Liar's Island: A Novel (22 page)

Grimschaw smirked. “We're surrounded by layers of force that should hold off Hrym's attacks long enough for me to finish my business. Oops—I actually
am
a wizard. Though not an Arclord—I wouldn't have put up with your nonsense even
this
long if I had the powers of my masters. But I'll be among their ranks someday, especially when I deliver
this
.” She rattled the map at him.

“You had me entirely fooled.” Rodrick wished his voice weren't still such a croak. He preferred to wake up slowly, with lots of languid stretching and then a nice breakfast before he was expected to talk himself out of certain death. “I suppose we'll be going our separate ways, now. It's a shame. I'm sure if we'd met under better circumstances we would have been bosom friends.”

“I'm going to chop off your head,” she said. “You can't be allowed to live, Rodrick. You've seen the map—
you
could find the Scepter of the Arclords now, or try, and I don't intend to let that happen. Hrym can cover your corpse in a coffin of ice, if he likes, until he rusts away to nothing in this vile land.” She raised the machete.

17

Friendless

Before Grimschaw could behead him, Rodrick activated the cloak of the devilfish.

Seeing through the creature's eyes wasn't like seeing through his own, but he was still gratified by her expression of alarm when a lashing tentacle struck her across the face and sent her flying into her own magical barrier.

Sharing an enclosed space with a ten-foot-long creature that weighed a quarter of a ton was unpleasant even if it wasn't trying to smash you with hook-lined tentacles, so he was unsurprised when Grimschaw dispelled the barrier as she scrambled to her feet. She looked at him in horror, and then spears of ice shattered against the walls around her, Hrym's bellowing battle cries—more like very emphatic complaints, really—suddenly audible.

Grimschaw clearly decided escape was a better option than a magical duel with Hrym, and disappeared through a hole in the wall into the night. Rodrick transformed back into himself, not even gasping. Devilfish could apparently survive just fine without water to breathe, at least for a little while. That was good to know.

“Rodrick!” Hrym said. “Are you all right?”

“I am. Slightly poorer than I was a few minutes ago, but intact.” He got to his feet, looking into the darkness, and sighed. He doubted she'd attack him again—at least not immediately—but it would be safer to stay awake. He sat down beside Hrym. “She got the treasure map.”

“Mmm,” he said. “Inconvenient.”

“Let's review,” Rodrick said. “We're being pursued by weretigers sent by Nagesh, possibly members of some cult. We're probably
also
being pursued by legitimate agents of the thakur, though I doubt Nagesh wants any of them to find us. We've lost our guide, and our way off the island. Said guide is an agent of the Arclords. Oh, and she wants me dead, too—she said she has to kill me because I've seen the treasure map, and I might be able to find something called the Scepter of the Arclords, whatever that is. She was chattier than usual, I suppose because she thought I'd be dead in a moment.”

“Scepter of the Arclords,” Hrym said. “Have I heard of that before?”

“You'd know that better than I would.” Sometimes Hrym knew strange things, information picked up over his centuries of existence, but his memory was a patchwork at the best of times. “I'm sure it's something important. Worth killing for, anyway.”

“People will kill for a piece of bread,” Hrym said.

“True, but they won't usually voyage in secret to an island controlled by a hostile empire to hire a thief to steal a map that
leads
to a piece of bread.”

“That does seem like a lot of work for bread,” Hrym conceded. “So, now that you've outlined our current circumstances, friendless and alone in a foreign land, what do we do?”

“Try not to die?” Rodrick said.

“Yes. That's always step one. Do we need to discuss our goals again? Do you want to get revenge on Grimschaw, or try to steal this Scepter of the Arclords?”

“By all ten thousand gods of Vudra, no, I don't. Then I'd have the Arclords after me,
too
. I want to get off this stupid island and forget I ever came here.”

“Good boy. Then get some rest, and we'll keep heading south. If all else fails, I'll make a boat of ice and you can
paddle
us back to familiar shores. With a paddle made of ice, I'm assuming.”

“That's a terrible plan.”

“Of course it is. I'm not the planner, I'm the muscle. But maybe the prospect of sitting in a freezing boat for days on the open sea will stimulate your planning glands.”

“There's no such thing as planning glands.”

“How would I know that?” Hrym said. “The inner workings of fleshlings are mysterious to me.”

*   *   *

Apparently walking doesn't stimulate the planning glands, Rodrick thought as they trudged through the jungle. They'd started walking at first light, and several hours later, they hadn't been attacked or eaten, but they also hadn't found anything to eat themselves. Grimschaw had gotten away with her pack, and though Rodrick still had his own, he'd come to the unpleasant realization that while gold was pretty, it wasn't particularly
edible
. Perhaps some of the things in this jungle were. He saw what looked like fruit, sometimes, and berries, but they might well be poisonous. The only animals that came close enough for him to possibly spear with an icicle were small lizards the size of his palm, and he wasn't hungry enough to risk eating one of those. Yet.

“What's the new plan?” Hrym asked, as Rodrick slashed a dangling vine out of the way with the blade. “Pfagh!” Hrym was still bitter about every drop of sap, even though, as a magical blade, he wouldn't be marred permanently. He could just freeze the stuff, and it would crack and flake right off. Rodrick's sympathy had been small to begin with and had shrunk steadily all morning.

“The new plan is: Keep going south, like you said. Hope we stumble upon one of those hunting lodges Grimschaw mentioned. We've got a bit of gold, still, and we might be able to buy ourselves out of this mess.” Assuming the guides were honest folk, and wouldn't try to leave Rodrick in a shallow grave—or feed him to giant lizards—while keeping his purse for themselves. “Failing that, we walk until we hit water and then head down the coast in whichever direction seems easiest. There must be fishing villages or
something
down there. A coastline means boats.”

“I'm glad you've seen a map of this place,” Hrym said. “I'd hate to think we were wandering blindly.”

Rodrick grunted. He'd seen maps on the voyage over, but he hadn't paid attention to anything so trivial as
scale
, and the treasure map had hardly bothered with such niceties. Whether this jungle was a dozen miles across or a hundred, he couldn't say. Moreover, he was only somewhat sure they were heading south. He'd been fairly certain in the morning—the light was clearly brighter in
that
direction, so that must be east, and he'd set their course accordingly—but he could hardly proceed in a rigorous straight line in this overgrown nightmare of a place. “If we get lost I suppose we can climb a tree—or better, you can conjure me a staircase of ice—and we'll get above the tree line and look for the twinkle of water.”

He tripped over something harder than a root and stumbled, almost dropping Hrym. He got to his feet and turned, examining the jagged thing that had tripped him up. “That looks like a bit of statuary.” He nudged the stone with his foot, and frowned. “It also appears to be stained with blood.” Continuing more carefully, he found more splashes of blood—and finally a body, apparently human, with its neck broken, very recently dead. A scrap of a black cloth mask still half-covered the dead man's face. Rodrick knelt to see if there was anything on the corpse worth looting—just instinct, really—but the body didn't have any food on it, or any weapons better than his own. No one ever had the latter, really. The body
did
have a ring on its finger, marked with the same circle-filled-with-triangles he'd seen on the weretiger's medallion. A ball of ice that had nothing to do with Hrym began to form in his gut.

Creeping along carefully, turning his head back and forth to search for any sign of life, straining his ears for the least sound, he winced when a woman nearby shouted, “Leave me alone, or die like your friend!”

Rodrick approached the sound of violence—not his usual tactic, but perhaps he was lightheaded from hunger—and peered through the vines and leaves. Half a dozen figures moved about in a clear space that looked like it had once been a plaza or ritual circle, based on the pieces of worked stone scattered around the perimeter. There were five hulking figures, one of them bristling with orange and black striped fur, the others wearing masks, some simply bandannas with eyeholes cut out, others more complex, including one skull mask fit for a carnival. They carried weapons made of stone and metal, and were attempting to surround an unmasked, petite, dark-skinned woman wearing a form-fitting green top and voluminous yellow trousers tucked into boots, her black hair spiraled up into a bun on the top of her head.

She was cute, certainly compared to Grimschaw, and Rodrick always had a weakness for women, especially attractive women who might be grateful to him for rescuing them. When it was five-against-one and the five included a weretiger and a person wearing the face of a skeleton, it was easy to figure out who to root for. “Shall we play hero, Hrym?” Rodrick said.

“I do the work, you get the rewards,” the sword grumbled.

Rodrick pointed the blade from concealment and swept it along the ground, freezing the men where they stood, leading to some rather comical expressions and howls of outrage—which were swiftly cut off when the woman began thoroughly brutalizing them. Rodrick stepped out of the leaves and stared at her in amazement. She was a blur, a flurry, a human wind of flying fists and feet, leaping and spinning and twisting and gouging, and when she stopped moving, standing so still she'd never appeared to move at all, the men were all at best unconscious, leaning against one another or crumpled, with only Hrym's icy bonds around their feet and calves holding them even remotely upright.

She dusted her palms together and looked at Rodrick. She then assumed a fighting posture, half-turned to the side, one foot swept back, the other pointed forward, her hands held up before her. He was unfamiliar with the particular stance, but was convinced it could easily lead her to beating him senseless.

“A friend, I'm a friend!” Rodrick couldn't quite bring himself to demonstrate that by putting Hrym away, though.

“You did try to help me,” she said, not changing her pose.

Try
? He'd held them still for her! Not that she'd needed the help. He could admit that. “Not that you needed it,” he admitted.

She nodded. “It
was
rather easier with all of them standing still.” She laughed, then, which was a bit alarming given her stance and the beaten and bloody figures a few feet away from her, but it wasn't anything like Hrym's demonic titter—more a full-throated sound of amusement. “My name is Lais.”

“I'm Rodrick. And this is Hrym.” He gestured with the sword.

She frowned. “You named your sword. I've encountered such things, but it's usually, oh, ‘Widowmaker' or ‘Demon's Woe.'”

“Ah, well, Hrym named himself, I think. He's a sword of living ice.”

“He didn't mention I can
talk
,” Hrym said.

Now her eyes widened. “A sword that speaks! Now
that
I've never seen.” She gave a bow. “I'm pleased to meet you, Hrym, and if you were the source of the magic that assisted me, then I give my gratitude to
you
.”

“It was my idea,” Rodrick muttered. He stepped forward, looking at the men. “Are these bandits?”

“Perhaps.” She sounded doubtful. “They must have been looking to attack the foreigners who sometimes hunt in this jungle. One of them jumped out at me back there—you must have seen what was left at him, if you came from that direction. He saw a woman alone and thought I was an easy victim of opportunity, I suppose. After I fought him off, this lot descended on me.”

“You handled yourself very well. Are you from one of the Houses of Perfection?”

She shook her head. “No, but my teacher once taught at one of the monasteries, before choosing a life of seclusion and contemplation. He thinks I'll be ready to try for entry to the Monastery of Untwisting Iron in a few months.”

Lais had dispatched half a dozen dangerous men with her bare hands—and a little assistance—and she
might
be ready in a few months? Either her master had exceedingly high standards for his students, or the monks of Jalmeray were even deadlier than Rodrick had imagined.

“I'm pleased to keep talking,” she said, “but do you mind if we walk away from these men? Such things tend to attract predators.”

Rodrick refrained from groaning, but only just. He hated nature. “Please, lead on.”

She walked—east, Rodrick thought, though who could say for sure—and he followed. “Do you live near here?”

“Not in the jungle itself, no. There's a village on the southwestern shore of the island, where I was born, but mostly I stay with my master, in the hills on the outskirts of the jungle, just south of here.”

“Ah. South. Which is … the direction we're walking.”

She gave him a sidelong look and a mild smile he interpreted as belonging to the “country person feeling superior to the clueless city fellow” school. “It is indeed.”