Red Tide (23 page)

“Later,” the emira repeated. “I have to speak to Senar now.”

The boy seemed to notice the Guardian for the first time. He flashed him an uncertain smile, then stood and carried the bowl of water to a doorway in the wall to Senar's right.

Mazana sat staring after Uriel as if she could see through the door that now closed behind him.

Senar flicked dust from his shirt collar. Beside the bed was a table, and on top of it was a breakfast tray. Mazana crossed to it and poured water from a jug into a cup. From the corridor behind Senar came the tread of feet as someone moved past the room. The footsteps died away again.

“Are the rumors true?” he said to break the silence. “Is Cauroy alive?”

Mazana searched his expression. He didn't know what she was looking for there, but he stilled his features so she wouldn't find it.

“Does it matter?” she said. “It's not as though he's going to come here and challenge me.”

“He was ahead of you in the succession.”

“So was the sadly departed Gensu. I count him more of a threat than I do Cauroy.” She took a sip from her cup and looked back at Uriel's door. After a while she said, “You think I'm being too easy on him?” Then, before he could reply, “By his age, I was able to vaporize water and raise a wave as tall as you are. But then my father was such a good teacher. He always found ways to … motivate me to my best efforts.”

Senar said nothing. He'd often wondered about Mazana's history, yet now that she'd opened a door on her childhood, he wasn't sure he wanted to look through. He had to say something, though, so he picked what he hoped was a less awkward avenue of inquiry. “What about your mother? Is she still alive?”

Mazana nodded. “She's on Kansar, sulking. My father treated her like a broodmare for five years, then set her aside when she couldn't give him a son. She still hasn't forgiven me for killing him, though. I don't know what's more stupid, that she thought he might one day invite her back, or that she would have accepted the offer if he did.”

Senar looked at his feet. Less awkward. Right. He was beginning to see a pattern in his dealings with Mazana.

“What about you?” the emira asked. “Where are your parents?”

“Both dead. My mother died giving birth to me, my father in a mission when I was six.”

“He was a Guardian too?”

“Yes.”

“A good one?”

Senar inclined his head, wondering at the question.

Mazana's look was far away. “When I was growing up, I had a friend whose father was accused of trading in stolen cargoes. The charge was never proved, else he would have been fed to the dragons on Dragon Day. But thrown mud always leaves a mark, not just for the suspect, but also for their family. My friend never forgave him for that. The shame of it was something she always carried with her. She never stopped complaining about the unfairness of it all. But it is harder to be burdened with a parent's successes than it is to be burdened with their failures, wouldn't you agree?”

Again, Senar did not answer. When he thought of his parents, the word “burden” wasn't one that came to mind.

Mazana replaced her cup on the tray and stood. “But I did not call you here to talk about that.”

Something in her voice gave Senar pause. “Oh?”

“I thought you might be interested to know a boat arrived last night bringing a messenger from Erin Elal. He's waiting for me in the throne room.” Mazana's mouth twitched. “Whatever could be so urgent that he should have braved the Sabian Sea to speak to me now?”

*   *   *

Karmel blew into the mouthpiece of the blowpipe. A feathered dart shot across the cabin and caught the edge of the already-pockmarked bedpost. It tore out a splinter before deflecting off and under a table.

She lowered the blowpipe. Impressive. Ten darts fired, and all but the first had found its target. She'd been skeptical when Mazana Creed presented her with the weapon. Made from wood and wrapped in vine skins and resin, the blowpipe looked like it had been plucked from the hands of some jungle primitive. There was no denying the quality of its craftsmanship, though. The bore had been filed as smooth as a diplomat's tongue, and it was this smoothness that gave the blowpipe its consistency. Of course, Karmel still had to test it over distances greater than those permitted by her cabin. For while her targets in the Isles would be more difficult to miss than hit, the precise point where she struck those targets would determine the success or failure of her mission.

Blinking sweat from her eyes, she reached for another dart. The air in the cabin felt heavy, as if too much of the stuff had been crammed into too small a space. Over the rustle of water outside, she heard footsteps on the companionway ladder—Caval's, she knew instinctively. She'd barely said anything to him since their discussion with Mokinda. Another time, the Storm Lord's words might have had her seeking the reassurance of her brother's presence, but now she felt a greater sense of loneliness with him than she did when they were apart, for what loneliness was more lonely than that of distrust? Would that ever change? Karmel would have to try harder to make it so. The closer they got to the Rubyholt Isles, the less time they had to bridge the gap between them.

But wanting to do so didn't make it any easier.

Caval knocked at the door and entered. He was holding a roll of parchment—the crude map of Bezzle that Mazana had given them to memorize. He tossed it onto his bed, then looked at Karmel.

“You're going to want to see this,” he said, nodding back the way he'd come.

Karmel set down the blowpipe on the sweating boards and followed him out.

Emerging onto deck, the priestess saw Mokinda standing alone by the starboard rail. He was frowning up at the cloudless sky like a farmer hoping for rain. Tracking the sun's course to gauge their progress? Were they running late for an appointment in the Isles? They'd only left Gilgamar at the fifth bell. At first the harbormaster had refused to lower the chains before dawn so they could leave. He'd changed his mind only after the intervention of some dew-eyed member of the Ruling Council, who had descended from the Upper City seeking news from the
Grace
's captain. It would be a simple matter, of course, for Mokinda to make up time by throwing his will behind that of the ship's two water-mages. In doing so, though, he would signal his presence to the crew.

Along the port rail, a handful of sailors had lined up to cast a collection of objects into the sea: a bloodstained handkerchief, a lock of hair, a blackened bone, and so on down the row. Propitiations to the Sender, most likely. But that was not what Caval had called Karmel to see. A stone's throw ahead of the
Grace,
and stretching as far as the eye could discern, the waves were tinted black as if the ship were about to sail out over the Abyss. Bubbles rose from the depths, carrying on them the stink of rotten eggs. At the edge of the murk, dozens of dead honeyfish floated on the sea. As the fish drifted into darker water, they were sucked down beneath the waves.

“Gods below,” Karmel breathed.

“You could be right,” a voice said, and she turned to see their Rubyholt guide, Scullen, approaching. He smiled a slippery smile. “But round 'ere, we call it the Rent.”

Karmel made no attempt to hide her scowl. The need to practice with her blowpipe hadn't been the only reason she'd chosen to stay belowdecks for the past couple of bells. After Scullen boarded the
Grace
last night, she'd felt his gaze lingering on her more often than she would have liked. His eyes explored her now.

She turned her back on him. “What is it?” she asked Caval.

It was Scullen who answered. “No one knows, petal. Ain't many souls volunteering to swim down for a better look, neither. The few that've tried ain't come back to tell what they seen. But the sharp ones round 'ere”—and from his tone, he considered himself among them—“reckon it's a gateway like them others scattered 'bout the Isles.”

The stink of eggs became stronger as the
Grace
crossed the divide between blue waves and black. Karmel covered her nose with her sleeve. All that darkness below her, it made her feel as if the sea might drop away at any moment to leave her falling. Abeam to starboard, a kris shark flitted through the murky waters.

Caval pointed to it. “Ah, I thought nothing could swim here,” he said to Scullen. “I thought everything was pulled down into the Rent.”

“Not everything with fins,” the Islander said. His lips curled back. “Barring water-mages, even the best swimmers will struggle t'keep their heads above water for more'n a heartbeat. My last captain once threw an Untarian over the rail to see how long she'd stay afloat. Woman went under before I could piss on her.”

Karmel frowned. “Your last captain? I'd have thought a man of your distinction would command his own crew.”

The Rubyholter's smirk wavered. “Eh?”

Caval raised his hands in a placatory gesture. “Ignore my sister's barbs, friend,” he said to Scullen. “She likes to make her suitors work for her affections.”

Karmel gave him her “not impressed” face, but her brother was all innocence.

“Your sister?” Scullen said with a wink, his good humor restored. As if seeing the competition trimmed by one had somehow guaranteed his conquest. “Travel with her a lot, do you?”

“Until someone takes her off my hands.”

Karmel bit down on her tongue.

A gust of wind made the sails crack and set their shadows rippling across the deck. After the heat of Karmel's cabin, the breeze on her face was welcome. It struck her that the
Grace
's pace had quickened. Evidently the ship's water-mages were keen for the vessel to clear the Rent as soon as possible.

Scullen leaned on the rail beside her. “One thing I'll say for the Rent—least there ain't no monsters lurking 'ere like those you find sniffing round the Isles. You heard of the Dragon's Boneyard, petal? Creature there's been known to take bites out o' dragons.…”

Karmel stopped listening. Bites out of dragons, indeed! The book about the Isles that Caval had given her had been full of such stories, and each one more preposterous than the last. It was all just a smokescreen, she suspected, along with the tales about shifting currents and hidden cliff-top defenses. Nothing but propaganda to dissuade the Isles' neighbors from trespassing on their territory. And Scullen's presence on board was just another part of the myth. As if the
Grace
needed a guide to escort it through the Isles! True, there were only a handful of safe passages through the maze of islands that made up the Outer Rim, but after you'd sailed through them once, what was to prevent you coming back the same way after? Or making a chart of the route for others to follow?

“How long before we reach the Isles?” she said to Caval, talking over Scullen.

Again it was the Rubyholter who answered. “A turn of the glass to the Outer Rim. Another six before we get to Bezzle.”

“Only six?” Caval said.

“Aye,” Scullen said, still looking at Karmel. “Plenty of time for us to get to know each other.”

Her brother nodded gravely. “You're a man of hidden depths, I'm sure.”

Karmel paid them no mind. Her gaze had been snagged by a smudge on the horizon—a smudge that was resolving itself into the sails of another ship.

“That's a barquentine,” Scullen said, following her gaze. “See how it's square rigged on the foremast, and fore-and-aft rigged on the main and mizzen?” He touched her shoulder, and she shrank away. “You've no need to worry 'bout pirates, though, petal. That there standard”—he pointed to the green flag he'd had the captain hoist below the
Grace
's own—“tells anyone looking that I'm on board. Won't get no trouble from Rubyholt ships while I'm about, that I can promise you.”

“Assuming the barquentine
is
another Rubyholt ship.”

“What else could it be? Ain't no one fool enough to risk sailing these 'ere waters without our say-so.”

Karmel thought back to what Mazana Creed had told her about the stone-skin fleet, but said nothing.

*   *   *

Senar strode along the corridor at Mazana's side. The sea was a whisper behind the wall to his right. Ahead he saw the executioner along with the priestess of the Lord of Hidden Faces, and Senar struggled against the instinct that he had seen the woman before somewhere. He shifted his gaze to the man standing behind and to one side of Romany.
The Erin Elalese messenger.
Senar knew all of the emperor's Circle by sight, but this man wasn't one of them. He was of a height with the Guardian but stockier, and his nose was so crooked it seemed to lie flat against his face. His clothes were all black, and he wore a heavy cloak ill-suited to the Olairian heat.

Perhaps Senar should have felt some sense of comradeship toward a fellow Erin Elalese, but the man was probably a Breaker, as well as a friend of the emperor's. And any friend of Avallon's was no friend of Senar's.

Two Storm Guards hauled on the doors leading to the underwater passage. They swung open to reveal a wall of water that receded at Mazana's gesture.

Senar followed her into the deep.

In the throne room, the Guardian took up a position to one side of the thrones. Mazana sat in the chair right of center, and the executioner and Romany stood behind her. At this early hour, the steely-blue walls of water gave off a palpable cold, so Mazana set the ceiling rising. The stretch of sea overhead grew thinner and brighter until the chamber opened out onto the sky in a wash of shimmering light. A fish slow to escape the vanishing waves flopped onto the floor at the feet of the Erin Elalese messenger, who had halted a short distance from Mazana's throne. He looked at it before flicking it with a foot into one of the walls of water. His expression showed nothing, but there was something in the set of his features that told Senar he was determined not to be overawed.