Red Tide (45 page)

She retreated from the window. Caval had already removed from his pack the flask of dragon blood Mokinda had given him. Thoughts of the Storm Lord reminded Karmel of their conversation on the
Grace,
and suddenly the breeze stealing through the window felt as chill as Shroud's breath on her neck. What the hell was she doing here, when the smallest mistake could bring an army of stone-skins down on her? She thought back to Amerel's words at the White Pool. Those words had had the ring of truth to them, but maybe that was just the Guardian's Will talking. In any case, what did Karmel care for the fate of the Erin Elalese? Or of anyone beyond herself and Caval? Was she here out of guilt for Dragon Day? Was she seeking redemption for the part she'd played in the deaths of all those killed by the dragons?

Because what better way to redeem yourself for a thousand deaths than by killing a thousand more?

She should give it up now, she knew. Leave her blowpipe on the floor and go back to the boneyard. How far would she get, though, before the Chameleon's chain around her neck pulled tight? The god had struck down Veran's wife with the gray fever; he could do the same to Karmel in an eyeblink. Or to Caval.

And if she did leave, how did she know her brother would come with her?

Caval must have seen something in her expression, for he raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“We're not going to make it through this, are we?” Karmel said.

He gave a half smile. “Anything you'd like to get off your chest while you can?” He'd spoken the words lightly, but Karmel sensed in them an invitation, maybe even a challenge.

She looked away. What did he expect her to say, that she forgave him for betraying her? She'd tried the words out in her mind a thousand times, but they didn't ring true now any more than they had before. She understood why he'd done what he'd done. Because he'd hoped to escape the memory of his childhood beatings. Because he and Karmel had drifted apart. But there were things Caval had done that she could not reconcile herself to, however hard she tried: the premeditation to his scheme, the way he'd maintained the lie until Imerle's revelations had rendered his deception untenable.

A part of her railed at her obstinacy. What did it gain her to hold on to her anger? To cling to it was to prolong the hurt, not just for herself but for Caval too, so why could she not give it up? Before tonight, she'd always told herself to be patient, but what if she no longer had time for that?

“Let's get on with this,” she said, reaching for the blowpipe strapped to her back.

“Let's.”

Karmel would be the one taking the shot, and she withdrew from her pack a cloth purse containing the darts of blackened tarnica. Each was stored in its own slot to ensure they did not clink together. Karmel selected one, then closed the purse and put it back in her pack so she was ready to make a quick exit if she had to.

Caval took the stopper off the flask of dragon blood. The vinegary fumes it gave off brought a mist to Karmel's eyes. She touched the tip of the dart to the inside neck of the flask, before holding the tip over the bottle's opening for a count of ten to allow any excess liquid to drop. Then she placed the dart in her blowpipe, taking care that the tip did not come into contact with the mouthpiece. The dart's feathers gave the missile a snug fit in the bore, ensuring it wouldn't slide along the pipe when it was tilted down.

Moving back to the window, Karmel checked no stone-skins were looking toward her. Then she lowered the tip of the blowpipe onto the bottom of the broken pane of glass. The weapon extended past the window, and Karmel extended her powers over it to make it invisible. She placed her left hand on the pipe where it rested against the glass. Her right gripped the shaft below the mouthpiece. The window was at an awkward height for her, too low for her to stand upright, too high for her to kneel.

Caval's hand settled on her shoulder. Her brother would be her eyes while she took the shot, and they had already agreed on the signals he would use to warn her of trouble: removing his hand meant “wait,” a squeeze meant “abort.” She focused on the stone-skin ship that was her target. It bobbed on the greasy waves, meaning she'd have to get her timing right if she wanted to strike the hull near the waterline.

Indistinct voices reached her from along the waterfront to the south. She ignored them. The angle of her shot would take the dart close to the heads of the two Augerans stationed below, but there was nothing to be done about that. Karmel tightened her grip on the weapon and raised its mouthpiece to her lips. A muscle in her leg trembled from the discomfort of her half crouch.

Caval's hand was steady on her shoulder. The coast remained clear.

Karmel adjusted the angle of the blowpipe, picturing the shot she wanted to make.

A sharp breath, then she blew hard into the mouthpiece. The expulsion of air was so loud it seemed the stone-skins must hear it. Karmel didn't look to find out. Instead she watched the dart flash across the waterfront. She couldn't see where it struck the ship because of the shadows, but the trajectory had been just as she'd planned.

First one done. Simple enough, though the prospect of having to repeat the feat a dozen times tonight didn't appeal.

Then Caval squeezed her shoulder in warning.

*   *   *

Floating in spirit-form above the waterfront, Amerel watched an Augeran guard take a step toward the Chameleons' house. He couldn't have seen the dart, else he would have raised the alarm by now, but clearly
something
had caught his attention. He growled a question at his female companion.

A shrug was her only response.

Amerel pursed her lips. If the man went looking for the Chameleons, he was unlikely to find them with their powers activated. But why take the risk when a touch of the Will might convince the stone-skin he was jumping at shadows? She gathered her power.…

Then she caught sight of someone looking down from a window in the house next door—just their eyes and a mop of blond hair above the sill. A boy, maybe twelve years old.

Amerel didn't hesitate.

Reaching out with her Will, she tapped on the glass of the boy's window. Not loud, but loud enough.

The boy froze at the sound, then flinched back and down.

But not before the stone-skins had looked up.

*   *   *

Karmel felt a stab of guilt as she listened to the
thud, thud
of the Augerans pounding on the door to the neighboring house. Perhaps the Rubyholters inside had done something to attract the stone-skins' notice just as Karmel fired the blowpipe. Most likely, though, it was her shot that had stirred the enemy to watchfulness. The Islanders might still have time to escape out the back before their front door gave way. But even as the thought came to Karmel, she heard a splintering of wood followed by a woman's screams, a boy's crying.

She looked at Caval. He shook his head as if to say, “Not this time.”

Karmel scowled. Did he think she meant to rush out to save the Rubyholters as she had the woman in the alley? Maybe take on the stone-skin army single-handed? Did he really consider her so naive? So selfless?

Stepping back from the window, she returned the blowpipe to the straps on her back.

*   *   *

Galantas sloshed through water in the Serpentine Aqueduct. It was more than half a bell since he and the rest of the raiding party had started along the underground passage. They had brought only a handful of lanterns between them, and the darkness in the tunnel had a weight to it that served as a constant reminder of the tons of rock and soil overhead. The way led ever downward as if Galantas were descending into one of the Nine Hells, and that feeling was reinforced by the occasional muffled scream from the city overhead. Behind him someone muttered in the gloom—the same fool of a Keel, most likely, who had been complaining about the lack of room in the passage. At the Hub, Galantas had warned the other clan leaders how narrow the tunnel was, so of course Tolo had sent someone who was afraid of enclosed spaces.

Of the two hundred men in Galantas's raiding party, roughly half were his own Spears, meaning the other chiefs had entrusted him with a hundred of their own men. A hundred! Another time, the temptation to lead them astray might have proved irresistible, but in a tunnel with no paths leading off it, the opportunities on that score were limited. Along with the Needles and Falcons, Keels and Squalls, there were two Raptors whom Kalag had doubtless sent to watch Galantas in the hope he slipped up. Or to make sure he did, perhaps, by sticking a knife in his back? Galantas shrugged the thought aside. That was the one good thing about walking a tunnel as narrow as this: you had only to worry about the man immediately behind you. And Galantas had ensured it was Qinta stationed there.

A while later the air started to pale from black to gray. Ahead a low arch marked the place where the tunnel entered the White Pool. Galantas dropped to his hands and knees, then ducked his head under the water before crawling an armspan and resurfacing in the pool beyond.

After the chill of the tunnel, the air in the subterranean chamber felt like a warm blanket enveloping him. The room was gritty with flies. He waded to the side of the pool, then sat on the edge and swung his legs over. Qinta joined him. The floor was covered by a mosaic of a two-headed dog with more than half its stones missing. Men exited the water to gather in dripping huddles, while yet more warriors emerged spluttering from the aqueduct. It would take a while before the last of them cleared the tunnel, so Galantas looked for the crewman Squint, whom he had sent ahead to scout the waterfront.

Squint sidled up. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and there was something in his eyes that had Galantas bracing himself for bad news. Was there any other sort?

“The
Eternal
's gone,” Squint said.

“What do you mean, ‘gone'?”

“She ain't where we left her, Cap'n.”

“Then the stone-skins must have moved her.”

“Not inside the harbor, they ain't—I'd have seen the gleam off her main trunk if that were so. She's gone I tell you.”

Galantas's oath brought the heads of his nearby clansmen round, but he paid them no mind. The
Eternal
vanished. Could the stone-skins have scuttled her? No, that made no sense if the other vessels had been left untouched.

Qinta spoke. “We're gonna need another ship.” Then, to Squint, “You see anything out there you like?”

Squint flashed the stubs of his teeth. “There's always the
Fury.
Handy girl to have in a scrap.”

That she was. And while no vessel in the Isles could match the spectacle of the
Eternal,
the
Fury
—a devilship—had its own distinctive draw.

“The
Fury
's a Raptor ship,” Qinta said. “If we take her, Kalag's gonna want her back.”

“Then he should be here now,” Galantas snapped. “Where is she tied?”

“Outside Scurve's place,” Squint said.

“Then that's our target. Qinta, tell Barnick and the others.”

The Second moved away.

Galantas looked around. Some of the krels from the other clans watched him with guarded expressions, no doubt wondering what he had to discuss with Squint that he couldn't share with them. Among them was a barrel-chested Needle called Tub—Malek's right-hand man and a useful person to have in a knife fight. Next to him was Cleo, a Falcon, who was said to command the highest bounty of anyone in the Isles, after feeding half of Londell's monarchy to the Rent. With them were some of Dresk's krels—no, Galantas's own krels, he corrected himself. Clamp was there with his rainbow-dyed hair, and Faloman too, fresh from his appointment with the Speaker. There was no longer any need for Galantas to dispose of him. Once news had spread that the stone-skins had killed Dresk, Faloman—along with all of Dresk's erstwhile supporters—had quickly fallen into line.

As Galantas beckoned them toward him, he took a steadying breath. His most important task as commander was to project a sense of calm, so it wouldn't do for the krels to see his irritation about the
Eternal
and mistake it for fear. He studied their faces. Hard men, these. Confident. But then they were about to steal a few ships from an enemy, and what self-respecting Rubyholter hadn't trodden these same boards before?

“Gentlemen,” he said, “shall we get down to business? Squint, tell them what we're dealing with.”

“Easy pickings, to my eye,” Squint said. “I counted just eight groups of stone-skins along our stretch of harbor, six men in each, maybe fifty strides apart.” He looked around the krels. “If you're lucky, you should get a clear run at whatever ship it is you're going for.”

“And if you're
really
lucky,” Galantas said, “you'll get the chance to take out a few stone-skins on the way.”

Chuckles from some of the krels.

“Any patrols?” Tub asked Squint.

“Just one that I saw, and only four men in it.”

“There'll be others,” someone muttered.

Nods all round.

Tub's gaze was still on Squint. “What about the streets behind the waterfront? Any movement there?”

Squint shrugged. “I didn't have time to walk every cobble, but from what I saw, it looked quiet. All the action is going down at the northern end—”

“Wait,” Galantas cut in. “Action?”

“Aye, that's where most of the stone-skin ships are tied up. There's a steady stream o' traffic trampling the gangplanks, carrying barrels, crates, you name it. Bastards are reprovisioning, is my guess.

Tub looked at Galantas. “They're getting ready to pull out.”

Galantas knew what the Needle was thinking: why risk going through with this raid when they could wait for the enemy to leave and take the ships without a fight? Galantas answered the unspoken question. “Because they'll fire the ships before they go, that's why.”