Red Tide (22 page)

“What are you doing?” Caval asked Karmel.

“Putting a little flesh on the bones of Mazana's story.”

“I'd have thought you were used to being kept in the dark on missions.”

Karmel forced a smile.

Mokinda halted in front of them. His gaze shifted from the priestess to her brother, then back again. “We should not be talking,” he said. His diction sounded alien to Karmel's ears, even for an Untarian, for he stressed his “t”s with exaggerated care.

“Why not?” Karmel said. “You're not the first crewman I've spoken to since coming on board.”

Mokinda did not reply.

Karmel considered her next words. If she was going to persuade the Untarian to lower his guard, she would have to do so by degrees. “Mazana said we were going to pick up a guide from the Rubyholt Isles. So where is he?”

“Waiting for us at the harbor.”

“Does he know who you are?”

“Hardly.”

“Does anyone on board?”

“Just the captain.”

“And you're not worried one of the crew might recognize you?”

“Would you have done, if your brother hadn't prompted you?”

The
Grace
had reached the guardhouse with the upraised drawbridge. Ahead a second drawbridge came into view, this one without a fortress to protect it. Beyond, the canal opened out onto the harbor. The place had a stink to it that rivaled even the Shallows. Karmel could see the approach to the chains was bounded by stone walls that stretched back from the towers guarding the harbor entrance, forming a corridor of stone.

“Are you coming with us as far as the Rubyholt Isles?” Karmel asked Mokinda.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

The Storm Lord blinked.

“I can understand why you escorted us to Gilgamar—in case we met a dragon in the Sabian Sea. But there's no reason to think there are any dragons between Gilgamar and the Rubyholt Isles. They'll have returned to the Southern Wastes by now.”

Mokinda wouldn't be keeping his chips for long at the flush table, Karmel suspected, for his discomfort at her line of questioning was plain. That was good, because it meant she was on the right track.

“As Mazana explained it to us,” she went on, “you've got no part to play in the destruction of the stone-skin fleet. No part. So what are you doing here?” Then, “Perhaps you've been sent to the Rubyholt Isles for a different reason. Or perhaps Mazana is holding you in reserve in case Caval and I fail.”

Mokinda's frown suggested that last was close to the truth … but not the whole truth. “Mazana has told you everything you need to know,” he said.

“What we
need
to know maybe. I want the rest as well.”

“What makes you think Mazana told me more than she told you?”

“She had to tell someone.”

Mokinda did not respond.

Karmel bit back on her irritation, but what could she do? She had already accepted Mazana's mission; it wasn't as if she could threaten to back out if the Untarian didn't answer her questions. She tried a different tack.

“It was Jambar who warned Mazana the stone-skin fleet was coming, yes? So what else did he see in his bones?”

“As the shaman was so keen to impress on me, all he sees are possibilities.”

“Yet some of those possibilities must be more possible than others. What trouble are we likely to run into? What are our chances of success?”

Mokinda finally met her gaze. “That depends on your definition of success.”

“Completing the mission. Coming out the other side.”

The Untarian winced.

“That good, eh?” Caval said.

Mokinda paused. He looked from Karmel to Caval, then made as if to speak before stopping himself. He wanted to tell them, the priestess realized. So why was he holding back? Maybe he was worried that Mazana would discover his indiscretion. Or maybe he thought telling the Chameleons would jeopardize the mission.

Most likely, though, he'd kept his silence because he knew his expression had already said enough about what awaited Karmel and Caval in the Rubyholt Isles.

He turned and walked away.

*   *   *

Ebon's boat drifted through the night. On the beach south of Gilgamar were dozens of fires, and about them were clustered figures wrapped in blankets, as if some ragtag army had arrived to besiege the city. A brooding silence hung over the camp that was broken by a distant scream from the town. Farther east, the echoing clang of metal against stone started up as if someone were trying to beat down a wall with a sword.

Ebon sat hunched on the oar bench, giddy with fatigue. Ahead and to his right, a line of torches marked the route of the canal through the city. As he approached the entrance to it, the hulking shadow of a wreck loomed out of the darkness. Each wave that lapped against its hull prompted a chorus of creaks. Gunnar—curled up now asleep in the stern—had warned Ebon about the blacktooth snakes infesting these waters, and the prince saw their moonlit forms twisting over the wreck. There were hundreds of them. Thousands, even. But they wouldn't be able to scale the outward-curving sides of his boat, he reminded himself. Strangely, that came as scant consolation as he steered the craft over the rustling black swell.

The wreck tilted acutely to one side, its rigging tangled between the shattered masts and spars. One of the spars extended across the entrance to the canal, just above the water level. Ebon released his power in a burst to lift the boat over it and into the channel beyond. To his right was an area of scrubland along with a collection of shanties. To his left was a two-story guardhouse with lights showing in its ground-floor windows. Beyond, a wall ran the length of the canal, built high enough to prevent someone in a boat such as Ebon's from scaling it. That wall gave the waterway the feel of a moat flooded to bar access to the eastern half of the city from the west.

At the end of the torchlit canal, Ebon could make out the dark curl of the harbor wall along with the masts of the ships at quayside. So few ships, but who was to say Ocarn's wasn't among them? One way or another, he'd be finding out soon. Worn thin as he was, he knew he should rest once his boat was tied up at harbor. But he also knew he wouldn't be able to stop himself—

A crossbow bolt flitted past his eyes and hit the water behind him with a
plish.
A second thudded into the oar bench beside him, throwing up splinters.

“Hold your fire!” Ebon shouted.

He didn't wait to see if the crossbowmen complied. Surrendering his power over the waves, he fashioned a shield between himself and the place where the bolts had come from—the guardhouse. One, two, three more missiles slammed into the barrier and cannoned away.

“Stay behind me,” he said to Vale before looking at Gunnar. The mage had woken, but remained curled up in the stern. He watched Ebon through narrowed eyes.

The prince's outstretched hand signaled him to remain still.

Another crossbow bolt struck Ebon's sorcerous shield. If the shots were coming from the guardhouse, that meant the shooters must be Gilgamarian soldiers. He felt a rush of blood to his face. Were they so bored for something to do that they had to use him for target practice? He surveyed the battlements. Shadowy shapes had materialized atop the tower and the wall alongside it.

“Hold your fire!” he snapped again.

A voice floated down from the wall. “Canal's off limits between dusk and dawn. Toss your weapons overboard and throw us a line.”

“We are strangers to Gilgamar. We seek news of a Mercerien ship that took part in the Dragon Hunt.”

“Save it for the magister tomorrow. Toss your weapons overboard.”

Surrender? Not likely. If Ebon gave himself up, he faced a night in a cell. And when he finally appeared before the magister, what was he supposed to say? That he was a Galitian prince? Galitia wasn't part of the Sabian League. It didn't have an embassy here, so there was no one in the city who could confirm his story. And who would believe that a prince had arrived in the dead of night with a mere two companions as escort? To make matters worse, Ebon had revealed he was seeking word of a Mercerien ship. If Ocarn
was
here, might not the magister summon him to verify Ebon's identity? Ebon couldn't expect help from that quarter. And if Ocarn was holding Rendale and Lamella against their will, the last thing Ebon wanted to do was give notice he was in town.

If he wasn't going to surrender, though, what options did that leave? Run the gauntlet of the canal in the hope of reaching the harbor? The waterway was only a few hundred armspans long, but there was no way of knowing how many soldiers lay in wait along its length, or indeed in the port itself. Ebon could probably extend his sorcerous shield to cover the whole boat, but this wasn't the time to experiment. For while
he
might be prepared to risk his life in his search for Rendale and Lamella, he couldn't expect his companions to take the same chance.

He ground his teeth together. If going forward wasn't possible, that just left going back.

Ebon looked up at the sky, trying to judge the hour. Somewhere around the fourth bell, he guessed, meaning it wouldn't be long until first light. He took a breath.
Patience.
If Rendale and Lamella were here, they weren't going to leave before sunrise. Perhaps it was best that he waited if it meant he could snatch some sleep.

“Gunnar,” he said, his gaze still fixed on the tower's battlements, “get us out of here—back the way we came.”

As the boat rose on a wave of water-magic, a guard shot a crossbow bolt to speed them on their way. It struck the boards a handspan from Ebon's foot and stuck there, quivering.

 

C
HAPTER
8

S
ENAR HESITATED
at the door to Mazana's bedchamber. He'd been tempted to ignore her summons from earlier, but his curiosity had won out in the end, what with the rumors sweeping the palace this morning. Were they why the emira had sent for him now? He knocked and heard her call to enter.

This was the first time he'd been in Mazana's quarters. To his left, a huge fish tank was set into the wall, screened behind a pane of sorcerously strengthened glass. The floor mosaic showed a beach of black pebbles, bright with spray. To Senar's right was an unmade bed, and on it sat Mazana wrapped in a towel. Her bare arms showed no sign of yesterday's blotches. Senar could see the shape of her body through the towel.

Next to her sat her half brother, Uriel, his fringe hanging over his eyes, his feet dangling over the bed. On his lap was a wooden bowl full of water.

Mazana looked up as Senar entered. Her gaze lingered on his swollen lip, and she gave a half smile. There was no shadow in her look from their encounter last night. Perhaps she'd forgotten it already.

“You wanted to see me, Emira,” he said.

“So formal, Guardian? I can call you Guardian, can't I?”

“If you must,” Senar replied.

Uriel spoke. “It's not working,” he said to Mazana.

She turned to him. “Show me.”

The boy tightened his grip on the bowl, his forehead creasing with that look of concentration only the young can muster. Nothing happened.

“Can you sense the flow in the water?” Mazana said.

“You mean, like currents?”

“Like currents, yes. Only these currents are there all the time.”

“But the water isn't moving.”

The emira smoothed his hair. “Remember when I put ink in the bowl that time? How the color spread through the water even though it was still?”

Uriel frowned some more.

“Shall I show you?” Mazana said.

He nodded.

“Follow what I'm doing. Close your eyes if it helps. The currents I'm talking about can't be seen.”

The boy kept his eyes open.

Senar felt Mazana release her power. The water in the bowl began to glisten.

Uriel shifted on the bed. “It's getting cold.”

“Yes. The slower the currents move, the colder the water becomes. Until…”

The surface of the water clouded to ice. The boy placed a tentative finger on it. It cracked, and he snatched his finger back. His look was disbelieving. “Can I have another go?”

“Of course. Why don't you stir the currents to life again, see if you can make the ice melt.”

His brow furrowed once more.

Senar looked from Uriel to Mazana. He was struck by the resemblance between them: the copper hair, the full mouth, the high cheekbones. To look at them, you wouldn't know they were merely half siblings. Mazana must have sensed his regard, for she glanced up before looking away again. Senar felt like he was intruding on something, but the emira didn't appear to mind.

The ice in the bowl started to melt. Perhaps it was just the temperature in the room that caused it, for Senar had detected no more than a trickle of power from the boy. Uriel clearly did not think so, though, because his face split in a grin.

“I did it!”

“You did it,” Mazana agreed.

He beamed pink, bounced on the bed and spilled some water. Then his smile faded. “Can I show Mother?” he blurted.

Mazana did not respond. Her gaze flickered to Senar in warning. Clearly the boy didn't know his mother was dead, or that Mazana had killed her—just as she had killed their shared father. That particular news would take some breaking when the time came.

“Is she coming here soon?” Uriel asked.

“I don't know,” Mazana said.

“She's not coming soon, is she?”

“No.”

“Because of the dragons?”

“Because of the dragons.”

“But you'll hunt them down, won't you? Like you promised. When the bad men are gone.”

The bad men?

Mazana nodded. “We'll talk about this later.”

Uriel's face fell. He opened his mouth to protest.