The Black King (Book 7) (51 page)

Ace wanted to shout to them, but he couldn’t. He was rapidly losing all of his strength.

The Assassin’s hand covered Ace’s head, and he tried to push it off. And as the fingers gripped his tiny, thin neck, he knew he wouldn’t be able to fight this one.

That didn’t stop him. He struggled until the end.

FIFTY

COULTER CRAWLED to the side of the deck house. The arrows seemed to have stopped. Lyndred, Arianna, Skya and Con were on their bellies. One of the female Sailors was screaming, and there was blood on the deck.

Those arrows hadn’t come from the ship.

A moment ago he had seen Ace fly past like he was pursing something. The other Gull Riders had gone as well. Coulter leaned around the deck house, saw the Riders’ white shapes inside a clump of bushes against the nearby mountainside.

The Assassin had gotten extremely close.

Then a bloody form rose in the air, and the Gulls followed it, following their nature, as gulls did.

The Assassin knew how to fight Fey. Of course. That was his purpose, not to fight others, but to fight Fey. Riders could be defeated by appealing to their animal natures.

Coulter removed his shirt and used it to cover his blond hair. It wouldn’t fool the Assassin for long—not with the sun shining on his pale skin—but it would buy him precious time.

He crawled to the other railing, careful to stay low, and when he rose up, he saw the Gulls fighting over the body of one of their members. The Fey on the Gulls’ backs were hitting their Gull bodies, trying to make them obey, but the Gulls saw food and they were reacting instinctively.

There were feathers on the bushes.

He would only get one chance at this.

“Lightning,” he whispered, and he aimed it at that single spot.

Above him, the sky darkened, and thunder boomed. With a squawk, the birds broke apart, and the Riders seemed to regain control. Coulter wanted to warn them away but couldn’t. They started to dive again, reassuring him, letting him know that his target was still there.

Lightning rippled across the sky. He would kill his own Gull Riders if they weren’t smart enough to move, if they didn’t remember the stories that Matt had told.

But if they moved, they would warn the Assassin.

The sky had turned an odd green. The lightning gathered, and then stabbed the ground.

Feathers rose and some of the Riders flew away. Not as many as Coulter would have liked.

The bushes caught fire, and in it, he thought he saw a man’s torso engulfed in flame.

Coulter let out a small sigh. That had been too close.

THE BLOOD

(Two Days Later)

FIFTY-ONE

THE DAY WAS COLD and misty, with a bit of fog. A perfect sailing day. Grantley stood on the deck of his ship, and looked across the bow at the ship flanking his. They were both old vessels, in poor condition, but he was able to get them seaworthy, and for that the Black Queen had made him Captain of this mission.

Captain. He liked the sound of that.

He studied his crew. The Sailors stared at the water as if it were giving up secrets. The handful of Nyeians aboard were older, used to working in an ancient boat. None of them seemed interested in the mountains, but the soldiers were. He had Foot Soldiers and Beast Riders, a few Red Caps, and a hold full of Infantry. He had to give them all small duties to keep their nervousness from showing.

He had to work at keeping his from showing too. Until two days ago, he had been the captain of a trading vessel who had successfully fought off Leutian pirates twice, and managed to bring home some of their cargo. He had lived through horrible battles, watched men die in a myriad of different ways, and hadn’t lost a single crew member.

That story—true as it was—hadn’t impressed the Black Queen. She had only snorted when she heard it, looked at him with her strange pale eyes, and said, “He’ll do.”

Her assistant, DiPalmet, however, thought it a good recommendation. DiPalmet was the one who looked at Grantley’s ship and decided it was too small. DiPalmet was the one who told Grantley that if he could fix the two warships and find a crew for both, he could lead the mission.

Grantley was supposed to listen to the minor Visionary on board if she had a Vision to report. Otherwise, he was to get his ships to Constant and begin leveling the area. Slash and burn, the Black Queen had called it. Mass destruction, DiPalmet had said with a bit of embarrassment.

Grantley could do that.

Then as he was leaving, the Shaman the Black Queen had found pulled him aside. “You watch whom you attack. The Black Heir, his family, and friends are there. You make sure you don’t touch any of them.”

He had agreed, of course. Who wouldn’t?

“He went there by ship,” she said. “You know his ship?”

Grantley nodded again. He had seen the Tashil ship and he had envied it for its speed and grace in the water. “I won’t touch him.”

“Make sure you don’t.”

Even now, two days later, the conversation still disturbed him.

He glanced at the rising mountains around him. In all his travels to Blue Isle—and in his thirty years there had been plenty—he had never gone up this part of the Cardidas. His Sailors told him that it was straightforward, a simple river with no tricks, but he was cautious anyway. He’d seen too many traders lose ships by misjudging a river’s power.

He wished he could talk to Targil. She commanded the ship beside his and was a trader as well. She had been his recommendation to command the other ship, but he was wondering now at the choice. The ship had kept level with his all the way from Jahn. It was almost as if Targil was sending him a message, as if she wanted everyone to know that she was his equal even though he had been given this command.

He hadn’t expected her jealousy or her recklessness. Since she didn’t own the ship or have any responsibility for its cargo, it seemed as if she had license to try things she wouldn’t normally attempt. She had sped through the narrows out of Jahn. And now he couldn’t shake her.

Her crew seemed out of control as well. He heard shouts and laughter, and thought he saw drinking. He had told her that the mission was an important one, and she had laughed.

“Don’t you see what they’re doing?” she said. “They don’t want control. They want destruction. You don’t hire captains like us if you want things to go as planned.”

He disagreed. He saw this as a chance at a career he’d never had, a career he would have wanted if his folks hadn’t pushed him and his Charm toward domestic service. He hadn’t been suited to that, so he had bought a ship and learned how to use his Charm in trade. It had been a profitable business, one he would go back to when this was all over.

If Targil didn’t ruin it for him.

She didn’t have Charm or Vision. Her magick when it had come had been something more Domestic, something she didn’t like to discuss. She had turned her back on it all and had become one of the better traders, although not as good as Grantley.

He would talk to her when they docked. He would make certain she didn’t do something she would regret later. She had said no one would report what they did, but she was wrong. There were troops a day or so behind them now—Infantry, more Beast Riders—all ready to aid in the battle that Grantley and Targil were to start.

The Islanders wouldn’t know what happened until their city was leveled and their countryside burned.

“Ship ahead!” one of the Sailors called.

Grantley frowned. He had been told there was little traffic on the Cardidas. Because of the mountains, the river didn’t go through many towns. Most of the ship trade went west of Jahn, not east.

He couldn’t see anything in the fog. “Where?”

“You can’t see it yet,” the Sailor said. “I’ve been checking with some of the Ze. They say there’s a ship coming in our direction.”

The Ze were sea creatures that also swam in the Cardidas river. The younger Ze grew up in the river, and then swam to the ocean when they were full grown. The Sailors considered them a boon because the Ze were smart and easy to communicate with. Most creatures of the deep, according to Sailors, were either not very bright or not very communicative.

“How far away is it?”

“The Ze don’t measure distance like we do,” the Sailor said. “I’d say it’s around the bend.”

Grantley snapped his fingers at one of the Nyeians who had served with him on several trade ships. The Nyeian didn’t even have to ask what Grantley wanted. She brought him his precious Tashil magnifier, a long tube with glass that somehow made far away things look big. He had paid a fortune for it, and had never regretted it. The magnifier had been the thing that had saved him during his meeting with the pirates.

He took the magnifier from her and put it to his right eye, closing his left. Through the fog, he could barely make out large rocks jutting into the river on both sides. Then a slight bend. Beyond it, he thought he saw the shape of a ship.

“What should we do?” the Sailor asked.

“We wait,” Grantley said, still looking through the magnifier. “Send word to Targil to wait for my signal before doing anything.”

“Yes, sir,” the Nyeian said. She disappeared.

As Grantley’s ship drew closer to the jutting rocks, he could see around the bend better. There was a ship behind it, quite a distance away. They had half the morning before they ran into it.

“Should I send for the Beast Riders and the Infantry?” The Sailor sounded enthusiastic. All of them seemed a little too eager for the battle ahead.

Grantley squinted. Yes. That was the
Tashka
. His hands were clammy. Imagine if he had attacked it. What would have happened to him if he killed the Black Heir to the Throne?

He shuddered.

“Should I get them?” the Sailor asked again.

“No,” Grantley said. “Find me another Nyeian. We have to let Targil know that she must leave that ship alone.”

“Why?” the Sailor asked. “It’s clearly coming from Constant.”

Grantley lowered his magnifier. “It’s the Black Heir’s ship.”

The Sailor went gray. “Oh,” he said, understanding now what he was suggesting. “I’ll get the message to Targil myself.”

“Good.” Grantley brought the magnifier back up to his eye.

Thank the Powers that the Shaman had warned him.

He hated to think what would have happened if he had attacked without knowing who was on that ship.

FIFTY-TWO

GIFT HATED THE FOG. It made the air colder and damper than usual. Even though he was wrapped in a Domestic spelled cloak, he still felt the wetness on his face.

He stood on deck because he couldn’t stand going below. Bridge was down there in great pain. One of the Domestics, a lesser Healer than Chandra, was tending his leg. Gift had wanted Bridge to get off the ship and wait at the school, but he had refused.

I’m the only one on this ship with military experience,
he said.
That might count for something.

Gift had to admit that was true. Without Bridge, both he and Coulter would be dead now. If Bridge hadn’t acted quickly, then Coulter would have been shot and, by rights, Gift as well.

How quickly, how neatly, things turned.

The Assassin was dead, burned beyond recognition. The area around him had been blackened and charred by the lightning strike. When Gift had visited it, the area still tingled with power. He had left as quickly as he could.

Late that night, after Bridge had had some rest, Gift had spoken to him. They both agreed that the moment in the water was probably the Vision Gift and others had been seeing. The fact that they had argued, playfully, about who would climb the ladder made the difference between Gift living and Gift dying, hence the moment’s importance.

After that conversation, Gift had no way to convince Bridge to leave the ship.

Gift had lost the same argument with Skya. He wanted her to stay in Constant, out of the reach of the Black King. She had given Gift a withering look and had said,
See? This is what I mean. You and I are no longer equals. I am a woman to be protected, carrier of something more important than myself.

He had denied that, but as he left, he wondered if he had been wrong. He was thinking on a larger scale than Skya. She was trying to maintain her individuality. He was trying to maintain an Empire.

Now he had her working on a way to hold the jewels without touching them. She had hated that as well—
Warder’s work
, she had said—but she was doing it.

Gift used the edge of his sleeve to wipe the moisture off his face. Rugad, through Lyndred, had warned them on purpose of that Assassin, probably to appease the Powers. But Bridge was right; it was luck that Coulter had survived. Luck, and Bridge’s experience. Someday Gift would have to ask Bridge what his past contacts with Assassins had been.

He sighed. It wasn’t the weather that had him in this foul mood. It was the loss of Ace, his best and most trusted Gull Rider. Several other Riders had been injured, and they had opted to stay at the school where Chandra could treat them.

But Ace was dead. Gift had seen his broken body, still in its Gull form, both his Gull neck and his Fey neck hanging at odd angles. He looked smaller somehow, as if the force of his personality had made him all that he was.

Gift would miss him, but Gift wasn’t taking his death as hard as Lyndred.

She had looked at Ace’s broken body, put a hand to her mouth and said nothing, but her eyes got hollow. When she knew that her father would be all right, she left his side and disappeared into her cabin. She hadn’t been out since.