Queen of the Depths (32 page)

Anton placed the edge of his knife against the magician’s neck. “If you can’t help Tu’ala’keth enough for it to matter, you’re not going to make it back to Turmish.”

The touch of the blade made Diero stiffen, but when he answered, his voice was steady. “Break your word, slit my throat if you want, but I’m not holding back. Haven’t you realized I’m not one of the zealots? I joined the cult to further my ambitions, and I’d gladly betray it to save my life. That’s exactly what I have been doing.”

“All right,” Anton said. “In that case you need to tell us all you can about dragons and everything related to them.” He was hoping that maybe, just maybe, the magician actually did possess the key to destroying the dragon flight but simply didn’t realize it.

“You understand it’ll take a while.”

“Then you’d better get started.”

As Diero had warned, he talked through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. Anton found parts of the discourse—where to strike to cripple a dragon’s wing, for example, or what sort of fortifications were of actual use against a gigantic reptile that could fly-fascinating. But once the cultist ventured into genuine esoterica—such as the link between wyrms and various elemental forces of the cosmos—he simply couldn’t follow it. His own petty, intuitive knack for sorcery notwithstanding, he lacked the necessary education.

He could only hope Tu’ala’keth would pluck something useful from all the babble.

In the end his mind drifted. When Diero finally said something that tugged at his attention, he didn’t even realize for a while, and wasn’t certain what he’d truly heard.

“Go back,” he said.

“How far?” Diero replied, hoarse again from so much talking.

“You were explaining how to turn dragons into dracoliches.”

“Right. The details vary from one stronghold to the next, depending on which deities the priests serve, the particular strengths and conjuring styles of the wizards, and what have you. But in its essentials, the process is always the same. Artisans craft phylacteries, amulets of precious stones and metals, which the spellcasters enchant in a series of rituals. Even I can’t recite all the incantations from memory, but you have the texts in that purple-bound volume on the table. Meanwhile, the alchemists and apothecaries distill a special libation in a process just as magical and complex. When both elements are ready, the wyrm can transform. At the climax of a final ceremony, it drinks the elixir. That frees its soul to leap from its body into the medallion, establishing a mystical bond that will safeguard its existence thereafter. Unless someone destroys the phylactery, the dragon can never truly perish. Then, having ensured its immortality, the spirit returns to its body, which rises as one of the undead.”

“So what you’re telling us,” Anton said slowly, “is that basically, the drink is a poison? It kills the wyrms, and that’s what ‘frees’ their spirits?”

“Well… yes. Though we don’t usually put it that way. It’s difficult enough to win and keep the dragons’ trust without bandying words like ‘poison’ and ‘kill’ about.”

“Despite their heartiness, it slays them every time without fail?”

“Yes. A single drop of it would kill almost anything, but the formula was especially devised to stop a dragon’s heart.”

“What if a wyrm drank some when there was no ritual going on and no amulet for its spirit to inhabit?

“Why, it would die, pure and simple.” Diero smiled like a man who’d begun to believe his captors might permit him to live after all. “Let me anticipate your next questions. Yes, we brewed a supply of the stuff here on Tan, and yes, it’s ready for use.”

ŚŠŚ ŚŠŚ O—

Supervised by the occasional hovering ixitxachitl, lines of koalinths and locathahs trudged through the stronghold, collecting treasure and carrying it down to the sea caves for transport to Exzethlix. Meanwhile, Tu’ala’keth stood watch over her share of the plunder. She didn’t think the ‘chitls would try to steal it. Puffed up with the glory of killing dragons, Yzil seemed satisfied with his share. But it was never prudent to underestimate the ‘chitls’ rapacity or fundamental scorn for any species other than their own.

Footsteps sounded outside the magician’s sanctum where she’d collected the dragon-killing gear and, later, the clay jugs containing the poison. It was the brisk, sure stride of an air-breather, not the slapping shuffle of a creature with webbed feet, managing out of water as best it could, and for a moment, she smiled.

Beard shaved and hair chopped short again, Anton appeared in the entrance to the chamber. He carried a sea bag slung over his shoulder, and the greatsword in its scabbard in the other hand. “I came back,” he said.

“I see that,” she replied.

“I seem,” he said, “to have picked up the habit of doing stupid things. Now that the cog is gone, I’ll have a bitch of a time getting back to Turmish. That is, unless you help me.”

“But you do not wish to return to Turmish. Not yet. You have decided to accompany me.”

He smiled wryly. “Yes, and judging from your attitude, you’re not surprised. Don’t you ever tire of being right?”

“Of late, I have often been mistaken. But not about your role in Umberlee’s design.”

“Just so you know, I still don’t see any ‘design.’ I simply think we’ve had a lot of luck. I came back because… well, I’m not sure why. Except that I tried to kill you, and you wound up freeing me and finishing my mission for me. So maybe I owe you.”

“You do not. You helped vanquish the cult, and in so doing, atoned for your apostasy. The goddess forgives you.”

“But do you?”

“Of course. You are my comrade in a great and holy endeavor.”

“If you say so. I admit, after coming this far, I’m curious to see the end of it.”

“Then let us proceed. I found some potions that will allow you to breathe under water and also some netting to fashion into bags. We will carry our plunder down to the water, and I will summon seahorses, those we rode before and others, too. Enough to bear us and our possessions away.”

A3 Anton had initially suspected, all Myth Nantar lay under a benign enchantment enabling visitors from the world above to breathe, withstand the pressure of the depths, and even see clearly despite the hundreds of feet of water filtering out the sun. Thus, he could discern the preparations for war. Mermen strung enormous nets between the luminous spires and equally massive spurs of corals. Sea-elves shot crossbows at targets, and shalarins jabbed in unison with tridents, as the alliance’s raw new army, hastily scraped together to replace the superior one the wyrms had already annihilated, doggedly trained for the struggle to come.

It was the loan of Tu’ala’keth’s coral ring, however, that permitted Anton to eavesdrop on passersby as he and the waveservant swam

through the canyonlike streets. He heard variations of the same fearful conversation repeated again and again: “The dragon flight has turned.” “The wyrms are headed straight at us.” “I’m taking my family out of the city today.”

Tu’ala’keth had been correct about the need for haste. As it was, she’d only barely returned in time.

They swam through a plaza where a fountain miraculously spewed yellow flame, noticeably warming the water. Beyond that lay a blue marble temple, with columns shaped like chains of bubbles, and a frieze of a triton adoring the facade. Adjacent to that stood the imposing five-story keep that was the Council House.

Sentries stood watch before the arched entry. According to Tu’ala’keth, the allied races supplied the honor guard on an alternating basis, and today was evidently the locathahs’ turn. Advised to expect the waveservant and her companion, the gill-men ushered them inside with a minimum of fuss. It reminded Anton of his own countrymen, who, as citizens of a republic, often took a sort of pride in eschewing aristocratic airs and elaborate ceremony. But he suspected that in this case, the city’s desperation had more to do with it.

The council chamber turned out to be a spacious room with an enormous table made fashioned from a dragon-turtle shell at the center. Around it sat the councilors, one for every allied race, another for each of the three orders of Dukars—a sort of highly regarded wizard who could evidently come from any race—and one for an elven High Mage, for a total of ten. Still, the Serosians called it a Council of Twelve, and two chairs sat empty, the first representing an extinct order of Dukars and the second reserved for any god who might care to manifest and address the assembly.

The word chairs was somewhat misleading. Fashioned in different shapes to accommodate the varying

anatomies of the councilors, some resembled cages as much as anything else, and in a realm where everyone floated, each functioned to hold the occupant effortlessly in position at the table at least as much as it did to provide a comfortable resting place for a rump.

A merman functionary announced Anton and Tu’ala’keth. The spy hung back a little as they swam toward the assembly. The councilors were the waveservant’s people. Let her do the talking.

The muscular sea-elf representative—Morgan Ildacer, if Anton remembered the name correctly— wore a shirt of sharkskin armor and had brought a barbed lance and crossbow along to the meeting. He was evidently a high-ranking warrior, who, by the look of him, might have just come from drilling the troops under his command. He regarded the newcomers without discernible enthusiasm. “Priestess. Forgive us if we receive you with little courtesy, but we’re trying to deal with an emergency. You told our deputies you have a way to help us.”

“I do,” said Tu’ala’keth. “Umberlee sent me on a mission to find our salvation in the world above the waves and provided a champion to aid me. To put the matter succinctly, we succeeded. If you follow our guidance and use the weapons we procured, you can destroy the dragon flight.”

Ri’ola’con, the shalarin councilor, sat up straighter. Gray of skin, with a white mark on his brow and milky stripes on his dorsal fin, he was skinny even for one of Tu’ala’keth’s kind, with deep wrinkles etched around his eyes. “Can this be true?” he asked.

“I pray it is.” Pharom Ildacer said. Though less overtly athletic, the High Mage bore a familial resemblance to his handsome cousin, but his sympathetic air was in marked contrast to the warrior’s brusque and haughty manner. “Please, tell us more.”

“In good time,” said Tu’ala’keth.

Anton felt a twinge of unease. What did she think she was doing?

“As I explained,” said Morgan, “time presses. Speak if you actually have something to say.”

“I have a good deal to say,” she replied. “Have you wondered why this affliction has come upon us in this season?”

Arina, a youthful-looking mermaid and her people’s representative, shrugged bare and comely shoulders. In less serious circumstances, Anton could have spent a stimulating time ogling the upper half of her. “It’s just something that happens every couple centuries,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

“It is,” said Tu’ala’keth. “But you would do well to remember that nothing happens without the permission of the gods, and that calamities can embody their displeasure.”

Ri’ola’con blinked his round black eyes. “What god have we offended?”

“Do you not know?” Tu’ala’keth said. “Of all those assembled here, you and Tu’ola’sara”—the shalarin Dukar—”are the ones who should. None of the allied peoples honors Umberlee as much as is her due. But some never did, and perhaps considering their lack of reverence beneath her notice, she did not deign to avenge herself. But until recently, the shalarin people did worship her, and now, for the most part, we have turned away. She will not tolerate that affront.”

“Nonsense,” Morgan snapped. “Any time misfortune strikes, some priest pops up to claim it’s because folk failed to heap pearls on his deity’s altar. But the world doesn’t work like that.”

A hideous blend of sailfish, octopus, and crustacean, Vualdia, the morkoth councilor, stirred within her “seat,” a lattice of intricately carved bone. “Sometimes it does,” she said. Accurately or not, Tu’ala’keth’s ring, translating for Anton’s benefit,

gave the creature the quavering voice of a cranky old lady accustomed to having her way. “History records a number of instances where the gods chastised cities and whole kingdoms that displeased them.”

Morgan sneered. “You’re a scholar, so I’ll take your word for it. But where’s the proof it’s happening now?”

“Those of you who profess mystical abilities,” Tu’ala’keth replied, “should be able to read the signs. If not, I swear on Umberlee’s trident that matters are as I say.”

“I trust your oath,” Pharom said. “I believe you think you’re speaking the truth. But that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re right.”

“Had I been wrong, had Umberlee not prompted me to do as I have done, I surely could not have procured the means of saving Myth Nantar.”

“Good,” said Nalos of Pumanath, the triton councilor, “now we’re circling back around to the point. I don’t care why the dragons are attacking. We can argue that later. I care about killing them. Do you truly have a way, waveservant, and if so, what’s your price?”

“I have the way,” said Tu’ala’keth, “and will give it to you in exchange for a pledge. After we destroy the wyrms, Myth Nantar will hold a festival of thanksgiving to Umberlee. The lords and captains of every allied race will offer at her altar.”

“Impossible,” Morgan said. “Deep Sashelas is the god of the sea-elves, and supreme above all others. I’ve never prayed to a lesser deity, and I never will.”

“Still,” Pharom said, “we know he isn’t the only god.”

Tu’ala’keth continued as if she hadn’t heard either of them. “There is more. For the next year, once every tenday, every shalarin in As’arem and Myth Nantar will pay homage in Umberlee’s shrines and temples.”

Gaunt Ri’ola’con shook his head. His crest, which had a limp and withered look to it compared to Tu’ala’keth’s, flopped about. “We can’t tell people which god to worship.”

“The Rulers Caste can order them to do anything within reason, and this is within reason. I have not stipulated that they forsake the weak, ridiculous powers to whom they have lately pledged allegiance. They may continue praying to them if they wish. But they must give Umberlee their adoration as well.”