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  Where, though? Odds were, Ocarn didn’t own a house here, so the Mercerien embassy—if there was one—was the first place Ebon would check. But he wasn’t getting much of a view of the place from behind this Shroud-cursed wall. He scowled. Three hundred leagues he’d traveled to get to Gilgamar, yet now with Lamella perhaps just a stone’s throw away, he found his path to her blocked. When he finally got into the Upper City, what new obstacle would he discover barring his way? It was hard to shake off the feeling that she would always remain beyond his reach—that he would be cursed to chase her across the length and breadth of the Sabian League as punishment for abandoning her when the Vamilians attacked Majack.

  When he tried to bring to mind a picture of her, the figure that formed was hazy, as if he were seeing her through a mist. Perversely, the easiest image to evoke was of their first encounter in the Kingswood, when his gelding had stamped on her. Her features were set in a rictus of agony, her right leg mangled and bloody. He sought to summon up instead a memory of the day four months later, when he’d brought her the piebald mare in an effort to give her back a measure of freedom. Yet the pained look on her face remained. Perhaps that was a truer measure of what she’d felt than the feigned smile she had conjured up. Joy, he supposed, meant something different to someone who lived with the constant hurt of a shattered leg. Maybe joy, as others knew it, was something forever lost to her.

  Enough daydreaming; it was time to act. Ebon wasn’t minded to introduce himself to the guards in case one of the soldiers recognized him from the canal last night. A part of him wanted simply to draw his power about himself and bludgeon his way through, but he wasn’t Galea that he could hope to take on an entire city and survive. Most likely he’d find himself caught up in a series of running battles with the guardsmen. What chance did he have of finding a bolthole to hide in before the enemy took him down? And what chance was there then of him locating Lamella and Rendale with every soldier in the city looking for him?

  There was always the option of going in at night. The gate, though, was closed between dusk and dawn, so how was he supposed to get inside then? Scale the wall and take the battlements? Curse his oversight, he hadn’t thought to pack an army along with his water bottle and change of clothes.

  If he got back in his boat, he could circle the city to the north or south, find somewhere to put in and approach Gilgamar from the east. But the guards on that gate would be no less vigilant than—

  “Looking for a way into the city?”

  Ebon startled.

  The speaker was a man a head shorter than the prince. His right foot was missing, and in its place was a wooden peg. That peg had worn down to give him a lopsided look. He grinned to reveal an equally lopsided set of yellow teeth.

  “For the last half-bell,” the man said, “you been looking at that gate like you’re hoping someone’s gonna invite you inside. But it ain’t gonna happen, mister. You wants in, you needs the right papers, and if you wants the right papers, you needs two folk in the Upper City who’ll swear on your good behavior. If that’s the way you wanna go, I can points you the way of the Petty Courts so you can start the stones rolling. Whole thing takes maybe a week, maybe a month. And even then you’ll get a couple of them spearbutts”—he gestured to the guards at the Harbor Gate—“marching you wherever it is you’re going. And marching you right back out again once your business is finished.”

  An armed escort wouldn’t hinder Ebon if he could just get past the gate. But he didn’t like his chances of finding someone in the Upper City to vouch for him, any more than he liked the sound of waiting a month for the process to run its course. “There must be another way inside.”

  “Oh, sure!” Peg Foot said, warming to his part. “Dozens, probably. Problem is, whatever plan you come up with has likely been thought of by someone else already. Or that’s the way I sees it. And if your plan don’t work, are you ready to pay the price?” He waved his peg foot about to show what that price would be. “I myself spent weeks sniffing out a way inside. Me and a few lads found this spot on the Ribbon Coast where the cliffs were climbable, then watched the walls for three days till we found a blind spot in the spearbutts’ patrols. Bastards were still waiting for me when I hauled myself over the battlements. And I was the lucky one, ’cause I was first up the rope and not still climbing when the damned thing was cut.”

  Ebon’s voice betrayed his irritation. “If it’s as difficult to get inside as you say, why are we having this conversation?”

  “That was then, this is now. Might be I can puts you in touch with someone who can help. The way I sees it, you got nothing to lose listening to what he got to say. Assuming you got a little coin in your pockets, of course.”

  “How little?”

  The Gilgamarian grinned again. “I leave the details to the man.”

  “The man?”

  “You wanna swap names, you can do it with him. But I doubt he gets up close and personal on a first date.”

  Ebon looked Peg Foot in the eye, trying to see past his smile. The Gilgamarian painted a grim picture of Ebon’s chances of getting into the Upper City, but it was in the man’s interests to smear the paint on with a trowel. And while Peg Foot’s missing foot lent his story the whiff of authenticity, who was to say he hadn’t been run over by a cart? Or stamped on by a horse. This might be a trap. Ebon might go down some dark alley to meet “the man,” only to find a dozen of Peg Foot’s friends waiting instead.

  With Vale at his back, though, that was a risk he could afford to take. And if things didn’t work out, well, as Peg Foot had said, what had Ebon lost? A bell or two wasted in the Gilgamarian’s company was a price worth paying for the chance of an easy way into the Upper City.

  “Okay,” he said to Peg Foot, nodding. “Lead on.”

  CHAPTER 9

  GALANTAS FOLLOWED the jailer along the corridor, Qinta a step behind. The only light came from the jailer’s guttering torch. The cells to either side were empty and had been so since the conflict between the Spears and the Raptors nine years ago. On the day that Kalag came to discuss terms with Dresk, Dresk had unleashed his inquisitors on the Raptor prisoners so their clan leader had to listen to their screams while he negotiated in the Great Hall. Those screams had fouled the air, giving the place a baleful atmosphere as if the souls of the dead lingered beyond the reach of the torchlight.

  The jailer halted and gestured to a wooden door. “In here.”

  Galantas looked through the grille. The cell beyond was so dark he could make out only gray shapes within the gloom. There was a cot against the right-hand wall, and on it lay Ostari.

  “Open it,” Galantas said to the jailer.

  The key squealed as it turned in the lock. When the door swung inward, the complaint from the hinges was louder still.

  Galantas took the torch from the jailer. “Leave us.” The man bobbed his head. As he retreated into shadow, Galantas said to Qinta, “See that we’re not disturbed.”

  Then he entered the cell.

  His torch drove the shadows before him. In the flickering light, he saw white mold covering the walls, and in the corner was a drain crusted with blood and hair and—strangely—feathers. Needleflies buzzed around a stinking waste pail.

  Ostari’s wrists were shackled to the wall behind him by a length of chain—an unnecessary precaution to Galantas’s mind, considering the wound to the Augeran’s ankle. There were bloody bandages round his right shoulder and leg. Beads of sweat covered his brow. After the chill of the passage, the air in the cell seemed close, as if it had been warmed by its occupant’s fever. The tightness to Ostari’s jaw hinted at his agony, but his eyes showed only defiance.

  “Have you been given something for the pain?” Galantas said.

  Ostari did not respond.

  Galantas sighed. You had to admire a man’s refusal to accept that he was beaten. Unless he was beaten, of course, in which case that refusal just made him look witless. Ostari had been given up for dead by his ki
nsmen, so it was unlikely they’d be coming for him anytime soon. His only hope of limping out of here lay with Galantas, and the sooner Ostari understood that, the better.

  “I hear your ankle was broken,” Galantas said. “Has the bone been reset?”

  Ostari gave a snort that turned into a cough.

  “What, you think your healers could do a better job?”

  Still nothing.

  “You’re right,” Galantas said after a pause. “Why should you care if you never walk again?”

  Silence.

  Galantas pondered his next move. Was Ostari’s apparent indifference to his fate genuine? Galantas was minded to call his bluff by leaving this place, but there was too much at stake here to walk away. Perhaps it was time he gave Ostari a taste of the welcome he would receive from Dresk’s inquisitors.

  No man, after all, was indifferent to pain.

  Reaching out, he placed his hand on the blood-soaked bandages around Ostari’s leg. The stone-skin flinched, his lips drawing back.

  “What did you see in the yard?” Galantas said.

  No reply.

  “The shot that hit Eremo came from behind me,” Galantas went on, “so I didn’t see who fired it.” He gave the stone-skin’s leg a squeeze. “Did you?”

  “Why matter?” Ostari grated.

  “Your mage destroyed the battlements where the bolt came from. If the shooter was there—”

  “If?”

  “You must admit, it makes little sense for us to kill your commander after we’d taken his money. Of the two sides, I’d say we got the best of the bargain.”

  “Bargain be better if no need do anything in return.”

  Galantas removed his hand from Ostari’s leg. His fingers were red, and he wiped them on the man’s crimson cloak. It wasn’t as if the stain would show there. “You think we planned to betray you all along? Then why weren’t our guards ready to strike? Why weren’t there ten bolts in the first attack instead of one?” He paused to let Ostari think on that. “And why didn’t we attack your ship in the harbor at the same time? We could have killed every one of you, and your people back home would never have known.”

  Ostari showed his teeth. “If say so. But not me you must persuade.”

  “We’ve tried to contact your kinsmen,” Galantas said. “Unfortunately they’re not so keen on speaking to us. Every boat that approaches your ship is carried away by waves of water-magic.”

  “And want me messenger?” Ostari gave a dry chuckle. “Status in people less now captured. No Honored with indignity keep rank.”

  “Honored?”

  The arrogance was back in the stone-skin’s eyes. “Best in Augeran warriors. Survive longest trials of military.”

  There were questions that Galantas would have liked to ask on that score, but they would have to wait. “And this lost standing, there is no way it can be regained?”

  Ostari did not respond.

  From the Great Hall above came the clank of metal, the slam of a door. The fortress was stirring to life—meaning time was running out. Galantas had been careful to ensure as few people as possible saw him coming, but one of the guards would surely report his presence to Dresk. When his father roused himself from his drunken stupor, he’d be down here to find out what was happening. Even a fool such as Dresk couldn’t be ignorant of the dangers of Galantas speaking to the stone-skins. Particularly since the warlord would no doubt be hoping to use Galantas as a scapegoat just as Galantas was hoping to use him.

  Ostari surprised him by speaking. “If Eremo dead, you waste time. Subcommander Sunder replace. Spent life in shadow. Will want prove mettle by make someone pay.”

  “Someone like Dresk, maybe.”

  The stone-skin stared at him.

  “I understand your people’s wish for redress. But why should all of my kinsmen suffer? If it was Dresk’s guards who attacked Eremo, they likely did so on my father’s order.”

  “Or on yours, perhaps.”

  “And put myself at risk by doing so? In case you’ve forgotten, it was me trapped in that yard yesterday, not my father. If Eremo had died, I would probably be dead now myself.” Galantas didn’t believe that—he’d have found a way to come out on top, as he always did. But he suspected it was what Ostari wanted to hear.

  “If Dresk falls, you take place,” the stone-skin said. “You who spoke against treaty.”

  “For twenty thousand talents, I might be persuaded to change my mind.”

  “And why think Augera want you ally? A man who give up own father for ambition? A man who betray brother—”

  Galantas’s hand shot out and gripped Ostari’s leg again. “What do you know about my brother?” The stone-skin’s back arched, his chains clinking. He gritted his teeth, biting down on a scream. “You think you know me?” Galantas whispered. “You think I wanted my brother dead? It was never my loyalty to him that was in question.”

  He released Ostari’s leg and took a breath to steady himself, annoyed that he’d let himself be provoked. “I think your people need reminding why they wanted this treaty in the first place. If you decline my offer, what are you going to do? Attack us? Everyone who’s tried to do that before has failed. You know we have eyes in the outlying islands, watching for trouble. Approach in force, and you’ll find Bezzle deserted by the time you get here. You’ve walked the city. You’ve seen the Great Hall. Is there anything you think we wouldn’t hesitate to leave behind?” He gave his voice a more conciliatory note. “I’m offering you another way.”

  Ostari was still shaking with pain. Breath snorted in his nose. “As said, not me you persuade.”

  “But if I released you, you would speak for us?” Galantas wasn’t stupid enough to think the man would support his cause, but surely Ostari would at least put the offer to his superiors as one that merited consideration.

  The stone-skin was a long time in answering. He hid it well, but there was no mistaking his hope that he might soon be free of this place. “Dresk not know you here, yes? How free me without him agree?”

  Galantas turned away, knowing he had his man. “Leave my father to me.”

  * * *

  Amerel’s hands were white where they gripped the windowsill. Her muscles were tight as rigor mortis, and her body trembled as if she’d overindulged in cinderflower. Again. The remnants of yesterday’s blood-dream clung to her as a darkness at the edges of her vision. Or maybe that was just her exhaustion. Another night with no sleep. A night spent pushing back the images that awaited her behind closed eyelids. A night spent staring at the ceiling and listening to the whores ply their trade in the rooms around her—apparently they didn’t sleep much either. In the end Amerel had used one of her mind exercises to empty her head. Nothing worse, after all, than having a few bells alone to think.

  She swung her gaze to Dresk’s fortress. It was the morning after the night before, and the stronghold looked decidedly the worse for yesterday’s excitement. There was a gap in the battlements where the Augeran mage’s power had struck. Echoes of that sorcery clung to the stonework. The sorcery was like death-magic, only more … final. As if such a thing were possible. What was Amerel supposed to feel, looking at the fortress now? Satisfaction? Guilt?

  Something, surely.

  She scanned the rest of the city. An unnatural hush had settled over Bezzle. In the market there were as many dogs as there were people—more, probably, if you counted the fare on sale at the butcher’s stands. Over half the stalls were unmanned. Even the spectators at the fighting pit seemed subdued as they watched a wrestler pound his opponent’s head against a block of rubble. In the harbor the Augeran ship had moved away from the wharf and now bobbed at anchor near the still-smoldering islets. Earlier a rowing boat—sent by Dresk, no doubt—had tried to approach it, only to be forced back by a wave of water-magic. Evidently the stone-skins did not want to talk to the warlord, and who could blame them?

  But they weren’t showing any signs of leaving, either.

  The
Bezzlians, by contrast, were leaving in droves. A steady flow of ships had departed the harbor during the course of the last bell. On one of the quays now, Amerel saw a scuffle break out among a mob of Islanders waiting to board a Thaxian brigantine. Was Talet with them? Had he left on an earlier vessel? If not, he was doing a good job of keeping his head down. Twice Amerel had spirit-walked to the fortress to look for him, and twice she had returned frustrated. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced his late arrival yesterday had been because he was arranging passage out of Bezzle for him and his son. Amerel couldn’t decide whether she hoped he had managed it or not. If he’d fled, the chance of being exposed by him would have gone too. Yet a loose end didn’t stop being loose just because you couldn’t tie it off.

  Footsteps outside the door signaled Noon’s return from the harbor. He’d gone to warn the Whitecap’s captain they’d be sailing earlier than planned. As soon as he entered, Amerel sensed something different about him—a whisper of sorcery coming from his belt-pouch.

  When she released the windowsill, her hands started shaking. She clasped them together. “What have you got there?” she asked.

  Noon looked at his pouch. “A present from the emperor. Glass globes that go bang when they smash.”

  Amerel had heard rumors of their like. “Elemental sorcery?”

  The Breaker nodded.

  “It would have been nice to know you had them before I decided on my plan to deal with Eremo.”