Red Tide (52 page)

She looked at Caval. His face was beaded with sweat, his eyelids drooping. There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him at that moment, but she couldn't get the words out past the lump in her throat. Even on Dragon Day she'd thought that, given time, she and Caval would make their peace over his betrayal. Now, with the sands running out, she found herself questioning whether she'd done all she could to set aside her anger and hurt—if she'd even set it aside fully now.

She could sense Caval's fear in the force with which he gripped her hand. A memory sparked in her of the time they'd held hands like this on the day Karmel left home, but she pushed the thought aside. Too often since Dragon Day she'd sought refuge in memories of brighter times, as if by thinking of the closeness she and Caval had once shared, she could resurrect it in the present. A mistake. For as she'd come to realize, there was no greater grief than to remember times of happiness when times of sadness were at hand. Her expression hardened.
Times of happiness?
She'd never thought so when she was living through them. But sometimes you had to lose a thing to understand its worth.

Caval's head slumped against her shoulder, and she stiffened. His grip on her hand was failing. Was he still breathing? She couldn't tell. Her own breathing was leaden.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, fighting back tears.

Then she froze.

Footsteps in the street outside, approaching quickly. Had the Erin Elalese returned? With help, perhaps?

A figure stepped into the courtyard. A male Augeran, tall and gaunt.
Just one?
the priestess thought dully. This stone-skin was not like the others, though. He had golden spiral tattoos on his arms and cheeks, and there was something … insubstantial about him, as if he had one foot in this realm and one in the spiritual. Karmel had seen him earlier, she realized, climbing the gangplank to board the four-masted ship she'd marked with dragon blood.

He looked in the Chameleons' direction. There was blood on the flagstones near Caval, but the stone-skin couldn't know the Chameleons were there. Not while they remained still …

Then it came to her. As Caval had faded, he'd released his grip on his power—meaning the Augeran would be able to see him. And that wasn't all he'd see. He would see Caval slumped to one side. He would see him seemingly supported by nothing more than shadows.

And thus he would know that Karmel was there too, for all that she remained invisible.

He drew his sword.

The priestess stared at him. She didn't think she had the energy to push herself upright.

The stone-skin came at her, and she rolled to one side. Caval's weight was a momentary drag on her shoulder, then she was up on her feet. Her brother slumped to the ground, his head cracking against stone. Karmel drew her sword just in time to meet the Augeran's first thrust. Her blade felt clumsy-heavy in her hand, and her fingers were slick with Caval's blood.

The bite of the weapons rang loud in her ears.

Through her tear-stung eyes, her foe seemed a blur to her. In Dian, the stone-skin she'd fought had been brute strong, but this one was smooth as quicksilver. He came surging toward her, light glinting off his tattoos, sword flickering every way. The priestess backpedaled, wielding her own blade with a speed she hadn't thought herself capable of. Yet she felt strangely detached from the fighting—as if she wasn't controlling her weapon, simply watching it flail about her as it cut the night to ribbons.

Her opponent pressed forward. Karmel needed all her concentration to keep him at bay, but she found her mind drifting to Caval. Was he still alive, and if so, was he conscious of her duel? If he'd had the breath, he would have scolded her about the sloppiness of her technique. She must have been doing something right, though, because her next attack—a backhand cut—appeared to take the stone-skin by surprise. He was late bringing up his weapon to block.

Karmel's sword whistled for his throat.

And passed straight through him.

She blinked.

As her blade exited the man's neck, he reached up and grabbed it with his left hand. At the same time he stabbed forward with his own sword.

Too late for Karmel to sway aside.

The weapon ripped into her. She felt a searing pain in her chest as if someone had lit a fire there.

And suddenly she was falling.

 

C
HAPTER
17

A
MEREL STOOD
on the quarterdeck of Galantas's ship, the
Fury,
staring west across the moonlit bay. Above the shore of some nameless island, the skyline was stained orange. Bezzle's harbor was burning—she'd seen it earlier as she sped in Mokinda's boat with Pincushion and his friends toward the Rubyholters' meeting place. Perhaps the rest of Bezzle was too, considering the brightness of the glow. One city-sized funeral pyre. The stone-skins' ships, meanwhile, had pulled out and were now anchored beyond the islets. Awaiting the dawn, perhaps? Or further reinforcements?

To her right, Mokinda leaned on the rail. There was a silence about the Storm Lord that said he didn't want company. He hadn't been surprised when Amerel found him in the boneyard. It made her wonder if, thanks to Mazana Creed's shaman, he had known all along that the Chameleons would fail—and if they'd been ordered to save Amerel from Hex so there was someone to take on the baton when they fell. It made her wonder, also, if he knew what had become of Karmel, for the priestess hadn't been with him at the boneyard. Amerel wouldn't ask him, though. Deep down, she already knew the answer to that question.

She took a breath and let it out slowly.

In addition to the
Fury,
seven other Rubyholt vessels were anchored in the bay. None showed the faintest glimmer of light, but then the fiery stench of blayfire oil served as a constant reminder of the perils of naked flames. The ship's crew was hard at work scrubbing the oil-soaked boards. Amerel had learned some intriguing things while listening to their conversation: about Dresk's death and about the success—or failure, depending on who was talking—of the raid at the harbor. There were as many different views on that as there were tribes represented in Galantas's crew. Evidently the clans were intent on holding on to their grudges and petty rivalries. Amerel wasn't complaining, though. She might be able to exploit those fault lines in her imminent meeting with Galantas.

And thank the Matron it was Galantas, rather than his father, to whom she was about to speak. Dresk, after all, had been warlord, whereas his son was just one of many people wanting to take his throne. There was no right of succession in the Isles; a warlord had to earn his place. Judging by tonight's attack on the harbor, Galantas had already begun the task of trying to prove his worth. Odds were, he'd be open to any scheme that extended his notoriety. Odds were, he'd have no qualms about allying with an enemy if it served his purpose. Here was an ambitious man. A ruthless one too, if the rumors about him orchestrating his brother's death were true.

A man, in short, with whom Amerel could do business.

How best to approach their meeting, though? Admit she was from Erin Elal, or pretend to be from the Storm Isles? Relations between the Storm Lords and the Rubyholters had been strained for decades, their enmity fueled by Dragon Day and the devastation caused by dragons passing through the Isles. Had relations between Dresk and Avallon been more cordial, though? If Amerel admitted to being from Erin Elal, what reason could she give for being in Bezzle at the time of Eremo's assassination? A coincidence? Galantas was too smart to believe in such a thing. And how would she explain having the dragon blood in her possession? How would she explain being privy to Jambar Simanis's predictions?

No, she would have to be from the Storm Isles.

Noon moved alongside her and stared at the orange skyline. “This is just the beginning, isn't it?”

Amerel nodded.

“Doesn't matter what we do here. Doesn't matter if we sink every ship in this Augeran fleet. It's just putting off the inevitable.”

“Let the stone-skins come. We'll drive them back into the sea.”

Noon looked at her sharply. “You really believe that?” he said. Wanting to believe it himself.

“No.”

The Breaker's attempt at a smile came out as a grimace. He looked over the bay again and massaged his temples with his thumbs. “Lady's mercy, what's that
noise
?”

“Noise?”

“You don't hear it? It's like a needlefly buzzing around in my head.”

“Ah. That'll be the devilship.”

He looked at her.

“Didn't you see the flames carved into the ship's hull when we arrived? Or the demon figurehead? We're on a devilship—a ship with a Krakal shade bound to it. That noise you hear is the spirit keening. When the ship goes into battle, the Krakal soaks up the crew's bloodlust and feeds it back to them fivefold. Makes them formidable in a fight.”

The Breaker had a guarded expression like he thought she might be having him on.

“What, you don't believe me?”

“Oh, I believe you, all right. With that honeyed tongue of yours, though, I don't know if I believe you just because you want me to.”

“You needn't worry on that score. If I'd used my Will on you, I'd have taken your doubts as well.”

“Good to know. You ever sailed on one of these devilships before?”

“No. Heard about one, though. Some Corinian ship that lost its water-mage to bad lederel meat, then lost its bearings in a storm. Three months the crew was out at sea. Three months of dwindling food and fraying tempers, and with the Krakal whispering in the sailors' ears all the while. When they finally put into harbor, only twenty of them were still alive. They'd killed all the others. Eaten them too.”

Noon's brows drew in. He squinted at Amerel, and she met his look evenly.

“What?”

The Breaker shook his head.

A boat glided between two ships in the bay. In the time that Amerel had been on board the
Fury,
the captains of three other vessels had come to confer with Galantas. The last had left quarter of a bell ago, making her wonder why he hadn't yet summoned her to his cabin.

“You were telling the truth to the Chameleons, weren't you?” Noon said. “About your niece, Lyssa.”

“All the best lies have a grain of truth in them.”

“I'm sorry about your sister.”

“Why? Did you know her?”

Noon grunted. “This niece of yours, what's she like?”

“She's six.”

A pause. “That's it?”

“Have you ever met a six-year-old before?”

“Maybe.”

“It's not the sort of thing you forget.”

“How come she ended up with you?”

“Because there was no one else.”

“No other family?”

“Her father died of the same fever that took her mother. No grandparents, no uncles, no aunts. Hence ‘no one.' And believe me, I spent a long time looking.”

Noon scratched a spider bite on his cheek. “Did you know her well before?”

“No.” The day Cayda died was the first time Amerel had met Lyssa in years. The previous occasion had been after she got back from Kal. She and Cayda had been seeing each other less and less before then. Cayda wasn't a Guardian, and what was Amerel supposed to talk to her about when she returned from a mission? How she'd earned her latest scar? Things had come to a head after Kal. Lyssa had been four. She'd always been nervous in Amerel's company, but this time she'd cried when she saw her. Actually cried. No hiding things from a child. No clearer mirror to see yourself reflected in. Afterward Amerel hadn't spoken to Cayda about it, but they'd both known they would never see each other again. And so it had proved—until Amerel saw her sister's corpse on a slab in the mausoleum.

“Where's Lyssa now?” Noon said.

“With the emperor's lackeys somewhere. In Amenor, probably.”

“A hostage?”

“Matron's blessing, no—how could you think such a thing? Avallon simply offered to look after her while I was away. Kind of him too, considering she has no one else.”

Noon studied her. “Is she why you betrayed the Guardians?”

Amerel stared across the bay toward Bezzle. The orange glow had stolen the light from the stars. “I already told you, I didn't betray the Guardians.”

Footsteps sounded behind, and Amerel turned to see a man with tattoos for arms approaching. “Galantas wants to speak to you,” he said, as if Galantas had been the one who'd sought Amerel out.

“What a happy coincidence,” she replied, gesturing for Noon and Mokinda to remain. The Storm Lord didn't even acknowledge her. “Lead on.”

Awaiting her in the captain's cabin were Galantas and an unshaven man wearing the blue robes of a water-mage. The room was all lacquered wood and brass fittings, but the effect was spoiled by an old bloodstain in the middle of the floor. Galantas sat at a table on which was spread a chart showing the Rubyholt Isles. Behind him, a window looked out onto the bay. The moonlight trickling through it, and through the skylight overhead, was the cabin's only illumination.

Galantas sat straight in his chair, trying his best to look statesmanlike. He seemed to be coping well with the tragedy of his father's loss. He blinked when he saw her shattered eyes. Then his expression became calculating as if he was trying to place her face.

Not an encouraging start, but a nudge of Amerel's Will was enough to draw the sting from his suspicions. Lots of people in the world, not surprising if he'd seen a face like hers before.

“I need to speak with you alone,” she said. He'd be more open to persuasion if he didn't have friends here to impress.

Beside her, Tattoo snorted.

Amerel kept her gaze on Galantas. “Your men already searched me for weapons when I came onboard. Quite thoroughly, I might add. I trust that won't be necessary again.”