Across the Long Sea (22 page)

“Not wooden.” Baldebert fluttered disdainful fingers. “We carry steel from the cradle.”

Liam huffed and made a show of burrowing beneath bedding, plumping cushions as he went. Mal wandered back to the table, poured himself a cup of colorless wine, paced back to the bars. Baldebert watched him fidget with heavy-­lidded interest.

“Isa's hand was steady,” he said. “She might have struck true, but I entered the nursery and Khorit turned my way. He would have killed her, then, just as he had her mother. He was nothing to me but a loud voice and a heavy hand. Isa—­she looked after me from the day I was born. It was an easy choice.”

“But you didn't manage to kill him completely.”

“Close enough.” Baldebert bristled. “For a lad not shed of his milk teeth. Isa's servants finished the job, or tried to. Tossed him off the mountain. We don't know how he managed not to die. He's always been a stubborn bastard.”

The wine warmed Mal's stomach. He went back for more. Liam was already asleep, curled like a babe on one side. Avani's lad looked the very picture of innocence, sandy lashes pale against sun-­reddened cheeks.

“In my grandfather's time,
armies of good men were spent to bone chasing the Ishtipachas from our forests and rivers.”

“He's a good lad,” Baldebert said, watching Mal watch Liam. “But mayhap safer on my ship than on the mountain. I didn't see it, not at first. Now that I have, it's obvious. My ­people, they have long memories. They're as like to bind him to a memory keeper for the forest cats as otherwise.”

“Not as I live,” Mal promised. “And I intend to.”

Ignoring the grind of sleeplessness in his bones, and the grit of salt and sand on his scalp, he gathered a cushion from his untouched bedding and set it on the floor against the bars. He lowered himself carefully onto the makeshift seat, glad of the comfort beneath his buttocks, and folded his hands in his lap.

“Tell me,” he began, “about the flesh of the poppy.”

 

Chapter Eighteen

“
A
I
,
THE
OPION
. I've heard of it.” Avani's shoulder was warm against Mal's own. “My uncle's sister knew a healer who gave his patients
opion
pulp to chew for pain. It was dearly bought in trade, I think, and not curative.”

“Baldebert says too much of the oil makes a man a slave. Just enough and a soldier feels no fear on the battlefield, a woman no terror in childbirth. Dosed with syrup an elder will welcome death with open arms. Khorit Dard made a good trade off the flower's fruit, but he grew greedy and careless, overworked the land and the ­people until both became less productive. Then he grew angry, and began to punish villagers for blighted crop. And that is when the first Rani set fire to the poppy fields.”

The garden smelled always of springtime, the sweet-­tart perfume of apple trees and roses and lavender. Bees buzzed among marble benches and through the spray off the three-­tiered fountain. The fountain's granite lip was as comfortable as any cushion, and Mal half drowsed, content.

The fingers of Avani's left hand were tangled with those of Mal's right, just as her essence twined with his own, soothing and bolstering all at once. He thought they'd been sitting there in the garden for a very long time, listening to the bees sing praises over springtime nectar.

“Do you mean to kill him? This Lord of the Poppies?” Avani asked.

“It seems the best choice. There is also the desert, and the long trek across the continent. If we escape the dungeon, and the mountain, and flit past the army at the border.” Mal sighed, and smothered a yawn. “Possible, maybe. Likely I could catch the eye of a desert lord, survive on dates and honey.” He smiled, small. “Steal a good horse. I have done before, and would manage again. But Liam?” He shook his head. “Two is far more difficult than one.”

Avani vibrated against his ribs. He could feel her anger through their link; she felt the lad's capture keen as a personal insult.

“Renault—­”

“Tell Renault to keep his ships safe this side of the world. He's more like than not to lose men in the Long Sea. Let me handle it, Avani.”

She released his hand, jumped to her feet, oscillated back and forth on the grass.

“Will they send you home, once it's done? Or keep you on hand for the next war?”

Mal thought of the Rani standing proud at the top of her golden tower, of Baldebert walking the lines of his ship even as the sea rebelled.

“Send me home,” he said. “I think.” He watched Avani pace and mutter, watched the small red flowers spring up beneath her heels, only to be crushed by the force of her stride. “You're wearing black,” he said. “Hennish leather. Made peace with your nature, have you?”

She stopped, cocked her head, eyes bright. “You're still clad in wedding blue, and here we stand again in Siobahn's garden. Don't you dare chide me over warring natures, Malachi Doyle.”

He grinned into the force of her passion, felt his blood stir in reaction.

“Well, then,” he said, getting to his feet. “Show me.”

She refused his offered hand, but she moved to stand against him, until Mal could feel the warmth of her breath on his chin. She closed her eyes and her essence thrummed with effort. His power tugged pleasantly as she borrowed his strength. Slowly the garden broke and dissolved and rebuilt itself, shrubs turning to chairs, trees growing into glass-­faced wooden cases, red and blue and purple flowers shifting into books.

The fountain reshaped itself into an odd assortment of bones, the blue sky domed and darkened and became a low ceiling. The air turned stale.

“Ah,” Mal said, pleased. “Nicely done. The temple library. Managed entrance, did you? I was never allowed.” He turned in a slow circle, looked the dangling bones up and down with interest. “I may have to remedy that, when we return. Lovely. Look at that specimen. Mountain cat, I think, and by the length of its teeth, very old.”

“Mal.” Avani plucked his tunic, impatient. “It's not the bones I need you to see. Look. Here. What's to be done about this?”

Mal approached the gate in the wall carefully and with distaste. He could smell the rot and damp-­soil perfume of
sidhe
magic. He set his palms on the disturbed bricks, peered over the edge at the scrollwork beyond.

“Blood of the Virgin. Masterhealer won't be a bit pleased about this. A breech in the heart of his power.”

“He doesn't know,” Avani said, hushed although they were alone in the room. “Renault means to keep it that way. Did the Red Worm come through here, Mal? How do I seal it?”

“Nay,” Mal said, decisive. “The Worm's a natural plague, it's not sorcery. Nor
sidhe
trickery. If you're looking there for a cure, you're looking in the wrong direction. Don't scowl at me, Avani. Experience counts for something. I know whereof I speak.” He stood on his toes, stretched past brick. “Gate's locked.” Mal managed to reach around the brick and rattle the metal for emphasis. “What does Faolan make of it?”

“I don't carry the man around in my journey pack,” Avani hissed. “Faolan's little good to me leagues away on the Downs. I need to seal this.
I
need to
.
Because you've gone wandering away from your obligations, and managed to get hooked away like a fish, and left a mess on my plate.”

Mal couldn't help himself. He laughed. “Apologies, lady, that my kidnapping has caused you such difficulty.”

Avani stamped her foot, deliberately grinding the heel of her boot on his foot.

“Show me.”

“I will,” he said. “It's not difficult. A matter of stretching and reinforcing a warding.” He linked his fingers again through her own, guided her hands to the wall, sent power and knowledge spiraling through their link until she gasped in understanding. “Here.” He said, demonstrating. “And here.”

“And again here,” Avani murmured. Mal watched through her eyes and head, letting their senses overlap in mingled dreaming. Avani thought it was not unlike tuning Helena Barker's bones around Mors Keep, but it was more difficult—­there was no ghostie hanging about to anchor the wards or enhance her magics. Instead, Avani had to pull the power needed from her very self, pin the silvery outline of the warding cant to the wall with strength of purpose and sheer determination. Mal felt her struggle and then persevere. The magic stuck on stone and brick, like an iridescent spiderweb threatening to tear. Only Mal's guiding hands on her own kept Avani from moving too quickly and pulling the delicately crafted cant down about their feet.

When she faltered, Mal pulled a thread of energy from his own reservoir and offered it up to her weaving.

“
Ai
, I see. That's tricky, but not so different from working on my loom.” Her brow furrowed. He felt her effort. “But carefully, lest I warp the weave or tangle the silk . . .”

When they were finished, the door in the wall sealed and bricked up, Avani sat near boneless on the floor, muscles still quivering. Mal leaned against a bookcase, watching as she regained herself. There was a knot in his throat. He thought it was pride.

“Not difficult,” he said. “But draining. You'll be wanting a good dinner and a long sleep.”

“This is easier than learning through a missive.” Avani cracked a great yawn. “Easier to
see
than to
read
. And better than dreaming bits and pieces.”

“Better than dreaming? What is this, if not a dream?”

Avani looked up at him, surprised. “
Ai
, couldn't you tell? Not a dream. A sending, Mal. A deliberate vision. It was Deval who thought of it. Because you're not alone, are you? You've got—­”

“Jacob!” Mal gasped, sitting upright, wrestling away a tangle of bedding. Jacob flapped his wings, growling protest, and dug his claws more deeply into Mal's clavicle. Mal struck the bird away, and groped at the searing pain between his eyes. His fingers came away wet with blood.

Jacob croaked a laugh and hopped up onto the table, where he helped himself to a bit of apple. Baldebert gaped from beyond the bars, washed pale in mage-­light. Liam slept on, a lump under blankets. The ghost was gone, consumed, his corpse-­life a lingering taste of ozone in the back of Mal's throat.

“Shit,” said Mal, crude and succinct.

“How did—­” Baldebert swallowed. He tried again. “Did it bite you? Shall I . . .” He trailed off, obviously at a loss. Jacob paused amongst the fruit, studied the blond man with a pointed, beady stare.

Mal thumbed more blood from the bridge of his nose. “Admiral,” he said. “When your
B
ūṛ
h
ē
Adam
Ä«
grew angry, and rose from the sea, did he think twice of the mortals shaken off his skin and into the drink?”

“No.”

“Exactly that. Nor did the Island Goddess pause when she sought to drown her children, nor the theist's one God when he sent fire from the skies to cleanse heretic temples.” Mal lay back in his bedding, pulled the edge of a quilt above his chin. “The bird is just a bird. I have no time or patience for gods. And still I say to you, for all our sakes, let the bird alone.”

“Demon,” Baldebert said, more prayer than deprecation.

Jacob rustled his feathers and went back to his supper.

W
HEN
THE
R
ANI
returned, she carried with her a pot of tea on a golden tray, alongside a plate of warm bread and clotted cream. The plate was enameled porcelain and matched the armor worn by the two soldiers walking three steps behind. Baldebert stirred himself, groaned and stretched, and opened the cell door. The Rani carried her tray inside and set it on the table next to the remnants of supper. Baldebert and the guardsmen remained in the hall.

Mal rose, muscles protesting. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders for warmth, rubbed grit from his eyes. He could smell himself, foul and sour and badly in need of hot water and soap.

“What hour is it?”

Liam slept on, the raven burrowed under the lad's bedding for warmth. Mal's mage-­light burned still, keeping the shadows at bay, but it was impossible to tell from beneath the mountain whether the sun still rode the sky, or if the golden towers were shrouded in night.

“Very late.” The Rani poured out tea. The pot matched the enameled plate, the cups the pot. The ­people of Roue, Mal decided, were indeed talented craftsmen. “I meant to come earlier, but time ran on, as it tends to. It's an old province, Roue, but even the wisest of lands require guidance.”

Mal sipped hot tea and sighed in pleasure. Unfamiliar spices, and honey for sweetness, and beneath that, a strong black brew. Avani, he thought, would approve.

“You've questions.” The Rani poured out her own drink, and took the delicate cup with her to the cell door. She stood very straight as she drank, spine stiff, but Mal didn't miss the slight tilt of her hips against the supporting wall. “Ask them now. Tomorrow you ride out.”

Baldebert and the two faceless guardsmen watched through the bars, impassive. Mal regarded the Rani over the delicate rim of his cup.

“You've tried, and failed, to stop him at least once before. Probably more than once.”

“Four times, over the years.” The Rani wrinkled her brow in thought. “Good men and women, all. Skilled soldiers, three. The last, an assassin by trade. Baldebert found him on the Black Coast, promised him three caskets of gold should he succeed.”

“Full round as a
banyan
trunk, and fleet as a shadow cat, that one,” Baldebert mused. “He knew his trade.”

“Not well enough,” the Rani said. “Khorit Dard sent the man's head back in a bag, and after, took out his displeasure on three of the eastern farmsteads: slaughtered the families, left their blood staining the
oryza
. Children are dying here, also, necromancer.”

“The mountain protects you,” Mal said. “What prevents him from storming the fields and making use of the land, while you rot above the clouds?”

“My ­people,” the Rani replied. “They're loyal to the bloodlines. They will not work for him, they will die first. His desert mercenaries have not the learning to properly grow or harvest the flowers. Still, Baldebert's spies tell us my father is grown tired of this war as I, and I fear eventually he will try to take the land, if only because his mercenaries grow distrustful of his promises. When his army moves, my ­people will stand and die, and I will stand with them, and Roue will be no more.”

“We're rather fond of it,” Baldebert said.

“You were Baldebert's idea,” admitted the Rani. Her empty cup, forgotten, balanced on her palm. “And at first I said no. A magus is a two-­edged sword, especially a magus coerced. My auntie used to tell me tales of the necromancers of old; I haven't forgotten those terrible stories. But my brother can be very convincing. And we had the implements of old, the ivory manacles, the muzzle, the knife.”

“Muzzle,” Mal repeated. He felt sick.

“Wasn't needed.” Baldebert's yellow stare remained steady. “You didn't seem a dangerous sort, not at first. And, after.” He shrugged. “You saved my ship.”

“I wrote to your king,” the Rani continued, ignoring the interruption. “He disdained reply. Or mayhap the sea interfered. Then, one night, a good fourth of Khorit Dard's army disappeared into the night, broke ranks and started for home. I knew this was a bad sign. My father would be growing desperate as his mercenaries become restless. I gave Baldebert permission to sail.”

“Late summer,” Baldebert said. “While I was gone he's grown clever, thought to send armed scouts into the southern woods, and prevent supplies coming through from port. Isa's lost more soldiers in the marsh than on the battlefield, and then only a third of our trade come through.”