Queen of the Depths Page 13

  He frowned. “Well, if you put it that way … Tan?”

  Her pulse quickened. “Tell me.”

  “They’ve been there for a few years now. Someplace, whatever shelter they’ve built, you can’t see it from offshore. They trade for some of the plunder passing through Mirg Isle, necessities like food and cloth, but stranger and more valuable items, too, like alchemical supplies and fine gems.”

  “What account do they give of themselves?”

  “Mostly, they don’t. The rumor is, they’re monks, the last followers of some dead god trying to pray and magic him back to life, but nobody really knows. They could be wyrm worshipers.”

  They were. Tu’ala’keth was certain of it, and flawless jewels and alchemist’s equipment were the proof. According to Anton, the cultists required such things to transform living dragons into dracoliches.

  “So,” growled Vurgrom, “have I earned the right to go on living?”

  “I promised,” she said, “in the name of Umberlee. Now consider the choice before you. You can seek revenge on me, but only by making this humiliation public. Forever after, folk will laugh over the tale of how an ‘ugly fish’ besotted Vurgrom the Mighty. Or you can do nothing, in which case no one will ever know.”

  He glared at her. “Curse you—”

  “Just think about it.” She snatched up the battered cup and bashed him with it. His eyes rolled up in his head.

  She reckoned he’d remain unconscious for a while, but that was no reason to dawdle. She strode into Vurgrom’s suite, retrieved her trident and goggles, and hurried on to the door leading to the remainder of the house. She opened it to behold one of the pirate chieftain’s followers, a tall, thin man with a sallow face and drooping mustachios, peering directly at her.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I thought I heard noises,” he replied. “Somebody yelling, maybe.”

  “Everything is all right. You can go about your business.”

  It was possible he’d obey. She still had the enchantment in place to enhance her force of personality. It wouldn’t rouse his amorous inclinations—it had taken guile to make Vurgrom react in that fashion—but it might incline him to believe whatever she told him.

  “Oh,” he said. “Well, then.…” His dark eyes squinted at her. “Waveservant, is your face bleeding?”

  She realized Vurgrom had marked her, and that despite her efforts to heal herself, she must still bear visible scrapes and bruises. After the ordeal she’d suffered, the sting of such petty injuries simply hadn’t registered.

  “I had an accident,” she said. “It is nothing.”

  “I think,” the thin man said, “I should talk to Captain Vurgrom. For a second, anyway.”

  “He is sleeping and will be angry if you wake him.”

  “Then he’ll swear and yell at me, I suppose. But I still need to do it.”

  “As you wish.” She withdrew a pace into the suite, giving him room to pass. Then, as he strode through the opening, she drove her trident into his stomach.

  He stared at her and doubled over. She pulled the weapon from his body, and he toppled. She stuck him five more times until the writhing stopped and he lay motionless in a pool of blood.

  His death, though necessary, was unfortunate, for suppose someone else came looking for him? Even if Vurgrom remained unconscious, or woke but chose to heed her advice, Tu’ala’keth’s situation was still precarious. She swept her skeletal amulet through a sinuous pass and murmured the opening phrase of another spell.

  Anton ushered Shandri into the private room he’d hired on the top floor of the settlement’s least objectionable inn. Candlelight gleamed on crystal and white porcelain trimmed with gold leaf. Red roses perfumed the air, and the sweet, breathy notes of a longhorn trilled from an alcove. The casement stood open, providing a view of the harbor below and the myriad stars above.

  Shandri exclaimed in pleasure, as well she might. With all the plunder moving though Immurk’s Hold, a good many luxuries were available, yet in most respects, it remained as crude and raucous a place as any outlaw haven. Accordingly, it took some doing to collect the elements of an elegant, romantic supper for two and assemble them to create the proper effect.

  Not that Anton had any authentic claim to breeding or refinement, but as he’d hoped, the trace that had rubbed off on him during his contacts with wealthy merchants and aristocrats was sufficient to impress his companion.

  “Vurgrom’s banquets are splendid,” she said. “But this is … lovely.”

  “Shall we?” He seated her then poured them each a cup of a ruby-colored Impilturan wine. He toasted her. “To Shandri Clayhill, fiercest and most ravishing corsair on the Sea of Fallen Stars.”

  “To Anton, her gallant ship’s mage.”

  They drank. To his undiscriminating palate, the red was too sour, with a hint of bitter aftertaste, but he pretended to savor it so as not to spoil the mood. “The cook said the first course will be up in a minute or two.”

  “I’m in no hurry,” Shandri said. “I could sit here all night.”

  “I’m glad you like it. Someday, maybe we’ll sup like this every evening.”

  She smiled. “I doubt the Hold is up to the task of providing such elegance on a regular basis.”

  “Who says we’ll always live on Dragon Isle?”

  “We’ll always live on one of the Pirate Isles. Where else is there for reavers to go?”

  He shrugged. “We wouldn’t be the first raiders to strike it rich at sea then use a piece to the loot to bribe their way to a pardon, or even patents of nobility, on land. Mind you, I’m in no hurry, but it’s something to bear in mind.”

  “Something to dream of, at least.” Bracelets glittering in the candlelight, tattoos crawling on her slim but muscular arm, she reached across the stainless linen tablecloth and laid her hand on his. “I do like it that you imagine us together years hence.”

  “Of course,” he said and felt as if he meant it, for a spy deceived others by splitting himself into two people. The one who revealed himself to his dupes truly became the role, the lie, at odd moments even forgetting he was simply a mask. But behind the semblance lurked the true personality, loyal only to Turmish, ready to burst through the shell as soon as circumstances warranted.

  “Where, exactly, would you wish to live,” Shandri asked, “once we’re ready to put our cutthroat ways behind us?”

  He grinned. “Saerloon seems to be lucky for us, but it’s a nasty sort of place. I wouldn’t want to raise a family there.”

  She laughed. “Oh, you’ve decided on children as well.”

  “Naturally. Fifteen or twenty stout sons, and maybe a daughter or two to help with your embroidery.”

  “If I have to learn to embroider, forget the whole thing.”

  “Fair enough. You needn’t touch thread or needles of any kind. I see us spending the bulk of our time on a country estate. Someplace with sheep, hedges, and—”

  Something pale and luminous stirred at the edge of his vision. Startled, he looked around. A shape was oozing through the crack between the door and the jamb. Once clear, it hovered in the air, thickened, and wriggled until it shaped itself into a spectral hand. It crooked its index finger in Anton’s direction.

  “What’s the matter?” Shandri asked.

  She was looking where he was, but plainly perceived nothing out of the ordinary. Tu’ala’keth had explained that if she used this particular spell, only he would be able to see the disembodied messenger.

  “It’s nothing,” he said. “I thought I heard the server on the stairs. But I’ve just now remembered something. I have to go.”

  She frowned. “Why? I’m your captain. What urgent obligation can you have if I didn’t impose it on you?”

  “It’s Tu’ala’keth. I promised to assist with a ceremony. Something she must do tonight, before the tide goes out.”

  “Curse it, the waveservant is under my authority as well. Her wishes don’t take precedence over m
ine. You—” Shandri caught herself. “No. I’m just being bitchy because I’m disappointed. I don’t really want you to break a promise to Tu’ala’keth. We’ll both attend her and worship as she instructs. She tells me I need to pay homage to the goddess, and here’s an opportunity.”

  “I’m sorry. I wish you could accompany me, but Tu’ala’keth said I need to come alone.”

  Shandri frowned. “That’s odd. Usually, she wants as many people as possible to pray and offer to Umberlee. She hates it if anyone holds back.”

  “I guess it’s a special ritual. Please, stay here. Eat. The meal should be grand, so don’t let it go to waste. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

  “Yes, you will. I order you to.”

  He rose, she followed suit, and they embraced. She gave him a deep, passionate kiss, and it stirred him. It saddened him a little to reflect that in all likelihood, he’d never see her again.

  He extricated himself from her arms, turned his back on her, and followed the floating hand: out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street.

  Hanging several paces in front of him at head level, the construct led him through crowds of roistering pirates and finally into the quiet side street where he and Tu’ala’keth sometimes met. She stood waiting in the niche between the shanties. Two sea bags lay amid the litter at her feet, another indication things were happening fast.

  The phantom hand blinked out of existence the instant he laid eyes on its maker. “I have our share of the Thayan treasure,” she said. “It may prove useful.”

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “Did Vurgrom know where the cultists are? Did he finally give up the secret?”

  “In essence, yes.”

  Anton shook his head. “I can’t believe your luck.”

  “Our ‘luck’ is the grace of Umberlee.”

  “Then, not to quibble, but it’s too bad she didn’t give you even more of it. If everything had gone as planned, we wouldn’t be absconding so hastily.”

  “Now that we have what we came for, it is time to go. But I confess, you are right. Vurgrom responded to my enchantments in a way I failed to anticipate, and he assaulted me.”

  “You mean—”

  “I stopped him before it went very far then extorted information from him at knife point. After we parted company, I found it necessary to kill one of his underlings. Thus, it is possible Vurgrom’s folk are already hunting me. We will need to exercise caution as we make our departure.”

  “Apparently so. How many of those pellets do you have left? The ones that let me breathe under water.”

  “Only one.”

  “Enough to let me swim or ride one of the seahorses a goodly distance from Dragon Isle—and drown between islands when the magic wears off. We need to steal a small, fast boat.”

  “It will be fast when I call the wind to fill the sails.”

  “Good.” He stepped forward to pick up one of the sea bags, and a cry rang out.

  “Men of Shark’s Bliss! Of Vurgrom’s faction! I’ve found the traitors! Follow me!”

  Anton pivoted to see Shandri standing on guard several yards away, glaring, dark sword shivering in her hands.

  “I followed you,” she said. “I cared for you, but I’m not an imbecile, even though you played me for one, and what you were babbling just didn’t make sense.”

  Anton reflected bitterly that he was the imbecile. Normally, he took care that no one shadowed him, but tonight, he’d been too busy keeping track of the ghostly hand. Whereas Shandri, with the ring that let her see in the dark, had had little difficulty keeping him in view.

  “And I was wise to be suspicious,” the pirate continued. “Because, if I’m not mistaken, people worship Umberlee at the water’s edge, not in filthy little alleys.”

  “All right,” he said, “I did mislead you. But I can explain.”

  “Don’t bother. I heard some of what you and Tu’ala’keth had to say to one another. Enough to understand the two of you are spies. You came here to steal a secret, and now that you’ve got it, you hope to vanish in the night. Well, it won’t be that easy.” Once again, she shouted: “Shark’s Bliss! Vurgrom’s men! I need you!”

  “Be silent,” said Tu’ala’keth. “We have done no harm to you or your ship, and we intend none. But if you continue to shout, we will kill you.”

  “ ‘No harm?’ What about your lies?”

  “I said you can be strong, and so you can. The choice is up to you.”

  Shandri sneered at Anton. “You told other lies besides that one.”

  “Love is pleasant,” said Tu’ala’keth, “but it is a petty thing compared to the mastery and slaughter which are your birthright. You demean yourself by making much of it. Now sheathe your sword and trouble us no more. Otherwise, I will kill you.”

  Shandri smiled. “Try.”

  “As you wish,” said Tu’ala’keth. She gripped her bony pendant, started to conjure, and several men and orcs came dashing around the corner and down the street. Umberlee, it seemed, was even stingier with her “grace” than Anton had imagined. Folk were actually combing the streets for the shalarin, and they’d heard the pirate captain yell.

  Sealmid was at the head of the pack, amethyst bow in hand. “You found them,” he said to Shandri. “I didn’t know you’d even joined the hunt.”

  “Thus far,” said Tu’ala’keth, “you are all faithful worshipers of Umberlee. Do not offend her, lest she curse you.”

  “We thaw what you did to Yuiredd,” said the first mate. “We’ll take our chantheth.” He pulled an arrow from the quiver hanging at his hip.

  Retreating, Tu’ala’keth resumed her chant. Pirates drew their blades and stalked after her.

  Shandri said, “Anton is mine.” She charged.

  He snatched his cutlass from the scabbard, barely in time to parry a head cut. The clanging impact jolted down his arm.

  “Don’t do this,” he said. “I don’t want to kill you, and you don’t really want to kill me.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I do.” The dark blade leaped at him.

  As they circled, he caught glimpses of Tu’ala’keth’s part of the battle. Now outlined in some sort of protective blue-green aura, she conjured a howl of sound. It staggered her foes but didn’t stop them. The next time he saw her, pirates were hacking at her, while Sealmid loosed an arrow. The shaft veered like a bird on the wing to swing wide of the archer’s comrades, turned, and struck the shalarin in the back. From his vantage point, Anton couldn’t tell whether it pierced her silverweave or not, but it knocked her lurching forward, and a broadsword slashed at her torso. Snarling, she caught the blow on the haft of her trident.

  Her eyes seething with shadow like the greatsword, Shandri struck blow after furious blow, until Anton’s arm felt half-numb from the stress of parrying. It seemed impossible that anyone could hit so hard with such a ponderous blade and recover quickly enough to attack again just an instant later. He realized he’d never seen the pirate wield the living sword in actual combat, when she and it were united in their avidity for the kill. He hadn’t understood what a fearsome weapon it truly was.

  She was pressing him so hard that already, it was difficult to attack or riposte, and if anything, she kept striking faster and harder, as if battle-rage were making her steadily stronger when by all rights, she should be tiring.

  To make matters even worse, she was using the superior length of her weapon to good effect, keeping a measure that allowed her to attack him but not the other way around. He needed to adjust, to slip inside the critical space where his cutlass could cut and stab but a greatsword was unwieldy.

  He parried repeatedly, looking for the opening he needed—until a sweep of the dark blade snapped his own in two, leaving just a jagged stub protruding from the bell guard.

  Shandri laughed and sprang at him, swinging the greatsword at his neck. He blocked with the shattered cutlass—until the bell crumpled or broke beneath her hammering blows, it could still serve as a makeshift
buckler—and snatched a dagger from his sash.

  It was a pathetic weapon compared to the greatsword, especially considering that, by pushing him so relentlessly, Shandri wasn’t even permitting him to shift it to his right hand. But it was all he had left.

  “I love you,” he said and, hoping the words might make her hesitate for a split second, lunged. Shandri instantly took a retreat, opening up the distance again, and the greatsword leaped at his belly. Somehow he stopped short, and the stroke whizzed harmlessly by. He blocked the next one with the broken cutlass.

  Such good fortune couldn’t last. She was going to penetrate his guard eventually, most likely within the next few heartbeats. He risked another glance at Tu’ala’keth, and saw she was still in no position to help him. A couple of her opponents sprawled on the ground, dead or incapacitated, but the rest were still assailing her, and one of Sealmid’s arrows was sticking through her bloody calf.

  Anton would have to save himself, and it was plain his combat skills were insufficient. He supposed that left sorcery.

  The problem was magic would require him to focus his attention on the intricate business of conjuring, which was all too likely to slow his reactions as he tried to parry and dodge the greatsword. But still, it seemed his only chance.

  He threw the knife at Shandri’s head, but it flew wide of the mark, and she didn’t even bother ducking. He told himself it didn’t matter. The real point had been to free up a hand. He reached into his pocket, fumbled out his bit of ram’s horn, and she feinted high and cut low. He recognized the true attack just in time to leap backward and avoid a fatal chop to the guts. Still, the dark blade sliced his arm. His fingers flew open, and he dropped the spell trigger.

  The greatsword pounced at him. It was a blur now. It was like dark lightning flickering in an infernal sky. He realized he had no more time to grope for and manipulate another talisman, even if she’d permit him to hold on to it, nor could he possibly stand still long enough to execute any sort of cabalistic pass without her burying the sentient blade in his body. His only hope was a spell purely verbal in nature.