“You risked our lives,” Amara said. “Wounded some of your own bodyguards. And you didn’t even know that she would show herself.”
“Incorrect,” he replied. He knelt to begin picking up the unconscious Bernard. “Invidia has an acute talent for sensing weakness and exploiting it.”
There was a hissing sound, and a slender sword, its blade a shaft of vord green fire, abruptly emerged from the stone beneath Attis’s feet and thrust up into his groin. Attis screamed and flung himself away from the blade, which cut its way free of his body with a sizzling, hissing wail. He only barely managed to stumble aside as a three-foot circle of stone roof exploded upward and outward.
A figure emerged from below, all black chitin and scorched flesh, holding the blazing green blade in its hand. It was bald, its scalp burned black. Amara could scarcely have recognized Invidia if not for the quivering, pulsing, agonized movements of the badly scorched creature that clung to her over her heart. “I do know how to exploit weakness,” she hissed, her voice a rasping croak, “such as your insufferable tendency to gloat after a victory, Attis.”
Attis lay on the rooftop, white as a sheet. His right hand twitched in what seemed a complete lack of controlled movement. Both legs were limp. He wasn’t bleeding, but the white-hot blades the high Citizenry employed almost always cauterized wounds. Only the fact that he was propped up against the roof ’s stone rim prevented him from simply lying supine.
His left hand moved jerkily to his jacket, then emerged with a paper envelope. He flicked it weakly across the distance to Invidia, and it landed touching her feet. “For you. Love what you’ve done with your hair.”
Invidia bared her teeth in a smile. Blood ran from her burned lips. Her teeth and the whites of her eyes were eerie against the unbroken black scorching of her face. “And what is this?”
“Your copy of the divorce papers.”
“How thoughtful.”
“Necessary. I couldn’t legally be rid of you until I had served them.”
Invidia’s smile didn’t waver as she walked forward, sword hissing as its flames caressed the cool air. “You’re rid of me now.”
He inclined his head in a mocking bow, his face a mask of calm disdain. “And that not soon enough.”
“For either of us,” she purred.
There was a raptor’s cry and a small falcon of white-hot fire hammered into the rooftop at Invidia’s feet, spreading in an instant into a blazing wall between her and Attis.
Amara’s exhausted gaze rose to the skies, where half a dozen fliers, the weapons of each and every one of them ablaze with fire, were already stooping into a dive that would carry them down to the embattled rooftop. They dived in an irregular wedge, and Placidus Aria led the way, burning sword in hand, the hems of her skirts snapping and tearing in the speed of her flight.
Attis began to let out weak, choking, scornful laughter.
“Bloody crows,”
Invidia snarled. She spun and flung herself off the back side of the building, vanishing from sight even as wind began to howl, carrying her into a heavy smoke cloud.
Amara clung to Bernard as three of the new arrivals settled on the roof while the other three stayed aloft. Old High Lord Cereus, his white hair orange in the firelight, came down beside the Lord and Lady of Placida, while Phrygius, his son, and High Lord Riva stood guard in the air.
“Aria,” Amara called. “The Princeps needs a healing tub, immediately.”
“Hardly,” Attis said, his tone calm. “That’s rather the point of firecrafting the sword’s blade, after all. It’s all but impossible to heal a cauterized wound.”
“Oh, be
quiet
,” Amara snapped. After clenching her jaws for a moment, she added, “Your Highness.”
Aria went to Gaius Attis, took a brief look at his injuries, and shook her head. “The city is lost. We’re rendezvousing with the Legions’ rear guard now. We’ve got to move.”
“As you wish,” Attis said. “Thank you, by the way, for intervening. I’d hate to give her the satisfaction.”
“Don’t thank me,” Aria replied tartly. “Thank Amara. Without her warning, I might not be alive at all.” She bent over, grunted, and hauled the wounded man up and over one armored shoulder.
“Hurry!” called one of the men above them. “The vord have breached the wall!”
Without a word, High Lord Placida picked up Bernard. Cereus slipped one of Amara’s arms over his shoulders and lifted her to stand beside him, favoring her with a kindly smile. “I hope you don’t mind letting me do the honors, Countess.”
“Please,” Amara said. She felt quite dizzy. “Feel free.”
The six of them lifted off the roof in a roar of wind, and Amara saw little point in staying awake for what followed.
CHAPTER 22
The ice ships flew over the bitterly cold miles at a speed that, at times, beggared the wind that drove them. Marcus felt fairly sure that such a feat was mathematically impossible by any reasonable standard. The captain of the ship he rode upon had been to the Academy, or so he claimed. He said something about the momentum upon the slight downhill slopes gradually adding up, and that the pressure on the ships’ steel runners actually turned the ice immediately beneath them into a thin layer of water.
Marcus didn’t care about explanations. It all seemed awfully shady to him.
The fleet stopped every six hours, to make repairs that were inevitably made necessary by the battering the wooden hulls endured and to give ships that had been forced to stop for repairs a chance to catch up with the rest of them. Marcus savored the rests. The entire fleet had seen the wreckage of the ships that had overbalanced and failed, and there wasn’t a thinking being among them who hadn’t realized exactly what condition his corpse would be in should his own ship run afoul of bad fortune.
But the most recent rest period had been a mere hour ago. The next would not come until after dawn.
Marcus stood in the prow of the ship as it followed its companions east. The night sky had not yet begun to brighten with the approach of dawn, but it couldn’t be far away. He watched the fleet soar over the endless ice road before them for a time, his thoughts turning in circles that slowly grew quieter and less important. A little while later, when the first blue light had begun to form in the east, Marcus yawned and turned to pace back down the deck toward the closet-sized room that was his cabin for some sleep. He didn’t know if the jolting ship would allow him any rest, but at least, for a change, his own thoughts wouldn’t be keeping him from his sleep.
He opened the door to his cabin, paused at a sudden scent, then scowled and stepped into the unlit room, shutting the door behind him. “Bloody crows. When did you get on the ship?”
“At the last stop,” Sha rumbled in the quietest voice he could manage.
Marcus leaned his shoulders back against the door and folded his arms over his chest. In the cramped confines of the cabin, he was all but touching the lean Cane, and he had no intention of triggering a potentially violent response by making physical contact with the Hunter. “What word do you bring?”
“None,” Sha said. “For there is none to bring. Our problem remains unchanged.”
Marcus grunted. “Meaning that your leader and mine will be forced to duel.”
“So it would seem,” Sha said philosophically. “Though they have both faced such things before and survived them. The stronger will prove it upon the other.”
Marcus grimaced. “That’s a loss to both of our peoples, no matter who wins.”
“Has a solution occurred to you?”
“Not yet,” Marcus said. “But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t there.”
Sha let out a thoughtful growl. “It may yet be possible to strike down my lord’s enemy, Khral.”
“I thought his proper title was Master Khral of the Bloodspeakers.”
“Khral,” Sha repeated.
Marcus felt himself smile in the darkness. “Gaining what, by removing him?”
“Time. There will be a delay while a new leadership is established among the bloodspeakers.”
“Which could create additional problems of its own.”
“Yes.”
“What would be the cost of buying such time?”
“My life,” Sha said simply, “offered in apology to my lord after the deed was done.”
Marcus frowned in the darkness. He was about to ask if the Cane was willing to make such a sacrifice, but the question was a foolish one. If Sha said that he would go through with such a thing, he most certainly would. “Is your life yours to end?”
“If, in my best judgment, it is in the service of my lord’s honor? Yes.”
“Would not the loss of your service greatly hamper your lord in the long term?”
There was a brief, intense silence. “It might,” Sha said, a growling undertone of frustration in his voice. “In which case, I would be neglecting my duty to him by following this path. It is hard to know the honorable course of action.”
“And yet you do not serve his interests by continuing to allow Khral to hold power.” Marcus narrowed his eyes in thought. “What you need to do . . .”
Sha waited in patient silence.
“You can’t assassinate this Cane for fear of making him a martyr among your people. Correct?”
“Even so.”
Marcus scratched at his chin. “An accident, perhaps? These ships are dangerous, after all.”
“My lord would never condone the collateral loss of life that would require. Or forgive himself for it. No.”
Marcus nodded. “Difficult to push him under the runners of his ship without being seen.”
“Impossible,” Sha said. “I spent the last two days looking for the opportunity. He hides in his cabin, surrounded by sycophants. Cowardly.” He paused a beat, and allowed, “If practical.”
Marcus drummed his fingertips on the cool steel of his armor. “What happens if he isn’t assassinated? What if he just . . . disappears. No blood. No evidence of a struggle. No one ever sees him again.”
Sha let out another rumbling growl, one that raised the hairs on the back of Marcus’s neck despite the fact that he was beginning to understand it as a sound accompanying pensive moments for the Cane. “Disappear. It is not . . . common to our service.”
“No?”
“Never. We serve our lords, but in the end we are his weapons, his tools. He abides by our work as if he had done it with his own hands. If my lord could best solve his problem by killing another Cane, he would do so with his own blade. When he cannot do so, for reasons of tradition or because of the code, and his Hunters are sent, it is understood that they are yet his weapons.”
“And that protects him from the consequences of his actions?”
“Provided his Hunters are not caught,” Sha said. “It is the proper way for a great lord to defend his honor when a foe hides behind the law. Khral speaks lies to our folk, tells them that my lord intends to destroy the bloodspeakers. Warns him that they will know he has begun when he is murdered.”
“Which gives him the status of a martyr without paying the price,” Marcus mused, “as well as making it impossible for Varg to act without harming himself.”
“Yes. And Khral’s lackeys lead many bloodspeakers, and have said that they will withdraw their support should such a thing happen. Losing their strength now would be inconvenient and embarrassing.”
From what Marcus had seen of the ritualists’ power in battle, their sudden absence could prove downright fatal. “You haven’t answered my question,” he said. “What if Khral simply vanished?”
There was a rasping sound, the Cane’s stiff-furred tail lashing against the walls of the tiny cabin. “It is not our way. My lord would not be held responsible. But Khral’s followers would cry that the demons had done it—and there are demons on every ship in the fleet, using their powers to hold them together.”
“So it must happen where none of the woodcrafters could possibly do it,” Marcus said. “And then?”
A rumbling chuckle came from Sha’s chest. “It is a long-standing tradition, among the bloodspeakers, to set out upon meditative pilgrimages, alone and unannounced, to establish one’s piety and devotion to the Canim people and seek the enlightenment of one’s mind.”
“It could work,” Marcus said.
“If it was possible,” Sha said. “Is it?”
Marcus smiled.
The most difficult part of the plan was getting to Khral’s ship without being observed: The various vessels of the fleet had been exposed to a tremendous variation of strains. Some had encountered losses of their sails or yardarms, slowing their progress. Others had suffered fractures in their keels or rudders, requiring a lengthy halt for repairs. The original formation the fleet had assumed had been completely upset by the unpredictable nature of the voyage, and now Aleran and Canish ships alike were thoroughly intermixed.
Each ship had acquired a similar routine in two days of swift travel. At the rest stops, virtually everyone aboard, crews and passengers alike, would pile off onto solid ground. Even the saltiest hands aboard the ice ships had begun to turn a bit green around the gills (or wherever it was the Canim turned green, Marcus supposed), and they were glad of the chance to stand in place without being jolted from their feet or flung into a companion.
The Aleran woodcrafters who fought to hold the ships together were no exception. Marcus watched as the four men aboard Khral’s ship staggered drunkenly down the ladders to the ground. Then they shambled away to sit on a fallen tree trunk nearby and pass among themselves a bottle of some vile concoction the amateur distillers in the Legions had created. Dazed
legionares
and limp-eared Canim warriors alike took the opportunity to stretch their legs, united by a torturous common foe—or at least by a common torture.
Khral’s caution remained vigilantly in place. His ship had been brought to a halt better than eighty yards from any of the others, and sentries had been posted fore and aft, port and starboard. Against the backdrop of rippling white ice, anyone who approached would be spotted immediately.