The Palace of Impossible Dreams (49 page)

“The village women were right,” Arkady said, wondering why Ambria and Medwen weren't here, bleeding and beaten like Jojo. “Cydne died of the fever. I've been stuck here ever since, waiting for someone to come and fetch me, actually. Can we go home now?”

“Liar!” Olegra screamed, pushing her brother out of the way. She backhanded Arkady with all the force she could muster, which turned out to be not much at all. Although her head jerked backward with the slap, it didn't do much more than sting Arkady's cheek a little. “Cydne was immune to the fever. The guild would never have sent him to this Tide-forsaken swamp otherwise!”

“If you know that, why bother asking me?” Arkady said, irritated by this obnoxious young woman who'd been the direct cause of Cydne's fumbling attentions these past few months. Were it not for the impossible demands of this spoiled child, Arkady might not have had to warm her husband's bed nearly so often.

“Watch your tongue, you foreign slut! You're a slave! You can't speak to me like that!”

Arkady was sorry now that she'd allowed Ambria to replace her healed brand with a false one. She didn't feel like a slave. Part of her problem was that she never had. Although she knew she mustn't, Arkady wanted to climb to her feet and stare this girl down; intimidate her with all the withering contempt she could summon. The sort of look she used to give Jaxyn when she was the Duchess of Lebec. After all, if she could make a Tide Lord hesitate with an icy stare, Arkady was quite certain she could eviscerate this irritating child with the same look.

Olegra sensed her defiance, even if Arkady hadn't spoken it aloud.

“Don't you dare look at me in that manner,” she said, her face beet-red with fury. “You are
nothing
, you hear me! Nothing but a foreign whore who tried to weasel her way into my household by beguiling my husband!”

“Maybe if you'd been more of a wife and less of a shrew, he wouldn't have been so easy to beguile.” That was actually the truth. Arkady was quite sure Cydne's fascination for his foreign slave would have faded very quickly if he'd had something worth going home to.

Not surprisingly, her insolence earned her another slap. Anger had lent Olegra strength. This one actually hurt.

Tides, Cayal
 . . .
Declan. Where are you?

“You will tell us what happened,” Olegra's brother insisted. “And you will do it without insulting my sister.”

Just take your time, boys
, she muttered silently.
No reason to hurry. I can go for hours before I pass out from the pain
 . . .

“The Trinity killed him,” Arkady said, deciding there was nothing to be gained by trying to invent anything more creative. The truth was strange enough.

“Trinity? What's the Trinity? What's she talking about, Ulag?”

“She speaks of the Crasii goddesses,” Olegra's brother replied. “All these wretched swamp creatures believe in them.”

Olegra rolled her eyes with scorn. “Oh, so it was the will of the
goddesses
, was it? Why? Did they not like the sound of a civilised accent?”

“Actually, I think it had more to do with the few score Crasii your husband poisoned at the behest of the Senestran Physicians' Guild,” she replied. “Not sure they even noticed his accent.”

The charge obviously took Olegra completely by surprise. She'd raised her hand to hit Arkady again, but held back, turning instead to her brother. “What is she talking about?”

“Cydne was here helping the Crasii, Olegra.”

“No, he wasn't,” Arkady said. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the brother. “Tides, you knew about it too. Didn't you? That's why you're asking
how
he died, not if.”

“My husband would never harm a helpless creature,” Olegra insisted. “He came here to heal the sick.”

“He came here with a couple of gallons of wood alcohol disguised as a curative tonic,” Arkady told her. “And it was a curative too. Only it cured
life.
Permanently.”

“You scandalous bitch!” Olegra shouted, this time pounding Arkady with small, ineffectual fists. “Don't you dare say things like that about my husband! He comes from one of the best families in Port Traeker!”

“He was strung up by the Trinity,” Arkady said, directing her comments to the brother. “They tied him to the Justice Tree and let the gobie ants take him.”

“No!” Olegra squealed. “I don't believe you!”

“Who delivered this sentence?” Ulag demanded. He turned and called to the rapidly gathering night, “Step forward, this fool who claims to speak for the Trinity, and show me proof of your right to pass sentence on a free man!”

Of course, nothing happened. Cayal didn't magically appear, nor did Arryl or Declan.

So much for being rescued in the nick of time
 . . .

“Seems your Trinity isn't here to defend themselves.”

“Probably don't consider you important enough,” she replied, figuring she was doomed anyway, so it really didn't matter much at this point how disrespectful she was. Arkady had been biting her tongue for months around these people. She was thoroughly fed up with all of them. If Declan and Cayal weren't going to make it in time to save her, she wasn't going to die kowtowing to these fools.

Cydne would not be the only one in Watershed Falls to die free.

“I
want
these people, Ulag,” Olegra demanded of her brother, stamping her foot like the spoiled child she was. “Not just this lying slut, but every soul in this village and every other village in the wetlands who thinks they can claim their ridiculous religion justifies killing an innocent man.”

“As opposed to
your
ridiculous religion?” Arkady said. “Don't you worship the Lord of Temperance? Well, I've met your precious Lord of Temperance, Olegra, and he's a right little prick, actually. Did you know he sleeps with men
and
women? And drinks. And gambles. And generally skips through life whoring around like a sailor after six months at sea.”

Olegra slapped her again—as Arkady knew she would—but she was still alive, which was something to be grateful for.

It was questionable how much longer that state of affairs would remain in effect, however, if Cayal, Arryl and Declan didn't get here soon.

“Shut up!” Olegra cried. “You do not have permission to speak!”

“Don't need it,” Arkady said, a little bit horrified to realise she was enjoying herself. Of course, they hadn't actually done anything to her yet, besides slap her around a bit. She doubted this would be quite as much fun if Olegra's brother was doing the hitting, but the looks on the faces of these arrogant merchants, confronted with true defiance from a slave for the first time in their smug, self-righteous lives, was really quite exhilarating. “Did you know your husband made me give him lessons on how to touch you, Olegra?
Where
to touch you . . . what to say . . .”

Olegra let out another incomprehensible squeal, but it was carried away by a sudden gust of wind. All around them, the trees began to tremble with a breeze that blew so forcefully Olegra was pushed into her brother, who was forced to brace himself or be blown over. Although she couldn't
feel them working the Tide, Arkady sagged with relief, guessing nothing natural had caused this sudden change in the weather.

However tardy, rescue in the form of the Trinity—or at least, this latest version of it—had arrived.

Watershed Falls had been all but deserted when Declan arrived with Cayal and Arryl as the sun sank below the horizon. Insects buzzed in the twilight, but generally ignored the immortals, an unexpected bonus Declan hadn't noticed until now.

There were three ships clustered about the dock, but only the larger vessel seemed to have disembarked passengers. It had a gangway lowered to the wharf and a number of guards posted around it. They paid little attention, however, to the three unarmed civilians disembarking from their small, Crasii-towed craft, in the shadow of the larger vessel, until they attempted to head toward the village.

“Come along, dear,” Cayal said, putting his arm around Arryl. “Once we get to mother's house, you can rest.”

A marine from the docked vessel stepped in front of them, hand on the hilt of his sword, blocking their way forward.

“Where do you think you lot are going?”

“To my mother's house in the village,” Cayal explained in Senestran so perfect he sounded like a local. “My wife is ill. I think it's swamp fever, something she would never have caught if her half-witted brother . . .” he jerked his head in Declan's direction, “. . . hadn't got himself fired from his job in the flax fields and we had to go fetch him and bring him home. Now, if you don't mind, let us pass. My wife needs rest, and I need to have a long talk with my shiftless brother-in-law.”

The guard studied Arryl, who had was leaning weakly on Cayal as she groaned, and then glared at Declan with the sort of look one reserved for shiftless brothers-in-law. “You're to go straight home, understand? No hanging around the village.”

“Thank you, admiral,” Cayal said. “That's exactly what I plan to do.”

The marine stood back to let them pass. Arryl allowed Cayal to help her down the wharf, not moving out of his embrace until the bulk of the ship blocked them from the view of the guards.

She smiled as Cayal let her go, glancing back at the ship. “Long time since we've done something like that, Cayal.”

He smiled smugly at them both. “You'll note I haven't lost my deft touch.”

“Yes,” Declan agreed, a little disturbed at how easily subterfuge came to
these people, even Arryl, who hadn't hesitated to fall in with Cayal's lies. “You're a remarkably good liar.”

“We're all remarkably good liars,” Cayal said with a shrug. “As you will be too, if you're not already, spymaster, once you've had a few thousand years of practice.”

Cayal didn't give Declan an opportunity to respond. He turned to Arryl, and with a courtly bow indicated she should lead the way. Declan fell in beside Cayal, seething with the need to do something about the Immortal Prince. Cayal was driving him insane with his constant needling. The only thing holding Declan back was the knowledge that Cayal was doing it for precisely that reason, and by not retaliating, he was probably having a similar effect on Cayal.

It took a few minutes to reach the street where the house-turned-clinic was located. They walked past one darkened house after another. Apparently, the residents of Watershed Falls were staying out of the way of this potentially nasty confrontation. Many of them had probably fled the village and made their way further into the wetlands, seeking shelter with friends and family in other settlements until the fuss over the death of Cydne Medura died down.

The street and the small grassed yard at the front of the cottage was crowded with troops when they turned the corner. Arryl stopped, still unnoticed by the men ahead of them, and turned to Cayal.

“How do you want to do this?”

“You do the talking,” Cayal said. “That'll leave me and the sprog here free to wreak some havoc.” He glanced around, spied a reasonably straight fallen branch by the side of the road, picked it up and handed it to Arryl. “Here. Take this. Goddesses always look more impressive when they're wielding fire.”

The Tide surged and the end of the impromptu staff burst into flame. Squinting against the sudden brightness, Declan wasn't sure if it was Cayal or Arryl who'd made it happen, though.

“Shall I tell them who you are?”

“Tell them I'm the Immortal Prince?” Cayal shrugged. “Sure. They want to name their silly Tarot after us, let's play along.” He turned to Declan. “What shall we call you, spymaster? You're not in the Tarot, are you?” Cayal made a show of thinking about it and then turned back to Arryl, smiling brightly. “I know, he can fill in for Coron, seeing as how the rat is dead. Tell them this is The Rodent.”

“Cayal . . .”

“It's all right, Arryl,” Declan said. “I think I'd rather be named after a rat than some other immortals I could name.”

Cayal didn't miss the dig, but chose to ignore it. He turned toward the house with a sweep of the cloak he was wearing—and had insisted the others wear as well—and plunged into the Tide.

The breeze picked up as they approached the house, the marines looking around in confusion. As with the guards at the wharf, they made no attempt to reach for their weapons, considering three unarmed strangers no threat. But there was something about them that worried the men, because they opened ranks to allow the newcomers through, without being asked. Declan wasn't sure if that was because they looked so impressive with their billowing cloaks and Arryl's blazing staff, or if, as soldiers, they were just conditioned to respond to anybody who looked as if they were in command.

When they finally found Arkady, it was to discover she was on her knees before a Senestran man and woman, their backs to the new arrivals, who'd probably been interrogating her.

“She's still alive,” Arryl remarked, sounding a little surprised.

“Told you we'd make it in time,” Cayal added in a low voice.

At that moment, Arkady spied the immortals coming up the street and looked at her captors. “Might be a good idea to kneel,” she called, loud enough for the immortals to catch her words. Declan guessed she was yelling to make sure her warning carried on the unnatural breeze. “You're about to meet a few of
your
gods.”

The man and woman both turned to look behind them as the marines fell back. Declan wondered at the sight this impromptu Trinity made, coming up the road with the last of the sunset behind them. The burning staff Arryl carried, blazing far too bright for mere man-made fire . . . the Sorceress of the Tide, flanked by two dangerous-looking men, cloaks billowing theatrically in Cayal's magically induced breeze . . . Declan didn't know where the cloaks had come from—who even
owned
a cloak out here in this wretched heat? He guessed their entrance was likely to impress even the most cynical non-believer.