Scimitar's Heir (21 page)

Frowning, he re-rolled the paper and held the end over the chimney of the lantern. It smoldered, then burst into flame, not unlike the emperor’s flagship had done.
A bloody pyromage,
he thought as the flames consumed the document. Only when the heat touched his fingertips did he drop the last burning scrap into the chamber pot at his feet.

He delved into the satchel again to see what “tools” had been provided for his task. The array of vials was impressive, if somewhat depressing, each with its own tiny instruction printed on a paper label: Morphia—five drops imbibed for unconsciousness. Curare—four drops allowed to dry on dart or blade for paralysis. Arsenic—two drops imbibed for death… Most of the names of the substances were familiar, but some were new. He sighed; he’d hoped to never see, let alone use, anything like them again, but he knew their uses well enough.

At the emperor’s command
… he thought grimly.

There was also a selection of implements for delivery of the poisons. Droppers and tiny darts, rings with needles set in them, tiny blades to be fitted to the toe of a boot, and even a complicated mechanism that strapped to the wrist and shot a small dart when triggered. Huffington smiled without humor at such an elaborate means for taking a life, when a simple blade in the right spot would do the trick. He wondered about the two people he had been ordered to kill, people labeled as “dangers to the Empire of Tsing.”

He wondered if he would ever earn that label.

He closed and locked the satchel, then wedged it under the tiny locker set into the forward section of the
Flothrindel
. Picking up the chamber pot, he worked his way aft and up the companionway steps into the cockpit. Tipos and his two friends saw what he was carrying and edged out of his way.

“Careful wit’ dat, Mista Huffington,” Tipos said with a grin. “And empty it downwind, if you be pleased.”

“Of course.” He leaned over the low bulwark and dumped the mess overboard, then dipped the pot into the rushing sea for a rinse, careful to keep a firm hold on the handle. When he was done, he sat down in the cockpit and placed the chamber pot aside. “Something I ate, I think. City food never did agree with me.”

The others chuckled and muttered their agreement. Tipos tugged on a line that trailed out in the
Flothrindel’s
wake. “Mayhap we’ll be catchin’ somethin’ dat’ll settle yer stomach, Mista Huffington. We got a spot o’ rum down below, too, if ya wish.”

“No, thank you,” he said. He was, truly, feeling a little off his norm, but he knew that it was just nerves. It would pass. It always had. He just wished that things had not come around in such a full circle; he already had enough blood on his hands for one lifetime.

≈

“Make her fast and fetch up some of that fancy grub we took from the sea witch, lads,” Parek ordered, thumbs in his belt as he strode
Cutthroat’s
deck among his cheering crew.

They were back in their hiding place in Middle Cay, safe and sound, moored fore and aft to the giant mangroves that hid them from curious eyes. They would wait here for Sam to return with
Manta
, and Farin with
King Gull
. They couldn’t go anywhere in
Cutthroat
; outfitted as she was, and laden with loot, she would be recognized as a corsair in any port in the realm. They needed the anonymity of
King Gull
to make port, sell their spoils, divvy up the profits, and disappear. When some of the men had grumbled about having to share the wealth with the pirates aboard Farin’s ship, Parek had reminded them of their oaths—loyal as one, or a watery grave.

“Besides,” he’d said, “you saw that chest of treasure. There’s enough for all.” Encouraging them to feast now would mollify them, make them think they’d got one up on the
King Gull
crew.

“And break out some of that fancy wine, too! We gotta get used to eating and drinking like rich men if we’re gonna fit in with the blue-blood crowd, ay boys!”

Cheering, the crew threw open the main hatch. The hold was chockablock with all manner of stores and finery plundered from the keep, but the booty had been stowed with care; perishables were within easy reach, and the crates of vintage wine were stacked at the edge of the main hatch coaming.

A crewman pulled a dark green bottle from a crate and tossed it to his captain. Parek laughed as he caught it in one hand, drew Bloodwind’s golden-hilted cutlass and broached the wine in true pirate fashion. The sword met the neck of the bottle, spraying the deck with broken glass and blood-red wine.

“There ya are, lads! Bring your tankards and taste what the finer folk drink!” He poured wine from the bottle’s broken neck into the offered cups until it ran dry, then broached two more to finish filling their mugs. “To the sea witch!” he called, raising his own pewter cup. “May we put all her finery to good use!”

They cheered and drank the wine down like cheap grog, bottle after bottle. Shanks of beef and lamb were hauled up and put on the spit to roast, and hams and smoked fish were eaten cold. While the men feasted and drank, Parek retreated to his cabin. There he had set aside a few things for himself: a rare bottle of brandy, a roast fowl, several loaves of bread and a crock of butter. And pastries for dessert; he took a bite of a flaky crust and closed his eyes, savoring the flavors. He had tasted nothing so fine in more years than he could recall.

Parek swirled his brandy in a stolen snifter and considered the empty chair across the table. He had hoped to share this meal with a particular red-headed doxy, but that was not to be. He refused to bemoan his loss, though. He stretched out his legs under the table, propped his feet up on the coffers that had been set apart from the rest of the treasure. Camilla had helped him choose the best of the jewels from the sea witch’s hoard to fill these two small chests: one for her, one for him. Well, they were both his now. Once they made port, he would be a very rich man indeed. And that, he knew, would bring him all the feminine companionship he desired.

Chapter 16

A Light in the Dark

Luminous patterns came to life in the flickering torchlight, drawing Edan’s eyes to the gray walls of the corridor. For a moment, he had seen something there, peculiar symbols and lines, he was sure of it. He ran his hand over the smooth gray stone. Nothing. He frowned, then shrugged; it must have been a trick of the light. He kept his hand on the wall as they advanced, running his fingers along curves like flows of melted wax or the rolling swells of the sea, not a single sharp corner or edge in sight.

This was their third day exploring the depths of Akrotia, and Edan was finally becoming comfortable with its unusual architecture, though the fact that they were actually below sea level still made his blood run cold. He gripped his torch tightly, a warm, comfortable lifeline in a sea of cold stone surrounded by a smothering ocean. On the upper levels, sunlight had been caught and transmitted down the corridors by an ingenious network of strategically placed mirrors and crystal prisms. Down here, fire was their only light. Flicker hovered in the torch’s flame at the end of her golden chain, chittering nervous nonsense, as comforted by the flame as he.

“There’s another stair,” Rhaf whispered. “Mark it, Billy. I counted eighty-three strides from the last chamber, at about thirty degrees to starboard.”

“Got it,” Billy said, scribbling notes on a roll of parchment. The notes would be used to expand the map that Cynthia, Ghelfan and Feldrin were putting together. But despite numerous exploration parties, all returning at the end of each day to add new pieces to the puzzle, it seemed to Edan like they had barely scratched the surface of Akrotia’s labyrinth.

“Down or onward, Master Ghelfan?” Rhaf asked, looking to the shipwright for direction.

“Down, I think, Mister Rhaf. We are not likely to find the Chamber of Life so high in the structure. My readings about Akrotia led me to believe that the chamber lies at the very center of the city. Since the mer-occupied sections are considered part of the city, the chamber must lie deeper still.”

“Great,” Edan muttered, peering down the peculiar staircase. They had seen many of these: long rectangular bronze frames with a hinge at one end, connecting the stair to the frame. The stair itself was a narrow box, also of bronze, topped with flat panels hinged side by side. When the room below was empty of water, the box swung down to the floor, the panels rotating to remain horizontal, acting as the steps. Should water flood the room below, the air in the box made it float up until it met the frame, effectively sealing the portal. While Ghelfan had been fascinated by the unique safety precaution, Edan was decidedly less so. He had visions of being trapped in the room below as water rushed in and sealed the hatches above, allowing the sea to smother him in a cold, wet embrace.

“Do not worry, Master Edan,” Ghelfan said, one slim hand patting his shoulder. “We are still many levels above the main hull. We should encounter water no time soon.”

“But you said the mer were letting the water in, flooding the lower sections.” Edan descended the stair behind Rhaf and two other sailors from
Orin’s Pride
. Ghelfan followed, with another five stout hands from
Peggy’s Dream
behind him. All of them were armed to the teeth, which made Edan feel marginally safe, though weapons did nothing to ease the claustrophobia that clenched his chest ever tighter the deeper they went. Their troop reformed at the base of the stair, which occupied the end of a corridor. There was only one way to go.

“Yes, I believe that to be the case,” the shipwright continued, as they proceeded down the corridor. “Eventually we should reach one of these hatches that is closed, and that will signify that the levels below have been compromised.”

“By compromised, you mean sunk, right?” Edan asked, letting a little sarcasm into his comment. He looked to Ghelfan and almost laughed at the indignant expression on the half-elf’s features. “You don’t have to try to make me feel better about this, Ghelfan. I don’t think anything could do that.”

“It was not my intent to patronize you, Mas—”

“Sssst!” Rhaf raised a hand, and everyone froze in their tracks.

For an instant, the sputtering torch was the loudest noise to reach Edan’s ears. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, and even Flicker had fallen silent, sitting on the end of the torch, her eyes glowing yellow in the flames.

“What is it?” Ghelfan asked, his whisper echoing about the stone walls of the corridor.

“Thought I heard somethin’,” Rhaf replied. “There’s a bend up here, or maybe a fork. I can’t tell yet.”

He motioned for Jamis to move up with his torch. Billy tucked his parchment and quill into a satchel slung about his shoulders, pulled out his sword, and joined his two fellows. They moved forward three abreast, swords at the ready as they neared what resolved into a branching of the corridor. Between the branches loomed an open door, an oval pit of black in the gray wall. Rhaf tapped Jamis’s shoulder and motioned toward the door. The sailor moved forward flanked by Rhaf and Billy, who watched the branching corridors. They had done this dozens of times, checking rooms as they passed and adding their dimensions to the growing map. It was tedious and nerve-wracking, but their actions had become rote.

Edan caught a flicker of motion in the torchlight an instant before Jamis’ scream shattered the silence.

Something large stepped through the doorway. It was half again as tall as a man, three times as broad, and covered from head to foot by matted gray-green hair. With no visible neck, its face sported four round, black eyes under a protruding brow, and the light seemed to madden it. One long arm lashed out. A hand with webbed fingers as thick as Edan’s wrist and tipped with two-inch claws grasped Jamis’ arm and lifted him toward a maw that seemed to have too many teeth. Jamis thrust his torch into the beast’s face by reflex, and its howl shook the stone under Edan’s feet. It flung Jamis aside like a ragdoll, and the sailor hit the wall hard, his arm red with blood, his torch tumbling to the floor.

“Swords!” Rhaf shouted, lunging at the thing with his cutlass. His thrust seemed to strike home, but the creature just howled again and swung one of its massive arms. Rhaf ducked under the blow and slashed, but the weapon did not penetrate the thick mat of hair. Men rushed forward, but only three could effectively reach the creature at one time. Edan backed away, while Ghelfan advanced with the second rank of sailors, his ornate rapier glinting in the torchlight.

The cries of the men rang in Edan’s ears, their swords unable to deter the beast. Dagger-like claws glinted in the torchlight as the beast swept its arms in wide arcs. Billy was caught on the shoulder by such a blow and knocked flat. The creature stepped forward, pinning the man’s leg beneath one huge, clawed foot. Billy’s screams and the beast’s incessant howling beat at Edan’s ears like great wings, nausea and terror gripping his stomach as he saw blood darken the man’s trousers. He stared, unable to move, and not sure how to act if he could.

“Edan!”

Ghelfan’s shout snapped Edan’s paralysis, and his eyes flicked to the half-elf. He and the sailors had retreated to avoid the creature’s advance, but Billy still lay pinned beneath its foot.

“Edan, burn it!”

Fire
, he thought, recalling how the beast had recoiled from Jamis’ torch.
Of course
!

All his hours of practice rose to the fore, and he reached without thought for the bottles at his belt. With the men so close, he would have to use the wind to control the flames, and doubt gripped him as he wondered if he could even call on the winds down here. But his questing plea brought a howling tempest down the corridor, and he felt a smile begin to tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Everyone down!” He flipped a small bottle over the heads of the men, right at the creature. The instant before it struck, Edan called to the fire, and it leapt in his mind like a hungry beast to devour the combustible liquid.

The bottle of alcohol exploded into a blue nimbus that enveloped the creature, and Edan urged the wind into a cyclone to keep the burning liquid from raining down onto the men. The creature howled in terror and stepped back, and Rhaf lunged in low to grab Billy’s arm, pulling him to safety. But the alcohol burned away quickly, and already the monster was stepping forward again. It had been frightened, but Edan knew that alcohol did not burn with great heat; the matted hair was singed, but the fire had dealt little real injury.

Edan let the torch slip down in his grip until his hand was in the flames, reveled in the sensation, drew strength from it as Flicker chattered in his ear, egging him on. He barely saw the men in front of him, just the massive creature…that feared fire. And he
was
fire.

“Get back!” Edan shouted as he stepped forward through the line of armed men.

Time for something hotter
, he thought, freeing another bottle from his belt. This one was made of clay, with a wide mouth and a waxed cork. Creosote, harder to ignite than the volatile alcohol, but once alight it burned long and hot, and it stuck. He threw the heavy bottle at the beast’s broad chest, and called both the hungry fire and playful wind. The jar exploded in a cascade of burning creosote and shards of shattered pottery, but he caught the deadly spray with a twitch of his wrist to shape the wind. The flaming syrupy liquid struck the howling creature, and clung to the thick mat of hair.