Red Tide (35 page)

“A woman. Never caught her name. No tits, twisted leg. The prince's woman, they said.”

The prince's woman.
The words left a sour taste in Ebon's mouth, like he'd swallowed some of the dirty water from that bilge pipe. “And was she?”

“Was she what?”

“Rendale's woman. Did you see them together?”

“Sure. They came up on deck to give us a show—”

Ebon rose and struck the man a backhand blow across the face. The Mercerien's head snapped round, and he fell against the side of the boat. He ran his tongue about the inside of his mouth as if checking for loose teeth. Then he looked at Ebon with a guarded expression.

Ebon sat back down on the oar bench. A crimson line ran down from one of the sailor's nostrils, and Ebon wished he hadn't already sold his rings, else he might have left a more permanent mark. And yet the sailor couldn't have intended to taunt him. He couldn't have known who Lamella was, or what she meant to Ebon.

Couldn't have known
before.
But couldn't fail to suspect now.

The prince's woman.

Ebon forced himself to calm. Rendale would never try to steal Lamella from him, just as Lamella would never let herself be stolen. There was another explanation for the sailor's words. Rendale knew of the enmity between Ebon and Ocarn, so he would know not to reveal Lamella's identity to the Mercerien. The only way for him to keep her close without arousing suspicion was to pretend the two of them were together.

Still the idea festered.

Vale righted the sailor, then took up the questioning. “Are they both alive?” he asked the Mercerien. “Rendale and the woman?”

Ebon's breath caught. In his rage he hadn't thought to confirm that detail, just assumed.

The sailor answered with a nod, but there was enough hesitation to give Ebon pause.

“But…?” he prompted.

The Mercerien tensed as if expecting another blow. “Rendale got hurt on the Hunt. Half the mizzen yard fell on him. Left a lot of blood on the boards and had to be carried below, but when we got to Gilgamar, he were able to walk down the gangplank on his own.”

“And the woman? Was she hurt too?”

“Not as I saw.”

Vale said, “What happened out there? On Dragon Day?”

The sailor spat a gobbet of blood over the rail. “Gate never got lowered again after it went up, that's what. Shroud-cursed dragons everywhere. Ocarn were quick to turn tail once he smelled trouble, but this gold dragon rises out of the waves dead ahead of us, as big as the
Dawnspark
herself. No time to steer round, so we rams the thing. Hurt us more than it hurt the dragon. Then the creature's tail comes whipping down on the decks, over and over like it's beating on a drum. Friend of mine got impaled by one of its tail spikes. Dragon lifted him up and mashed him down again till we was all wearing bits of him.” The sailor's gaze flickered to Ebon. “That's when Rendale took his hurting. Mizzen spar broke and came down on the quarterdeck.”

“How did you get away?”

“Through luck, that's how. Damned water-mage of Ocarn's couldn't conjure up a wave big enough to wash your feet. He starts us off west, but the dragon's catching up to us like we're sailing through blood honey. So Ocarn gives the order to turn south.”

“South,” Ebon repeated. “Toward the Dragon Gate.”

“Smart move, too. 'Cause while the
Dawnspark
might have been moving slow, there was plenty of other ships moving slower. We sees this galley limping along, its oars clacking together 'cause the oarsmen are all pulling at different times. Ocarn tells the mage to take us across its bows, hoping the dragon might stop for a look. Works a treat, too. And while the creature's munching on oars, Ocarn takes us west again. Sender himself must have been watching o'er us, 'cause we didn't see another dragon in all the time it took us to reach Gilgamar.”

“Dragon Day was twelve days ago,” Ebon said. “Have you been stuck on the ship all that time?”

“Yeah.”

“What about Ocarn?”

“Disappeared into the Upper City when we got here. Ain't seen him since.”

“Disappeared where, exactly?”

“The embassy.”

“And he took Rendale and the woman with him?”

The sailor nodded.

“How do you get a message to Ocarn if you need to?”

“Dunno. Ain't needed to yet.”

Ebon stood up abruptly. He suspected the sailor had told them everything he knew, and the Galitians' time would now be better spent watching the
Dawnspark
in case one of Ocarn's men turned up in response to Gunnar's false message. He untied the boat and tossed the rope to the mage. “Take him along the coast toward Dian,” he said. “We don't want him walking back here before we've finished our business.”

Gunnar inclined his head.

A last look at the sailor. The man spat bloody drool over the side. His expression suggested he didn't know whether to believe Gunnar would set him free, and perhaps killing him would have been the most sensible course. Even if Gunnar took him as far as Dian, he might steal a horse and be back here in a couple of days. There was no guarantee Ebon would have found Rendale and Lamella by then. Why take the risk? Why put their lives in danger when tossing the man overboard now would put the matter beyond doubt? It wasn't as if anyone on the waterfront would see anything, or care if they did.

A fishing boat emerged from the Neck with a flock of screaming limewings in tow. Ebon watched it disappear behind the hull of the Corinian galley.

Then he raised the boat on a swell of water-magic and stepped back onto the quay. Vale followed him.

The boat with Gunnar and the sailor in it moved away on a wave of Gunnar's water-magic.

Ebon looked back toward the Upper City. In the shadow of a ramshackle warehouse, a group of men was gathered around a fire in a can. A pushing match was under way, and one man stumbled into the can and tipped it over. His shirt went up in flames. The other men started whooping and dancing about him as he shrieked and writhed. Then finally he thought to run for the harbor to douse himself.

“Are we doing the right thing?” Ebon asked Vale. “Waiting until night?”

“You sought out Tia's help. May as well use it now.”

“And if she betrays us?”

“If she betrays us, she'll probably just keep the money and not show. We can worry about that if it happens.”

“If it happens, we won't find out until tonight—after the gates to the Upper City are closed. That means we lose a night when we could have been looking for Lamella and Rendale.”

Vale shrugged. “Then we hit the gates as soon as they open tomorrow morning. If I go through fast, I might be able to lead the guards away, create enough of a stir to let you slip in unseen. Or we hand out a few sovereigns, find some scum to kick up the dirt.”

“Then why aren't we doing that now? If we timed it just as the gates were closing, we'd have the fading light to help cover our tracks.”

“Hitting the gates ain't less risky than hoping for Tia to come good. And Rendale and Lamella ain't going to thank us if we show up with half of Gilgamar's soldiers at our backs. Your choice, though. That's the privilege of command.”

“My choice, yes,” Ebon said. “And the only thing I know for certain is that whichever option I choose, it'll be wrong.”

Vale shrugged again. “So pick the other one.”

*   *   *

Galantas's boat cleared the dragon's skeleton and picked up speed. Behind, the darkness in the water drew nearer. Through the froth in the boat's wake, Galantas glimpsed flutters of black that might have been tentacles. The threads of the Weaver's web trembled at the creature's passage.

Sender's blessing, it was quick.

Galantas scanned the channel ahead. To either side, the cliffs dropped straight into the sea. Too steep for climbing. There were no caves they could shelter in, no beaches offering a safe exit from the water, meaning their only hope was to outrun the beast. Quarter of a league away, the strait opened out onto choppier water. This, Galantas knew, was where the Weaver's web—and thus its territory—ended. But there was no chance of the boat reaching that point before the creature overhauled it.

Not without a detour, at least.

To get where he needed to go, he'd have to run the precise course he'd followed in the Thousand Islands Race three years ago. First he had to take a bearing on the channel's underwater ruins. There were submerged buildings beneath the waves, flashing past in a gray blur. Galantas looked for a tower that reached almost to the surface. He might have missed it but for a telltale ruffle of water where the waves broke over it.

“A point to starboard!” he said to Barnick.

The boat changed direction.

Now that the craft's course was set, Galantas needed to consider distances. He scanned the northern cliff, looking for the mark he'd made three years ago. They were approaching Hangman's Drop, and the gallows was visible atop it. Below, a handful of stunted trees clung to the cliff, their roots half exposed …

“There!” he shouted to Barnick, pointing. A splash of white paint a hundred armspans away.

“I see it!”

Galantas looked at Qinta. The Second had not been involved in the Hundred Islands race, so he'd have no idea what was about to happen. “Get a grip on something,” Galantas said. “And make sure you take a good breath.”

Eighty armspans to their target. Galantas could see the shape of the building under the water ahead.

Sixty armspans.

Galantas looked round to see the Weaver closing. Its shadow rushed toward them like the coming of night. The sea bulged with its passage.

Forty armspans.

Twenty.

Galantas hunched down in the prow and braced his legs under the oar bench. The boat drew level with the mark on the cliff. “Now!” he shouted to Barnick. Then he took a deep breath, as much air as his lungs could take.

The boat began to sink.

Most people thought water-mages could guide a craft only over the waves, but there was no reason they couldn't steer
under
them too.

The timing of this maneuver was all-important. The boat traveled much slower underwater than it did on the surface. Dive too soon, and the Weaver might catch them before they reached their destination. Leave it too late, and they might overshoot their target. The mark on the cliff was to show where to start the descent, but with the creature so near, Galantas wondered if he should have stayed above the surface a while longer.

The sea closed over him.

Ringing silence in his ears. The waves tugged at him, and he tightened his grasp on the gunwale. From the Weaver behind came a clicking noise, all stretched and distorted by the water. Like a blackcraw pecking at a snail's shell. It took all Galantas's will not to look round. His pulse was beating double time. Not good. If he wanted his breath to last, he would have to remain calm.

Calm. Right.

The sagging black threads that made up the creature's web shook. They looked so delicate it seemed the currents must tear them apart, yet stuck to one was the corpse of a briar shark, long dead and half decomposed. Barnick guided the boat past. Ahead a shadow took form in the water. Moments later an immense domed building became visible. Across it Galantas could see carvings of ships made from bones—carvings identical to those on the dome in the South Corridor that he had walked across to win that bet with the Needle.

They were going to make it!

Then he saw the hole in the dome's side that the boat must pass through. His elation faded. It was smaller than he remembered. More a fissure than a hole, wide and shallow, with blackness beyond. When he'd taken part in the Thousand Islands Race, it had been in a boat with a mast that could be taken down entirely. Would the stub of mast left by Qinta's sword fit through the opening?

The clicking sound became louder. To either side of Galantas, the threads of the Weaver's web twitched. As the boat approached the dome, Barnick aligned it with the place where the fissure was broadest. The front part of the craft passed through. Galantas looked from the opening to the mast. Damn, this was going to be close. Barnick steered the boat low, so its hull scraped the bottom of the hole.…

But the mast still snagged on the top of the fissure, bringing the craft to a juddering halt.

Galantas fought down panic. His back prickled. He could
feel
the pressure in the water caused by the Weaver's coming. Qinta looked over Galantas's shoulder, horror in his expression.

Click click click.

Barnick reversed the boat a handspan before propelling it forward again. The mast struck the dome with a bang that Galantas felt through the boards. A puff of dust floated down, but the stonework held. The boat retreated once more for another try.
To hell with this.
Even if Barnick could batter a way through the fissure, how much of the dome would he bring down on their heads by doing so?

Time to move.

Click-click-click.

Grabbing the mast, Galantas hauled himself toward the bow. If he swam into the dome, he would likely drown there, but anything beat joining the Weaver for lunch.

Then the mast thudded into the dome a third time.

The stones at the top of the fissure crumbled, and the craft shot forward into darkness.

Cool water inside, and so much relief Galantas almost relinquished his hold on the mast. It was too early to count his blessings, though. The Weaver wasn't going to let them escape so easily. Would it try to smash through the dome and follow them?

Of course it would.

A muffled boom sounded behind. The whole building shook. When Galantas looked back, he saw the fissure had doubled in size, and another section of stonework broke away and toppled into darkness. Cracks radiated outward from the enlarged opening. Beyond, a huge eye stared at Galantas—or at least part of an eye, since it was bigger than the Shroud-cursed hole. Overhead, patches of light showed where the dome's roof was coming apart. But it only had to hold a few more moments. Galantas's boat was over halfway to the other side now. The exit from the dome was a pale arch on the opposite wall, growing larger with each thumping heartbeat.