pockets of loyalists in hiding, but he wasn’t interested in ferreting out every last one of them. From what he’d seen, most of the king’s supporters were flexible when it came to allegiance. They would see the value of joining the winning side.

  Hal went looking for Destin Karn. He still couldn’t fathom the spymaster’s endgame, but, like it or not, he had saved Hal and Robert—and the hostages—from the king’s prisons. Yet Karn was uniformly hated and feared by the rebel thanes, and his life would be forfeit when Hal’s father and the others arrived. Karn knew it, too—he’d said as much after the rescue of the hostages. Hal wanted to come up with a plan to protect him, or at least to get him out of town.

  Hal headed straight for Newgate, Karn’s stronghold in the city, guessing he might be there if he hadn’t already fled the city. He found Remy and LeFevre processing prisoners, releasing some and locking up others.

  “Has anyone seen Lieutenant Karn?” Hal asked. “Does anyone know where he is?”

  Reflexively, LeFevre made the sign of Malthus. “No, I haven’t seen him, and I hope I never do.”

  “If you see him, take away his amulet and keep him secure, but don’t harm him,” Hal said. “I need to talk to him.”

  The two officers looked dubious that the spymaster mage could be captured and held by anyone.

  “Where are the other blackbirds being held?”

  Remy pointed down a corridor. “Their captain’s name is Barbeau. He’s in the first cell on the left.”

  Barbeau must have replaced Granger after Harper killed him, Hal thought. It couldn’t help but be an improvement. Possibly. Maybe.

  Barbeau was another young up-and-comer, from the looks of him. He appeared to be just a few years older than Hal, with thin hair and a permanent shadow of beard.

  “Captain Barbeau?” Hal said.

  “That’s right,” Barbeau said. He looked Hal up and down. “You must be young Matelon. I heard you were back from the dead.”

  “Congratulations on your recent promotion,” Hal said, his lady mother’s training kicking in. “I’m looking for a colleague of yours. Destin Karn.”

  “He’s not my colleague,” Barbeau said quickly. “He doesn’t report to me. I don’t really have anything to do with him or what he does.” Before long, Barbeau would be denying they’d ever met.

  “Whatever your relationship,” Hal said, gritting his teeth, “do you know where he is?”

  “He’s gone north,” Barbeau said, “to Delphi, I presume. Two days ago.”

  Hal did not have fond memories of Delphi, scene of his humiliation at the hands of Captain Alyssa Gray. From everything he’d heard, it wasn’t a favorite of Lieutenant Karn’s, either. “Why would he go there?”

  “The king seemed to think that his services would be needed there,” Barbeau said. “Either that, or the bastard found out you were coming.”

  That’s Karn, Hal thought. Always two days ahead of any army.

  Hal found Robert and Mercier in the great hall. His brother’s cheeks were flushed with excitement. “Just think, Hal—the last time we were here we were prisoners! Now we come as conquerors!”

  Hal wasn’t nearly so excited to be a conqueror. At this point, he saw the capital as an obstacle he had to overcome to reach the more important fight in the north.

  “You should speak to these people, Captain,” Mercier said, waving at the assemblage, “and put their minds at ease.”

  “I’m not very good at speeches,” Hal said.

  “If you tell them you’re not going to execute them or imprison them, that will be enough,” Mercier said. “That will make you the most popular person in the room, if not the city.”

  I don’t want to be popular, Hal thought. I want to march my army north.

  Reluctantly, Hal mounted the dais at the front of the room and stood next to the throne. The last time he’d been there, King Gerard had been sitting on it. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  “Good morning!” he said. “I know it must be frightening to be roused from your bed by an army. But we are not strangers or invaders—we are your countrymen. Many of us were protecting this city just a few weeks ago.”

  “Then you’re traitors!” someone shouted, but was quickly hushed by his neighbors.

  “We are not traitors,” Hal said. “We are soldiers who know firsthand the cost of war in flesh and blood. We are not afraid to fight to protect our homeland, but we are tired of fighting this endless war in the north in order to avenge a king’s wounded pride.”

  “Liar!” A tall, spare figure forced his way through the crowd into the relatively empty space in front of the dais. “We fight for the True Faith! We fight for the great saint against the demons in the north.”

  Hal recognized the newcomer as the principia of the Church of Malthus, Cedric Fosnaught.

  “We will never stop fighting,” Fosnaught shouted, turning and waving his arms to egg on the crowd. This was met with scattered cheers, mingled with a few catcalls.

  “Is that so, Father?” Hal said. “I’ve been fighting this war since I was eleven years old. How much fighting have you personally done?”

  The churchman pressed his lips together, then said, “We all fight this war against evil in different ways, my son,” he said.

  “And you’re doing your fighting from a luxurious suite in the Cathedral Temple, and in the gilded rooms in the palace, while eating three full meals a day, am I right?”

  “Precisely,” Fosnaught retorted, without a trace of shame. “This church needs strong leadership that can speak directly to power in order to keep this empire on a righteous path. We have all made sacrifices to support this holy war.”

  “Sacrifices that did not include paying the soldiers who are doing the fighting,” Hal said. “Soldiers whose families are starving, their fields gone fallow while they risk their lives in the north.”

  This was met with a rumble of agreement from the gathered citizens and soldiers, and a few shouts of “Hail, Matelon!”

  Fosnaught drew himself up. “You must have faith that the Maker will provide, Captain Matelon. Truly, you have been tainted by your time in the north. You’d best repent and look to the fate of your immortal soul. The time will come, in a matter of days or weeks, when you will see what befalls the enemies of the church. You will see the hand of the great saint at work, for the greater glory of King Jarat, the church, and the empire.”

  Hal had never been impressed by the churchman, but there was something about the threat that sent a shiver down his spine. It was as if Fosnaught had some private knowledge that emboldened him.

  Others were not so impressed.

  “It’s going to be a pretty small empire, seems to me,” Robert muttered.

  Now there
came a chorus of shouts. “Hail, Matelon!” and “King Hal!”

  Fosnaught pointed a trembling finger toward where DeJardin was standing with a small group of mages. “Behold the traitor mages!” he thundered. “We gave them a chance to earn a place in the empire and grace in the eyes of the Maker, and you see how we are repaid. You will burn for this, I promise you. We will wipe the scourge of magic from every corner of the Seven Realms.”

  32

  DESTINY

  At least Evan’s prison was open to the sea. The cooling of the air and the changing of the light marked the sliding of one day into another, while the sound of water against stone was constant. Three days he had been lying on his back, awaiting the arrival of Celestine. At first, every tiny sound had yanked him unceremoniously into the present, cold sweat beading on his exposed skin. Now dreams and reality mingled together, and he traveled seamlessly between.

  Any hopes of support from one of the other shiplords was dwindling, especially since he was silenced by the poison. They were all committed to this scheme now—they’d cast their lot with Jagger, and there was no going back. His current gaoler, Maig, didn’t seem particularly happy about it, but she was the kind of person who expected the worst and was usually right. She sat in one corner, playing nicks and bones with herself.

  The sun was setting on the third day, bloodying the walls and ceiling over Evan’s head, when something or someone blocked the light that poured in from the terrace. He heard Maig’s cry of alarm, cut off abruptly. He smelled the scent of magic, sharp in his nose. He’d never realized that magic had a scent before.

  Then the healer’s lean face came into view, scowling as usual. His brilliant eyes narrowed as he looked Evan over. “Can you move at all, Strangward?” he whispered.

  Evan didn’t move, didn’t speak, and the healer got the point. Sul’Han leaned closer, and his amulet swung forward into Evan’s face, all but hitting him in the nose. Only it was Evan’s amulet—the one Destin had given him. The prince was wearing it on a chain around his neck. It seemed that the poison had slowed Evan’s mind down, too, because he couldn’t puzzle that out—how the healer had come to be wearing Evan’s amulet in place of his own.

  Sul’Han pressed his hand against Evan’s bare chest, gripping the hammer-and-tongs amulet with the other. Evan could feel flash seeping into him like a sweet tonic that left behind a faint euphoria but little else.

  “Blood and bones,” the healer growled, looking disappointed but not surprised. This time, he closed his warm hands on Evan’s shoulders, gritted his teeth, and closed his eyes.

  Evan was conscious of the pull of magic, like suction that threatened to turn him inside out. At first, his skin prickled, and then began to burn as if he’d been set on fire. The muscles in his arms and legs jumped and twitched as his brain reconnected to them.

  At one point, he developed an excruciating cramp in his calf, but the healer soothed it away, rubbing down his legs from knee to toe. He then massaged his arms and shoulders, using a combination of pressure and magic to quiet his damaged nerves. It was an exquisite kind of exorcism that left his body at peace.

  I have died and gone to heaven, Evan thought. He licked his lips. He’d never appreciated the ability to lick his lips before.

  “Can you hurry it up, Ash? We’ve got to go.” It was Talbot, from the direction of the door.

  No, Evan thought. Don’t hurry it up. Take all the time you need.

  But Prince Adrian moved back to the head of the bed and looked down into Evan’s face. “How are you doing?” he said. “If you can manage to stand, we’ve got to get out of here.” The healer was pale, sweating, trembling a little. He looked for all the world like he had a bad hangover.

  I guess it was better for me than it was for you, Evan thought. “According to custom here in the drylands,” he said, in a nearly normal voice, “we are married now, and you are bound to perform this service every day.”

  The healer’s lips quirked into a rare smile. “Dream on, pirate,” he said. Lifting the chain over his head, he restored Destin’s amulet to its usual place over Evan’s heart.

  Talbot took one arm, and the healer the other, and they managed to tip Evan onto his feet. With his arms draped over their shoulders, they hobbled out into the corridor to find a crowd of stormborn milling about, awaiting their next opportunity to visit their ailing master. Evan was happy to see that Kel and Maslin were with them—his two free crew members.

  When they saw Evan with the wetlanders, they drew their swords, practically in unison. “Let him go!” Kel said, taking a step toward them.

  “The wetlanders are helping me,” Evan said, his voice raspy and strange from lack of use. “It was the shiplords who poisoned and betrayed me. They intend to surrender the port of Tarvos to the empress.”

  “That will never happen,” Maslin said grimly. She waved the gathered stormborn forward. “Together, we can kill them all.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Evan said. “I am leaving with the wetlanders. Make sure the shiplords don’t follow, that’s all. The empress will be here soon. They’ll have their own problems when Celestine finds out they have nothing to trade.”

  Kel looked downcast. “You are leaving, my lord? But . . . you only just came.”

  “I am leaving,” Evan said. “And you should leave, too, before the empress comes.”

  “We want to go with you,” Kel said.

  Evan sighed. “You can’t go where I’m going,” he said.

  “But if the empress takes Tarvos, where will we go?” Maslin said. “If we cannot go with you, then why can’t we stay here?”

  “If Celestine thinks I’m here, she will find a way in,” Evan said.

  “She will not,” Kel said grimly.

  “All right,” Evan said. “Maslin, I’m putting you in charge of the port. Do you still have the mirror that I gave you the last time?”

  The harbormaster nodded.

  “Tell the shiplords they can go, or stay and fight with you. But we have to leave. Every minute that passes increases the chance that she’ll intercept me.” Impulsively, he embraced Kel, and then Maslin. “I’ll return to Tarvos if I survive.”

  “We’ll come down with you and open the straits,” Kel said.

  They took the back stairs to the ground floor of the palace. At first, Maslin and Kel half carried Evan, while Sasha helped the healer. The descent down the hill to the docks seemed to take forever. As they reached the water’s edge, Evan heard shouting to the south, along the shoreline.

  Jagger and two of his crew stood on the shore, hurling orders at the occupants of a jolly boat that was halfway between the quay and the tall ships anchored in the harbor.

  “Get back here, Jasmina,” Jagger shouted. “I told you—nobody leaves until the empress arrives.”

  “And I told you I was leaving,” Jasmina shouted back, making a rude gesture. “Say hello to Celestine for me.”

  Jasmina’s crew was already swarming over the decks of the Scorpion, making ready to sail.

  She’s creating a distraction, Evan thought, and we need to take advantage of it.

  Kel all but dropped Evan onto the deck of Destiny, then leapt after him. He and Maslin dragged Evan aft, propping him between the binnacle and the wheel.

  Jasmina had kept her promise to prepare the ketch for sailing, releasing the gaskets from the sails on the masts, replacing broken lines, reefing everything but the mizzen to start. It suited their skeletal crew very well.

  “Cast off,” Evan said quietly. “I’ll give you the wind you need and a bit of a following sea. Maslin, I’ll signal you to open the straits. Let Jasmina through, too. Then close the straits and run back to Cliff House. Don’t let the shiplords see you if you can help it. They won’t be happy.”

  Maslin nodded, clutching the mirror in her right hand.

  Destiny eased away from the quay, Sasha and the healer manning the sails, with Evan on the tiller. They still hadn’t been spotted, given the spectacle
elsewhere in the harbor. Several of Jagger’s crew launched their own longboat, pulling hard in an effort to catch up to Jasmina. But she had too much of a head start. As soon as the jolly boat came alongside Scorpion, Jasmina scrambled aboard and her crew winched the boat up after.

  As Jagger’s boarding party approached, Scorpion’s gun ports slid open. The message was clear. The jolly boat quickly reversed course. Jagger shouted curses from the quay. Everyone on shore was still focused on that drama.

  “Now,” Evan said, “shake out the sails and let’s see if we can slide through the channel ahead of Scorpion.”

  They picked up speed, making for the straits, keeping Scorpion between them and the spectators on shore. Evan closed his eyes, enjoying the snapping of canvas, the rattle of the rigging, the kiss of the sea air on his skin.

  “You won’t get through the cut, Jasmina!” Jagger shouted. Something glittered in his hand. Evan’s heart sank as he realized that Jagger must have taken his mirror while he was incapacitated. “I’m warning you. I’ll founder you if I have to.”

  “Suck scummer in the gutter, Jagger!” Jasmina shouted back. Scorpion came about, showing Jagger her stern, and raised more sail.

  Blood and bones, Evan thought. We’ll have Jagger and Maslin competing for control of the Guardians. This can’t end well.

  There was no going back. They had to go forward, and hope for the best.

  “Shake out the mizzen!” he shouted to his crew. “And hurry, if you don’t want to get run over.”

  Destiny leapt forward, spray clearing the gunwales and spattering the varnished deck.

  Evan heard shouting from the quay. They’d been spotted. If Jagger hadn’t figured it out already, he soon would, given the fact that Destiny hadn’t stirred from her berth in years. Evan hoped Jagger wouldn’t remember the four twenty-four-pound cannon mounted to either side of the channel. With any luck, Jagger would rely on the Guardians to keep them out of the straits.