Storm of Sharks (17 page)

Opal continued, ignoring Vega’s jest.
‘You and your friend from the north, Baron Bosa, have systematically dismantled
the king’s navy from Moga to the Cold Coast, leaving King Lucas’s fleet in
disarray.’

‘That’s some of my best
work,’ he replied cheekily. She opened her hand, her fingernails now brushing the
skin of his chest.

‘I’ve been sent here to bring
you to account, to escort you back to Highcliff where you’ll stand trial for
crimes committed against the Lion of Westland.’

Vega winced as he felt a nail snag his skin.
‘A trial, you say? A fair hearing before Lucas?’

‘I didn’t say it’d be
fair,’ Opal replied as her nails caught his flesh once more, deliberately this
time. He’d misjudged Opal, badly. ‘King Lucas has a terrible temper. One
should avoid crossing him at all costs.’

‘The fool’s crowned
himself?’ snarled Vega. ‘It means nothing. The only true king is the
Wolf!’

He gnashed his jaws, fighting to keep his
own inner beast back for fear of having his hands severed by the manacles.

‘I see you do have some fight in you
after all,’ observed Opal. ‘Perhaps we’ll become better acquainted and
I’ll get to see more of the shark as we sail back to Highcliff. But if
you’ll bear with me, I have work to do first. As you can see, Lord
Ghul’s been busy rounding up the remnants of your dwindling
fleet. There are plenty of sea captains once loyal to you who need questioning.
They’re fighting with one another to tell me Bosa’s whereabouts. It’s
amazing how persuasive one can be when one imprisons the families of every pirate in the
White Sea.’

‘Chaining folk to a sea fortress tends
to focus their minds,’ agreed the Kraken. ‘It helps one see what’s at
stake when loved ones are strung from the walls.’

‘While also making your fortress
unassailable,’ added Opal. ‘After all, who’d launch an attack on this
structure without fear of harming their family?’

‘You’ve been taking innocents
hostage?’ shouted Vega as he felt Opal’s forefinger jab into his chest, the
clawed tip cutting a bloody trench into his skin.

‘None are innocent – they
all sided with the Wolf,’ she replied as she concentrated on her handiwork.

‘They’re all guilty by
association.’ Ghul laughed.

Vega cried out as the Pantherlady’s
claw completed its ragged circuit across his torso. His head hung limp as he looked down
at the crude heart shape Opal had scored into his skin, directly over the one that beat
within.

‘As for you, sweet Vega, I’ll
hold you to your word,’ she said, smiling all the while. ‘I’ve been
away from my children for far too long. While I fight a war in the name of my nephew,
they remain in Bast, apart from their mother’s bosom. This pains me. You might
understand if you had children of your own: it’s a love like no other. So,
I’ll take you up on that offer. Once I deliver you to Lucas and he removes your
head from
your shoulders, I’ll take your heart from your chest.
Call it a memento of my Lyssian adventure. It’ll be a pleasing gift to take back
to my homeland of Braga, a delicacy my dear children may feed upon.’

Opal stepped along the walkway, taking hold
of a ladder rung.

‘He’s all yours, Ghul,’
she said. ‘Just don’t kill him. That honour shall be the
king’s.’

With that, she scaled the fortress wall,
back into the belly of the tower.

As the Kraken stepped up to the shattered
Sharklord, he shook his arms out in both directions, the limbs splitting and rippling
into four monstrous tentacles. Florimo turned away, unable to watch what would
follow.

‘Now,’ said the Weresquid, as a
serpentine length of flesh caught Vega beneath his chin, lifting his head. ‘Had
something smart to say to me, did you?’

Vega spat at the monster.

‘Good,’ said Ghul, wiping the
spittle from his face with his shoulder. The tentacle gripped the count’s jaw,
holding his head in place while another squirming limb recoiled, preparing to strike the
Sharklord.

‘That was just the answer I was
looking for.’

‘That’s a lot of keys,’
said Ringlin.

‘There are a lot of cells,’
replied Hector.

Ibal unhitched the brass ring from his belt
and stepped up to the door. His chubby fingers rifled through the jangling keys, his
master watching patiently. While Ringlin had assumed the rank of captain of the
Boarguard, empowered to command the Ugri in Hector’s name, Ibal had been given the
position of head jailer in Icegarden, managing the cells below the palace. They had sat
empty before the magister and his allies took the city, but no longer: the jail was now
occupied by former members of the city watch, terrified courtiers and any others who
opposed the Boar and the Crows. The cells of Icegarden had never been so full.

‘I’m not sure why you keep
coming back here, my lord.’

‘Did I ask you your opinion,
Ringlin?’

‘It’s just … I’m
not sure what good speaking to him does.’

I can’t say I blame him,
hissed the Vincent-vile.
Why do you seek the counsel of this pathetic creature when
you have me to call upon? Who knows you better than your dear, sweet
brother?

‘I don’t expect you to
understand, Ringlin,’ said Hector, ignoring the vile. ‘I just need you to
obey.’

‘As I always have done, my lord, and
shall continue to.’

‘That you dislike this prisoner comes
as no surprise. You have clashed with him before, have you not? You may wait here if you
find his company so unpalatable.’

‘No,’ said the former thief, a
look passing between him and Ibal as his shorter friend finally found the key he
searched for. ‘I’ll stay with you, if that’s all right. I’d
prefer to hear what he has to say, sift the lies from the truths.’

Hector turned to Ringlin while Ibal turned
the key in the lock.

Hector closed his hand into a fist to
emphasize this point. It wasn’t lost on Ringlin, the captain shuddering at the
thought of the dark magicks his master commanded and the vile that did his bidding. Ibal
pushed the door open and stood to one side as his friend and his liege entered the
cell.

A torch guttered in a bracket beside the
door, an unusual concession for a prisoner but one Hector had been happy to permit. The
chains that kept the man captive ensured he couldn’t reach the flaming brand. The
metal links were secured firmly to the wall, the finest Sturmish steel restricting him
to the corner of the cell. A bucket was positioned as far away from the rear wall as
possible, a mattress running the brickwork’s length providing the only comfort for
the prisoner.
The man sat on the rough bed, a blanket draped over his
shoulders, the end of the chain manacled about his left ankle. He looked up and smiled
as Hector and Ringlin stepped into the chamber, the sea serpent tattoo that rode the
right-hand side of his face rippling into life.

‘You come to empty the slop bucket,
Ringlin?’ asked Bo Carver. ‘Be a good chap, try not to spill it.’

‘You’re lucky you’re not
wearing it, Carver,’ said the former thief with a sneer, as he took his position
by the door. The torch crackled beside his face, casting shadows across his glowering
visage. ‘This was still a jail cell, last time I looked. You want to mind your
lip, Thief Lord.’

‘You’ve made quite a success of
your sordid little life, haven’t you, Captain Ringlin? Both you and the waddling
simpleton out there.’

Right on cue, Ibal peered round the open
doorway, a sickly giggle escaping his wobbling lips. Carver smiled as Hector looked on
in silence.

I do like it when they fight,
whispered the Vincent-vile giddily, as he made invisible circuits around the
magister.

‘Seems any footpad can rise up the
ranks in the Boarguard,’ said Carver, ‘if he’s prepared to leave his
principles behind.’

‘You’re one to talk.
You’ve been a prisoner for Brenn knows how many years, first in Highcliff and now
here in Icegarden. Lord of Thieves? Lord of Jails, more like.’

‘I sleep with a clear conscience,
though, Ringlin. I may be on a filthy mattress in a dingy cell, but I know I’ve
never betrayed a fellow thief. I fear you can’t say the same.’

Ringlin stepped forward, towering over the
chained prisoner.

‘I sleep in a luxurious bed, in a warm
room, the hot food in my belly lulling me to a land of pleasant dreams. You think about
that, Carver, as you’re lying here in the dark, the torch dead on the wall and
only your “morals” for company.’

Hector clapped his hands.

‘I think that’s enough posturing
from you pair of peacocks,’ said the Boarlord, sitting down on the cold floor in
the cell’s centre. ‘Ringlin, be a good man: go and see if Dame Freya
requires anything from us. I feel badly that we parted on such … cross words
earlier. Fetch her any food she or her fellow Daughters require. I’m in a generous
mood,’ he added, before turning his back on the rogue.

Ringlin scowled at the smiling Carver for a
moment longer. ‘As you wish, my lord,’ he replied before turning and heading
through the door. ‘But the sewage bucket can stay here.’

‘That’s no way to talk about
dear Ibal,’ called the Thief Lord after him. The jailer giggled beyond the
threshold in the dark corridor, as Carver settled back on to his mattress.

Hector adjusted the metal brooch that held
his cloak together, a charging boar fashioned upon it, before straightening his
cloak.

‘A trinket of tin from the
Dalelands?’ asked Carver. ‘Bit sentimental for Lord Blackhand, the Monstrous
Magister of Icegarden, isn’t it?’

‘Prince or pauper, I feel it’s
important to remember where one comes from,’ he said with a smile.
‘I’m still the Baron of Redmire, and it’s brass, not tin.’

‘So,’ said Carver, knitting his
hands together and resting them on his raised knees, ‘back for another inspiring
talk?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Carver.
I don’t come to you seeking advice, though I do find you to be a tremendous vessel
to pour my thoughts into. Who would have imagined you’d be someone I could tell my
innermost secrets to?’

‘The feeling’s not mutual,
I’m afraid,’ said the Thief Lord, giving the steel links a brief shake.
‘Keeping a man chained has a way of breaking down his trust in you.’

Hector smiled. ‘I don’t come
here to torment you. You and I have an understanding. You know you’ll never leave
this cell. You simply can’t: you know too much about my business, about
what’s gone on here, my intentions –’

‘And about your little demon,’
interrupted Carver, waving his hand through the air.

The Vincent-vile hissed like a cornered
alley cat, itching to be released.
He thinks he
knows
me. Let me acquaint
myself with him, brother; give me a moment alone with Master Carver
 …

‘It’s no secret that I have
command over certain forces. It’s called communing, Carver.’

‘
Necromancy
would be a better
word, no?’

Hector cocked his head. ‘You know more
about magistry than I expected, though your choice of words is questionable.
Necromancy
has such chilling connotations.’

Carver laughed. ‘Whereas what you
practise is utterly benign, dear baron? What harm could possibly come from speaking with
the dead?’

‘It doesn’t
have
to be
sinister,’ said the Boarlord irritably.

‘Whatever innocent reasons you might
have once had to dabble with the dark arts have long since vanished. It’s consumed
you, hasn’t it?’

‘Consumed? It’s enlightened me.
The scales have fallen from my eyes.’

‘So much so that you abandon reason
and good judgement. You surround yourself with murderers and cut-throats, Hector. The
Crowlords as brothers in arms? They’re despised by their own mothers, let alone
their neighbours!’

‘A means to an end, Carver.
Allegiances shift all the time.’

‘You’ve changed
your
allegiances more often than Ibal changes that bucket,’ he said, gesturing to the
slop pot in the corner of the cell. ‘Nobody will trust you before long, Hector.
You’ve betrayed everyone you’ve ever sided with. You think the Crowlords
trust you? They’re killers. I’d be dead if they had their way; it’s
only your sick interest in my welfare that’s kept me alive. No doubt Flint’s
already plotting how they can exclude you from their future tyranny.’

‘I don’t trust them,
either.’

‘But what way is that to live?’
replied Carver. ‘Waiting for the knife to strike your back?’

‘They need me as much as I need them.
I need their eyes over the Whitepeaks, the soldiers of Riven who’ve marched into
Icegarden. And the Crows would be lost without my Ugri and their knowledge of these
frigid lands. They also appreciate the power I wield,’ Hector said, clicking the
gloved fingers of his left hand.

Carver shivered. ‘
Presently
they may need you as much as you need them, but things can change quickly,
Boarlord.’