Red Tide (15 page)

“I hope not. I'd hate to have to obey one of his orders.”

The Second blinked. “You're going to the meeting?”

Galantas nodded.

“To support the claims of the other clans?”

Another nod.

Qinta chuckled. “Nothing quite like being generous with your old man's money, is there?”

“The money doesn't belong to Dresk. It belongs to all the Isles.”

“And you're gonna offer to share it round if you take your father's place?”

“No.” When it came to spending the gold, Galantas didn't trust the other clan leaders any more than he trusted Dresk.

Lassan was in trouble. He must have realized by now that he'd strayed off course, yet he seemed uncertain whether to continue on or retreat to safer ground. His attention was fixed on the white-finned shark. He'd forgotten the briar he'd punched, though, and the creature now drifted toward him from the north. Again the crowd shouted a warning. Lassan turned to face the new threat.

Galantas pursed his lips. The boy had just one option left: remain motionless and hope the shark passed him by. Instead he started thrashing through the water in the direction he'd come. He lost his footing and went under. Moments later he resurfaced, pleading for help. Kalim had cried for help too at the end. As if Galantas could have waved a wand and magicked him to safety. As if Kalim would have helped Galantas if the roles had been reversed.

The briar closed in on Lassan. A woman on the opposite shore screamed.

“Feeding time,” Galantas said.

Qinta gave him an “I told you so” look.

Galantas pushed himself to his feet. “Let's get out of here.”

*   *   *

Romany stretched out on her bed, her heart aflutter at the recollection of her time in the throne room. A bell had passed since the meeting with the Chameleons, yet still she was struggling to put the memory of that watery hellhole behind her. It didn't help, of course, that she could hear the distant rustle of waves. She'd chosen as her quarters a room far from the sea, but even here there was no escaping its sound, just as there was no escaping the damp air and the salty whiff that seemed to pervade every corner of this godforsaken palace. After the Forest of Sighs, she'd thought nothing would ever measure down to Mayot's hospitality and the discomforts of the ruined city of Estapharriol. Now she was beginning to wonder.

If there was a saving grace to Romany's day, it had come in the form of a bottle of Koronos white. And last year's vintage, no less! It was her new servant, Floss, who had found it. At Romany's command, the girl had spent most of the afternoon hunting it out in the palace's stores. Any goodwill Floss might have earned in so doing, though, had been promptly squandered when she revealed herself to be a devotee of the Lord of Hidden Faces and asked the priestess to say prayers with her at sunfall. Romany had declined, of course. It had been decades since she'd last sullied her lips with a prayer, and she saw no reason to start again now. It wasn't as if the Spider would have listened, after all.

She hadn't listened all those years ago when Romany had prayed for her parents to come back for her.

A mouthful of wine, then the priestess closed her eyes and surrendered her mind to her sorcerous web. Time to do a little exploring.

Something drew her to one of the courtyards.…

The clash of weapons greeted Romany, and she watched the Revenant subcommander, Twist, battling the Everlord, Kiapa, in the middle of a ring of cheering spectators. She rolled her spiritual eyes. Spider's mercy, didn't the fools have enough enemies outside the palace that they had to go fighting each other? A swing of one of Twist's flails tangled the sword of his opponent, leaving his second weapon unimpeded as it whistled for Kiapa's head, but the Everlord ducked beneath it and retreated. Twist surged forward, feinting with one flail before attacking with the other. Kiapa must have read his intent, for he stepped smoothly to the side before retaliating with a lunge that his adversary blocked.

Romany found her muscles twitching as she anticipated each move and countermove, mentally thrusting and parrying with the two men as they battled back and forth. And all the while a part of her wondered how she would fare with her newly acquired assassin's skills if she were ever pitted against one of them …

A knock sounded from the door to her quarters. A visitor. An uninvited one, needless to say. Floss, perhaps?

Sighing, she flashed back to her room along the threads of her web.
Well, well,
she thought as she hovered by her door. Not the servant after all, but someone far more interesting.

She would have to step carefully here.

Opening her eyes, she sat up in her bed. She'd taken off her mask earlier to give her face a chance to breathe, but she slipped it on again as she rose and made for the door. Outside waited the Remnerol shaman, Jambar. He wore a vacuous smile, but the stiffness of his posture betrayed his agitation. In one hand he held a bulging bag containing the knuckle bones he used for his readings. With the other hand he raised his monocle to his sole remaining eye and peered at the priestess through it.

“Greetings,” he said. “May I have a few moments of your time?”

A welcome that courteous surely spelled trouble, but Romany nodded her agreement all the same. Her curiosity was piqued. While scouting the palace last week, she'd watched the shaman carry out numerous readings with his bones. Romany couldn't deny an interest in the workings of his craft, yet she'd been unable to make sense of his divinations, and alas he hadn't thought to provide his secret watcher with a running commentary.

Once inside, Jambar started pacing. “What is your Lord up to?” he said.

Romany stared at him. A strange opening gambit.

“More importantly, what are
you
up to?”

“You mean, at this precise moment?”

“Your Lord helped Mazana kill Fume in the Founder's Citadel, did he not? He must have known the god's bones would fall into my hands.”

Even if Romany had been minded to speak, her guest didn't give her a chance.

“Why permit that to happen,” the shaman pressed, “if he intended all along to rob me of the bones' usefulness?”

Rob him? “Has someone stolen the god's bones?” Romany asked, glancing at the bag in his hand.

Jambar clutched the bag to his chest as if she'd said that was
her
intent. For a while he studied her like he was trying to read her thoughts in her eyes. His smile began to irritate her.

“There are millions of possible futures,” he said finally. “Every act of every person shapes what is to come. A shaman's art lies in distinguishing the momentous from the mundane—the actions that determine which path the arrow of time will follow. The deeds of a single person can change everything, you agree?”

Romany looked around the room. Perhaps there was something else she could be doing while she waited for him to get to his point.

“Then you must appreciate,” Jambar went on, “that if just one person's part in the future's tapestry was missing, the whole picture would become at best distorted, at worst meaningless.”

And finally he was starting to make sense. This one person … Romany herself? And her presence here was interfering with his readings? When she considered it, it wasn't surprising that he should have failed to predict the events that had seen her sent here by the Spider, or that the subtle spells she routinely weaved about herself should make it hard for him to see her future. Not surprising, but undeniably satisfying.

“I imagine that must be quite frustrating,” she said. “To spend all your time piecing together a picture of the future only for someone to put their fist through the weave.”

Jambar somehow managed to keep his smile in place even though the corners of his mouth turned down. “The question that interests me is
why
.
Why
am I unable to perceive you in the futures?”

“The answer seems obvious enough.” Then, in response to the shaman's expectant look, “You're just not very good at what you do.”

A muscle flickered in the Remnerol's cheek. “I know my worth. A man is no worse for being criticized than he is better for being praised. If you take note of what you are inwardly, you need not pay attention to what others say of you.”

Romany retrieved her glass of wine and took a sip. It wasn't easy drinking while she wore a mask, but the important jobs were worth persevering in. “And yet you failed to predict the attempt on Mazana's life earlier. Unless, of course, you
did
predict it but chose not to warn her.”

“You think my attention can be everywhere at all times? You think I just scatter my bones and read the future like a book?” He shook his head. “For a reading to be meaningful, I have to focus upon an individual or event—to assign value to each symbol on my board.”

“And where has your attention been fixed of late that you've had no time to look to the safety of your patron?”

Jambar stepped forward. “Mazana Creed is not my patron. But perhaps my services can be of use to your Lord.”

Romany raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Do you think it is just my pride at stake here?” he said. “Do you consider me so small-minded? A man is born to help not himself but his fellows. I seek nothing more in my duties than the opportunity to serve the common good.”

Romany had been taking another sip of wine as he spoke, and she had to swallow to stop herself snorting it out of her nose.

“If you know what happened on Dragon Day,” Jambar continued, “you must be aware of the threat that is coming. The fate of the whole Sabian League is at stake, not to mention the lands about.”

“You are referring to the risk posed by the stone-skins?”

The shaman nodded.

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what is the nature of that risk? You wish my god's patronage? Prove your worth to him now by telling me what you know.”

Jambar said nothing.

“Why are the stone-skins here? When will they strike? Where?”

“All I see are possibilities.”

“Possibilities are of no use to me,” Romany said. “Possibilities I can get from the old wives sucking blackweed down at the harbor. Perhaps my Lord should recruit them as well.”

The shaman did not respond. He was in an impossible position, Romany knew. Say nothing, and he would receive nothing back. But answer the priestess's questions, and he would give up his bargaining tool to get answers in return. Not that Romany would attach any weight to his predictions, of course. She could no more trust him to be honest than he could trust her to be the same. And if he
did
trust her, would that not prove him to be the fool she took him for?

The Remnerol tried to take another step forward, but he was already closer than Romany would have liked, and thus in the short time he'd been thinking she had weaved a few unobtrusive strands of sorcery about him. Now, as he sought to move, he found his path to the priestess obstructed. He tested the strength of the magic before settling back. The last vestiges of his sham good humor evaporated.

“Mazana Creed will hear of this,” he said, his eyes narrowing in a manner Romany assumed she was supposed to find intimidating.

“From me, if not from you.”

The shaman turned and stalked from the room.

Another day, another friend made.

Romany closed the door behind him and threw her mask onto a chair. An interesting encounter that had been, as much for what Jambar hadn't said as for what he had. Judging by his unease, he clearly considered the stone-skins to be a threat, but a threat to
what
exactly? To Mazana Creed? No, the shaman had shown he cared nothing for the emira's fate. To the League? That, at least, stood to affect him directly insofar as he might be forced to move on before the enemy arrived. Was that the totality of his interest here, though? What did he really want beyond mere survival? Until Romany knew the answer to that question, there was little to be gained in trying to read the man or determine what he was working toward.

Lying back on her bed, she put him from her mind. Her web was calling to her, and she had to admit she was curious to know how the duel between Twist and Kiapa was progressing. When she returned to the courtyard, though, she found it deserted, no sign of the combatants save a tantalizing splash of blood at the center of the square. And to think she'd missed the entertainment just so she could cross empty words with Jambar.

Romany shook herself. Entertainment? How much lower could she stoop?

She was about to return to her quarters when she sensed a ripple along her web from nearby—a ripple she recognized from the assassination attempt on Mazana.

The knife.

She flashed across the intervening distance …

… To find herself in one of the palace's cells. Darbonna was chained to a wall, her arms shackled above her head, her feet to the floor. Her wrists and ankles were weeping from the touch of the manacles. The cell was lit by a solitary torch, but if the sweat on Darbonna's brow was anything to go by, it was giving off the heat of a forge. Her left eye was swollen shut where she'd been punched by Mazana's guard. Just now, though, she was probably wishing the other eye were closed too.

For in front of her stood the emira, that infernal knife in her hand. Mazana's eyes had their customary red edge, sharp enough to make them gleam in the darkness.

Romany toyed with the idea of withdrawing. Something told her Mazana hadn't dropped by to inquire after Darbonna's health. Things were about to head south for the old woman, and Romany had no wish to be present when they did. Except that she had been sent to the palace by the Spider to judge Fume's hold on Mazana. Was a conversation between the emira and the god's former high priestess something Romany could rightly miss?