The Palace of Impossible Dreams (29 page)

The mob quickly and efficiently stripped Cydne down to his breeches and tied him in a similar fashion beside her. With a rope around her ankles and another around her waist, there was no relief from the razor-sharp spikes at her back. Through the pain, Arkady could already feel the blood trickling down her spine.

“You cannot treat me in this fashion!” Cydne protested between screams, but his voice lacked conviction. Maybe he was starting to appreciate that this danger was real.

Azquil, the young chameleon male who had begged Arryl to save Tiji, stepped forward once the mob had secured them to the Justice Tree and
fallen back to admire their handiwork. Wincing, tears running down her face from the pain of the stabbing spikes, Arkady stared at him, wondering who he was. And wondering what was to come next.

She didn't have long to wait before she found out.

“You will remain here until you die,” Azquil announced in a voice so cold Arkady couldn't believe it came from such a small and harmless-looking creature, “If you're lucky, that will be sometime in the next day or so. The blood and pain you can already feel from the spikes on the trunk will attract many creatures, the most frightful of which is the gobie ant. It feeds on fresh blood and raw meat.” He turned then to address the crowd. “The gobie ants will feast tonight!”

Tides, I can't believe it's going to end like this.

A cheer went up from the mob. Something hit Arkady in the shoulder, wet and slimy, and then slid down her breast. Rancid and foul, it smelled like rotting fruit, but trying to avoid it simply drove the spikes deeper into her back. That missile was soon followed by a score of others, a few of them clods of earth.

“Make them stop!” Cydne ordered, unable to keep the panic from his voice.

She glared at him. “You're joking, aren't you?”

“They're throwing things at us!”

“Be grateful we're in the wetlands . . . and there aren't too many rocks around,” she said, shaking her head at his foolishness. The action pushed dozens of razor-sharp spikes further into her skin, making her cry out in pain.

The mob cheered to see her suffering. The chameleon, Azquil, studied them both for a moment with a look of intense satisfaction, and then turned away.

Please, let it be over quickly.

“They'll pay . . . for this when we get back . . . to Port Traeker.”

Cydne was openly weeping, but he still didn't understand they'd been left here to die. In his mind, this was probably an elaborate charade designed to frighten them.

Arkady turned her head, as much as she was able, to glare at him. “You think eventually . . . common sense will prevail . . . and these wretched creatures will see the error of their ways . . . and . . . let us go. Is that it?” Another chunk of rotten fruit caught her on the chin and slid down her sweat-slick body.

Tides, I don't think I can do this
 . . .
dying shouldn't be allowed to hurt so much.

“I'll murder every . . . last . . . filthy one of them.”

Grimacing as the spikes bit deep into her flesh, Arkady turned her head away. “That's what got us tied to this tree . . . and sentenced to death, Cydne.”

“It's your fault for destroying the rest of the tonic.”

Arkady closed her eyes, hoping to at least blot out the burning sunlight and the sight of a mob settling in to watch them die, if not the pain in her back and legs which got worse with even the slightest movement.

“Go to hell.”

“You can't speak . . . to me like that.”

“I can speak to you . . . any way . . . I please,” she told him, gasping with the agony of the piercing spikes. “We're going to die, Cydne. In exactly the same way.”

“That doesn't give you the right—”

“Oh yes . . . it does,” she cut in, trying to ignore the agony of this death by a thousand small cuts designed to attract flesh-eating insects. “Because, you see, finally . . . Cydne Medura . . . we are equal.”

“I didn't think you'd come.”

Warlock glanced fearfully over his shoulder, certain someone must have seen him sneaking down to the courtyard. The man he was meeting stayed in the shadows so Warlock couldn't see his face. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure it was a man. He might have been a Crasii. He smelled of horse manure, which he had probably applied to stop Warlock from picking up his scent and being able to identify him later.

“If I'm caught down here, they'll kill me. And my family.”

Although he fretted constantly about not having heard from his contact in the Cabal, when Warlock finally received the summons to meet the man to whom he would be passing on the secrets of Elyssa's court, he found he didn't want to go. Their lives were fraught with enough danger as it was. To be caught betraying his immortal masters would result in the annihilation of his entire family.

“Should have thought about that before you volunteered,” the shadowy man said unsympathetically. “What have you to report?”

That was the trouble, Warlock knew. He had so
much
to tell them.

“Lord Desean is here.”

“That's no secret.”

“He's been having a lot of meetings.”

“Also nothing any beggar in the street couldn't have told me. You'd better come up with something better than that, Dog Boy, or the Cabal will be turning you in themselves.”

“I think he knows who Lord Jaxyn is.”

“That's not really surprising, considering—”

“He knows
what
he is,” Warlock cut in. “And who Queen Kylia really is too.”

That gave the man in the shadows pause. Warlock was sure he was a man, now. Dog Boy was an insult only humans bestowed on the canine Crasii.

“What's he doing about it?”

Warlock shrugged, glancing over his shoulder again to ensure the darkened courtyard was still empty. It was past midnight, so there were few with a legitimate excuse to be wandering the palace grounds—Warlock
included. “He seems to have been having a lot of meetings. Trying to drum up support, I suppose, but he's not having these meetings with the queen. She sits in on them occasionally, but Tryan's got Jilna completely wrapped around his little finger. She's barely even noticed Princess Nyah has returned.”

“As soon as her daughter marries, Nyah becomes queen,” the man pointed out.

“That's not going to happen any time soon,” Warlock said, shaking his head. “Elyssa has been given the task of finding her new niece a husband, but she's not even looking. It does not suit these immortals to allow the little princess to take the throne.”

“Why don't they just kill her then?”

“Because Desean made her safety a condition of his cooperation.”

The man was silent for a moment, digesting that information. After a time, he asked, “Cooperation for what?”

“Desean is talking war. He knows Jaxyn and Diala are immortal. He's offering to lead the Caelish troops in an invasion of Glaeba, and in return for the throne once King Mathu is dead, Queen Kylia removed and Lord Jaxyn defeated.”

“He'd murder his own cousin?”

“I don't believe he thinks he'll have to. He's telling Tryan that Jaxyn and Kylia will do it for him.” Warlock hesitated, wondering how he could convey the danger Glaeba was in. Stellan Desean was a persuasive, intelligent man, with a gift for offering tyrants what they wanted to hear. Worse, everything he was telling the immortals was the truth. He
was
the heir to Glaeba, and a popular man in his own country. He
did
have a large following and even Warlock knew how much of the country might prefer him as king, despite the charges of sodomy laid against him by Mathu.

Having met the Duke of Lebec once before, Warlock was having a hard time believing this was the same man. He was harder now, less trusting, and willing to go to extremes to claim a throne he clearly considered his.

And he knew things now—things Warlock was certain the duke hadn't known before. Months ago, when he'd visited Warlock in the Watch-house of the Lebec City Watch, Stellan Desean hadn't known anything about the immortals. Now he was urging Tryan to attack, and although he'd never said it in Warlock's presence, it was as if he knew it must happen before the Tide peaked and with it, Jaxyn's full powers.

“Who's running the show? Syrolee or Tryan?”

“They battle among themselves. Constantly. I think Tryan is winning the battle because Syrolee has called for reinforcements. Engarhod is here already, and his sons, Rance and Krydence, are on their way, I gather. Soon the whole family will be here.”

“I'm sure Lord Aranville has his own reinforcements he can call on,” the man said. “Have you any news of the other immortals?”

“None,” Warlock said. “Elyssa often speaks of Cayal. She's been counselling her brother to find him and bring him into the fold. Apparently she believes that with three Tide Lords facing him, Jaxyn will back down and cede Glaeba without a fight.”

“Why Cayal? Why not one of the others?”

“They've heard Cayal was in Glaeba recently. And that he fought with Jaxyn. And I think Elyssa desires him. She is the one advocating his inclusion, most of all.” That was something of an understatement. Elyssa was quite obsessed by him. It was hard, sometimes, to remain silent. Warlock would dearly love to tell her that he'd met Cayal and the Immortal Prince shuddered at the very mention of her name.

The shadowy man had fallen silent again.

“There's not much else I can tell you,” Warlock said. “They talk a great deal, but nothing has been agreed upon yet. Desean's arrival has thrown all their plans into disarray.”

“Which makes you wonder if that's not why the Cabal sent him here,” the man mused, but he sounded more as if he was thinking out loud than engaging Warlock in conversation.

“Rance and Krydence are supposed to arrive in the next few days. I don't think they'll make any firm plans until they get here.”

“Then we'll meet back here three days from now. Hopefully you'll have something more useful to report by then.”

The man melted back into the shadows, leaving Warlock standing in the cold courtyard, shivering a little in the icy breeze that swirled around his legs.

Tides, I was mad to agree to this.

Squaring his shoulders and lifting his tail confidently, so he looked—to the casual observer—as if he was meant to be here at this time of night, Warlock turned and headed toward the main store, taking the key from the pocket of his tunic. He hurried along the stone path, no longer worried if anybody noticed him. He was fetching a jug of cider for Lady Alysa,
after all. As her personal servant, nobody would question his right to be doing that.

Of course, he was spying for more than one master and in theory, still had to get a message to Jaxyn, but in that, his status as a Crasii had worked in his favour. He had been ordered by Elyssa to remain loyal to her. Her orders, being the most recent, overrode anything Jaxyn might have ordered him to do before they left Glaeba. Jaxyn must have known it was a risk Elyssa or Tryan would take such a precaution, but perhaps he'd believed they wouldn't. If Jaxyn had one fault Warlock could readily identify, it was that he constantly underestimated his enemies.

Warlock reached the store, lifted the torch from the bracket outside and unlocked the door, thinking he'd never imagined there would come a time when he wished—however fleetingly—that he was back, safe and sound, in his cell on Recidivists' Row.

Three days later, on a bitterly cold wet night, as promised, the shadowy man was back.

Warlock, however, had little more to report. Krydence and Rance had still not arrived. Syrolee, Engarhod and Tryan were still arguing. Elyssa was still urging her brother to find Cayal and make peace with him. The queen still acted as if she was intoxicated most of the time, and only the little princess seemed to be fully aware of what was going on around her.

Warlock explained this to the shadowy man, who seemed to take the news fairly well, all things considered.

“It's of little mind,” the man said. “The important thing is Stellan Desean. His arrival here is what will cause the most grief.”

“It certainly will,” Warlock agreed, hoping he didn't sound too pleased about it.

“Provided he keeps his head on his shoulders.”

“What can Jaxyn do to stop him?”

“He can't do anything to stop him, Dog Boy. But you can bet he's going to try.”

There was a change in the man's tone of voice that spoke of plans he hadn't known of a few days earlier at their last meeting.

“You know why Desean is here, don't you?”

The man was silent for a moment, and then Warlock felt, rather than
saw, him nodding in the darkness. “Turns out your news wasn't such a big surprise.”

The implications of that statement were terrifying. “Do you know the reason the Cabal sent him here?”

“I can't say,” the man replied, as if he regretted even giving that much away. “All I can tell you is to be on your guard. It doesn't suit our . . . superiors . . . for Desean to die.”

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Keep your eyes open. And if you can manage it, while you're at it, stop Jaxyn's assassins from killing Stellan Desean,” the shadowy man said.

Oh
, Warlock thought.
Is that all?

Arkady Desean had reevaluated her definition of pain.

She'd thought being raped as a fourteen-year-old was the worst it could get. She'd thought being branded was marginally worse. Or laying there while Cydne had his way with her, to save herself from being used by the whole crew of a slave ship or being packed off to a Senestran mining camp.

As it turned out, these were now fond memories of better days. Days she could recall in detail. Days when she could actually describe how she felt.