Red Tide (39 page)

Senar told him, leaving out any mention of the events in the Founder's Citadel. When he reached the part about how he'd fought the dragon on the terrace, Avallon's gaze flickered to the scales at his neck.

“You didn't cross blades with a stone-skin, then?” the emperor said. “Did you see any of them fighting as a group?”

Senar shook his head.

“What's your assessment of their warriors?”

“From what I've heard, they are formidable. But the Augerans would have sent their best.”

“Their best, yes.” Avallon began pacing again. “These last few months I've had everyone I can spare poring over texts from before the Exile. Most of the writings can't even agree on whether the Augerans' skins are made from stone or not. And even when they
do
agree on some detail, how do we know that what was true then remains true now?” He refilled his glass from the decanter. “There's one thing we can be sure of, though, and that's the skill of their fighters. The Syns, the Honored, the Spawn—names to scare children with for eight hundred years.” His gaze took on an intensity that pressed Senar back in his chair. “If they get a foothold in Erin Elal, we won't dislodge them again.”

*   *   *

Ebon walked up and down the waterfront. The ninth bell had rung so long ago it seemed someone must have forgotten to ring the tenth and eleventh bells both. Tia's minions were late to collect the first half of Ebon's payment. There was no way, though, that they wouldn't show. If they vanished for good, it would be
after
they'd taken his money.

So where were they?

Ebon had watched the Harbor Gate close at the eighth bell, still undecided as to whether he should have been trying to break in. Now the decision was out of his hands, and he could only wait and hope that Tia came through. The more time that went by, though, the more stupid his choice seemed to be.

He pulled his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. Earlier he'd changed into his best clothes so he wouldn't look out of place when he reached the Upper City. Admittedly that meant he now looked out of place in his present surroundings, but there weren't many people around to show an interest in his attire. With the coming of night, the crowds at the harbor had melted away to leave only a handful of wretched souls, and the attention of those few was fixed on a woman atop an upturned barrel. She wore a white robe like a Beloved of the White Lady. Ebon had thought her a preacher at first, until he caught the smell of the tollen in the cups her assistants handed out.
A Seeker.
Oblivion in a glass she was serving, and there was no shortage of takers among her crippled and impoverished listeners. She had picked her audience well.

Ebon looked toward the Lower City. Above the creaks from the ships at quayside, a delirious hum was building as if someone had thrown wide the gates to the madhouse. In one of the streets a fire was burning, and shadows cavorted around it like they were engaged in some demonic ritual. As yet the bedlam showed no signs of spreading to the harbor—

“We got company,” Vale said.

The prince stared along the waterfront. From the shadows of an alley appeared Peg Foot, and behind him strode four heavily armed men. Peg Foot's peg tapped a hollow note on the wooden quay.

“You're late,” Ebon said as the man drew up.

“So we are. You got the money?”

Ebon nodded to Vale. The Endorian crossed to Gunnar in the boat and accepted from him two small chests. Vale carried them to Peg Foot and put them on the ground before retreating. One of the walking weapons racks collected them.

Ebon said, “The rest is deposited with a moneylender called Jilan Galamer.”

“I know,” Peg Foot replied with a smile.

Ebon didn't like what that smile signified. This afternoon Jilan had been only too happy to take the prince's gold. He'd even had a standard set of terms upon which it would be held pending the completion of Ebon's dealings with Tia. But then doubtless every moneylender in the Lower City was in Tia's pocket—together already with the money Ebon had deposited with Jilan, probably. “We're ready to go.”

“Then
you're
early,” Peg Foot said. “Ain't nothing gonna happen till the sixth bell.”

Ebon stared at him. “The
sixth
bell? As in tomorrow morning?”

“That a problem? You asked Tia when you'd be going in, and she said ‘tonight.' In these parts, morning don't start till the sun reaches its peak in the sky.”

Ebon spoke through gritted teeth. “Tia also said I'd have time to conduct my business before first light.”

Peg Foot shrugged. “Relax, man. Undo a button of that fancy shirt of yours. You're an intact, ain't you?”

“An ‘intact'?”

“As in you still got all your bits on you. Once you're in the Upper City, you should be able to move around without no one asking questions. Or that's the way I sees it. Besides, it ain't as if we got a choice. Our man inside starts his posting at the sixth bell, so that's when we goes in. You could show up early if you wants, but the reception you gets will be a good deal less friendly.”

Ebon kept his silence, not trusting himself to speak. He should have seen this coming. He should have pressed Tia more about timings at their meeting. But it was too late to remedy that now. What was he going to do? Ask Peg Foot for his money back? The man was more likely to give up his remaining foot. And while Ebon had little doubt that he could take back the gold by force, how was that going to make the sixth bell come sooner?

Peg Foot said, “We'll be back at the fifth bell to collect you and lead you to where we're gathering. Wouldn't want you to stumble down the wrong alley, now, would we?” Or not stumble down the wrong alley, perhaps. “Anyhows, look on the light side of things. A few extra bells means you gets a chance to sample the delights of the Lower City.”

Ebon had seen enough of those delights already. Along the street leading to the Canal Gate he could make out a horseman dragging a motionless figure behind him by a rope. Then a swordsman emerged from an alley and cut the horse's legs out from under it. More attackers descended with flashing knives upon the squealing animal and its toppled rider. Dressed as Ebon was, he wouldn't last a quarter-bell down there, with or without Vale at his back. The best chance he had of avoiding trouble until morning was to get in his boat and sail to the center of the harbor.

“This city is sliding into the Abyss,” he muttered.

“Every night, my friend,” Peg Foot said. “Every night. And let me tells you, it's right cozy down there in the dark, damned if it ain't.”

With that, he turned and hobbled away along the waterfront. His four companions fell into step behind.

Ebon watched them retreat until they disappeared down an alley, then looked over at Vale.

The Endorian said, “Told you you should have picked the other option.”

Before Ebon could respond, a crackle sounded in his ears as if his hair had been set alight. He flinched and turned—

To see on the quay where the noise had come from … nothing, no one.

No, that wasn't quite right. There
was
something there, but it was hard to make out what in the gloom. A misty quality to the shadows. A hint of a form, insubstantial as smoke. Yes, Ebon was sure of it now: a figure, maybe a head shorter than the prince, wearing a tattered robe. It looked familiar.

Understanding dawned.
Mottle!

But how? Ebon had heard nothing from the mage since they parted in the Forest of Sighs. When the old man hadn't returned to Majack, the prince had assumed he was dead.

Who cared, his friend was alive! He stepped forward to embrace the mage, only to stop in midstride as he remembered he was seeing just a spirit, a sending. Still he found himself grinning like a youngling.

Then his grin faded as he noticed more details of Mottle's ghostly image: the sunken eyes, the melted flesh, the scars on the old man's neck from what might have been tooth marks. He remembered Parolla telling him of her clash with a creature of fire—a tiktar—on that hilltop overlooking Mayot's dome. Of how the beast had engulfed Mottle before the two of them were snatched up by the vortex. Ebon had left the mage to face the creature when he set off to find Mayot. Left him because he couldn't let Parolla face the tiktar alone. Another friend abandoned in the name of his duty.

“Greetings, my boy,” Mottle rasped. He sounded as dried out as a drunkard craving his next drink.

“You're hurt,” Ebon said needlessly.

“The burns? Pah! The tiktar fared worse in our encounter. In any case, Mottle was able to use his arts to ease his discomfort until he found a Beloved to take away the pain. The scars remain, but Mottle believes they add a certain rugged allure to his otherwise scholarly gravitas.”

“Perhaps I can help with those scars when we're next together.”

“Perhaps you can,” the old man said, regarding him with a beady eye. “Mottle has heard whispers of how you healed your father.”

“Only whispers? Does that mean you are not in Majack?”

“Furies bless me, no, my boy. Mottle is in Olaire! The storm bore him east from the Forest of Sighs, yes? And your humble servant allowed … carried thence, believing … merited a rest…”

The old man's voice was becoming softer by the moment. “You're fading out, mage. I can barely hear you.”

Mottle puffed out his chest like he'd been paid a compliment. “But of course Mottle is! Your humble … fifty leagues away! The Furies themselves could not … over such a distance, and even Mottle's … sorely tested by…” He waved a finger in the air. “In but a short time … fail, but before that he … usual brevity and insight. Now, as he was saying, the storm … east where by happy circumstance … momentous proceedings culminating … answer perhaps to the riddle … most cruelly in the Forest of Sighs…”

Ebon's impatience grew even as Mottle's voice dwindled. “Riddle? What riddle?”

“The riddle of … and the Vamilians, of course! The cause … ancient enmity. Mottle discovered … in a fortress not unlike—”

“Enough! Please tell me you did not track me down just to give me another of your history lessons.”

The old man was taken aback. “Well,” he said after a pause, “not
just
for … it is true.”

“You know where Lamella and Rendale are?”

Mottle's face lit up. “Aha! So
that
is why … in Gilgamar!”

Ebon took a breath. And to think he'd been happy to see the old man again. But perhaps that had been as much to do with what he'd thought Mottle could bring to the search for Rendale and Lamella as it had to do with the mage's reappearance. It was an unworthy thought, but there would be time later to celebrate the old man's return. “How did you track me down?”

“… Currents, of course. The Currents reveal all—”

“Good. Then they will have revealed to you where Lamella and Rendale are being held.”

“No doubt … yet your humble … intent solely on your own—”

“Could you find them now?”

Mottle's expression changed, but Ebon couldn't read it because the old man's image was too faint. “Alas … storm is coming … clamor of impending conflict … drown all else. Like trying … one voice over … of battle.”

Ebon cocked his head, tried to isolate the mage's whisper from the murmur of the Seeker's voice behind. “Conflict? Who? Where?”

“Why, Gilgamar … no less dread than the Vamilians … must flee … city fall…”

“Mottle, I can't hear you. Can you get to Gilgamar? Can you meet me here?”

Nothing.

“Mottle!”

The last shreds of the old man's image dissolved like smoke on the breeze.

*   *   *

Last light, and Galantas sat on the sandy ground of the Hub, listening to the cry of a blueback whale lost among the Shoals. Hundreds of Rubyholters sat round him, silent and still as they watched the shadowy figures of the clan leaders in the circle of standing stones. They were speaking in hushed tones, but Galantas could guess what they were discussing. Word had reached the Hub from the survivors of Bezzle: Dresk's fortress had been taken by the stone-skins, and the warlord himself was dead. Perhaps the reports should have sparked some reaction in Galantas, but he'd been expecting the news since the Augerans attacked, and in any event his father had been dead to him for years. Of more interest was the fact the clansmen thought Galantas was dead too—a misapprehension he had encouraged by keeping his hood up and his gaze down.

When he chose to make his appearance, he wanted it to be suitably dramatic.

Drama was never in short supply when the clan leaders met at the Hub. The last time they had been here was two months ago, when Kalag of the Raptors was accused of taking Erin Elalese gold to pick a fight with the Tridents. Some entertainment that had been. It was forbidden to draw weapons inside the stone circle, but there were no such rules for the rest of the island. More than twenty clansmen had finished the wrong side of Shroud's Gate that night. Galantas doubted even the coming of the stone-skins would stop the old rivalries flaring up now. He could see the tension in the postures of the clan leaders. Hardly fertile ground for Galantas's message of reconciliation, but that would just make his victory all the sweeter when it came.

Of the eight Rubyholt clans, only four were currently represented. There was no mistaking Kalag—Dresk's long-standing adversary—with his grating voice and his bushy beard, nor Malek of the Needles with his inch-long fingernails. Enigon was here from the Squalls with his blond good looks and his easy smile. Last of the four was Tolo of the Keels—a youth with watering eyes who had risen prematurely to his clan's headship following the deaths of his father and his elder sister to a fever last month. Rumor had it he had poisoned them both, but Galantas doubted he had the stones for that. Hells, the man hadn't even attempted the Shark Run yet.