Red Tide (34 page)

The Guardian wasn't going to let that happen.

She advanced.

Behind the Augerans, the shadows to either side of the doorway came to life. Two blurred figures—a man and a woman—materialized, steel glinting in their hands. The stone-skins didn't have time to turn. Four throwing knives and as many heartbeats later, the Augerans were on the ground leaking blood to the gravel.

Amerel stared.

Chameleons.
A brother and sister too, judging by the shared square jaw. No one she recognized, but they clearly knew her to have come to her rescue. And that made her cautious. She looked between the strangers, waiting for one to speak. It was unlikely they'd killed the stone-skins just to turn on Amerel next—but no less unlikely than them coming to help her in the first place.

A pause, then the female Chameleon said, “Follow us.”

*   *   *

A bolt of sorcery from the pursuing Augeran ship struck the sea to Galantas's right. The waves blackened before dissolving to dust. Water crashed into the hollow left behind, with nothing to show where the magic had struck save a patch of hissing foam.

That had been too close for comfort.

The smaller size and greater maneuverability of Galantas's boat should have given him the advantage in the race against his hunters, but it seemed Barnick's counterpart on the stone-skin vessel held the edge in the ways of water-magic, for over the course of the past quarter-bell the Augeran ship had been steadily closing on them. Galantas was running out of options. Captown and Feng were too far away to reach. Abandoning the boat on some beach and fleeing inland would serve only to trap him as surely as if he'd stayed in Bezzle. And while it would be easy to shake off his pursuers in the maze of waterways that made up the Shoals, with the clan leaders due to meet there at the Hub this evening, Galantas didn't want to prompt a manhunt that might lead to the cancellation of the gathering.

Fortunately, there were lots of places around the Isles where a small boat could lure a larger vessel into peril. One was close enough that he might reach it before those bolts of sorcery reached him.

The Dragon's Boneyard.

Galantas smiled. If the stone-skins were intent on following him, it seemed only fair that he show them the best sights.

Barnick steered the boat north toward an opening between two cliffs, hugging the inside bend of a curve. The channel narrowed. Ahead the ivory-colored ribs of a dragon rose from the water. Three years ago, Galantas had seen that creature die—or rather heard it. He'd been standing on the cliff at Hangman's Drop after midnight. He remembered a weight of darkness below him, nothing but glints of moonlight off the dragon's armor. When it was ambushed by the monster that nested in the Dragon's Boneyard, its first trumpeting had suggested outrage at its attacker's audacity. But that trumpeting had quickly turned to squeals as it was overpowered and dragged beneath the waves. Next morning Galantas had seen one of the dragon's scales at the foot of the bluff. He'd always believed the creatures' armor to be impenetrable, yet the plate had been mangled like some hedge knight's shield.

Galantas had come this way only once before—in the Thousand Islands Race three years ago. The race followed a course that crossed the territories of all eight clans. It was hotly contested by the best sailors in the Isles, and the Dragon's Boneyard had offered Galantas a shortcut that promised victory. Barnick, as a water-mage, had been able to negotiate the channel in relative safety, so in the days before the race he had spent bells mapping out the contours of the strait together with the flooded ruins under the surface. That information had enabled Galantas to devise a plan to get them through the waterway and past the creature that dwelled there. In the race, he and Barnick had barely escaped with their lives. It had been worth it, though, to see the look on Dresk's face when he handed over the winner's purse.

Galantas had never imagined he'd have to come this way again. And three years ago he had been sailing in a boat specially adapted for the route he would take. If he wanted to follow the same path now, he'd need to make some modifications to the craft he was traveling in.

“Qinta!” he said. “Get the mast down! Use your sword.”

Qinta had the sense not to question him. He clambered upright and drew his blade. Setting his feet, he delivered a crunching stroke to the mast at waist height. The weapon caught in the wood. He waggled it free.

“Faster!” Galantas said, and Qinta started chopping over and over at the mast, splinters flying, until he'd hacked out a sizeable groove. Then he resheathed his sword and put his shoulder to the wood, hit it once, twice, three times. It creaked and finally snapped and toppled. Galantas cut the lines attaching it to the sail and heaved the lot over the side.

The channel had now narrowed to the length of three ships. In the water ahead were threads of what appeared to be fireweed, but Galantas knew them to be the strands of a vast underwater web spun by the creature that dwelled there—the Weaver, it had come to be called, after the spiders of the same name that infested Bezzle's underground aqueduct. Its lair was at the foot of the southern heights, so Barnick steered the boat toward the cliff on the north side. As he did so, he let the wave beneath the craft recede. The slower pace would allow the stone-skins to get closer, but it would also reduce the Islanders' chances of catching the Weaver's eye.

The water seemed unnaturally still. Beneath the surface, Galantas could make out two towers that might once have guarded a road between the cliffs. To the west, the skeletons of four more dragons jutted from the water, while at the base of the southern bluff was a patch of shimmering blackness that marked the portal between this world and whatever hellhole the Weaver called home. As the boat drew level, Galantas held his breath. These were the critical moments, he knew. If the beast remained in its lair until the stone-skins arrived, its attention would surely be drawn to the larger ship.

Assuming it wasn't already lying in wait somewhere ahead.

Time crawled. The channel was in shadow, and the air had an unmistakable chill to it. Qinta frowned at a flock of starbeaks overhead, but when he opened his mouth to explain the birds' import, Galantas forestalled him with a raised finger. The boat crept forward. In keeping close to the northern cliffs, Barnick was forced to take the craft through the partly submerged rib cage of one of the dragons. Each bone was as thick as the trunk of a ketar tree. The boat was traveling toward the head of the creature, and as it cleared the chest cavity, Galantas glanced down to locate the beast's skull in the water.

Only to find it was missing, the bones of the neck bitten through.

Suppressing a shudder, he looked back the way they had come. The Augerans were still following, but the wave of water-magic under their vessel had subsided just as Barnick's had. They couldn't know what awaited them in the channel, yet the warning in the dragons' bones was clear. One set would have been a curiosity, two, a coincidence. Five, though …

The Augerans' caution was understandable, but it stood to play into Galantas's hands, because the lower their ship rode in the water, the greater the chance that their keel would tangle in the Weaver's threads.

Nearly there.

“Galantas!” Qinta said, pointing toward the rent.

His heart skipped a beat. Something moved in the darkness, spreading through the water like a bruise. Coming for Galantas's boat? The stone-skins couldn't be the Weaver's target because their ship hadn't yet entered the strait. Nor was that likely to change if they had seen the creature too.

Time to be going.

“Barnick!” Galantas yelled. “Go, go, go!”

 

C
HAPTER
12

E
BON WATCHED
the boy pause in the shadow of the Mercerien ship's windowed stern. Dressed in three-quarter trousers and a shirt that looked like a sack with holes cut for arms, he took a stone from a bulging pocket and sent it looping over the rail. It landed with a clatter on deck. Another stone followed, then another. The third one drew a shout from a sailor on board, but no one appeared at the rail to investigate the source.

Just because Ebon had arranged access to the Upper City through Tia didn't mean he couldn't explore other options too. Gunnar had recently returned from scouting the entrance to Gilgamar from the direction of Dian. Alas, the guards stationed at the East Gate had refused to let him pass. Vale had received the same message at the Canal Gate. Not everyone was being turned back, though. A bell ago, Ebon had seen a party of gray-cloaked warriors and some metal-skinned giant enter the Upper City. He'd been tempted to tag along in the hope he would be mistaken for one of the group, but he'd hesitated at the crucial moment, and the chance had gone.

Tia it was, then.

Before he entered the Upper City, though, he needed to find out as much as he could about the circumstances in which Rendale and Lamella were being held. To do that, he needed to lure one of Ocarn's lieutenants down to the port. And so earlier Gunnar had posed as a sailor, and paid a guard at the Harbor Gate to take a message to the Mercerien embassy. That message had alleged a fatal dispute between two of Ocarn's crew. Ebon hoped that Ocarn would send someone to knock heads together, thereby allowing Ebon to snatch and interrogate the man. After three bells, though, there was still no sign of any visitor. With the afternoon drawing on, Ebon had decided to cut his losses and try instead to question a member of the Mercerien ship's crew.

Which was why he was standing here now, watching a boy in his pay throw stones at the vessel in an effort to lure a sailor onto the waterfront.

A bearded head finally appeared at the rail. The boy's next throw was inspired, skimming off the top of the man's skull. The sailor reeled back, clutching his head and screaming at the boy. Ebon couldn't understand the words because they were spoken in Mercerien, but he doubted the man was complimenting his tormentor on the accuracy of his throw.

Another stone sailed over the sailor's shoulder.

He stepped back from the rail.

Ebon wet his lips with his tongue. Ten heartbeats passed. Twenty. What would the sailor do next? Head belowdecks out of reach of the missiles? Throw the stones back at the boy?

Then a rattling clatter sounded as the gangplank crashed onto the quay.

As the bearded sailor crossed it, Ebon heard the force of his rage in the weight of his steps. The boy had seen his danger and fired off a final stone before turning to flee.
Wait,
Ebon silently urged him, for if the boy disappeared too soon among the crowds, the sailor would probably return to the ship.

The prince needn't have worried, for the boy moved away at a stuttering pace, feigning a limp to keep his pursuer interested.

The sailor had reached the end of the quay. His forehead was smeared red where the stone had hit him. He set off at a sprint after the boy, arms pumping, sandals slapping, bellowing at the people in his way to clear a path.

The boy vanished along the alley where Vale waited.

Ebon headed after them. “Stay here,” he said to Gunnar over his shoulder. The mage's job would be to warn them if someone else got off the ship.

Gunnar nodded.

When Ebon rounded the corner, he saw the sailor already lying in a heap next to a mud-brick building that seemed to be melting in the heat. Vale stood over him, while the boy went through his pockets. Finding nothing, the boy rose and spat on the prone man. Damned imposition that, not carrying anything for a thief to steal. Ebon looked round to see if they had attracted attention. No one seemed to have noticed anything, though. No one ever did when blood was in the air.

Ebon tossed the boy a sovereign, and he scampered off.

“Help me get him up,” the prince said to Vale.

Together they hauled the sailor to his feet, then Vale hoisted him onto his shoulder. Taking a route that kept them out of sight of the Mercerien ship, they made their way along the waterfront to where their boat was tied up between a Corinian galley and a salt-rimed fishing scow. Their craft bobbed an armspan below the level of the quay, so Ebon raised it on a wave of water-magic. He stepped on board, Vale following with his load. The Endorian dumped the unconscious sailor in the prow before tying his wrists and ankles.

Moments later, Gunnar joined them. Ebon released the wave supporting the boat, and it sank down onto the water between the shifting walls of wood to either side.

“Wake him up,” Ebon told Vale. He had to speak over the spatter of bilge being pumped from a hole in the hull of the Corinian galley.

Vale scooped up a double handful of greasy water from the harbor and tossed it in the sailor's face.

The man spluttered and came to.

Ebon sat on the oar bench and gave the sailor a while to register his bound hands and feet, the three grim faces staring back at him. The Mercerien sat up slowly, in no hurry to get this started.

“I have some questions,” Ebon said in the common tongue. “When we're finished, my mage here”—he pointed to Gunnar, sitting behind—“will take you east along the coast so you can walk back to Gilgamar. Or he can drop you a league out to sea and find out how well you swim with your hands and feet tied. Which would be your choice?”

The sailor squinted at him like he was trying to find the trick in the question. “I don't want no trouble.”

“Good. You sailed with Prince Ocarn Dasuki from Mercerie?”

A nod.

“There were two Galitians on board.” Not a question.

The Mercerien's eyes narrowed further. Now he saw where this was going. Another nod.

“Who were they?” Ebon said, taking his time.

“Some dandy from Galitia. Rendale were his name. A prince, I heard, but that could o' just been the lads talking.”

“And the other one?”