Red Tide (32 page)

Gray-white slime leaked from the cracks in the walls, like brain matter from a cleft in a skull. The different trails joined before spreading outward to cover the walls in a gelatinous membrane that pulsed like a diseased womb. A hum reached Amerel's ears, rising in pitch as needleflies drifted out from pocks in the flesh.

Hex cocked his head. “Whatever did you do to earn a Deliverer's regard?”

Again Amerel kept her silence. She thought about Noon's sorcerous globes. A firestorm or an earthquake unleashed within the confines of this room might give Hex a rude awakening. But would one of her Will-shields protect her from the blast? Plus what guarantee did she have that the stone-skin was sleeping in this house and not in a neighboring one?

The dreamweaver considered her before shrugging. “Keep your secrets, then. For now. In truth, the cause for the deed concerns me not, but rather the problem the Deliverer's meddling begot. You see, he has left me with something of a challenge. Namely to think of a way to kill you that you have not already suffered. Hee hee!”

As the room continued to transform, Amerel felt an unfamiliar tickle at the back of her throat. Was this fear? It was so long since she'd experienced the sensation she barely recognized it.

Hex said, “But hark at me, chattering on when it should be you doing the talking.”

“Talking?” Amerel said. “About what?”

“Oh, troop numbers and dispositions, the emperor's favorite color. I'm sure you'll think of something. The answers are of less interest to me than how long you are able to resist giving them.”

Bulges formed behind the rubbery walls, and the membranes split in sprays of gray muck to reveal a wooden torture rack, a butcher's hook crusted with hair and dried blood, a winch and pulley linked by chains to—

Amerel tore her gaze away.

“Do you recognize this one?” Hex said, indicating a brass sarcophagus mounted on the wall. “The victim is locked inside and a fire lit below. In a matter of moments, the metal is aglow.” He sniffed the air. “Is that the aroma of its last occupant I smell?”

Dark memories leapt unbidden into Amerel's mind. “If these things are meant to spook me, you forget, I've already seen them in the Deliverer's dreams.”

“And because you've known pain before, you do not fear it now? If that were so, you would have welcomed your dreams, not hidden from them.” A man's screams started up, along with the clanking of chains. The dreamweaver's expression turned thoughtful. “Too much, yes? An overexuberant hand, and fear can quickly descend into farce.”

A whisper of steel sounded as Noon drew his swords. Fear made his voice sound brittle. “I've heard enough.”

“Boring you, am I?” The dreamweaver's eyes glittered. “You should have said. Pray, let me try you with this instead.”

On the wall to Amerel's left, a swelling like a boil formed. It grew from the size of a man's head until it filled half the wall. Then it burst, and from it erupted …

Amerel's heart thundered in her chest.

Spiders.

Hundreds of them.

*   *   *

Galantas was being hunted. Each time he looked over his shoulder he saw amid the crowds splashes of red from the cloaks of the chasing Honored. For the past quarter-bell he'd taken a winding course through the Rat District in an attempt to throw off his pursuers, yet they clung to his trail like dogs on a scent. If anything, they appeared to be closing the gap. They must have recognized him, and that meant there'd be no shaking them off. After Dresk, Galantas would be the scalp the Augerans prized the most. And to think he'd always considered notoriety to be a good thing.

This would never have happened if he'd fled inland. Odds were, the stone-skins didn't have the numbers to press the attack beyond Bezzle's borders, but Galantas couldn't risk trapping himself on the island. Word of the Augeran raid would spread across the Isles. Tonight, the clan leaders would meet at the Hub to consider their response, and Galantas intended to be there. All he had to do was find a boat. That was why he was heading north through the city toward a strip of beach known as the Drift. At this time of day a handful of fishing boats were usually drawn up on the sand, just waiting to be borrowed.

The problem was, half of Bezzle seemed to have had the same idea. Most of the folk abroad were running in the same direction that he was, and there were only so many heels you could trip before people started noticing. He passed two men carrying a sideboard between them, and they stopped to point and swear at him like it was his fault the stone-skins were attacking. He lurched past, his breath sawing in his throat. Maybe he wasn't as fit as he could be, but he'd been trying to cut down on this running-for-his-life business.

Nearly there now. Galantas could see the sea ahead. The flagstones gave way to a dirt track, then to sand. At the top of a dune, he looked down onto the Drift—

And stuttered to a halt, cursing.

The boats were gone. He could make out grooves where their keels had been dragged to the water. On the glittering sweep of the bay, he counted eight boats. All were crammed to the gunwales with Bezzlians. In the shallows a handful of folk watched the craft retreat as if they'd come to see off loved ones, while around them bobbed half a dozen corpses of people who had fought and failed to claim a place on the boats. The water about them was tinged red. The sharks would be here soon, if they weren't already.

Galantas shaded his eyes and focused on the craft nearest to shore—a small fishing boat with a mast and oars. There were so many people on board it was a wonder it could float, and in the span of Galantas's gaze he saw a wave strike the bow and unseat a man perched on the rail. As he toppled backward into the water, he grabbed one of the oars in an effort to stop himself being left behind. Angry shouts sounded as the boat slewed around.

That gave Galantas an idea.

He staggered down the face of the dune. The beach was littered with nets and scraps of wood, like detritus washed up from a shipwreck. As Galantas approached the surf, waterlogged sand sucked at his feet. He waded out until the waves reached his waist. Only then did he pause to look back the way he had come. There was no sign of his Augeran pursuers, but Qinta and Barnick were just a few paces behind. They were both panting. As Barnick reached Galantas, he shot him a look. They both knew what had to be done. Maybe Galantas should have spent longer agonizing over the choice, but he'd worry about massaging his conscience when he was safe and dry.

“Do it,” he said to Barnick. Then he gestured to the folk in the shallows. “Just give me a chance first to swim clear of this rabble.”

Barnick nodded.

Galantas dived into the waves. His shirt was soaked through with sweat, and the sea felt blessedly cool after the heat of the chase. It wasn't easy swimming with one arm. Even with all the practice he'd had over the years, he kept rolling onto his side. The waves seemed to drag him back to shore faster than he could swim away from it. After a few dozen strokes he was done, and he started treading water. Over the crests of the breakers he saw snatches of the boat that was his target, its oars rising and falling in bright showers of spray. It was pulling away from him. His goal had never been to catch up to the craft, though. All he'd wanted was to put some distance between himself and the people on shore.

Qinta and Barnick drew up beside him. He looked once more at the boat.

“Now!” he said to Barnick.

Beneath the hull the sea swelled, and the craft was lifted into the air. It tipped to one side, pitching its passengers shrieking into the water—all except a bare-chested man who managed to grab the boat's mast with one hand. For a count of five he hung on, feet kicking. Then he lost his grip and fell onto the head of a woman just resurfacing. The now-empty boat settled on the sea and went shooting off on a wave of water-magic before its former passengers could climb back on board.

It reached Galantas in moments. As it approached, the wave beneath it receded, but its momentum still carried it into him. It bumped against him gently like a horse nuzzling its master. He wrapped his arm over the gunwale, too tired to clamber inside.

Qinta was first over the rail. He hauled Galantas dripping into the bow.

The boat rocked beneath them.

Shouts came from the bay and the shore. Swimmers thrashed toward them from both directions, yet none would get to them in time. A lone sandal lay in the bow. Qinta tossed it over the side just as Barnick scrambled aboard, his hair plastered across his face. The oars were still in their rowlocks, and Galantas pulled them free and stowed them in the bottom of the boat.

“Let's go,” he said to Barnick.

The craft sped off on a curling course that took it wide of the swimmers in the bay.

Screams from the beach marked the arrival of the Augerans who had been hunting Galantas. Finding their quarry flown, they took out their frustrations on the unfortunates left behind, and a similar fate no doubt awaited the erstwhile passengers of this boat. If they had known of the danger Galantas was facing, though, they would have been more than willing to lay down their lives for him. And if they weren't, they damned well should have been. He
was
their lord now, after all.

Or soon would be.

He swung his gaze to the Old Town. The gates of Dresk's fortress had been shut, and a handful of guards manned the walls. Was Dresk still inside? Almost certainly, since the fool couldn't leave his gold behind any more than he could take it with him. Galantas pursed his lips. Strange. He'd been waiting for this day for as long as he could remember, yet instead of feeling triumph, he found himself wondering what his father was doing. Sitting in the Great Hall, perhaps, sensing the stone-skin noose tightening about him? Or looking out over the bay from the battlements, wishing he were in Galantas's boat?

For an absurd moment, Galantas wanted to turn the craft about and go back for him. But even if he could have rescued his father, that would only have brought more shame on the man. Galantas steeled himself. This was the father who had turned Galantas's brother against him. Who had dishonored the memory of Galantas's mother—his own wife—by spreading rumors of her infidelity so he could cast doubt on Galantas's birthright. Galantas should have let him die all those years ago in the Raptor raid. It would have been better for both of them.

He looked toward the harbor. Four Augeran ships bobbed at quayside amid the dozens of Rubyholt vessels. Among them was the
Eternal,
its metal hull gleaming in the sunlight. The waterfront was patrolled by red- and black-cloaked figures, and Galantas's expression darkened. Hundreds of Islanders would die today, but it was the loss of the ships that most troubled him—

“We got trouble,” Qinta said, pointing.

A short distance to the south, a two-masted Augeran galleon rode on a wave of water-magic. As it neared the islets at the mouth of the harbor, it picked up speed.

It was coming straight for them.

*   *   *

Karmel slowed as she approached the corner around which the Augeran squad had disappeared. In all the time she and Caval had been following, the soldiers had yet to check their backtrail. That was no excuse for carelessness on the Chameleons' part, though, for one slip-up could cost them their lives. Caval swung wide to give himself a view along the street in case the stone-skins waited in ambush. But the enemy were already forty paces distant, and lengthening the gap with every heartbeat.

The Chameleons ran after them.

The Augerans had an enviable ability to sweep the roads clear of trouble. Two streets back they'd encountered a group of armed Rubyholters twice their size, but upon seeing the invaders, the Islanders had melted away like mist in the sun. Nor did the stone-skins seem interested in engaging the locals who crossed their path. They were heading for the fortress, Karmel suspected—now visible in glimpses over the rooftops to the north.

Ahead the street opened out, and stalls with striped awnings came into view. The Old Market. One of the landmarks on Mazana's map. The place looked like the Furies had swept through it. Fish-bone charms and pieces of broken pottery were scattered all about. Looters fought with stallholders for things they wouldn't want tomorrow and in some cases could barely carry now. A man staggered along with a rolled carpet on each shoulder, their ends sagging down to brush the ground. He passed two women wrestling over a ceramic pot while a bawling baby lay forgotten beside them. A man carrying an armful of sandfruits upended a spice stall. Baskets of spices fell to the ground, throwing up clouds of colorful dust.

The stone-skins ran through the wreckage, leaving footprints in the powder.

“This way,” Caval said, heading toward an alley to the west.

The Chameleons entered a passage choked with rubbish. Karmel had to hurdle a section of road where the flagstones had crumbled to reveal the broken pipes of some decaying drainage system. The clamor of the city filled her ears—shrieks and groans, pleas for help or mercy. Beyond the next junction half a dozen men were fighting, no sides apparent. Karmel wondered if they even knew themselves who they battled, or why. A woman wielding a saber drove her weapon into a man's midriff. She looked around as the Chameleons approached and bellowed at them to stop, even stumbled a pace toward them, but Karmel and Caval skidded round a corner and away.

Buildings of blue-veined stone flashed past to either side. Caval kept looking back at Karmel as if he thought she might slip away, and a part of her wanted nothing more than to find a place where she could sit down and cover her ears. Mazana Creed had warned her, though, that there'd be no hiding from what was coming to Bezzle. And so Karmel let herself be tugged along by her brother's shadow, no idea where she was going anymore, just concentrating on sucking in each breath while the world slipped into the Abyss around her.