Red Tide (60 page)

A rush of bubbles, then nothing.

The blood-dream built like a migraine behind Amerel's eyes.

*   *   *

Galantas wiped water from his face. The force of the sorcerous detonation had left his ears ringing, but he kept his expression even. He could feel his crewmen's gazes on him, and he needed them to believe that he had planned all along to destroy the stone-skin ships. That he was still in control of events. The reality, he knew, was quite the reverse. He'd hoped that when Mokinda left for the Dragon Gate, the Sabian threat would go with him. Now it seemed this Cayda woman was no less a menace. And to think she was supposed to be his prisoner. He'd have to do some rethinking in that regard.

He caught Barnick's gaze, and the mage read the unspoken question in his eyes.

“I've sensed nothing from her before now,” he said. “Even when she unleashed that—”

“Could she be another Storm Lord?” Galantas interrupted. “Mazana Creed, perhaps?”

“Mazana Creed is younger. And she's got red hair.”

“Then who?”

The mage had no answers.

Scowling, Galantas shot a look at Cayda. Her face was momentarily in profile. Yet again, he got the sense that he'd seen her before, but where?

A call came from the lookout on the main crosstrees. “Enemy are swapping signals, Captain!”

In his youth, Galantas might have scrambled up to join him, but swinging through the rigging had become a good deal harder since he'd lost his arm. He trained his telescope on the blur of colored sails on the horizon. If the stone-skins were halting, it meant he had their full attention. So what next? Somehow he doubted they would continue to throw ships at him two at a time. Would the whole fleet now turn and give chase?

He didn't have long to wait for an answer.

“Stone-skins are moving off!” the lookout shouted. “They're running, Captain!”

Galantas had seen as much already through his glass.
Running?
Weren't they going to check the wreckage for survivors? Would they leave him unharrassed to follow on behind? He understood why they might not be keen to engage the
Fury
a second time, but some nettles just had to be grasped. And up until now, the stone-skins had never shied away from doing what needed to be done.

He frowned. Unless they were in too much of a hurry to waste time playing tag. Why, though? Why should it matter when they arrived in Gilgamar? Had they found out about the dragon blood marking their hulls? Were they racing to reach their destination before the creatures caught up to them? When they got to Gilgamar, they would still have to get past its chains, of course, but if they managed that …

Galantas's frown deepened.

That would leave the
Fury
alone outside the city when the dragons came.

*   *   *

Darkness.

Someone had placed a bag over Ebon's head after they'd dragged him into a back room of the embassy. He could feel the cloth against his eyelids when he blinked, feel it press against his lips when he breathed. There weren't even shades of gray to soften the black. But he could still hear. He'd heard his captors close the shutters to stop anyone outside looking in. He'd heard muffled voices in other parts of the embassy, doors opening and slamming. The sounds of the morning should have been getting louder around him, but instead they had died away as if the building was being emptied. Now all was quiet save for the occasional creak from the darkness. And beyond that, at the edge of hearing, Ebon imagined he could make out a restless whisper as if the Vamilian spirits had returned to his mind.

He flexed his fingers. They'd tied him to a chair, wrists bound so tightly his hands tingled from the restricted blood flow. How long had he been like this? He'd heard at least one bell ring, maybe two. Odds were, he was waiting for Ocarn to arrive, for it was surely Ocarn's men who had grabbed him. He swallowed against a thickness in his throat. He'd been so busy thinking on his own plan that he'd never considered the Mercerien might have one too. Someone must have seen Ebon scouting the embassy earlier. Or the woman who he'd talked to had joined up the dots. After, when he'd gone walking with Vale, the Merceriens had arranged an ambush for his return. Had they grabbed the Endorian as well? He wasn't in the room with Ebon, but maybe Ocarn was just keeping them apart so he could question them separately.

If Vale
had
escaped capture, though, perhaps he was outside now, planning his move. Perhaps if he saw the closed shutters he would guess which room Ebon was in.

Perhaps, perhaps.

He felt a flush of helpless rage and started struggling against his bindings. The ropes burned his wrists. He'd failed. Even if he walked out of here alive, Ocarn would already have taken Lamella and Rendale away. But that was the least of Ebon's worries just now. Ocarn had scores he wanted to settle, and what reason did he have to show restraint? No one knew Ebon was in Gilgamar except Vale and Gunnar, and not even they would be able to prove Ocarn was behind his disappearance.

Muffled footsteps came from Ebon's right, swelling louder as a door opened. How many sets? It was difficult to judge. Three people at least, maybe four. Ebon's breath came quickly, hot and moist inside the bag.

Moments later, the bag was snatched away to leave him blinking against the light of a torch. Ocarn was holding that torch. He passed it to someone behind Ebon. All of the others who'd come in with him were behind Ebon, out of sight.

The door shut.

Ocarn grinned at Ebon like they were old friends reunited. His face had thinned since their encounter seven years ago, and he'd dispensed with his apology of a mustache. The blond curls that had once hung down to his shoulders were cut short. He took out a pair of heavy gloves and pulled them onto his hands.

Ebon looked around the room. To his left, the large shuttered windows were bordered by threads of light. A rug that must once have covered the floor had been rolled up against a lacquered desk to leave Ebon's chair standing on stone. He wanted to see how many men were behind him, but when he tried to turn, someone grabbed his head to keep his eyes forward. A pity, that. There was no way Ocarn could know about the powers Ebon had inherited from Galea, but the surprise would last only as long as his first burst of sorcery. If he'd known where Ocarn's men were standing, he could have tried to disable them before turning on their master.

“Prince Ebon Calidar,” Ocarn said, “what a pleasure to see you again.”

He stepped in close.

Ebon's chair shifted as someone behind him grabbed it to hold it steady. The prince braced himself.

Ocarn's first blow was more of a cuff than a punch. The Mercerien was evidently just warming up, though, for his second strike hammered into Ebon's cheek, snapping his head round so fast he felt a wrench in his neck. He found himself staring down at the floor, forced himself to look at Ocarn again.

In time to meet the third punch. His head exploded with light, and he would have toppled over if he hadn't been held. The whole side of his face throbbed, yet it didn't hurt as much as his scalded pride. Pride, it had always been his curse. He'd need to swallow it a while longer, though, before he retaliated—at least until he'd given Ocarn a chance to brag. He worked his tongue around his mouth, tasted the warm iron of blood.

And looked at Ocarn once more.

“Lord, that feels good,” the Mercerien said, flexing the fingers of his punching hand. “For you too?” He stepped back and gestured to the man holding Ebon's chair. “Stand him up.”

Ebon's chair was lifted, and he staggered to his feet. Still tied to the chair, he could not stand fully straight and had to look up to meet Ocarn's eyes from a half bow.

“I like that pose,” the Mercerien said. “It suits you.”

His fist thudded into Ebon's ribs, knocked him back a step, but Ocarn came after him, connecting with a blow to the midsection that folded Ebon in half and snatched the wind from him. He gasped like a grounded fish as Ocarn hit him again and again, right fist, then left, working on his stomach. The Mercerien grunted with the effort, like he was the one being hit, and grunts escaped Ebon's own lips no matter how hard he tried to keep them in. He wanted to tense his muscles against the onslaught, but he was too busy wheezing for a breath that would not come. He thought to jerk forward and butt Ocarn in the face, but instead he took the punishment, curling up as best he could to rob the punches of their weight.

Finally the beating ended, and Ebon sagged back. The man behind him guided the chair down until it touched the floor. Ebon slumped into it, his head lolling forward, his whole body shuddering. He had to swallow to keep his guts from heaving. He channeled his power to his bruised midriff—just a trickle at first to soothe the ache there. Wouldn't want Ocarn seeing how easily his hurt was shrugged off. Wouldn't want him thinking Ebon was ready for another round. The Mercerien grabbed a handful of Ebon's hair and tugged his head up, brought his face close so he could study every line of pain. Rather than meet his gaze, Ebon kept his eyes on the floor. Let Ocarn think he had knocked the fight out of him. Maybe he would move on to the gloating that was sure to come.

Ocarn released him, and Ebon's head fell forward.

“Hurts, does it?” the Mercerien said. “Good. But it's still not enough for the dishonor you visited on my sister. Maybe I'll get my men to bend you over that chair, let them have some fun with you. How does that sound?”

Ebon's voice came out a croak. “Where's Rendale?”

“If I were you, I'd be more worried about yourself. Aren't you curious how I knew you were coming? How I was able to snare you so easily?”

Ebon stared at him.

Ocarn chuckled. “You still have no idea, do you? Then let me tell you a story. Yesterday a man comes to see me at the embassy. Says he has information for sale. Says a woman called Tia sent him. Apparently someone paid her to get them into the Upper City, no questions asked. But Tia's a curious sort, and after she strikes a deal with this person, she has him followed to the harbor. She sees him pay a guard to deliver a false message to me about a fight on my ship, then watches him snatch one of my crew and question him, and, well, it seems even scum from the Lower City can work out what two plus two equals. And since you were stupid enough to believe she couldn't smuggle you across the canal immediately on false papers, she has all the time in the world to send one of her thugs to seek me out.”

Ocarn's voice was thick with scorn, and Ebon almost lost his head then. He wanted to lash out with his sorcery and smear the man's smile over the wall behind. But his anger was as much for himself as for the Mercerien. Stupid, Ocarn had called him, and Ebon couldn't deny it. He'd let his desperation cloud his judgment of Tia. He'd thought he was risking only a few thousand sovereigns in trusting her, but now his folly was about to cost him his life. Because there was no doubt in Ebon's mind that Ocarn meant to kill him. When you crossed a certain line, you didn't let your victim walk away after to talk about it.

“She was going to take your money and stand you up,” Ocarn went on, “but I convinced her to honor her side of the bargain and deliver you into the Upper City. It cost me a great deal. Five thousand sovereigns she wanted to go through with your agreement, and I must say that seemed a high price at first.” Ebon didn't think Ocarn could have stretched his smile any wider, but he managed it now. “But eventually we reached an arrangement.”

Ebon was silent, unsure what the Mercerien was hinting at. Then a jolt of prickling cold ran down his spine. “You gave them to Tia,” he whispered. It all made sense suddenly. Ocarn had given Lamella and Rendale to Tia so she could ransom them to his father. Earlier, the embassy woman had told Ebon that Rendale was taken away yesterday—taken away to Tia, it now seemed. The irony wasn't lost on him. For the last twenty-four bells, he'd been champing to get into the Upper City, while all the time Lamella and Rendale were likely being held by Tia in the Lower.

“Gave
them
to Tia?” Ocarn said, staring at Ebon through narrowed eyes. “Ah, yes, Rendale's crippled woman.” He paused to study Ebon some more, his look calculating. “Except she wasn't Rendale's woman, was she? She was yours.”

Ebon's expression gave nothing away. Nothing
more
away, at least.

“I always thought their displays of affection were forced,” Ocarn continued. “Or they were to start with.” He looked to his guards for a laugh, and they duly obliged. Three laughs, meaning three men, though Ebon couldn't pinpoint precisely where they stood. “Pretty enough girl, your Miela,” Ocarn said. “A bit too willing, though, for my taste. She never gave me much of a chase when I came for her. Claimed it was the leg, but we both know otherwise. She liked to be bent over a chair, just as you will be. Maybe you'll enjoy it as much as she did, eh?”

Ebon was barely listening. The taunts didn't fool him. He was thinking about other things. Strange, he shouldn't have needed an incentive to want to live through this encounter, but the news that Lamella and Rendale were with Tia made it suddenly vital that he get away. Assuming Tia intended to ransom them, how long would it take for her demands to reach Galitia, and for Ebon's father to respond? Months perhaps, with the Sabian Sea off limits. Months held in that cesspit of a Lower City. And when the time came for Tia to release her charges, was she any more likely to play fair with Ebon's father than she had done with Ebon himself?

He looked toward the windows, the shadow of an idea flitting through his mind. There was only one way he was going to escape from this place, and if his plan failed, he would likely suffer all Ocarn had promised and worse. Before he rolled the dice, though, he wanted one more piece of information from his host.