The Ships of Air (The Fall of Ile-Rein) (11 page)

W
aiting in the lounge outside, Ilias paced, his jaw set so tightly it was beginning to hurt. There were Rienish guards waiting by the doors, but he hardly noticed them. “I should be in there,” he told Tremaine. He wasn’t exactly sure why he had followed her out here, except that she had grabbed his wrist and tugged, and he had been too distracted to resist.

“No, you shouldn’t.” She was sitting in one of the cushioned chairs, her bare feet propped up on a little wooden table.

He stopped, planting his hands on his hips, snarling, “He’ll think I’m afraid to face him.”

Tremaine was unimpressed. “No, he’ll wonder where you are.”

Ilias took a breath to reply, then stopped, staring at her. That wasn’t the argument he had expected. “What?”

Tremaine studied her fingernails calmly. “He wants your attention, he wants you to be in there glaring at him and hanging on every word.” She paused to pick at a broken nail. “Let him wonder what you’re doing. Let him wonder what you’re thinking.” She looked up at him finally, her face serious despite her preoccupation with her hands. “Let him scramble to get a handle on you, instead of the other way around.”

He thought that over, hoping to find a hole in it, but it was too patently evident to argue with. And her confidence told him she knew she was right. He dropped down into the next chair instead, demanding in irritation, “Why do you know things like that?”

She shrugged, and nibbled at her broken fingernail. “Annoying people is something of a talent of mine. I gave it up for a while, but lately it’s started to come back to me.”

T
hey had the parley at a table just outside the moving picture room. Giliead wouldn’t sit but paced behind Ixion’s chair, hoping his presence made the wizard as uncomfortable as Ixion made him.
But he probably enjoys it,
Giliead thought with sour resignation. Thankfully, Tremaine had somehow gotten Ilias to leave with her.

Gerard took a place across from Ixion, grim-faced and somehow managing to convey that he felt Ixion was contaminating the air he breathed. There were men and women armed with Rienish curse weapons at the back of the room. The other wizard, Niles, was waiting with them, his face utterly cool and emotionless. Giliead had no feel for what the man was thinking, but he knew Ixion wouldn’t be able to read him either and that Ixion wouldn’t like it.

Gerard said with cold contempt, “Our position is simple. If you attempt to leave the room where you have been confined again, we’ll kill you and you can go on to your next body and be damned. If you give us the information you have about the Gardier and cooperate fully, you’ll be confined, but you won’t be harmed, and we’ll keep you from the Gardier to the best of our ability.”

The god-thing’s sphere sat on the table near Gerard, and Giliead could tell it was anything but disinterested. Its clicks and whirs sounded displeased. For the first time, Giliead could also feel little spurts of curses coming from it.

Ixion folded his too-smooth hands, saying, “You could provide refreshments for this discussion.”

Gerard lifted a brow. “Your needs are immaterial until you give us reason to think otherwise.”

Ixion sighed. “You could also tell whatever it is you keep in that metal cage to stop trying to annoy me.”

Intrigued by the sphere’s activity despite the situation, Giliead concentrated on it, focusing as hard as he could. After a moment he saw a dim wisp of white light drifting from the tarnished copper surface. Fascinated, he watched the translucent wisp arch over the table toward Ixion. There was something about it that made him think of a scout trying to creep past an enemy sentry post.

Ixion was saying, “I realize now it was the other presence I detected on the
Swift,
which I assumed was another foreign wizard. It’s a clever trick, but—” The wisp became a talon and dived in for a strike. He halted, frowning. Through gritted teeth, he said, “I told you, make it stop.”

Still concentrating on the sphere, Giliead suddenly saw lines of faded blue light stretching out from it, connecting to threads of different colors stretching all through the ship. He started, blinking, and it was gone, as if someone had dropped a cloth over a lamp to conceal it. Gerard’s talk of channeling the sphere’s power throughout the ship for protection suddenly made sense. Giliead realized he had been deliberately allowed to see the tendril that had touched Ixion, that the personality in the sphere had shared it with him like a private joke. He was just as sure that the sphere deliberately shielded itself from him. He didn’t mind; seeing that light constantly would have been unbelievably distracting.
So the Rienish do have gods,
he thought, lifting a brow. They just didn’t know it.

Without looking away from Ixion, Gerard said, “Arisilde, please.”

Giliead said calmly, “Ixion, the man in the metal cage is a god, and has bigger stones than both your bodies put together.”

Ixion flicked a glance up at him. “Crude,” he commented idly, but Giliead could sense the wariness in him. He turned to Gerard again. “If I give you the information, you will release me.”

Gerard evinced surprise. “Are the innocent people you killed still dead? As long as they are, we won’t release you.” His expression hardened. “You are bargaining for your life, not your freedom.”

Ixion regarded him for a long moment, then laughed softly. “The Gardier said their enemies were soft. You may be soft, but you don’t lie when you deal, do you?” He sighed, making a gentle gesture with his pale hands. “Very well, I agree.”

Giliead met Gerard’s eyes. They both knew this was a temporary measure.

T
hey put Ixion back into another warded storage room, not far from the first one. Tremaine noted that as a concession to Ixion’s apparent surrender, it had been made more comfortable with a cot and chair and some bedding. They had chosen a compartment with an ordinary wooden door, locked but less likely to hurt anyone if Ixion decided to blow it up. With Gerard’s assistance, Niles had also warded the door, the walls, deck and ceiling against ether, light, scent and liquid, which should cover just about anything Ixion could attempt to use to harm them. These were wards that hadn’t been used in years since they were no use against the Gardier. She wasn’t sure if the sphere had helped them or not; it sat on a desk in the outer room of Ixion’s prison, clicking ominously to itself.

Giliead and Ilias had stayed to grimly watch most of the process, then went to join the other Syprians preparing to go ashore with Ander’s men. It was an expedition Tremaine hadn’t managed to join, something she blamed Ander for. She also knew lifeboats had been dropped to search for Gardier survivors among the floating debris of the gunship wreck, but the rumor was that none had been found.

The chances were good that some of the Gardier had stayed behind in the city. The
Ravenna
was making a slow approach to the mouth of Cineth harbor, though she wouldn’t try to go inside. One of the sailors had commented that she probably couldn’t, since it was unlikely a harbor meant for galleys had been dredged to accommodate a liner.

Niles was finishing the last symbols on the deck in front of the closed door, the chalk marks fizzing and vanishing into the metal as he wrote. Gerard stepped over to join him, his notebooks under his arm. “This should hold him,” he said, sounding both resigned and determined. “Until we have to channel the wards through the ship again. I’m afraid it will still cause this set to fail.”

Colonel Averi just nodded tiredly. He had been out in the corridor discussing the situation with the army sergeant in charge of the guard detail. He eyed the door. “Some of the men were injured, but nothing permanent. It’s almost as if he didn’t want to burn any bridges, as if he planned this as soon as he regained consciousness.”

Tremaine knew he was right about that. “He’s like a rat. Or something else that always comes out on top.”

“Can he provide any real information, do you think?” Averi asked Gerard, as if Tremaine hadn’t spoken.

Gerard frowned. “Possibly. I doubt we dare trust it.”

“There is one thing we need him for.” Tremaine folded her arms, studying the door. “Ixion grew a body, an empty one. At least we hope it was empty—” Now everyone was staring at her. She finished hurriedly, “Arisilde needs a body.”

That got Averi’s attention. He stared at her, saying, “Good God, Tremaine.” Gerard just rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache.

“I didn’t mean the one he has.” At least, not if they were going to be that way about it. “But the spell to make one.”

“But could we force him to give us the spell he used?” Niles said calmly, getting to his feet and dusting off his hands. “He seems rather obstinate.”

Tremaine kept her eyes on the door.
I bet I could think of something
.

I
lias stood as close to the bow of the
Ravenna
’s launch as he could get, holding to the rail as the wizard boat plowed across the harbor toward the stone piers below the trading Arcade. He had thought these boats fast, but now impatience and fear of what they might find made this one seem to travel at a crawl. The lingering bitter taste of the confrontation with Ixion didn’t help.

The boat was packed with the rest of the
Swift
’s crew as well as Ander and a dozen Rienish warriors. “I can’t see any fires,” Giliead said in a low voice, standing next to him and anxiously surveying the shore ahead. “Not up in the town.”

Ilias just shook his head. He couldn’t bear to speculate. The boat sheds that housed the city’s war galleys looked undisturbed, but many of the fishing boats tied up to the piers were sunk, the tangle of broken masts still visible above the waterline. Above the dock area was the long stone trading Arcade, six open-arched entrances leading into stalls for merchants and for factors to sell or trade cargoes. Some of the wooden market stalls built against the far wall had collapsed, but as Giliead had said, there was no fire rising above the red roofs of the greater part of the town.

Halian, standing beside the Rienish sailor who held the wheel, pointed toward the pier nearest the end of the Arcade. “Bring us in there,” he said, his voice tense. The man might not know the words, but he understood the pointing; he nodded sharply and adjusted the boat’s course by turning the wheel slightly. The Syprians were silent, apprehensive; but behind them Ander was speaking to his men in their own language, giving curt instructions, replying to questions.

The Rienish all carried the long black shooting weapons, though the Gardier had curses that could damage them. The Syprians had lost all their weapons when the
Swift
had sunk, but the Rienish had given them small wooden crossbows the Gardier couldn’t harm. Using both weapons was the most effective way of attacking the Gardier the Rienish had found so far, but none of the Syprians were willing to touch the shooting sticks, effective or not. Even if they didn’t work by curses, they looked like it. Ilias had one of the crossbows slung over his back and the knife that he had managed to hold on to through the trip to Ile-Rien and back. Swords would have been helpful, but the Rienish had none on board. Or at least that was what Ander had said.

Ilias wasn’t sure he entirely trusted Ander yet; for a young man he was cagey about revealing too much of himself. It was still hard for Ilias to believe that he trusted the motives of Gerard, a wizard, and Florian, an apprentice wizard, better than those of Ander, a fighter and warleader. Maybe it was because Ander still seemed wary of the Syprians’ motives.

Ilias saw figures running along the front of the Arcade, vanishing into one of the arched entrances. He could see they wore light brown clothing from head to toe—Gardier. He nudged Giliead with an elbow, and his friend nodded. One of the Rienish spoke urgently, pointing them out to Ander.

The boat slowed as it neared the dock, the low thrum of whatever powered it sputtering to silence. With the others Ilias climbed out as soon as the side bumped the stone, Arites helping the Rienish sailor tie off to the piling. Ilias scanned the docks but couldn’t see any movement. Halian paused, then stopped at a small fishing boat. Leaning over to see down into it, he demanded, “How many are there? Which way did they go?”

Ilias stepped up beside him and saw there was a young woman in the boat, huddled next to the mast. She stood, pointing shakily to the road that started at the end of the boat sheds and curved up into the main part of town. “I didn’t see how many. Most of them went up there.” She looked up at Halian, her face pale. “But in the Arcade, there’s a wizard! I saw him run inside.”

Giliead’s expression hardened. He flicked a glance at Ilias, then told Halian and Ander, “You go after the others, we’ll take care of it.”

Halian nodded sharply, clapping Ilias on the shoulder as he turned away. But Ander hesitated, eyeing them watchfully. “Are you certain? You don’t want—”

“We’re certain.” Giliead pushed past him, breaking into a run. Ilias raced after him as the Rienish pelted down the dock, following Halian and the others.

As they neared the Arcade, Ilias saw four or five people crouched at the first archway. Giliead waved them back urgently. Recognizing him, they faded back into cover behind the casks and large pottery jars stacked on the dock. One of the women was Feredas, the portmaster. As Giliead mouthed the words, “How many?” Feredas held up two fingers.

Giliead nodded and stepped to the side of the entrance, crouching beside the body sprawled there.

Ilias stepped back against the patched wall, pausing to cock his crossbow and take a cautious look ahead down the wide corridor that led through the building. Large square doorways along each side led into shops and storage areas for cargoes. The place looked like a small army had bashed its way through. Copper cooking pots, baskets and broken pottery were scattered over the dusty stone. Three other bodies lay in the passage: two women sprawled in the middle, one with the bright fabric of her skirt tumbled around her, and one man slumped against the wall. A fallen bushel of pomegranates, crushed under the boots of those fleeing or fighting, made the floor look as if it was awash with blood and gore.

Giliead nudged his leg to get his attention, and Ilias looked down at the dead man.
Tersias, Calensa’s cousin,
Ilias identified him with a sick sensation.
Damn
. He had worked for Tersias’s family as a youth, unloading cargo. Calensa had been his first love. Giliead twitched aside Tersias’s shirt, showing Ilias the blackened skin around the mortal wound in the man’s chest; it stank of charred flesh. He looked up grimly, and Ilias nodded to show he understood the warning. This Gardier had a wizard crystal that could throw fire.

Giliead eased to his feet, cocking his own crossbow, and they stepped inside the Arcade.

Slowly and carefully, Giliead moved down the corridor. Ilias stayed at his side, keeping several paces between them. The stalls were open across the front, deserted. They passed a coppersmith’s shop with its wares tumbled into the passage and a place that sold bolts of cloth and dyes, mostly undisturbed. Ilias adjusted his grip on the unfamiliar weapon, feeling his palms start to sweat on the smooth wooden stock. This was the worst way to root out wizards; he much preferred sneaking up on them from behind.

A scatter of distant pops, like stones cracking under heat, sounded from somewhere outside; Ilias flinched, recognizing the noise the shooting weapons made. The Rienish must have encountered the other Gardier. Then he froze, poised on one foot, as a rustling came from the next stall. He heard a footstep and a worried mutter in the Gardier’s harsh language. From the items spilled into the passage, the stall sold bronze lamps and braziers.

Ilias threw a questioning glance at Giliead, who nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. Ilias stepped soundlessly to the wall, stopping just before the edge of the opening.

Giliead dived forward suddenly, landing and rolling past the open entrance. Ilias heard a shout from the stall as he whipped around the corner. The space was crammed with metal goods, lamps, stands and bowl-shaped containers for oil stacked unsteadily or piled atop wooden chests. He aimed and fired the crossbow by instinct, almost before his eyes found the Gardier crouched back against the inside wall. It was a young one with soot stains on his face, just aiming a long black shooting weapon at Giliead. The bolt slammed into the base of the Gardier’s throat. His weapon went off with an ear-shattering report as the man staggered, collapsing against the wall.

Movement toward the center of the stall caught Ilias’s eye; he ducked sideways, realizing the other Gardier was concealed behind a stack of wooden crates. Giliead was on his feet now at the front of the stall, aiming his crossbow. Blocked from getting further in by the tumbled metalwares, he shifted impatiently, trying to get a clear shot. Ilias saw the crystal flash as the Gardier moved; he shoved forward with a yell, slinging himself over a pile of braziers. He swung the crossbow, clipping the wizard in the head just before his foot came down on something that slid away with a metallic screech; he crashed to the floor.

Landing on his hands and knees, Ilias scrambled to get his feet under him, to get hold of a pot to throw. Suddenly he felt a burning heat erupt in his chest and looked up to see the wizard, the man’s face a rictus of pain and fear, holding the crystal over him.

Ilias didn’t have breath to yell in horror. He saw Giliead loom up behind the wizard just as the Gardier jolted forward. Ilias ducked his head as the wizard fell over him, then shoved himself free, slamming a kick into the man’s side. Rolling over, trying to sit up despite the fiery pain in his chest, he saw a crossbow bolt sticking out of the wizard’s back. Blood soaked the dun-colored jacket but the Gardier was still trying to push himself upright, to reach for the fallen crystal. It was a broken shard, colored a yellow-tinged white, much smaller than the one Gervas had threatened Ilias and Tremaine with.

Giliead desperately shoved the crates aside, but the wizard stretched, his fingers brushing the crystal. Pain shooting through his body, Ilias grabbed a heavy copper pot and lunged forward, smashing it down on the shard. It broke in fragments, light spraying from the pieces like droplets of water, vanishing into the cracks in the paving stones. The wizard shouted in despair, and Ilias slumped over the pot, relieved, the heat in his chest fading.

Giliead pushed his way through the debris to grab the wizard by the back of his jacket, awkwardly straddling him. The Gardier struggled silently, clawing at Giliead’s arm. His face set in grim distaste, Giliead whipped his knife across the wizard’s throat.

After a moment to make sure the man was dead, Giliead dropped the body, looking at Ilias. “You all right?” he demanded, breathing hard.

Ilias nodded slowly, pushing himself upright and away from the spreading pool of blood, rubbing the reddened spot on his chest. The sudden heat was gone, barely a phantom pain left behind. He took a deep breath and sat up on his knees, looking worriedly at his friend. “Did he get you too?”

Giliead shook his head, plucking at his shirt. Ilias realized the brown cloth had a singed black patch right below the leather lacing on his chest. “He tried. It didn’t work on me.”

Some curses worked on Giliead, some didn’t. It was just luck this Gardier wizard didn’t know the right ones to use. Ilias pushed to his feet, staring down at the wizard, who was just a dead man now. It had been a messy kill, and he knew Giliead hated that. “Did you stab him with that bolt?”

Giliead winced as he stood, absently wiping his bloody hands on his pants. “The damn bow misfired.” He kicked the copper pot off the remnants of the crystal, using his bootheel to grind the last few solid fragments into powder.

Ilias watched this, noting that the fragments didn’t burst into water-light and trickle away. He wondered if that only happened when the wizard imprisoned inside the crystal was released into death. If there really was a wizard inside the smaller shards, the way the Rienish said there was in the larger crystals. Giliead’s face was still grim, his mouth set in a hard line. Trying to lighten the mood, Ilias stooped to pick up his crossbow, saying earnestly, “You want to cut his head off to make sure he’s dead?”

Giliead gave him a forbidding glare. “That,” he said deliberately, “is not funny.”

P
opping sounds from shooting weapons led them up the road from the Arcade and through the lower part of the town. The trail of corpses—Syprian, Gardier and one Rienish—told them they were headed the right way. It also encouraged them to stay close to cover to avoid making themselves even better targets than they already were.

Houses with white clay walls and red tile roofs rose on either side of the wide dirt track, wooden doors tightly closed. Ilias heard dogs barking behind the garden walls, and a few stray chickens skittered out of their path, but other than that the town might have been deserted.

As they reached the corner of a larger house Giliead suddenly stepped back against the wall, motioning urgently for Ilias to do the same. He flattened himself against the cool clay surface, taking a cautious look past Giliead.

Around the corner was a small plaza with a square fountain house in the center, the edge of the roof carved with sea snakes. Leaning out, Ilias could just see two Gardier and three Syprians sprawled on the dark-stained dirt near the little pavilion.

Giliead elbowed him back with the low-voiced warning, “There’s a wizard up on the roof, just to the right of the waterspout.”

Ilias crouched and leaned out again more cautiously, studying the square. There was a good vantage point in the goat pen in the corner opposite theirs, where the slant-roofed shed provided cover from the rooftops. He saw a head with Syprian braids bob just above the gate. He glanced up at Giliead, jerking his head inquiringly toward the goat pen.

His friend nodded approval of the plan. “Signal me when you’re ready.”

Ilias faded back along the side of the house, leapt to catch the top of the garden wall and scrambled over. He landed on the flagstones of a courtyard shaded by berry trees. The back portico of the house was empty, a shattered bowl of cooked grains on the blue-tiled floor the only sign of the sudden disturbance. Crossing the court swiftly, he climbed the vine-covered wall opposite. It was shielded from the plaza by the second floor of the house, and he was able to walk back along it to the open pen.

Six piebald goats clustered in confused alarm at the back of the hay-strewn pen. Ilias couldn’t see under the roof of the shed where the defenders had taken cover, but he could hear a quiet murmur of voices. He hunched low on the top of the wall and hissed a warning that he was about to appear. After a moment of fraught silence there was a soft reply, and he jumped lightly down into the pen.