Red Seas Under Red Skies

  8

  THE LONG, shallow-draft boat drew up against the archon’s private landing, and Locke found his heart hammering. Now came the delicate part, the ever-so-delicate part.

  He and Jean were thrust from the boat by the Eyes surrounding them. Their hands were tied behind their backs, and they’d been relieved of their paintings. Those were carried, very carefully, by the last of the arresting Eyes to step off the boat.

  The arresting officer stepped up to the Eye in command of the landing and saluted. “We’re to take the prisoners to see the Protector immediately, Sword-prefect.”

  “I know,” said the landing officer, an unmistakable note of satisfaction in his voice. “Well done, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you, sir. The gardens?”

  “Yes.”

  Locke and Jean were marched through the Mon Magisteria, through empty hallways and past silent ballrooms, through the smells of weapon oil and dusty corners. At last they emerged into the archon’s gardens.

  Their feet crunched on the gravel of the path as they made their way through the deeply scented night, past the faint glow of silver creeper and the stuttering luminescence of lantern beetles.

  Maxilan Stragos sat waiting for them near his boathouse, on a chair brought out for the occasion. With him were Merrain and—oh, how Locke’s heart quickened—the bald alchemist, as well as two more Eyes. The arresting Eyes, led by their sergeant, saluted the archon.

  “On their knees,” said Stragos casually, and Locke and Jean were forced down to the gravel before him. Locke winced, and tried to take in the details of the scene. Merrain wore a long-sleeved tunic and a dark skirt; from his angle Locke could see that her boots weren’t courtly fripperies, but black, flat-soled field boots, good for running and fighting. Interesting. Stragos’ alchemist stood with a large gray satchel, looking nervous. Locke’s pulse quickened once again at the thought of what might be in that bag.

  “Stragos,” said Locke, pretending that he didn’t know exactly what was on the archon’s mind, “another garden party? Your armored jackasses can untie us now; I doubt there are agents of the Priori lurking in the trees.”

  “I have sometimes wondered to myself,” said Stragos, “precisely what it would take to humble you.” He beckoned the Eye at his right side forward. “I have regretfully concluded that it’s probably impossible.”

  The Eye kicked Locke in the chest, knocking him backward. Gravel slid beneath him as he tried to squirm away; the Eye reached down and yanked him back up by his tunic collar.

  “Do you see my alchemist? Here, as you requested?” said Stragos.

  “Yes,” said Locke.

  “That’s what you get. All you will ever get. I have kept my word. Enjoy your useless glimpse.”

  “Stragos, you bastard, we still have work to do for—”

  “I think not,” said the archon. “I think your work is already done. And at long last, I think I can see precisely why you so aggravated the Bondsmagi that they passed you into my care.”

  “Stragos, if we don’t get back to the Poison Orchid—”

  “My spotters have reported a ship answering that description anchored to the north of the city. I’ll be out to fetch her soon enough, with half the galleys in my fleet. And then I’ll have another pirate to parade through the streets, and a crew to drop into the Midden Deep one by one while all of Tal Verrar cheers me on.”

  “But we—”

  “You have given me what I need,” said Stragos, “if not in the manner in which you intended. Sergeant, did you encounter any difficulty in securing these prisoners from the Sinspire?”

  “Requin refused to allow us entry to the structure, Protector.”

  “Requin refused to allow you entry to the structure,” said Stragos, clearly savoring each word. “Thereby treating an informal tradition as though it had any precedence over my legal authority. Thereby giving me cause to send my troops in platoons, and do what the bought-and-paid-for constables won’t—throw that bastard in a box, until we find out just how long he’s willing to stay quiet about the activities of his good friends the Priori. Now I have my fighting chance. There’s no need for you two to cause further violence in my waters.”

  “Stragos, you motherfucker—”

  “In fact,” said the archon, “there’s no need for you two, at all.”

  “We had a deal!”

  “And I would have kept to it, had you not scorned me in the one matter which could brook no disobedience!” Stragos rose from his chair, shaking with anger. “My instructions were to leave the men and women at Windward Rock alive! Alive!”

  “But we—,” began Locke, absolutely mystified. “We used the witfrost, and we did leave them—”

  “With their throats cut,” said Stragos. “Only the two on the roof lived; I presume you were too lazy to climb up and finish them off.”

  “We didn’t—”

  “Who else was raiding my island that night, Kosta? It’s not exactly a shrine for pilgrims, is it? If you didn’t do it, you allowed the prisoners to do it. Either way, the fault is yours.”

  “Stragos, I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That won’t bring my four good men and women back, will it?” Stragos put his hands behind his back. “And with that, we’re done. The sound of your voice, the tone of your arrogance, the sheer effrontery contained within that tongue of yours…you are sharkskin on my eardrums, Master Kosta, and you murdered honest soldiers of Tal Verrar. You will have no priest, no ceremony, and no grave. Sergeant, give me your sword.”

  The sergeant of the arresting Eyes stepped forward and drew his blade. He turned it hilt-first toward the archon.

  “Stragos,” said Jean. “One last thing.”

  Locke turned toward him, and saw that he was smiling thinly. “I’m going to remember this moment for the rest of my gods-damned life.”

  “I—”

  Stragos never finished his sentence, since the Eye sergeant suddenly drew back his sword arm and slammed the hilt of the weapon into the archon’s face.

  9

  THEY DID it like this.

  The Eyes removed Locke and Jean from Requin’s courtyard and shoved them into a heavy carriage with iron-barred windows. Three entered the compartment with them, two rode up top to tend the horses, and three stood at the sides and rear, as outriders.

  At the end of the street atop the highest tier of the Golden Steps, where the carriage had to turn left to take the switchback ramp down to the next level, another carriage suddenly blocked its way. The Eyes yelled threats; the driver of the other carriage apologized profusely and shouted that his horses were uncommonly stubborn.

  Then the crossbow strings began to snap, and the drivers and outriders toppled from their places, caught defenseless in a storm of quarrels. Squads of constables in full uniform appeared on the street to either side of the carriage, waving their staves and shields.

  “Move along,” they shouted at the wide-eyed bystanders, the wisest of whom had already ducked for cover. “Nothing to see here. Business of archon and Council.”

  As the bodies hit the cobblestones outside the carriage, the door flew open and the three inside made a futile attempt to aid their fallen comrades. Two more squads of constables, with help from a number of private individuals in plain dress who just happened to get involved at the same signal, charged and overpowered them. One fought back so hard that he was slain by accident; the other two were soon forced down beside the carriage, and their bronze masks removed.

  Lyonis Cordo appeared, wearing the uniform of an Eye, complete in every detail save for the mask. He was followed by seven more men and women in nearly complete costumes. With them was a young woman Locke didn’t recognize. She knelt in front of the two captured Eyes.

  “You I don’t know,” she said to the one on the right. Before the man had time to realize what was happening, a constable had passed a dagger across his throat and shoved him to the ground. Other constables were qui
ckly dragging the rest of the bodies out of sight.

  “You,” said the woman, regarding the sole surviving Eye. “Lucius Caulus. You I know.”

  “Kill me now,” said the man. “I’ll give you nothing.”

  “Of course,” said the woman. “But you have a mother. And a sister, who works in the Blackhands Crescent. And you have a brother-by-bonding on the fishing boats, and two nephews—”

  “Fuck you,” Caulus said. “You wouldn’t—”

  “While you watched. I would. I will. Every single one of them, and you’ll be in the room the whole time, and they’ll know that you could save them with a few words.”

  Caulus looked at the ground and began to sob. “Please,” he said. “Let this stay between us—”

  “Tal Verrar remains, Caulus. The archon isn’t Tal Verrar. But I don’t have time to play games with you. Answer my questions or we will find your family.”

  “Gods forgive me,” said Caulus, nodding.

  “Were you given any special code phrases or procedures to use when reentering the Mon Magisteria?”

  “N-no…”

  “What, exactly, were the orders that you heard given to your sergeant?”

  When the brief interrogation was over, and Caulus carted off—alive, to keep him in fear of consequences should he be leaving anything out—along with the bodies, the false Eyes armed themselves with the weapons and harnesses of the real thing, and drew on the brass masks. Then the carriage was off again, speeding on its way to the boat waiting at the inner docks, lest any of Stragos’ agents should get across the bay in time to warn of what they’d seen.

  “That was about as good as we could hope for,” said Lyonis, sitting inside the carriage with them.

  “How good are those fake uniforms?” asked Locke.

  “Fake? You misunderstand. The uniforms weren’t the hard part; our sympathizers in Stragos’ forces supplied us with these some time ago. It’s the masks that are damned difficult. One per Eye, no spares; they keep them like family heirlooms. And they spend so much time looking at them even a close copy would be noticed.” Cordo held up his mask and grinned. “After tonight, hopefully, we’ll never see the damned things again. Now what the hell is in those oilcloth tubes?”

  “A gift from Requin,” said Locke. “Unrelated personal business.”

  “You know Requin well?”

  “We share a taste for the art of the late Therin Throne period,” said Locke, smiling. “In fact, we’ve even exchanged some pieces of work recently.”

  10

  AS LYONIS knocked the archon to the ground, the other false Eyes tore their masks off and took action. Locke and Jean slid out of the purely decorative knots at their wrists in less than a second.

  One of Lyonis’ men underestimated the skills of the real Eye he faced; he fell to his knees with most of his left side sliced open. Two more Priori pretenders closed in and harried the Eye until his guard slipped; they knocked him down and stabbed him several times. The other tried to run and fetch aid, but was slain before he could take five steps.

  Merrain and the alchemist looked around, the alchemist far more nervously than Merrain, but two of Lyonis’ people put them at swordpoint.

  “Well, Stragos,” said Lyonis, hauling the archon back to his knees, “warmest regards from the House of Cordo.” He raised his arm, sword reversed to strike, and grinned.

  Jean grabbed him from behind, threw him to the ground, and stood over him, seething. “The deal, Cordo!”

  “Yeah,” said Lyonis, still smiling where he lay on the ground. “Well, it’s like this. You’ve done us quite a service, but we don’t feel comfortable having loose ends running around. And there are now seven of us, and two of—”

  “You amateur double-crossers,” said Locke. “You make us professionals cringe. You think you’re so fucking clever. I saw this coming about a hundred miles away, so I had a mutual friend offer an opinion on the subject.”

  Locke reached into his boot and pulled out a slightly crumpled, moderately sweaty half-sheet of parchment, folded into quarters. Locke passed this to Lyonis and smiled, knowing as the Priori unfolded it that he would read:

  I WOULD TAKE IT AS A PERSONAL AFFRONT IF THE BEARERS OF THIS NOTE WERE TO BE HARMED OR HINDERED IN ANY WAY, ENGAGED AS THEY ARE UPON AN ERRAND OF MUTUAL BENEFIT. THE EXTENSION OF EVERY COURTESY TO THEM WILL BE NOTED AND RETURNED AS THOUGH A COURTESY TO MYSELF. THEY BEAR MY FULL AND ABSOLUTE TRUST.

  R

  All, of course, above Requin’s personal seal.

  “I know that you yourself are not fond of his chance house,” said Locke. “But you must admit that the same is not generally true among the Priori, and many of your peers keep a great deal of money in his vault—”

  “Enough. I take your point.” Cordo rose to his feet and all but threw the letter back at Locke. “What do you ask?”

  “I only want two things,” said Locke. “The archon and his alchemist. What you do with this gods-damned city is entirely your business.”

  “The archon must—”

  “You were about to gut him like a fish. He’s my business now. Just know that whatever happens to him won’t be an inconvenience for you.”

  The sound of shouting arose from the other side of the gardens. No, Locke corrected himself—the other side of the fortress.

  “What the hell is that?” he asked.

  “We have sympathizers at the Mon Magisteria’s gate,” said Cordo. “We’re bringing people in to prevent anyone from leaving. They must be making their presence known.”

  “If you try to storm—”

  “We’re not storming the Mon Magisteria. Just sealing it off. Once the troops inside comprehend the new situation, we’re confident they’ll accept the authority of the councils.”

  “You’d better hope that’s the case across Tal Verrar,” said Locke. “But enough of this shit. Hey, Stragos, let’s go have a chat with your pet alchemist.”

  Jean hoisted the archon—still clearly in shock—to his feet, and began to haul him over to where Merrain and the alchemist were standing under guard.

  “You,” said Locke, pointing at the bald man, “are about to start explaining a hell of a lot of things, if you know what’s good for you.”

  The alchemist shook his head. “Oh, but I…I…”

  “Pay close attention,” said Locke. “This is the end of the archonate, understand? The whole institution is getting sunk in the harbor once and for all tonight. After this, Maxilan Stragos won’t have the power to buy a cup of warm piss for all the gold in Tal Verrar. That will leave you with nobody to go crawling to as you spend the rest of your short, miserable life answering to the two men you fucking poisoned. Do you have a permanent antidote?”

  “I…I carry an antidote for every poison I use in the archon’s service, yes. Just in case.”

  “Xandrin, don’t—,” said Stragos. Jean punched him in the stomach.

  “Oh, no. Do, Xandrin, do,” said Locke.

  The bald man reached into his satchel and held up a glass vial, full of transparent liquid. “One dose is what I carry. This is enough for one man—do not split it. This will cleanse the substance from the humors and channels of the body.”

  Locke took the vial from him, his hand trembling. “And this…how much will it cost to have another alchemist make more?”

  “It’s impossible,” said Xandrin. “I designed the antidote to defy reactive analysis. Any sample subjected to alchemical scrutiny will be ruined. The poison and its antidote are my proprietary formulation—”

  “Notes,” said Locke. “Recipes, whatever you call the damn things.”

  “In my head,” said Xandrin. “Paper is a poor keeper of secrets.”

  “Well then,” said Locke, “until you cook us up another dose, it looks like you’re fucking well coming with us. Do you like the sea?”

  11

  MERRAIN MADE her decision then. If the antidote couldn’t be duplicated, and she could knock the vial to the ground…th
e troublesome anomalies Kosta and de Ferra were as good as dead. That would leave only Stragos and Xandrin.

  If they were dealt with, all those with any direct knowledge of the fact that she served a master beyond Tal Verrar would be silenced.

  She moved her right arm slightly, dropping the hilt of her poisoned dagger into her hand, and took a deep breath.

  Merrain moved so fast that the false Eye standing to her side never even had the chance to raise his sword. Her sideways stab, not preceded by any telltale glance or lunge, took him in the side of the neck. She slid the blade sideways as she withdrew, tearing whatever she could in case the poison took a few extra seconds to do its work.

  12

  MERRAIN’S FIRST victim had just uttered a gasp of surprise when she moved again, slashing across the back of Xandrin’s neck with a knife she’d produced from nowhere. Locke stared for a split second, startled; he counted himself fast, but if she’d been aiming for him he realized that he never would have seen the blow coming in time.

  As Xandrin cried out and stumbled forward, Merrain kicked at Locke, a fast attack rather than a solid one. She caught his arm and the vial flew from his fingers; Locke barely had time to yell, “Shit!” before he was diving after it, heedless of the gravel he was about to skin himself against or anything else Merrain might care to do to him. He plucked the still-intact vial off the ground, uttered a whisper of thanks, and was then knocked aside as Jean rushed past, arms extended.

  As he hit the ground with the vial clutched to his chest, Locke saw Merrain wind up and hurl her knife; Jean struck her at the moment of release, so that rather than impaling Stragos through the neck or chest as she’d clearly intended, she bounced her blade off the gravel at his feet. The archon flinched away from the weapon nonetheless.

  Merrain, improbably, put up an effective struggle against Jean; she freed one arm from his grasp somehow and elbowed him in the ribs. Lithe and no doubt desperate as all hell, she kicked his left foot, broke his grip, and tried to stumble away. Jean retained enough of a hold on her tunic to tear off her left sleeve all the way to the shoulder; thrown off balance as it gave way, he fell to the ground.