Red Tide (43 page)

As the Guardian scratched a spider bite on her arm, she found herself wondering what had become of Talet's son. Had he left the city before the stone-skin attack? Unlikely, since Talet would have planned for them to flee together. Why had Hex pressed the spy into revealing the boy's location? Would he hunt him down now that he knew where he was? There seemed nothing to be gained by doing so, but would Hex need a reason? Thoughts of the boy made Amerel's mind turn to Lyssa. Was she safe? Was she missing Amerel, or glad to be rid of her? Perhaps a bit of both—a mirror to the Guardian's own feelings regarding her niece. After their first few tortured weeks together, it was hard to believe Amerel might ever come to miss the girl. But in time even the unspeakable can become routine.

Footsteps behind.

Noon drew up beside her and sat down on one of the gravestones. She could sense he was chafing to ask her questions about the Deliverer, but instead he said, “I didn't get a chance earlier. To thank you for saving me. If you hadn't—”

“I get it, you owe me,” Amerel cut in. “Don't worry, I hadn't forgotten.”

The Breaker looked across at her, and she thought he would get up and leave. Instead he gave a half smile and turned back to the city. Truth be told, she was impressed at how he'd kept himself together after the ordeal at Talet's house. Most men would have gotten surly or standoffish after having their pride pricked like that. But maybe Noon was just used to his enemies getting the better of him.

“Is that the White Lady's Temple burning?” he said, pointing to a blazing ruin at the edge of the Old Town.

Amerel nodded. “While you were resting, the stone-skins gave the shrine a good pounding with the same sorcery they used at Dresk's fortress. The priests held out for a while, but when their Beloved fell, the stone-skins barricaded the doors and fired the place.” She plucked a blade of grass from the ground and rolled it in her fingers. “Fair to say the Augerans aren't believers.”

“It's one thing not to follow a goddess, another to spit in her eye.”

“Though if you
are
going to pick a fight with an immortal, the goddess of mercy and reconciliation is the one to choose.”

The Breaker grimaced. “The people in that temple weren't a threat to the stone-skins. Just women and children, most likely.”

“You think the Augerans were heavy-handed? Are there acceptable degrees of brutality in war, then?”

“Gotta draw the line somewhere.”

“The people of Cenan will be relieved to hear it. You were there, weren't you, when the city fell?” Amerel had read his file; he could hardly deny it. “How many survived that night of bloodletting?”

Noon wasn't biting. He nodded toward the city. “This slaughter's gonna make it harder for us to get to the harbor. No chance of the stone-skins mistaking us for locals if there aren't any locals left breathing.”

“Or maybe their diligence will work to our benefit. The more thorough they are in clearing the city, the less reason they'll have to patrol it after.”

“Always a sunny side, eh?”

“I try my best to find it.”

In the harbor a Rubyholt ship burned, perhaps as a beacon to guide in the rest of the stone-skin fleet. Even now, a three-masted galleon with patterned sails glided between the islets on a wave of water-mage. Light from the torches on the waterfront glinted off the armor of dozens of figures on deck.

Noon said, “Have you been keeping tally of the ships coming in?”

Amerel flicked the blade of grass away. “Yes. I make that fourteen.”

“Any transports?”

“No, all warships.”

The Breaker's brow furrowed. “A ship like that will have a complement of maybe four hundred. Say two hundred of them soldiers. Could be as many as two hundred and fifty. Multiply that by fourteen and you get…”

“A lot of men,” Amerel finished. The Augerans would feel their loss keenly if she could make the Chameleons' plan work.

Perhaps sensing her thoughts, Noon looked toward where Caval and Karmel were practicing with their blowpipes. “You trust them to get this done?”

“Mazana Creed must have had some reason for picking them.”

“That Caval's an oscura addict—you see how gray his eyes were? When the time comes for him to fire his blowpipe, it'd be nice if his hands weren't shaking.”

“I'm sure his sister will keep him in line.” From what Amerel had seen, it was Karmel who called the shots between them.

Noon picked at his boots—the boots he'd taken from one of the dead stone-skin warriors at the house. “There's bad blood there. The way they tiptoe around each other.”

“What do you expect? They're family.”

Karmel crossed to a tree to retrieve the darts she'd been peppering it with. She'd been steadily increasing the distance to her target, yet still hitting it with near-perfect accuracy.

“How much do you think they're not telling us about all this?” Noon asked.

“The Chameleons? Very little. Mokinda, on the other hand…”

“You reckon he's holding a crossbow to the Chameleons' heads?”

Amerel's smile was tight. “That's usually how it works.”

If Noon noticed her tone, he gave no indication. “Stupid, isn't it. We've got every reason to work together, so why do I feel like I'm just waiting for a knife in my back?”

“No doubt the Chameleons think the same.” Amerel had caught some of the looks Karmel had cast her way. It made her wonder what Senar Sol had said about her, and how he fit into all this. Was he some part of the emperor's master plan that Avallon hadn't seen fit to share with her? It was possible. Still, there was no denying the Chameleons had good reason to be suspicious of Amerel's intentions. “When they've finished marking the stone-skin ships,” she said to Noon, “how much dragon blood do you think they'll have left in that flask of theirs?”

The Breaker stared at her blankly.

“Enough to mark another fleet, maybe? Or two. How valuable do you think that might be to the empire?”

Now he got it. Judging by his frown, he didn't like what she was implying, but he wasn't arguing against it either. “Maybe it won't come to that. Maybe they'll hand the blood over if we ask.”

“Maybe,” Amerel said. “I can be very persuasive when I have to be, after all.”

*   *   *

Romany thumped shut the cover of Avallon's book. No more! She hadn't seen writing this dull since she'd peeked inside Abologog's Fourth Treatise on Reverence. Information was conveyed without wit or insight, and in such a condescending tone she could almost hear the author's withered voice droning in her ear. And yet there was no clarity to the work. Some sections she had to read over and over to tease out the meaning, and she understood how Mayot Mencada must have felt trying to decipher the Book of Lost Souls.

She rubbed a hand across her eyes. Half a bell she'd been reading, and she was still only a handful of pages in. Mazana and Avallon hadn't set a time for the renewal of their hostilities tomorrow, but both would doubtless expect her to have finished the book by then. Thus far the stone-skins had barely set foot outside their borders in their first campaign against their northern neighbor. The only detail of interest was a hint that the Augerans had been a peaceful people before the war. As to what had precipitated their transformation into brutal empire-builders, though … the book was frustratingly silent.

Romany opened the cover again. The lamp on her desk flickered in the breeze coming through her room's solitary window. Then a distant clang sounded, and she tested the strands of her web for its cause.

This should prove entertaining.

She rose and exited through the door.

A hundred heartbeats later she found herself in a corridor next to an overgrown torchlit courtyard. A motley collection of Gray Cloaks and Erin Elalese soldiers were looking into the yard through the archways and windows surrounding it. In the yard itself was a circular paved area bounded by knee-high grasses and beds of wilting flowers. On the paving stones battled the Revenant subcommander, Twist, and the emperor's white-clad bodyguard, Strike.

Twist and Strike. It sounded like a move in some intricate fighting sequence.

Instead of the flails with which Twist had fought Kiapa, the mercenary wielded two shortswords with curved tips that Romany recognized as khindals. His opponent was armed with a longsword. Evidently the blade was imbued with earth-magic, for it cut through the air with preternatural speed. Its owner, too, showed freakish swiftness as he stepped back from a thrust to his chest before springing onto a bench to evade a low cut. There was something absurdly effortless about that leap—as if, had Strike wanted to, he could just as easily have jumped onto the roof instead. Romany realized with a start that he was animal-aspected. A flintcat, perhaps, judging by the tawny sheen to his eyes.

A disciple of the Beast God.

The watchers about the courtyard were hushed, perhaps because of the lateness of the hour, perhaps in recognition of the skill of the duelists. A Gray Cloak with a goatee beard moved along the corridor across from Romany, calling out odds in a low voice. It seemed that he had Twist down as the marginal favorite, though the priestess suspected that might be out of misplaced loyalty to his subcommander, for Strike had the edge in both speed and reach. The bodyguard's kinsmen must have shared that assessment, for the bearded bookmaker was finding no shortage of takers as he worked his way along a line of Erin Elalese soldiers. Romany wouldn't put it past the Gray Cloaks, though, to have arranged some sting on the foreigners.
Twist pretends himself hard-pressed to bring in the bets before breaking out his “A” game?
It wouldn't be the first time it had happened.

For a while the men fought back and forth across the courtyard, feet swishing through the grass, the initiative shifting between them with each sweep of a shadowy blade. Strike's sword made a whining sound with each stroke. As in the duel between Kiapa and Twist, Romany found herself contemplating how she would fare if she ever crossed blades with one of these swordsmen, and she was forced to concede she would be outclassed.

As an assassin, though, she would kill them before they even drew a weapon.

She watched Strike deliver a backhand blow that almost pierced Twist's defenses. His sword wailed as he drove his opponent past the archway on the opposite wall. In the shadows beyond the arch, a small red-haired figure observed the duel.…

Romany did a double take.

Uriel?

She tutted in disapproval. What in the Spider's name was the boy doing up at this hour? He wore his bedclothes, and his hair stood up at all angles as if he'd been roused from his sleep. Surely, though, there would have been someone stationed outside his room to stop him wandering off. There was no sign of Mazana Creed.

Whatever the explanation, this was no place for a boy of seven.

Romany stomped around the corridors, annoyed that she'd have to miss the duel to assume Mazana's mothering duties. At her temple in Mercerie, she had always left the care of the youngest acolytes to her juniors, but there was no one else here who could take the boy under their wing. Besides, how difficult could it be to handle a seven-year-old when she'd faced down tyrants and emperors in her time?

As she approached Uriel, she saw the Everlord, Kiapa, standing a short distance beyond him. Could he have been the one guarding the boy's room? If so, he would no doubt have welcomed the chance to bring his charge to watch the fight. That didn't absolve Romany of her duty, though. She drew up next to Uriel. He blinked over and over as if he was struggling to keep his eyes open, and the priestess noticed for the first time that he was missing one of his lower front teeth. Who knew, maybe Twist had challenged
him
to a duel earlier as well.

“Did your mother say you could be here?” Romany asked. Because that didn't make her sound old at all.

Uriel looked her way before returning his attention to the fight. “She's not my mother; she's my sister.”

Of course she was, where was the priestess's head tonight? “Did your sister say you could be here?”

“No. But she wasn't in her room when I woke up. I came to look for her.”

“She's probably looking for
you
right now. She's probably afraid you're—”

“No, she isn't,” Uriel cut in fiercely. “Mazana's not afraid of anything!”

Except duty and decorum, perhaps. “Come with me,” Romany said.

He made no move to comply.

In the courtyard, Twist had sought respite from his foe by retreating behind a bench, but Strike simply hurdled it and set about him again. The crash of the two men's blades came so rapidly the sounds merged to form one long metallic note.

“Why are they fighting?” Uriel said.

“They're warriors. What else would they do?”

“It's not fair. Why can that man”—he nodded at Twist—“have two swords when that man”—Strike—“only has one?”

To the contrary, it seemed to Romany that, of the combatants, it was Strike who had the unfair advantage with his sorcerously imbued speed and his invested weapon. “That one”—Strike—“could use two swords if he wanted.”

“So why doesn't he?”

“You would have to ask him.”

“But … he's from Erin Elal, isn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Mazana told me not to speak to anyone from Erin Elal.”

“Then we had best return to your room straightaway. Some of these other people watching”—the priestess gestured to either side—“are Erin Elalese too.”

The boy considered this, then yawned and gave a reluctant nod.

Romany steered him down the corridor with a hand on his shoulder before letting the hand fall to her side—only to flinch as something touched it. It turned out to be just Uriel putting his hand in hers. The priestess's reaction, though, had been entirely understandable considering the last child to hold her hand had been a Mercerien urchin trying to part her from her rings. Uriel's hand felt warm and uncommonly small in hers. They walked past a line of Gray Cloaks, and Romany was grateful the warriors' attention was fixed on the duel. Then she reached the end of the line and saw Mili and Tali watching her. They gave her amused looks as she passed.