The Great Rift (45 page)

He cut the connection. The talk had distracted him from the fact Blays still hadn't returned; the water was open, silent. Dante's gaze leapt to every splash and ripple. How long had Blays been gone? Well over a minute. Closer to two. What if he'd gotten caught underwater? Stuck in a pipe or a grate? Dante leaned over the lip of the boat, rocking it. Stars shimmered on the water. Should he dive in? He returned his loon to his pouch, where it clicked against the wax-sealed vial and cloth-wrapped lock picks. He stripped off his cloak and took three long breaths, flooding his body with air. He filled his lungs a fourth time and threw one leg over the side. Below him, a pale face broke the water. Dante tipped back into the boat, banging his ribs on the bench.

Blays grabbed the edge of the boat and peeped over the edge. "Found it."

Dante righted himself, glancing at the house's balconies. "How do you know?"

"Because it smelled like shit and I wanted to die. Pass me the bag and I'll get the rope up."

Dante handed him the bag with the rope and pry bar. Blays tucked it under his arm, saluted, and disappeared under the water. Lira paddled to keep them away from the rocks while Dante watched the white light across the lake. The boat it was attached to was a dark blot on the moonlit waves. It had advanced fractionally by the time Blays returned and gestured them into the lake.

The cold water gripped Dante like an unrelenting hand. He fought not to gasp as his head slipped below the water. Beneath the surface, Blays' kicking feet churned a trail of bubbles. Dante followed them like a lifeline. A broad shadow loomed ahead; Blays dove deeper, disappearing beneath it. Dante's ears popped. His heels banged and scraped against something hard and scratchy. The ceiling pressed above him, an unbroken plane of rough-cut stone. Air bubbled from his mouth. He flattened himself against the stone, struggling, as if he believed he could swim through rock as easily as the black water. The last of his air burst from his nose. He rolled over to hammer at the stone. A hand grabbed his wrist and yanked him forward. He rose into a tight square, brushing between two warm bodies and bursting from the water with a gasp. The stink hit him a moment later, a choking scent of feces in all stages of aging.

Blays and Lira crowded beside him, breathing through their mouths. Something brushed Dante's face. He pawed it away, felt the wet rope. He could barely see his own hand. High above, the sliver of moon trickled through a skylight above the square hole of the seating platform. Small things bobbed around his arms and chest. He was glad for the darkness.

Blays maneuvered around him and grabbed the rope. A foot bonked Dante's face. The rope swayed in the water, stirring the trapped sewage. Dante craned his neck to keep his face clear. Above, Blays scrabbled against the slick walls. Something plopped into the water. The rope jiggled. Blays gave a soft whistle. Dante grabbed the rope and climbed up, the spatter of water echoing up the flue. The rope swayed, banging him into the tight walls, dislodging sludge and coating him in foul stink. He breathed shallowly but could still taste it on the back of his throat. He paused halfway up to gag.

"Do not do whatever you're doing," Lira whispered from below.

He continued up. The square of moonlight expanded. Blays had pried away enough boards to crawl into the bathroom without squeezing his shoulders. After the ascent through the toilet-flue, the tight room felt palatial. Water splashed below, signaling Lira's climb. Blays stood on the bathroom rug stripped to his underpants.

"What are you doing?" Dante whispered.

"I don't want to walk around covered in shit. I don't care if it is the fashion." Blays nodded at the rugs. "Don't want to leave tracks, either."

Dante peeled off his shirt, skirt, socks, and gloves until he was down to his smallclothes, the pouch at his neck, and a long knife tied to his thigh. Lira emerged from the toilet, hopped to the floor, and stared.

"Like it's nothing you haven't seen before?" Blays said.

She smirked and stepped out of her outer clothes. Dante wadded the soiled linen into a ball, dropped it down the chute with a splash, and wiped his hands on the carpet. They drew their knives. Blays padded to the door and eased it open.

Silence spilled into the bathroom, the kind that leaves your ears ringing with its purity. Blays slipped into the hallway. Light lined the cracks around a door down the hall, but it was otherwise as dark as the night. Blays crouched forward. A cough sputtered from elsewhere in the house, muffled by doors and space. Blays shrank against the wall, but the coughing stopped, consumed once more by that perfect silence. The hallway terminated at a wide wooden door. Blays nodded significantly and reached for the handle.

It opened, sparing Dante the trouble of fumbling with the picks in his pouch. Inside, moonlight coursed through unshuttered windows, painting the room in silver-blue shadows. Jocubs snored thickly from amidst a canopy bed with the same tented peaks as his roof. Blays eased the door shut. Dante took the vial from his pouch and clamped it under his armpit to warm it. Blays cocked his head, gesturing toward the bed. Dante held up his palms and shook his head: the closer to body temperature the poison was, the less likely Jocubs would wake before the fluid ensured he never would.

Dante waited half a minute for the vial to warm, then crept to the bed. Silk sheets rumpled around Jocubs' middle. White hairs curled on his slack chest. His snores smelled like sour beer. Dante ran his thumbnail around the vial's tiny neck, breaking the wax. He pulled the glass stopper and leaned over the sleeping man, but was struck by a moment of moral vertigo. He was about to kill this man; did this man deserve it? Why had Jocubs crossed to Cassinder's camp? For personal gain, promises of riches and titles? Or to avert the king's wrath from his homeland of Gallador? If the latter, how could Dante fault him for placing the safety of his friends, family, and countrymen over a horde of strange giants living far to the east?

But if those were the rules, nor could Dante be faulted for placing Narshtovik and norren above the people of Gallador. Whether Jocubs had signed his treaty to join the ranks of royalty, to preserve his people, or both, he must have felt very secure as he shook Cassinder's hand: he was tucked away in the lakeland rifts, a week's hard travel from the flashpoints at the borders. He must have smiled. He must have thought himself very wise.

But every choice carried consequences. And the reach of war knows no boundaries.

Dante dripped the clear liquid into the old man's ear. Jocubs stirred, sluggish, pawing at the side of his head. He didn't open his eyes. Dante waited for him to settle back into the covers, then poured another dose. Jocubs' gray hair grew slick and damp. The thin fluid seeped into the folds of his neck. He let out a long, ragged breath. His chest slumped in thin and shallow breaths. He seemed to wither, to retract into his own flesh.

Bright parchment rested on his bedside table, enscribed with fancy script and fresh ink. Dante folded the papers into his pouch. He gestured toward the door.

Jocubs shot up in bed, shrieking. Dante moaned. Jocubs shook his hoary head like a dog, clawing at his ear. He screamed again. A shudder wracked his body, jiggling his hairy stomach. He hunched forward, bearish, and dribbled foam from his lips.

His wild eyes fixed on Dante. "Who are you? Help me! Bring me water!"

Blays leapt forward and socked Jocubs in the temple, thumping him into the sheets. He gurgled. His chest shuddered and went still.

"That was gross," Blays muttered. "I think it's time to—"

The door barged open, spilling light and an armed guard into the room. Lira's knife caught him in the neck. He stumbled to the floor, blood fanning onto the thick carpet. Blays scooped up his sword and blew out the candle he'd dropped. Shouts rose from down the hall. Dante cut the back of his left arm, smiling against the pain. Nether swelled in him like an incoming tide. He rushed out the door.

Blays jogged after him. "Where are you going?"

"To find Cassinder."

"Is that secret code for 'get the hell out of here'? Because right now—"

Feet thumped down the dark hallway. Swords glinted. Dante lashed out with a blade of raw nether. Just before it reached the guards, it burst in a shower of white sparks, sizzling away. The pale glow lit Cassinder's face, ghostlike, smiling.

"Oh shit," Dante said.

Cassinder stepped forward, flanked by guards. "Most men of quality teach their sons to swing a sword. But what's a blade compared to this?"

He thrust a spear of white ether at Dante's heart. Dante shouted in horror.

There were few nethermances he truly feared. It was possible the king had a pet sorcerer or three with the power to beat Dante seven times out of ten. But Dante's power was unearthly, particularly for his age. In fact, throughout all of Gask, the list of nether-slingers who could stand toe to toe with him and expect to walk away alive might start and end with Cally.

This was not true of the ether. Every single ethermancer, no matter how raw and untrained, posed a mortal threat to Dante. He knew too little of the ether to fight it with any efficiency. He could oppose it with brute force, sure, slinging gobs and walls of shadows at the incoming light. In most cases, his talent with the nether was strong enough to overcome his disadvantage nonetheless. He could tire his opponent out, and then strike, or simply overwhelm them, striking with a tide of nether too fast and cold for any but the strongest to resist.

If he and his ether-slinging enemy were anywhere closely matched, however, victory was far from a given. In that case, the enemy could wear
him
down, forcing him to expend clumsy amounts of nether to avoid dying on deliberately spare thrusts of ether. Dante could be overwhelmed, too. Even losing his focus for a fraction of a second could mean the ether would be on him before he knew what was happening.

He'd trained to overcome this weakness. But it was a weakness that could only be patched over so far—and Cassinder appeared to be uncommonly strong.

Dante met Cassinder's attack with a wild charge of nether. The two energies flared into a puff of light. Dante fell back, keeping the shadows close at hand. He'd tried to study the ether a dozen times throughout the years, but each time he found he could no more manipulate its solid, steady presence than he could give birth. He would rather face a mother bear in her den than a trained and able ethermancer.

A knife whipped through the air, burying itself in Cassinder's shoulder. The man dropped to his knee with a sigh.

"I like blades, personally." Blays shifted his stolen sword to his empty right hand. "They don't care who they cut."

He grabbed Dante by his bare shoulder and yanked him down the hall. Glass shattered from Jocubs' room; Lira stood in front of a gaping hole in the window, gesturing with her knife. Blays slung his sword at Jocubs' motionless body and dived headlong out the window. Dante followed, yanking his pouch from his neck and holding it above his head. He plunged into the cold lake, water smashing around his head. Lira burst into the water beside him.

"Where's the rowboat?" he said.

"Off on a journey of its own." Blays spun in the water, orienting himself toward Lolligan's. "It's time to see whether we've absorbed anything from all these fish we've been eating."

He leaned into a crawlstroke. Dante turned on his side, paddling with one hand while he held the pouch aloft with the other. They weren't a hundred yards from the island before the first arrows whooshed across the darkness. Their points were bright with fire, illuminating the foam of Dante's kicks. The first few arrows missed handily. The next volley slashed into the waters mere feet away, fizzling and popping. Dante sensed a cool power gathering on the deck of the house. He turned to face it, kicking in place. A bolt of white ether streaked through the night. Dante punched his free hand from the water. Shadows streamed forward. As they met the ether, the sizzle drowned out the hissing arrows.

Dante continued swimming. Cassinder didn't attempt another attack. Dante and the others swam from bow range, arrows plunking into the water behind them. The island fell away into the night. Across the lake, the secret ship and its white lantern advanced toward the dead merchant's home.

Lanterns lined Lolligan's shores. Dante hauled himself onto the rocks, chest heaving, shivering so hard he thought his arms would shake loose from his torso. Someone swaddled him in blankets; hands guided the three of them to a roaring fire in Lolligan's private quarters. A servant pulled away Dante's sodden underwear and replaced them with a full set of dry clothes. Under a mound of blankets to his left, Blays' teeth chattered aloud. To Dante's right, Lira stumbled while stepping into her skirt, her limbs too stiff to function. She dropped below the blanket a servant had hoisted for privacy, landing hard on her knees and palms, breasts swinging between her bent elbows. The servant rushed to cover her. Dante had barely pulled on his pants when the doors opened. Lolligan, Ulwen, and the woman in midnight blue rushed into the room.

"Is it complete?" the woman said behind her mask.

"In the sense that Jocubs is dead, yes," Dante said. A shudder tore through his muscles.

"Is there another sense?"

"Sight, hearing, smell, and touch," Blays said. "I know we engaged at least that many. The guys on their side probably tasted some blood, too."

Dante breathed out slowly. His shudders ceased except for a twitch in his calf. "It's not over. Cassinder saw us. We fought him. The house is thick with soldiers. Thirty or more."

Lolligan folded his arms, elbows tucked tight to his sides. "I'm afraid we'll need to revise those numbers upwards."

"How so? His loyalists in the city can't have heard yet."

"The ship Mourn told us about?" Lolligan said. "It landed at Jocubs' while you were still in the water. It launched just a minute ago. It'll be here any moment."

Crouched among his blankets, Blays laughed in disbelief. "How many men do you have here?"

Lolligan glanced between Ulwen and the masked woman. "Mercenaries? Just twenty. We sent messengers into the city as soon as Mourn mentioned trouble, but it could be an hour before reinforcements arrive—if they arrive at all."