Guild Wars: Sea of Sorrows (44 page)

Although the prince’s ships might notice the
Nomad II
sailing close to that edge, they wouldn’t think much of it. Isaye was one of the best pilots in Tyria, and she knew Sanctum Harbor like no other. The other Krytan captains might even assume she’d been told to watch for ships moving in the currents along the dangerous edge. The
Gabrian’s Comet
was small enough that it could hide on the
Nomad II
’s port side, keeping the clipper’s bulk between the
Gabrian’s Comet
and the rest of the ships in the blockade; she’d be hard to spot under casual inspection from afar. The ruse wouldn’t have to last long. Cobiah didn’t plan to stay.

The tide moved beneath them precisely as Isaye’s rough-sketched map indicated. Every piece of wreckage beneath them had been drawn out, with careful timing marked in seconds to indicate when they should turn their rudder. Each time Fassur gestured to him, Aysom
pulled on the rudder, shifting the boat’s elegant glide through the calm waters of the bay. Although the currents in Sanctum Harbor were a morass of unpredictable fluctuation, Isaye’s map always seemed to predict where the draw would be. Cobiah busied himself by adjusting the sails, and when Fassur called for them to ease, he climbed the mast to the low yardarm and rolled her rigging down. He secured the dark canvas with sailor’s knots, trying to ignore the stiffness that plagued joints once fluent with such labor.

“Stay silent, everyone,” Cobiah murmured to the crew. “The water carries echoes. We don’t want the Krytans to hear us coming.”

Slowly, her oars piercing the water like sharp-edged knives, the
Gabrian’s Comet
slipped to the edge of the blockade. Lanterns glittered in the distance, tied to the gunwales of clippers and larger galleons. Now and again, Cobiah could hear a watchman call the time or make out fragments of conversation from sailors on the Krytan ships. Most of the armada was stationary, and the patrols moved as Isaye had indicated. Buoys were fanned out between them, with ropes and nets splayed from one to another, designed to foul the keel and tangle in the rudder of any ship that tried to punch its way through the blockade. The
Gabrian’s Comet
avoided them all—thanks to Isaye’s carefully drawn map.

“She’s precise,” Fassur rumbled, his voice so soft that Cobiah, standing next to him, had trouble hearing it.

Cobiah couldn’t help giving in to a little bitterness. “You think that’s something?” he whispered coolly. “You should have seen how methodical she was about copying my notes. The Krytans must have been very impressed.” Despite himself, Cobiah felt the tension in his shoulders ease. Whatever crazy plan Isaye was going to propose,
thus far her information had been reliable. That eased his mind—a bit. Now he could turn his worry toward wondering exactly what she’d felt was so important in the first place.

Nodding in agreement, Fassur folded the paper and tucked it into his belt pouch. Squinting, he lifted a hand and pointed across the sea with one long claw. “There. Red lantern.”

Slowly, carefully, the schooner pulled up alongside the
Nomad II
. The waves knocked the
Gabrian’s Comet
against the much larger ship, tossing it back and forth in a softly bumping rhythm. Cobiah had deliberately kept his craft dark, and the
Nomad II
dimmed her lanterns along the port side, ensuring that the
Gabrian’s Comet
would be further hidden from view of the Krytan ships floating some distance away on her other side. Cobiah tightened his sword belt nervously, watching a sailor on the
Nomad II
throw a long rope toward them. Aysom caught it, wrapping the end around one of the cleats near the edge of their deck. Once they were tied off, the larger ship slid a board down to them: a makeshift gangplank so they could come aboard.

Fassur took Cobiah’s wrist in a gesture of brotherhood. “Take Bronn and Grymm with you. Be careful. Aysom and I will keep our weapons out and the
Comet
ready to push off. The minute you’re done, don’t waste any time with kissy-poo or lovey-dovey stuff. We need to be back through that blockade and into the city’s harbor well before dawn.”

“ ‘Lovey-dovey’?” Cobiah stared at his old friend skeptically. “Fassur, women really are a foreign species to you. You realize Isaye’s more likely to kill me than kiss me, right?”

“Speak for yourself,” the charr grunted. “I married
that Blood Legion minx, if you remember. I know fore-play when I see it.”

“Don’t worry.” Cobiah had to stifle his laugh. “This won’t take long.” He gestured to the brothers and headed up the slippery gangplank.

Assembled on the deck were four human sailors wearing linen shirts and breeches, a kerchief in green and gold tied about one man’s neck. As the three visitors made it up the plank and onto the
Nomad II
, the sailors on the deck kept their hands near their cutlasses, taking no chances. “The cap’n’s stateroom is this way.” One of them crooked his arm for them to follow and walked toward the oak doors on the quarterdeck at the rear of the ship.

Although most ships kept hands active, even at night, the clipper’s deck felt all but abandoned. No one was straightening the ropes on the capstan, nor washing the boards, nor standing guard at the bow or the gunnery. The silence unnerved Cobiah, and their footsteps across the broad ship’s promenade felt overloud and strange. Bronn frowned as well, exchanging a glance with his brother, and the two closed ranks to stay with Cobiah and the sailors of the
Nomad II
. Bronn subtly loosed his greatsword in its back sheath. Grymm cracked his knuckles, exchanging pleasant smiles with the Krytan sailor walking beside him. Just before the sailors opened the doors to the captain’s cabin, Cobiah realized something else: none of the men escorting them across the ship had tattoos—not an anchor, or a mermaid, or a pair of crossed swords between the lot of them. They walked stiff legged rather than rolling with the motion of the waves against the ship, and all four fell into the same rhythm, arms swinging in time, footsteps thumping regularly on the deck boards.

These were
not
sailors.

Cobiah paled. Before he could speak, the large doors on the quarterdeck swung open from the other side. Beyond them, he could see the
Nomad II
’s stateroom. The area was more than a cabin, built to serve as a meeting-room for the officers while the ship was at sea. The area within was lit by hanging lanterns bolted to the beams of the ceiling, their tinted panes casting colored light across the well-scrubbed floors and shining brass ornaments.

Yet there was no central table for meetings or meals, no sign of a captain’s desk or personal effects other than a few wall hangings that Cobiah recognized as Isaye’s. The furniture had been removed completely save for a tall, ornamented mahogany chair with opulently covered pillows that rested in the center of the chamber. Even though they had never met before, Cobiah instantly recognized the man seated there.

Prince Edair.

He was young, only a few years past twenty, with a deeply privileged smile and an athlete’s graceful form. Soft hands gripped the hilt of a bejeweled sword clipped to his gleaming patent-leather belt. The man’s skin was olive toned, his hair the rich auburn common to Krytan nobility. Handsome, but the way he lolled on the chair spoke of conceited superiority in every self-satisfied posture. From his shining black boots to his immaculate green-and-gold uniform, the man appeared every inch a Krytan soldier—but not a speck of the clothing looked worn or broken in. Edair straightened his sleeves, keeping his eyes gleefully fixed on Cobiah and the others in the doorway.

Isaye and Tenzin Moran stood to either side of the throne, her hazel eyes unreadable and his gun holster empty. Marines wearing the uniform of the Seraph lined both walls of the chamber, weapons already in
their hands. The escorts drew their swords and fenced their three captives in the doorway. Hatches on the deck behind them sprang open with a clatter, and Cobiah could hear thumping, pounding footsteps barging up from the hold.

“Can’t go backward,” Cobiah conceded. “Might as well charge.”

In a flash, he drew his sword. He heard the ringing sound of Bronn’s two-hander coming free of its scabbard as Grymm bellowed a challenge. “Villains!” the younger twin shouted, his voice carrying like a foghorn. “Fight us one on one, if you dare!” He swatted away a sword pointed in his face and charged into the line of guardsmen to their right, plowing one Seraph with a haymaker as he drove his knee into a second soldier’s gut. It didn’t take Grymm long to turn that side of the room into a six-on-one brawl.

Bronn turned to the left, swinging his greatsword in broad strokes over his head to drive their opponents backward. Cobiah took advantage of their escorts’ surprise to punch one in the jaw with his cutlass hilt. Before the other Krytans could react, Cobiah grabbed one by the shoulder and hurled him into the third, knocking both of them to the floor.

With the norn twins handling the company of marines, no one stood between Cobiah and the Krytan prince. “I might not make it out of this room,” Cobiah said threateningly, storming toward Edair, “but you sure as hell won’t.”

“Cobiah, please!” Isaye begged, stepping in front of the throne. “I can’t let you hurt him.” The gesture was baffling, and Cobiah froze midstride, struck by the tears in her eyes and the desperate tone in her voice.

“Damn it, Isaye!” Cobiah grabbed her shoulder roughly, pushing her aside. “This is no time for national loyalty!
The man’s trying to kill me. He’s trying to destroy our city.”

“I know,” she whispered, tears running down her cheeks.

That wasn’t the response he’d expected. He thought she’d fight him or argue—call him names or defend the Krytan prince’s actions. Instead, Isaye stood mutely in his path, willing to take any abuse he’d offer. It wasn’t like her at all.

His hand softened on her shoulder, cupping it gently instead of gripping with force. “Isaye . . .” Cobiah wavered, taking in her distress. “What has he done to you?”

Just then Krytan soldiers rushed into the room, flooding past Cobiah and hurtling protectively into position around the prince. One of them knocked Isaye aside, leveling his blade at Cobiah’s heart. The blow was so violent that she tumbled to the ground, striking her head against the floor of the cabin. Isaye fell limp, dark hair tumbling across her shoulders to cover her face.

More troops pushed through the doorway, overwhelming the twins with sheer numbers. Three guardsmen forced Bronn’s sword out of his hands, backing him against a wall with the barrel of a pistol shoved under the norn’s bearded jaw. Grymm struggled to cross the room to reach him, dragging two men on each of his legs and another hanging behind him from his broad shoulders. He swung wildly, trying to knock his captors off him, but more and more piled on. A few moments later, there were so many sailors on the norn that Cobiah couldn’t see him anymore—and then the entire pile collapsed to the deck, kicking and wriggling in defiance.

“Your Highness!” a guard reported from the
Nomad II’s
deck. “The schooner’s cast off. They’re getting away!”

“Burn it to the waterline. Use the flaming oil,” the
prince said lazily, barely bothering to raise his voice. “Do I have to tell you people
everything
?”

Other soldiers relayed the command, and soon Cobiah heard the twangs of shortbow fire and thuds of oil packets fired from handheld slings. The Krytans stripped Cobiah’s weapon from his hand. Keeping their swords pointed at his chest and throat, they forced him against the wall beside Bronn. Cobiah didn’t take his eyes off Isaye. Tenzin pushed his way through the soldiers to kneel at her side. The young marine pressed a torn piece of cloth to a wound on Isaye’s head, where blood was beginning to mat the silken strands. “Did you have to hurt her?” he said to the soldier sharply.

The man stiffened. “Just following orders, sir.”

Even at a distance, Cobiah could hear Isaye mutter something smarmy as her eyes fluttered open. Despite the bleak circumstances, her voice was full of life and fire—and Cobiah eased back against the wall with a sigh of relief.

“Slap the traitors in irons, including the
Nomad
’s officers.” Prince Edair gave a lackadaisical wave of his hand. “Take them aboard the
Balthazar’s Trident
. We’ll handle the interrogations there.”

T
he
Balthazar’s Trident
was a heavy, broad hulk of a ship, wallowing in the ocean like a pig in mud. She was the very picture of great wealth, with gleaming brass railings, lily-white sails, and carved ornamentation on every door, hatch, and railing. The ship’s name was plated in gold, blazoned in two-foot-high lettering beneath the balcony of her stern galley. The figurehead on her prow was of the human god of war after whom the ship was named. Twice as large as any other figurehead in the fleet, the statue portrayed him from the waist up as if in battle, raising a brass trident challengingly toward the sky. The ship had four great masts, so large that the trees themselves must have been over a hundred years old, positioned in a straight line from fore to rear along her deck and rigged with a thick span of interconnecting lines that made up her superstructure. A massive golden crown had been embroidered on her forward jib sail, and a series of fifty-foot-long gold-and-green pennants spun from the high points of her mastheads. She even dwarfed the
Indomitable.