The Red Sea (17 page)

Five minutes later, with the rat en route, and the carriage bearing the spalder still traveling in circles, a fist pounded on the hotel door. Dante came forward from the rats, nether in hand. Blays drew his swords. The crewmen pulled long knives. Naran opened the door.

A man stood outside, sweaty and wild-eyed. He wore the slippers favored by sailors and a beard that couldn't decide between black and red. His name was Jona, and he was one of the two men Naran had left on the veranda.

"They have the captain," he said. "She's down at the dock."

The men sheathed their knives and headed into the hall. Naran jogged at their fore. "Who is 'they'?"

Jona shrugged. "Some creepy-looking spalder. Looked like the walking dead. Accompanied by about half an army and a whole monastery."

"We should be extremely careful," Dante said. "This is probably a trap."

Naran showed his teeth. "They have Captain Twill. There is no more time for careful."

Dante gave Blays a look. The kind that said
Be ready to run
. Blays nodded fractionally. The group poured through the common room and into the street. The morning air was cool and humid, carrying the clang of ships' bells and the squawks of gulls.

While they were still several blocks from the piers, Gladdic's voice pierced the air. "…be laid out before you. The first: trading with the Plagued Islands without writ of permission. The second: transporting the sick from the islands into the city, knowingly putting our citizens at risk of pandemic. The third, and most grievous of all: consorting with blasphemers. Nethermancers. Those who would undermine all for which we stand. Do you have anything to say in your defense?"

The words that followed were strongly voiced, but too faint to make out—Gladdic had been using some trick to project his words. But there was no mistaking Twill's voice. As they neared, she grew loud enough to hear over the clap of their boots.

"…a joke, and not a very good one. You lock me in a hole, beat me for answers, and then charge me without proof on some dirty dock? What happened to Mallish justice, sir? The fairness that was once the envy of every place I traveled? If your goal was to learn the secret of transmuting admiration to mockery, then congratulations, sir. The alchemists will be thrilled."

Naran skidded to a stop at the corner of a closed pub, peered around it, then walked from cover at a too-casual pace. Dante pressed himself to the corner and beheld the plaza he and Blays had crossed through the night before. This morning, its center was vacant, but scores of grubby sailors and locals gathered around the base of the dock berthing the
Sword of the South
.

A row of blue-clad soldiers were lined up between the mob and the dock. There, Gladdic stood apart from Twill. Her wrists were chained. A coterie of monks flanked him.

"Take down the priests," Naran said. "We will handle the guards."

Dante stuttered with laughter. "Should I conquer the entire city while I'm at it? Strike the laws and exonerate her?"

"I thought you were two steps below the gods."

"Those are steep steps. And Gladdic may be standing on them, too."

"I'll do it," Blays said. "I'll shadowalk up to them. Grab her before—"

A hundred yards away, Gladdic strode closer to Twill. "You mean your words as criticism. I hear only praise. We have brought ourselves closer to Taim's will. By defying that will, you are damned. And all others who travel to the Plagued Islands will suffer the same punishment."

Calmly, he extended his hand palm up, as if releasing a butterfly. Pure white light flashed between them. A fan of red gushed from Twill's neck. She crumpled to the dock.

Naran ran forward with a warbling scream. One of his men followed on his heels, but the others jogged, slowed by disbelief. At the foot of the dock, soldiers raised their chins, eyes locking on Naran.

"I'm on it," Blays said. "Do something to help us flee?"

He sprinted after Naran. Dante swore, sticking beside the pub and summoning the shadows from their resting spots behind the building's shutters. Before the dock, the row of soldiers formed a wedge: those in the back planted spears while those at the front drew short swords. Behind and above them, Gladdic watched calmly. Naran's long legs were carrying him toward the soldiers faster than Blays could close. As the quartermaster planted his right foot, Dante shot his focus into the nether inside the cobblestone in front of the man's toe, jerking the stone three inches higher. Naran sprawled on his face.

"Pardon my friend!" Blays slid alongside him and waved off two approaching guards. "He just loves a good execution."

He yanked Naran to his feet. As Naran struggled in his grasp, Blays wrestled his arm back and boxed his ear, grinning cheerfully at the soldiers. Jona flanked Naran on the other side, speaking into the quartermaster's ear. Tears spilled down Naran's cheeks.

The soldiers paused, glancing at Gladdic, who raised his index finger. Dante tensed. Blays, Naran, and Jona slowed, as if slogging through thigh-high water, then stopped fast, goggling at their feet. Gladdic had adhered their soles to the ground. Unhurried, he moved down the dock, ordering his soldiers ahead of him.

Dante had already healed the blood oath wound on his palm. As he drew a knife to cut a fresh one, his hand was shaking so badly he nearly dropped the blade. The trick Gladdic had used was one of the first Dante had learned, but the problem was that the man wasn't using the nether, but rather the ether. While some were able to command both—though rarely with any notable skill—Dante couldn't lift the ether any more than he could hoist a fallen tree.

In Mallon, they positioned the two substances as opposites. Much as they positioned Arawn as the soul-starved god of death who'd do anything to murder the life-giving Taim and claim the world. In treating the powers as opposites, the system encouraged the brute force application of ether against nether or vice versa, much in the way you'd fight a fire by flinging a bucket of water at it.

Long ago, however, his late mentor Cally had taught him that the substances weren't opposites. Rather, they were complements, with as much in common as differences. To this day, Dante was still struggling to absorb this lesson, to learn to combat the ether in ways other than mindlessly bashing at it as hard as he could.

But with the guards closing on Blays and the others, he didn't have time for subtlety. He gathered the darkness into a black scythe and slashed at the glowing white bonds adhering his friends to the ground. They staggered forward, arms windmilling, then caught their balance and dashed toward the street they'd used to come into the square.

Gladdic splayed his palm. Pale lightning flashed toward Blays. Cataracts of nether poured through Dante's veins, as torrential as the boiling springs he'd unleashed on the Dreaming Peaks. A dark spout consumed the forking ether, leaving nothing but a few sparks twinkling in the air.

Gladdic's face, formerly placid, went as stormy as the nether. "Bring them to me. Dead, if you must."

His monks, eight in number, followed behind the charging soldiers, and Gladdic joined them. Dante and the crew of the
South
rushed around the corner and up the street.

"Please tell me," Blays said, "that Gladdic isn't as frightening as he seems."

"Okay," Dante said.

"You're just lying to me, aren't you? That's even less comforting."

"Well, the fact we're running in panic should have been your first clue." They swerved down an alley, navigating single file through debris and brown puddles. Footsteps racketed behind them, along with a gruff voice ordering the pursuing force to split up. Dante swore. "We need somewhere to hide."

"The inn?" Jona said.

"No good. If Gladdic comes around, the innkeep will give us up in a second."

Naran ran in a daze, useless for the moment. Blays shrugged broadly. They turned another corner and found themselves running down a tight alley. The nearest intersection yawned far ahead, seemingly a hundred miles away. With the echo of boots nearing the way they'd come in, Dante touched the nether within the nearest wall and yanked the stone aside like a curtain. He shoved Naran inside. Blays and the crewmen followed. As soon as everyone was out of the alley, Dante sealed the wall shut.

Their heavy breathing filled the room. Dante got out his torchstone and blew on it. Pale light revealed a narrow space half filled with dusty crates. Outside, feet thudded dully, dwindling to nothing.

Naran turned on Dante, mouth twisted in anguish. "Why did you make me run from them?"

"Because Gladdic had a small army with him!" Dante hissed. "You would have been deboned before you got within twenty feet."

"At least I would have died in the service of my captain."

"How would it have served her to die instantly?"

The quartermaster balled his hands into fists. "It never should have come to this. You promised you would save her."

Dante lowered his gaze. "Gladdic outwitted me. I'm sorry."

"He killed the one you swore to protect. It is your duty to kill him!"

"Now isn't the time! He isn't some cutpurse. He's an extremely dangerous sorcerer who is presently on high alert. Any one of his
monks
could kill you with a look."

Naran sneered. "Let me out of here. I can do what you will not."

"You go after him, and you'll die. You know how you
can
honor Captain Twill? By rescuing her crew still imprisoned on her ship. And getting them the hell out of this gods-forsaken city."

"To take you back to the islands, I suppose. Very selfless of you to suggest. Especially now that they have outlawed passage and no other ship will dare help you. Well, Captain Twill is dead. Our deal is annulled."

"Then I have a new offer." Dante got out his knife and cut his palm. "I'll help free your crew. You'll take me to the Plagued Islands. And once I'm cured, we'll return to Bressel—and I will plant Gladdic in the ground."

The quartermaster's dark eyes shifted to the blood dripping from Dante's palm. "You failed our last arrangement. How can I believe this one will go any better?"

Blays got a wry look on his face. "Because if there's one thing this man does well, it's wreak vengeance. Back at the islands, I'm surprised he didn't kill his own father."

Brows bent together, Naran laughed in shock. He glanced between his crew. "You're a part of this, too. What do you think?"

"Still a lot of our men trapped on the
South
," Jona said. "I wouldn't sleep well if we got ourselves killed while they're chained to their benches."

An older man nodded, flashing his wooden teeth in something like a grin. "Besides, they're right. You'd have fought that man and been murdered on your feet. Seems to me these two saved your salty hide."

The other members nodded assent. Mustering visible will, Naran straightened his spine. He extended his hand to Dante. "I'm not afraid of you, warlock. If you betray me, first I'll kill Gladdic, and then I'll find you."

* * *

The moth clung to the side of the warehouse, motionless. Perhaps it was waiting for the night. Or possibly it had recently feasted on a wool sock. It was probably dead, however, reanimated to spy on the dock where, three hours after the execution, Gladdic continued to oversee the comings and goings of sailors.

Dante, Blays, and the crewmen had relocated to a warehouse a half mile from the docks, which likely explained why the building was so little-used. There, while Dante kept watch on the priest as surreptitiously as he could, the
South
's sailors caught naps and sharpened knives. The silver lining to the execution was that it had drawn a great deal of onlookers. Gossip flew like starlings. This had already turned up four more members of the ship's scattered crew, who Jona relayed back to the warehouse.

The plan was to attack the captured
Sword of the South
just before dawn two days hence. If Twill's sailors kept arriving at the current pace, however, they might be able to do so the very next morning.

Around midday, Gladdic finally left the pier, taking most of his retinue with him. Dante sent the moth revenant soaring high above the rooftops, trailing Gladdic all the way to the Chenney. Before Gladdic arrived, Dante dismissed the rat that remained at the prison. To be on the safe side, rather than pursuing the man inside with the moth, he sent it circling around the tower, traveling from window to window until he heard Gladdic's voice wafting from inside.

Over the course of the afternoon, Gladdic interviewed a steady stream of guards, acolytes, staff, and monks. Other than the fact that Gladdic's requests for more tea were delivered in exactly the same tone as his death threats, Dante learned little. As the day departed in favor of evening, he found himself falling asleep.

A rattle awakened him. The windows set high on the side of the warehouse were now dark. A few candles lit the wide space, filling it with the stink of tallow. Blays kneeled on the floor, wrapping his swords in a blanket along with several long sticks.

Dante sat up. "Where are you going?"

Blays jerked a thumb at the crew, most of whom were snoring in blanketed piles. "These guys barely have a knife apiece. If we're going to capture the ship, I'd like to be carrying something sharper than our fists."

"And where do you intend to find these weapons?"

"My old stomping grounds. The armsman's guild of Winston Dupree."

Dante rubbed his eyes. "Do you think you'll still know anyone? It's been over a decade."

"Winston might be alive and kicking. He almost never went out on jobs himself." Blays finished bundling his weapons. "Besides, you saw that place. It was nothing but old men and the infirm. They'll be happy to make a quick chuck selling their spare swords and bows. Speaking of, you got any cash?"

Dante handed over what little he had left. Blays got Jona and exited into the night. Dante checked in with the moth. Gladdic remained in his office in the Chenney, but he was alone now, writing notes.

Naran stirred, moving beside him. "Five more of our men have come in. This puts us at fifteen. Counting those we know were detained on the
Sword of the South
, only five of our people are unaccounted for."