Red Tide (14 page)

“Commander,” he said. “Emira.”

Jodren nodded. Mazana ignored him, unable to take her eyes off the duel.

In the courtyard Twist had blocked an overhand stroke from the executioner by bringing the staffs of his two flails together to form an X. Now he danced beyond the range of his assailant's follow-up. The threads sewn into the giant's skin were beginning to glow in the heat. Was that Twist's tactic to defeat his opponent? Keep the executioner at arm's length until he cooked in his armor?

As good a plan as any.

“You've been speaking to the twins, I see,” Mazana said to Senar.

“They're two of mine now, Emira,” Jodren said. “They signed up after Dragon Day.”

The Guardian kept his gaze on Mazana. “And since the mercenaries work for you, that makes the twins yours as well.”

“And that is why they wanted to talk to you?”

“That, and to offer their commiserations.”

Mazana glanced at the scales on his neck, her expression studiously blank. Then she looked down into the yard again.

You had to admire the woman, the way she kept her emotions in check. To the casual observer, it might almost appear as if she didn't care.

“We missed you earlier,” she said after a pause. “Our illustrious friend Jodren here wanted your opinion on his latest efforts to track down the Storm Guard rebels.”

Senar shot the man a look. That seemed unlikely, considering how infrequently Jodren had sought his counsel previously. Indeed you could count on the fingers of one hand—of Senar's halfhand, even—the number of times they'd spoken before. The commander appeared equally confused by the emira's words.

“I have been at the Founder's Citadel,” Senar said.

“Have you now?”

“To visit the library there,” he explained. “I hoped to find something about the Augerans.” Perhaps he should have been looking for information about his dragon scales instead, but the trouble with looking for answers was that sometimes you found them. And Senar wasn't sure they were answers he was ready to hear.

“The Augerans are a part of
your
people's history, not mine,” Mazana said.

The Guardian shrugged. “It was a long shot, I admit.”

“And?”

“And I found nothing. But that's hardly surprising considering the state the place was in.” When he'd opened the door to the reading room, the floor had been scattered with papers that quivered in the draft he brought with him. Their crackle had been the first sound he'd heard since entering the fortress, save for the tread of his boots.

“Someone beat you to the prize?” Mazana said.

The Augerans, was she suggesting? An interesting thought, but there was a simpler explanation. “More likely it was the work of the citadel's new lodgers.”

“Who?”

Senar shrugged a second time. “The same people who used to live there before Darbonna threw them out, I suspect. I didn't actually see them, because they took care to stay hidden. And after what happened in the fortress the last time we were there, I wasn't inclined to go looking.”

“Could they be Storm Guards, Emira?” Jodren said. “The citadel was where a lot of the soldiers crawled to bleed out on Dragon Day.”

Mazana did not reply, her gaze still on Senar. She rubbed her wrists like she'd just pulled free of someone's grasp. There was a certain expectation in her look as if she knew what was coming next.

“I thought I might speak to Darbonna,” Senar said. “Since I understand you've now got her under lock and key.” He'd tried to see the woman earlier, only to be turned away by Mazana's guards. “No one knows the library better than she.”

There was sweat on the emira's top lip. Perhaps it was just the sun reflecting in her eyes, but the orbs seemed to take on a reddish tinge.

Senar looked back at her, undaunted. “There seems little point in me wading through hundreds of texts when I don't even know what I'm looking for. If Darbonna could confirm there's something worth finding…”

More silence.

It was broken by a cheer from the courtyard. Mazana looked down at the duelists. “Enough!” she called.

Senar followed her gaze.

And saw the executioner bleeding from a graze on his chin. The emira's command had been directed at him, for his sword arm was frozen in midswing as he was about to give answer to whatever blow Twist had landed on him. A heavy pause, then the giant returned his blade to the scabbard on his back before settling into his familiar relaxed stance. His gaze fixed on nothing. Twist, meanwhile, grinned like a youngling as he raised his arms to acknowledge the whooping of his fellow mercenaries. He tried to throw a comradely arm round the executioner's shoulders, but such was the difference in height between them that it ended up falling around the giant's waist instead.

The executioner looked at him.

Twist hurriedly withdrew the arm.

Jodren was evidently intent on basking in his second's reflected glory, for he said, “See, Emira! Didn't I tell you Twist would win? I think you may need a new bodyguard.”

Senar eyed him dubiously. “Your man scratched his chin, Commander. If the duel had been for keeps, Twist would have needed a thousand such hits to win. Whereas the executioner needs to strike only once.”

“If you say so, Guardian. I bow to your greater experience.” A thought seemed to come to the mercenary. “As I recall, you crossed swords with the giant on Dragon Day. How did that go, remind us?”

*   *   *

From atop the bluff, Galantas looked down on the boy standing in shallow water at the midpoint of the channel. Nine sharks prowled the waves about Lassan, lured here by the blood dripping from a self-inflicted cut to his arm. Briar sharks and razor sharks mostly, but it was a blackfin that seemed to have taken most to his scent as it swum lazy circles about him.
Always the blackfins
. It was a blackfin that had given Galantas the scar on his leg that drew whistles when he showed it. The same blackfin, as it happened, whose teeth now adorned the band around his neck.

Who laughs last, and all that.

Years ago, Galantas had been first to make the Shark Run. After his mother's death, he had attempted the crossing for no reason that he could have articulated. He should have died that day. Caught in waist-deep water, he'd been helpless to evade a blackfin bearing down on him. Maybe it was shock that had caused him to freeze when others might have fled and, in doing so, drawn the creature to them. Or maybe he just hadn't cared whether he lived or died. Whatever the reason, the shark had paid him no mind, merely brushing his leg as it glided past.

It was only later that Galantas had recognized the opportunity for notoriety the Shark Run offered. He'd spent countless nights mapping out the seabed in the channel until he could walk it in his dreams. Only then did he risk a crossing in daylight, with both sharks and witnesses in attendance. He had repeated the Run many times since, earning grudging admiration from the fools who respected such acts of bravado. In time, more and more Rubyholters had sought to replicate his feat, until it became a rite of passage for the youths of every clan. More than that, though, it became the stone upon which Galantas's legend was founded. By his example were you judged an adult among your tribe. By his example did you prove your courage to your fellows. Every man who now risked the Run followed in his shadow. And succeed or fail, their imitation served only to add to that shadow's reach.

It was a hundred heartbeats since Lassan had last moved. Some of the spectators on the far shore jeered, perhaps thinking the boy's courage had failed. Galantas knew better. There was no such thing as a safe route across the channel, still less a guaranteed one, but there
were
paths less dangerous than others. In front and to Lassan's right was a stretch of shallow water that offered a straightforward means of progress, yet the route beyond that was treacherous. The simpler course lay directly ahead, but Lassan first had to traverse a section prowled by the blackfin.
Patience.
The key to success lay in reading the odds offered by each route, and in having the courage to run those odds when circumstances demanded it.

And luck, of course.

The blackfin finally moved away, and Lassan edged forward to ironic cheers from the spectators to Galantas's right. He scanned their ranks. Needles mostly, though there were a few Falcons and Squalls too. All sitting in their separate groups, naturally. Among the Needles was a girl in a red dress—a lover or a sister, perhaps—watching Lassan with hands over her mouth. There were no clan leaders or krels here, only sons and daughters: the next generation of Rubyholters. It was easy to tell those who had completed the Run from those who had yet to attempt it. For while the old hands followed Lassan's progress in silence, the virgins wearied Galantas's ears with their bluster and their feigned good humor.

Lassan appeared oblivious to them all. He'd taken a dozen steps along the deeper path, apparently unnoticed by the blackfin. But the cut to his arm was still dripping blood, and one of the briar sharks swam closer. Lassan didn't panic. Maintaining a steady pace, he waded toward shallower water. Soon the sea reached only to his calves. The briar shark was forced to halt. Its snout emerged from the waves, and Lassan played to the crowds by punching the creature on the nose. Galantas nodded his approval. The boy had spirit. He'd make a good leader if he ever commanded the Needles, and the odds of that happening were shortening by the moment. Galantas could see Lassan's elder brother, Flint, farther along the bluff. His expression showed the same conflicting emotions Galantas had felt when he'd watched his own brother make the Run seven years ago. Flint hadn't attempted the channel himself yet. If Lassan survived, he would have to do so.

A skittering of stones behind Galantas marked the arrival of Qinta and Barnick. Barnick lowered himself to the ground alongside Galantas, then took out a comb and started combing his hair. Qinta squatted on Galantas's other side. He looked down at the channel.

“That's Lassan, right?” he said. “Needle Clan.”

“Yes.”

“So what are we doing here?”

“Trying to watch.”

The hint missed its mark. “You been giving the lad pointers?”

“Maybe.”

Silence.

Galantas knew what his Second would be thinking: Galantas hadn't helped his younger brother, Kalim, when he had attempted the Run, so why was he helping this Needle boy? The answer was easy enough: because Lassan, unlike Kalim, had nothing to prove to Galantas. A memory came to him of his brother flailing in bloodstained water, but he scowled and pushed it aside. He was done blaming himself for Kalim's death. Hells, no one had helped Galantas when
he
made his first Run. So what if he'd pressed his brother into attempting the crossing? Kalim had been old enough to make his own decisions. And even with Galantas's help, there was no guarantee he would have survived.

No, the real fault here was Dresk's for making Kalim believe he was the warlord's rightful successor—and Kalim's for swallowing the lie. Once Kalim had made it clear he would challenge Galantas, he'd been left with no choice but to try the Run.

He brought it on himself.

Qinta dragged his gaze from the channel to track the course of a flock of limewings overhead. He frowned as they veered west.

“Are the birds speaking to you again?” Galantas said.

“They're heading dead away from us—you see how they changed direction as they passed over?”

“And that's a bad sign?”

“Means the omens are against our runner, aye. Means he needs to be careful.”

Galantas clucked his tongue. “Careful on the Shark Run? I hope someone thought to warn him before he set out.”

Qinta did not respond.

“If you're so confident about the outcome,” Galantas added, “why don't you put money on it? There must be someone round here who's opened a book.”

“I don't make money off the dead.”

“Tell that to the crew of the last merchantman we took.”

Another shark approached Lassan from the north. Galantas didn't recognize it from its fin—white, with a crimped edge—but there were lots of fish in these parts from beyond the underwater gateways. One of the spectators shouted a warning to Lassan. The boy had moved farther south than he should have done. But there was time yet for him to correct his course if he acted swiftly.

Galantas looked back at Qinta. “You delivered Allott to the Falcons?”

“Aye,” the Second said. “Made sure plenty saw me doing it too. When they question Allott, wouldn't want him leaving out the part where we saved him.”

“Was Ravin there?”

“No. But I got collared by one of his krels, Corm. He'd heard about Dresk's meeting with the stone-skins. Wanted to know if the rumors about the twenty thousand talents were true. News spreads fast, it seems.”

Galantas had done a bit of the spreading himself—just a word or two in the right ears. Sometimes you had to shout to make yourself heard, but when the talk was of gold, a mere whisper sufficed. “You denied everything, I take it.”

“Aye. That seemed the best way to convince Corm the rumors were true. He told me Ravin has called a meeting at the Hub to discuss the stone-skins.”

“For when?”

“The day after tomorrow, at noon.”

“Just the other clan leaders, or Dresk too?”

“Dresk too.”

Galantas smiled.

“What, you don't think he'll go?”

“Of course he won't. He can't take twenty thousand talents with him, and who's he going to trust to look after it while he's gone?” Those talents had become a chain around Dresk's neck, shackling him to the fortress. A golden chain, perhaps, but no less restrictive for that.

Qinta said, “Maybe he'll send you in his place.”