Red Tide (76 page)

Victory?

Ebon hardly noticed, for he'd seen Vale lying on the ground to his left. Tears streamed down the prince's cheeks, because beside his friend knelt the bearded mercenary healer, smiling reassuringly up at Ebon as their gazes met.

*   *   *

From the quarterdeck of the retreating
Fury,
Galantas stared over the waves. The Augeran ships had maneuvered into line for their turn to enter the harbor, but their way would now be blocked by the vessel that had hit the chains. Its stern was visible at the entrance to the Neck. A three-decker had been following hard on its heels. It tried to draw up to avoid a collision, but the two ships came together with a thud, a crack, and a chorus of screams. All music to Galantas's ears. Behind, a third vessel approached. Plenty of time for this one to heave to, but as it did so, a gold-scaled dragon rose beneath it, tipping the ship and pitching dozens of stone-skins into the water. A second dragon, another gold, surfaced amid the figures and scooped a shrieking Red Cloak into its jaws.

The
Fury
's crew cheered.

A fourth Augeran ship closed on the pair of golden dragons, and the archers onboard let loose a storm of arrows that pinged off the beasts' armor like hail off a copper roof. Galantas shook his head. Brave, but stupid.
How often the two go together.
A scorpion mounted on the vessel's forecastle shot a bolt that disappeared into the larger dragon's mouth, but the creature merely growled before spurting a jet of water from its nostrils that hammered into the soldiers manning the weapon. Farther east, another dragon—steel-colored this time—had surfaced. The stone-skin ship closest to it turned tail and fled south. Heartbeats later, a horn blast sounded across the water, and another enemy vessel took flight, then another, and another.

Galantas's crew cheered in earnest now. He cast his eye over them. Fourteen survivors if you included Galantas and the two Storm Islanders. Fourteen out of the forty who had met the stone-skin attack: seven Spears, two Needles, two Squalls, as well as that Raptor krel, Toben Stark. Squint grabbed a Squall and led him on a jig about the deck that ended in raucous laughter when the two men slipped on a pool of blood. A flask of spirits was produced and passed round. Some of the Spears whooped and chanted Galantas's name. Hells, even the Raptor was shouting.

Galantas had endured enough boos in his time that a cheer would never lose its appeal. On this occasion, though, the adulation rang hollow.
As hollow as this victory.
For while his men might be content merely to have survived the day, Galantas had set his sights higher. And once the initial flush of success had faded, how would his crew view today's events? Most important, how would the Needles, the Squalls, and the Raptor view them? For it was their account—as opposed to that of Galantas's Spears—that would carry most weight. Galantas knew what Kalag would say: that the victory here was Cayda's, not Galantas's. That it was Cayda who had destroyed the three stone-skin ships that the
Fury
had tangled with. That it was Cayda who had driven off the dragon when it attacked. And who could argue with him? By contrast, what had Galantas done today, save ferry the woman about like some captain for hire? Even the audacity of his decision to fight the stone-skins would be overshadowed by what came after.

His words to Qinta at Clinker's Bay came back to him:
We need some way to turn this into a victory, not just over the Augerans but over the Storm Islanders as well.

His gaze moved to Cayda and her companion, now standing at the rail to his right. He recalled the invisible barrier she had conjured up to save him from that stone-skin's sword stroke. And a light went off in his head. Air-magic, he'd thought at the time, but there was another possibility …

Pieces of the puzzle started falling into place.

He looked across at Qinta. If he was going to act, he would have to do so quickly.

“Qinta,” he said, then indicated Cayda and Noon with a flick of his eyes. “Our friends over there … Perhaps you could invite them to join me.”

The Second nodded in understanding.

*   *   *

Senar squinted. The gloom about the corridor had fallen away, and all was searing light. The blood and grime were gone, along with the body of the axman behind the tattooed Augeran. Senar looked at the stone-skin's heel, fearing the ax-head embedded there might vanish too.

It did not.

He listened to the moans of the wounded in the courtyard, the distant clamor from the seawall. Evidently the battle for the harbor was still going on, but the fact that the tumult sounded no closer indicated the defenders were holding their own. In the yard, the grass had been trampled into a red-brown soup of mud and blood. Bodies lay all about. There was no sign of the emperor or Kolloken, but Senar saw Lindin Tar's corpse draped over the ruin of a bench, a hole in her chest the size of a sandfruit. At the center of the square, four red-cloaked Augerans stood in a huddle, surrounded by a ring of Gray Cloaks and Erin Elalese soldiers. One of those soldiers called for the stone-skins to surrender their weapons, but they did not obey. They looked at the warrior Senar had crippled, seeking instructions.

The tattooed man did not acknowledge them.

From along the corridor, two figures appeared. There was no mistaking the executioner's form, and in front of him strode …

Mazana.

Senar's expression soured. The emira's face, arms, and legs looked scalded, and her eyes held a tinge of bitter red like cooling embers. Darbonna's knife was pushed through her belt.

When the executioner saw the tattooed stone-skin, he reached for his sword.

“Stay back!” Senar said. “You too, Mazana.”

The emira halted. She looked from Senar to the Augeran. “If the two of you are busy, I can come back another time.” She sounded giddy. Power-drunk.

When the stone-skin spoke, his voice was so low it seemed to come all the way up from his feet. “No for need. I is just leaving.”

“I
am
just leaving,” Mazana corrected him.

The man probably didn't hear her, because he was already stepping back through the west-facing wall of the corridor. Ahead and to Senar's left was a door in the same wall. The executioner threw it open and looked into the room beyond. Plainly the Augeran had moved on, though, for the giant slammed the door shut again moments later.

“What's happening at the harbor?” Senar asked Mazana. “Do I need to get down there?”

“I think not. Remarkably, it seems the dragons have been able to scatter the stone-skin fleet without your help.”

Dragons?
“And the wall itself? Does the Chain Tower still hold?”

“As far as I could make out from a glance through a window.”

“Where's Kiapa? Jodren?”

Mazana made a careless gesture. “When I left him, Kiapa was looking a bit gnawed, but he'll recover. The same for Jodren—except for the recovering bit, of course.”

“And Uriel?”

For a heartbeat the emira stared at him as if she didn't recognize the name.

Then the color drained from her face, and she set off at a run along the corridor.

*   *   *

Hex stood before Romany as pale and insubstantial as a specter. From his expression his mind was still trying to catch up to the sequence of events that had brought him here. He shook his arm free of her grasp.

A mistake.

He must have realized it too, for he snatched out for her again.

The priestess slapped his questing aside. If he reestablished the link between them, she wouldn't be able to return through the portal without taking him with her. And she had no more wish to let him hitch a ride back than she did to be stranded here with him. He came for her again, his face screwed up in rage as he tore at the weave of her sorcerous defenses. Romany backpedaled. She didn't need to fight him, just keep him at arm's length long enough to escape.

Another flick of her mind reopened the portal. As she retreated through it, the heat of the dying sun faded. Hex came after her, ripping through her wards as easily as if they were cobwebs. Just a few more paces. The whistle of the breeze and the touch of the wind-swept dust fell away to be replaced by the still air of the Alcazar. Hex tried to follow, his spiritual fingers clawing at her. But she had moved beyond his reach now, and he might as well have been trying to catch a cloud in his hands. She waved a farewell. His roar of fury filled her ears.

Then silence as she closed the portal again.

Home sweet home.

Romany leaned back against the wall. Hard to believe it was over. There was no way that Hex could open the portal without her help, yet still she found herself counting off the heartbeats, waiting for the inevitable
tap tap
of his steps, or the whisper of a “hee hee!” in her ear.
Foolishness
, she berated herself.
I've won; just accept it.

With Hex gone, his dreamworld had vanished from the Alcazar—the portcullis, the hornets, the darkness. Romany decided she much preferred this Alcazar to the other one. A pity she couldn't have spent more time gloating over the Augeran, but with an enemy as dangerous as Hex, you didn't take chances. And to think the fate she'd inflicted on him was the one she'd originally intended for Mazana! There was an irony there if she was minded to look for it. For now, though, all she wanted to do was put the memory of this episode behind her.

There was dust in her hair and on her clothes. She brushed herself down. A bath was in order, she suspected. A solitary clash of distant swords told her there was still fighting going on in the Alcazar, but she had already done her part and more.

It was time to find somewhere quiet to watch the rest of the drama unfold.

*   *   *

Mazana was a dozen paces in front of Senar, head down, sandals slapping on the floor tiles. Her dress had a tear on the shoulder he hadn't noticed before, and the cloth flapped as she ran. The Guardian dashed after her. He was still holding Strike's sword, and the blade whined as he pumped his arms. He passed the spot where he'd cut down the woman with the mace. There was a puddle of blood so large he had to jump to clear it. His heel caught the edge, and he slipped and skipped a step before finding his feet again.

Behind him came the thump of the executioner's footsteps. The giant bounded past Senar, closed the distance to Mazana in a handful of paces, and fell into step behind. She reached a staircase to the upper floor and took the steps three at a time, shedding a sandal halfway up where the steps switched back on themselves.

Senar reached the top a moment after her. The corridor was deserted. Mazana's footsteps echoed along it as she sprinted toward her quarters. Doors flew past to either side of Senar. There were no bodies blocking the way, no blood to suggest the fighting had spread here. And that had to be a good sign, right?

Then he saw the door to Mazana's room lay open.

There was an acid taste at the back of his mouth.

The emira plunged through the doorway, the executioner pausing on the threshold. Senar pushed past the man to get inside.

He halted.

A dead woman in a gray cloak sat slumped against a wall, her hands cupped over a wound to her stomach. A bodyguard? To one side stood Mazana. Senar could hear her breathing. She looked through the door to her brother's room, and the Guardian followed her gaze.

Matron, no.

Uriel lay curled in a pool of blood, his red hair soaked a darker shade of crimson. Behind, the wall was spattered with drops that were trickling down like rain on a window.
Still trickling.
Meaning the boy had died only a short time ago, maybe even just heartbeats before the nightmare world faded—and with it, most likely, the apparition that had slain him, for surely no Augeran would have wasted time on the boy while the battle raged in the courtyard.

Senar struggled to breathe. It felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He shifted his gaze to Mazana. She was facing away from him, her hands hanging slack at her sides. For a while she stood motionless.

Then she sank to her knees.

*   *   *

Amerel heard a footfall behind, then felt a blow cannon off the Will-shield she had thrown up earlier. She sighed. So predictable. But then to anticipate Galantas's next move, all she had to do was consider what she'd have done in his place. She turned. Tattoo stood a step away, a cudgel in one hand, his gaze flickering from Amerel to Galantas. Galantas himself watched from beside the binnacle, Barnick alongside.

She wagged a finger. “Treachery, Galantas? I'm shocked.”

Galantas looked unabashed. “I rather suspect you beat me to it. I saw the way you fought the stone-skins—the way your opponents' weapons bounced off you, just as Qinta's did now.”

“Bounced off
you
too, as I recall.” She was starting to regret helping him, but at least this time her mistake had been
saving
someone's life.

Galantas studied her. “You're a Guardian, aren't you?”

“Let me guess—you're a fan.”

“When you came to my cabin yesterday, I was sure I'd seen you before. I managed to persuade myself I was mistaken, but then it came to me. That Erin Elalese trade delegation nine years ago. Your hair and eyes were different then, but it was definitely you.”

“If you say so.”

“And if you lied to me about where you're from, I have to wonder what other parts of your story aren't true. Such as what you were doing in Bezzle the day the stone-skin commander died.”

“You think I was responsible for that? Even though I wasn't there?” Amerel waved a hand. “But you're right, what should that matter? Why let a small thing such as facts get in the way of a good theory?”

Galantas held her gaze, then shrugged. “Tell me now or tell me later, it's all the same to me. But you
will
tell me. Just as you will tell me the real story behind how you got the dragon blood, and what part Mazana Creed played in all this.”