Shadow Scale (43 page)

Naia was beside us in an instant, wrapping her strong arms around him like an anchor tethering him to the earth. He struggled another moment and then went still. “Abdo!” she cried, anguished, but he raised his good hand and patted her hair.

I—I ambushed her
, he said in my mind, in his own voice.

My eyes prickled with tears.
Did she seize control in your sleep again?

I hid and lured her out, and then I struck
, he said.
I’m still fighting, Phina, but I’m so tired
.…

He burst into tears, weeping silently into Naia’s shoulder. She rocked him and whispered into his hair. Abdo’s head pushed her gold-rimmed spectacles crooked, but she didn’t straighten them.

He was silent several minutes. I said in a tremulous voice, “Are you still there?”

Abdo did not reply. The dark sea of struggle had closed over his head again.

Three of Abdo’s aunties arrived with breakfast soon thereafter; I couldn’t bring myself to eat. Naia told them Abdo had surfaced for a moment, and that raised the mood in the apartment significantly. If they couldn’t bring him to Pende yet, surely it was just a matter of time.

I was not so sanguine, but I couldn’t bear to dash their hopes. I went for a walk along the harbor, trying to lose myself among
the milling sailors and the nets full of flopping silver fish. The sky was insultingly, offensively blue; it had no right to smile on anyone right now.

How could I travel home without knowing how Abdo’s struggle had ended? I felt tempted to stay here among the Jannoula-resistant ityasaari—but that was impossible. It would mean shirking my responsibilities, and for what? I couldn’t help Abdo.

I couldn’t help my Jannoula-addled friends in Goredd, either. I felt singularly useless.

I walked for a couple of hours, just trying to wrestle my despair back into its box. I must have stared at the trail of inky smoke for a long time before I really saw it, bisecting the southern sky, as if something were burning at sea. The strand and docks were crowded with people trying to make out what was on fire. I picked my way through the gapers along the western breakwater and saw two ships rounding the island of Laika, one pursuing the other. It was the pursuer that burned.

Both ships flew the Samsamese tricolor flag. The world snapped into sharp focus.

The lead ship sailed at full speed toward the harbor; its pursuer slowed as the fire on its hull spread to its sails. Behind the pursuing ship, two swift Porphyrian naval sloops glided out of Laika’s harbor; they flanked the burning, drifting ship easily and began rescuing sailors who had leaped into the sea to avoid the flames.

The people around me began to shout and then scream as the lead vessel neared Porphyry’s harbor: it was going too fast. There wouldn’t be room for it to stop once it passed the lighthouses. The
crew, clearly inexperienced, lowered all sails so the ship caught no more wind; the vessel slowed, but not quickly enough. It glided between the lighthouses, veering so that it drifted sideways, and didn’t stop until it crashed into a moored Porphyrian man-of-war. The crunch of wood on wood reached our ears, but slowly at this distance.

The sailors on the Porphyrian warship were clearly put out by this turn of events. They lay down planks and swarmed over, boarding the Samsamese craft.

The crew of the harbor vessel was strangely dressed. Even at this distance, they didn’t look like sailors in their padded black armor. One stout, balding fellow with a long white mustache seemed oddly familiar as he argued with the captain of the Porphyrians. I was walking eastward, trying to get a better look, when it hit me: that was Sir Cuthberte, a Goreddi knight. I’d met him last winter, imprisoned at Castle Orison. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be training dracomachists at Fort Oversea.

Samsamese
Fort Oversea. I quickened my step.

From the man-of-war in the harbor, a dinghy launched. Two officers with gleaming breastplates over their tunics and eight more plainly dressed sailors ferried a single knight to shore, a lanky fellow with stooped shoulders. I recognized Sir Maurizio, Sir Cuthberte’s erstwhile squire. He looked as uncombed as ever and a bit green around the gills.

I rushed toward the landing area, hoping to meet the boat. Sir Maurizio spotted me in the crowd as the sailors moored the dinghy and called, “You, maidy, are a sight for seasick eyes.”

I couldn’t get near the disembarkation, but Sir Maurizio had a few quiet words with his Porphyrian captors, and then a sailor ushered me through the curious crowd. Maurizio, who looked exhausted up close, shook my hand and clapped me on the shoulder. “Is Prince Lucian still here? It would be just our luck to have passed him in transit, like two ships—” He paused, his tawny eyes unfocused. “Exactly like two ships.”

“The prince is here,” I assured him, uncertain what he knew of the ongoing negotiations.

“Good,” said Maurizio, scratching his scruffy chin. “Take me to him, and to breakfast of any kind.”

It wasn’t up to me, however. The naval officers who’d brought Maurizio ashore were adamant that he be taken to the Vasilikon, before the Assembly of Agogoi. I was only allowed to come along because Sir Maurizio clamped his hand on my arm and wouldn’t let go.

“She’s my translator,” he kept insisting, in perfectly serviceable Porphyrian.

“Kiggs and I were coming to you next,” I said quietly to the young knight as we set off up the hill toward the Zokalaa. “Has something happened to Fort Oversea?”

Sir Maurizio sniffed and shook his head wearily. “Only the bloody Samsamese, breaking their promise to Goredd and Ninys. We were supposed to be training together for the defense of the united Southlands, but their new Regent has other ideas.”

I went cold. Had Jannoula persuaded Josef to move against the knights and dracomachists? Was this on her list of things to accomplish when she wasn’t fighting Abdo in his head? Maurizio
seemed disinclined to go into more detail just now, surrounded by Porphyrians; I hoped I’d be allowed to hear his report to the prince.

I had seen the facade of the Vasilikon many times but had never crossed the threshold. Beyond the columned pronaia—an imposing sort of porch—we passed through heavy bronze doors into an airy foyer with windows set high in the walls. A mural on the ceiling depicted Justice, Commerce, and Philosophy having an allegorical picnic of metaphorical sardines.

At a second set of doors, a guard droned an oath at us and would not let us pass until we repeated it:
I hereby consign my lips to secrecy and my soul to Dread Necessity
.

We entered a domed chamber containing a great amphitheater. It was only partially full; all Agogoi were members of the Assembly by virtue of birth, but most had businesses and industries to run or scholarship to pursue. Only the old, the indolent, and the heads of great houses attended every day, unless some juicy controversy merited serious businesspeople skipping work.

The heads of houses were sequestered in negotiations with Comonot and Kiggs; the naval officers who’d accompanied us into the great chamber spoke quietly to an assemblywoman at the top of the room, and she dispatched a messenger into the depths of the Vasilikon.

Maurizio and I watched the Assembly while we waited for the messenger to return. They were voting on petitions from farmers up the Omiga. Each member approached the center of the amphitheater and dropped a pebble into a squat urn of Porphyrian purple marble. An old man sat upon a bench behind the urn,
holding a heavy staff with what looked like a pinecone at the end; when the votes had all been cast, he upended the urn in his lap, separated white stones from red, and tallied the result in a large folio.

The messenger returned with a note dismissing the naval officers, who seemed relieved to go. The assemblywoman led us around the amphitheater and out. We followed her down vaulted corridors to a bossed door, where she left us with a guard. He administered the oath again, then opened the door for us. We emerged, blinking, into an octagonal courtyard, sunny and paved with flagstones.

The heads of great houses, eighteen matrons and patrons with gold circlets and flowing silk draperies, sat in a circle on bronze tripod stools. Many held folding fans. Speaker Melaye sat nearest the door, clutching the pinecone staff of office, and I recognized Camba’s mother, Amalia Perdixis Lita. Kiggs and Comonot sat on the far side, and with them, to my surprise, was Eskar.

Speaker Melaye directed Maurizio to the center of the circle, where he stood and sweated. For a moment I wondered whether I should leave; I hadn’t been sent for, and there was no stool for me. Eskar caught my eye, however, and waved me over. I skirted the perimeter to stand behind her. She turned in her seat, her sharp black eyes scanning my face, and said, “Have you recovered from your shock?”

“Yes, thank you,” I whispered back, not wanting to discuss it in front of strangers. It was kind of her to ask, but also deeply odd. Had she been worried?

“Your uncle—” she began, but just then Speaker Melaye
banged her staff on the flagstones for silence, her protuberant eyes fierce.

“We will hear this knight’s report,” Melaye announced in Goreddi, establishing the meeting’s language. Around the circle, the Agogoi fanned themselves and nodded.

Sir Maurizio bowed to Melaye, his back to us. “I need to talk to Prince Lucian Kiggs and Ardmagar Comonot alone, Your Ladyship, not speak in front of—”

“Denied,” she snapped. “Your ship has entered our harbor and damaged our man-of-war. We are the city; we will hear you.”

I stood behind my friends and couldn’t see if Kiggs was frowning, but his tense shoulders bespoke his irritation. “It’s all right, Maurizio,” he said.

Maurizio turned in a confused circle, as if he feared insulting everyone by turning his back on them; he finally settled on facing Kiggs. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair and exhaled slowly. “Right. Well. Josef Apsig, Regent of Samsam, has seized the knights and dracomachists at Fort Oversea. A single shipload of us escaped; me, Sir Cuthberte, Sir Joshua, maybe three and a half dracomachia units. We were pursued here, and there are more ships coming—you may count on it.”

“Josef Apsig fought the knights of three nations and won?” cried Kiggs.

“Technically, it was a bit more like persuasion, and only the knights of two nations resisted. The Ninysh might have resisted a bit harder. I don’t mean to imply that they are cowards …,” Maurizio said, shrugging, clearly implying that the Ninysh were cowards.

Kiggs rubbed a hand down his beard; his other hand was clenched in his lap. Comonot took the opportunity to ask, “Are the dracomachia units you rescued sufficiently trained?”

“Alas, you never know for sure until they face down a real dragon,” said Sir Maurizio, squinting in the sunlight and licking his dry lips. “I think most have mettle enough to bust a gasbag, as we used to say. No offense, Ardmagar.”

“None taken,” said the old saar.

“How many units is Samsam holding?” said Kiggs, his voice coarse.

Maurizio’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Fifteen, Prince. Once the newest recruits are trained, it will be closer to twenty-five.”

“And what the devil does Josef hope to gain by depriving Goredd of defense?” cried the prince, unable to contain his anger any longer.

Sir Maurizio shrugged his bony shoulders. “That may not be his main intention, Prince. What can one do with dracomachia units but fight dragons? Cuthberte and I believe Josef plans to have Samsam join the war, on nobody’s side but Josef’s own. When the Loyalists—” He cut off, shifting his gaze uncomfortably to the assembled Agogoi.

“Comonot has outlined his strategy in detail,” said Speaker Melaye with surprising gentleness. “And we are all under oath here. We take that very seriously.”

Maurizio grimaced. “Thank you, milady. We expect that when the war comes south, Goredd will find herself with a second front—at her back.”

Murmurs rose around the courtyard; the Agogoi concealed their mouths with their fans as they whispered together. A matron in blue silk raised her fan, and Melaye pointed the staff at her. “This is worse than you let on, Ardmagar!” the woman cried. “We have no quarrel with Samsam. The policy is neutrality!”

“The priority is commerce,” said Melaye. “And alas, in this dragon civil war, neutrality may prove fatal.”

“Fatal to the Southlands, you mean. We have a treaty with the dragons. They would never dishonor it!” a white-bearded patron said.

“That’s debatable,” interjected Comonot, tenting his thick fingers. “The Old Ard have a new ideology, and it’s blazingly anti-human. They consider even my Loyalists unacceptably tainted by humanity. Treaty or not, when everyone else is dead, they’re going to turn their baleful eye on you.”

Speaker Melaye banged her staff, and the circle all looked to her expectantly. “You didn’t warn us we’d get sucked into a conflict with Samsam, Ardmagar,” she said.

Comonot began to protest his lack of clairvoyance, but she held up a hand to silence him. “These knights and their ship must be gone by sunset so Samsam can’t accuse us of harboring fugitives. We’ll deny them that pretext for war, at least.”