The Seascape Tattoo (19 page)

One slow inch at a time, the druid and the princess gained that odd camouflage, blending into the light and shadow.

Breathing shallowly, walking as if afraid to put their full weight upon the ground, they began to cross the gap.

In the dining hall below them, the guards ate boisterously. A few odd objects were splayed around the table, things the princess did not recognize: tubes, wheels, things that looked like miniature cannons. She yearned to inspect the objects more closely: something told her that there were answers here and possible tools that could ease their plight. No time. She moved on, praying thanks that Drasilljah's magic reduced visible signs of them to mere ripples against the wall.

Even to her own sight, her own arm was invisible unless she focused carefully. To see her friend and protector's face required even more concentration. The ripple would finally yield to focus, and like a suddenly dissolving mirage, a gasping, trembling woman appeared. Drasilljah smiled wanly and motioned her onward.

The druid was using up the last of her strength, using everything she had, possibly more than she could really afford, because they believed that there was the possibility of an ally just outside.

A voice from below: “Did you even take a good look at her? I'm telling you…”

“I don't know what they want that woman for, but she has meat on her bones, I'm telling you,” the other said.

“Well, maybe after they're through with her…”

It seemed to take forever, but the two women finally reached the safety of the far wall. Tahlia's nervous fingers found the panel's hidden catch, and a door swung open. They slipped within, finding themselves in a dark tunnel.

Her fingers cast this way and that, finally finding a torch and a tiny leather pouch containing flint and steel. She struck them eight times before the sparks lit the oil-soaked torch, and they had light.

“How are you, Drasilljah?”

Her handmaiden gasped, straightening herself. “I'll be fine, if your wizard is really here.”

“He's here. I can feel it. I know it.”

“Then we'll be all right. I hope.”

She stumbled, and the princess put her arm around her, helping her down the tunnel. The tunnel wound and twisted and then split.

“Which way?”

Drasilljah was woozier than she could possibly feel comfortable admitting. “This way, I think. What do you remember of the tunnels?”

“I used to hide and seek in them as a little girl. I knew them. I just have to hope that the plans are the same.”

“We can both hope. It is rare that our youthful indiscretions come back to advantage, Princess. Let us consider this a good omen.”

*   *   *

In the crowded marketplace beyond the Tower's walls, the wizard Neoloth was indeed nearby. He was bickering with an oil merchant over rare scents and unguents, but his attention was split. Several times in the last hour he had sensed … something. A presence. A faint voice, hovering just below the threshold of recognition.

Neoloth drifted further east, where he found a café next to a cutlery shop. He found an empty stool and sat down, unsure why he had been attracted to this spot.

A waiter approached. “Welcome to the Happy Orc. Today we have some excellent roast bison.”

“Yes,” the wizard said vaguely. “Yes. That will be fine.”

From his seat, he could see the castle wall clearly. He looked around, uncertain. He was supposed to be here; he knew that. But … why?

*   *   *

In the tunnels, the princess and Drasilljah rested. Drasilljah's wounds had drained her.

“Did you hear that?” the princess said.

“What?”

“We're not down here by ourselves.”

“That would have been too easy,” Drasilljah sighed.

“Come on.”

The tunnels were narrow and cramped and twisty. They heard a distant voice: “I see a light!”

“Damn!” the princess hissed, and put out her torch.

“What are you doing?” Drasilljah asked.

“I know the way. I'm sure. Do you trust me?”

“With my life.”

The two women felt their way through the tunnels. A bit of glowing moss in the shape of an arrow gave them direction at a branching tunnel, and it was gratefully taken.

The voices were closer now. And then closer still.

The princess fell, and then got back up again.

“Here! Over here!”

They were tense, all was lost—the lights got closer … and then faded away, running into the distance. “Thank the gods,” Drasilljah sighed.

“Here. Here it is.”

A ladder. From above them, a tiny ray of light.

*   *   *

The waiter reappeared, lugging a platter with a cold joint of roast bison beef, and shook the table by depositing it in front of him. Neoloth jumped. His nerves were burning.

And then … Aros appeared. “I thought that I saw you!” the Aztec crowed, eyeing the fragrant platter.

“How did you find me?” the wizard said irritably.

“Pure accident. I was coming out of the parade grounds and thought I noticed that loping gait of yours in the crowd. Meat looks good.”

“Help yourself.”

“Well, you are buying it with my money, after all.”

Aros cut himself a huge wedge of meat and began to chatter. “You haven't asked me what happened today.”

“Mmm.”

“What happened. You know, how things went in the tryouts today.”

Neoloth was distracted, not engaged. “Yes. Yes. What … um, what happened.”

Aros was leaning close to Neoloth, chewing. “And you should have seen her gasp when she saw that sunflare tattoo! I have to admit that I didn't believe it would work, but, well, you know your stuff!”

“So … what now?”

“I am invited to their personal lodgings this evening. I think that it would be reasonable for me to bring my servant, don't you? And while they are having whatever conversation with me they wish to have—”

*   *   *

“There it is!” The princess climbed up the ladder. This led her to another tunnel, but here there was light … and sound. “We're under the street. Come.”

“I'm … coming.”

The princess and Drasilljah moved toward the light as swiftly as possible. As they came closer, it resolved into a doorway, and although the door was closed, they could hear voices and smell fresh bread and roast meat. A kitchen.

The princess and Drasilljah ran through the tunnel now and were almost to the camouflaged door when—

Soldiers broke out from either side and grabbed them. There was a moment when their struggling bodies slammed the door out of the wall and revealed their peril to the kitchen staff. But instead of helping, or even expressing shock, the cooks and serving boys just stared at them dully and then averted their eyes and returned to their labors.

While the princess and Drasilljah were dragged away, someone replaced the door.

*   *   *

A musician strummed his lute and sang of the mighty two-headed Shrike goddess as a second waiter brought bread and a jug of wine to Neoloth's table.

Aros grabbed at it and tore away a hunk of the loaf.

“Some kind of trouble in the kitchen?”

“The new boy dropped a tray,” the man replied. “We'll beat him.”

“The bread is hot.”

Neoloth was looking back at the kitchen. The odd premonition had grown stronger … and then diminished. Now it was gone entirely. The wizard sighed and returned to his food.

*   *   *

The princess and Drasilljah were hauled back and away, through the tunnel, screaming and sobbing, all the way back to their cell. The door was slammed shut. They crouched in darkness.

“I am so sorry, so very sorry, my princess.”

“No. You did all you could do.”

For long hours they waited there in the darkness. Then there was a sound at the door and a scream from beyond. And a red-robed priestess stood there.

“Who are you?”

“Call me Shyena,” the redhead said. “Some call me the Red Nun.”

“You are … different.”

“Yes. I am.”

The princess pulled against her chain. Something about the Red Nun frightened her more than the silent, brutal males who had preceded her. “Where is the guard?”

“He is being disciplined,” Shyena said. “He and the guards who were responsible for your safety.”

A scream reverberated from down the hall.

“There are penalties in life for nonperformance.”

The princess tried to draw herself up. “I have asked many times what is wanted from us.”

“And no doubt received oblique and incomplete answers. Who are you?”

She had directed this question at Drasilljah, leaning close.

“Drasilljah,” the handmaid answered.

“Perhaps you do not understand me,” said the Red Nun. “Perhaps I should speak more clearly.” She examined Drasilljah more closely. “You interest me. You have power. You used life magic to escape your cell. My underling should have felt this from you, known that you had such ability, and taken precautions. What you hear now is his … chastisement.”

Another scream split the air. The Red Nun smiled.

“So … who are you, really?”

Drasilljah remained silent.

“You have a glamour about you,” the Red Nun said mildly. “I think you have expended quite enough energy maintaining it, don't you?”

She smiled, and her left hand clutched a tiny cask pendant, while she gestured with her right. The air wavered as if with a heat shimmer, and Drasilljah's gray hair darkened to ochre, her wrinkled face filled in, and the shape beneath her dress developed curves and youthful heft.

The Red Nun laughed. “Well done. An old woman is better protection than a young one.”

Drasilljah fumed without speaking.

“Good. Yes. You have spirit. That is good. I may yet find use for you.”

“Never,” the princess said.

Shyena grinned. “There are punishments. For disobedience. For incompetence. I cannot abide incompetence. Or insult. But resistance? I would expect nothing less from one of royal blood. But I believe that a demonstration is required. And this old-young woman of yours is the perfect canvas on which to paint my meaning.”

Drasilljah moaned, and her hands flew to her face, covering her eyes. Crimson began oozing from between her fingers.

“You like blood magic, don't you?” Shyena purred. “I will show you what it really is.”

Drasilljah slumped to the ground. The princess held her, sobbing. “Please. Stop. I'll do what you say. She is a druid. We've been together since we were children.” Her voice broke. “She was only trying to protect me.”

“And what were you trying to accomplish? No. No need to speak. Escape. But … why now? What motivated you?”

The princess knew she had to lie. “No one is coming to save us. No ransom. We made ourselves believe. We had to take control, or there was no hope at all.”

“Yes,” Shyena said. “Yes. No hope at all.” Her gaze tracked from one of them to the other, and then she repeated more emphatically, “No hope at all.”

She left them in each other's arms.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry,” the princess said.

“I'm not,” Drasilljah said between bloodied teeth. “We did what we had to do.”

“How can she be so powerful? I thought such magic was gone from the world…”

“There are ways,” Drasilljah said. “There are ways. And I think that she found them. And I think that if we cannot learn what she knows … we are going to die.”

 

TWENTY-ONE

Jade

The gates of General Silith's palace opened for Aros and Neoloth and clanged shut behind them. The dwelling was fully half the size of the royal palace—an impressive mass of brick, iron, and glass.

Aros was dressed in his very best togs pilfered from Captain Gold's chest. “The invitation was a bit of a surprise,” he said to the guard as they approached the front gate. “Are all military recruits asked to dine with the general?”

The soldier snapped to attention. “No, sir.”

They walked on, through bushes trimmed into elephant shapes. “Sir?” Neoloth asked. “That augurs favorably.”

“Doesn't it though.”

They arrived at the front door. The doorman greeted them, took their assumed names, and then thunderously declared: “Announcing Kasha of the desert.”

“And his manservant, Washelisk,” Aros added.

He turned to the wizard, whose expression was suitably humble. Only a shift of his eyes suggested otherwise.

General Sinjin Silith met them in the hallway, striding toward them with the lazy confidence of a lion in his own lair.

“It is too kind of you to welcome us to your home.”

General Sinjin Silith smiled. “Not at all. I was most impressed by your performance today. It is my belief that it is the personal relationships between a commander and his troops that make the difference in both war and peace.”

“That sounds … promising.”

The general slapped Aros on the shoulder. “Send your man to the kitchen. They will feed and care for him there. Giselle!”

A pretty maid appeared.

“Giselle, take this fellow,” the general said. “Care for him.”

“As you wish, sir.”

Aros flicked his hand in the indicated direction. “Washelisk—you're in good hands.”

Neoloth followed the maid's swaying hips as she sashayed out of the room.

“This way,” the general said. With a touch on his elbow, General Silith guided Aros into a side chamber, where dozens of swords of different design, length, and culture were displayed in glass-fronted cases.

“War mementos?” Aros asked.

“Many of them. Others were gained by trade or were gifts. I don't have one like yours, however.”