Darkening Skies (The Hadrumal Crisis) (61 page)

Though his stomach was growling with hunger made ten times worse by the enticing smell of that stewing meat, that was a trade he would gladly make. And he was unutterably relieved that the rooms Grewa and Molcho had been given were right on the far side of the pavilion beyond the central garden. Far too far away for any unwelcome noises to stir his unruly imagination.

Hosh walked to the edge of the terrace, to sit with his feet dangling over the edge. He gazed aimlessly out over the anchorage. The galleys and triremes floated placidly at anchor. Though it was a cloudless night, both moons were only at their quarters; Greater waning and Lesser waxing. Calm water reflecting the starlight lay like a slick of pewter between the velvet darkness of the headlands. That vision shouldn’t distract Grewa from his pleasures.

‘Do not look down.’

Hosh managed to avoid a startled glance into the shadows beneath the terrace.

‘Have you learned what they want?’ Anskal demanded.

‘Not yet.’ Hosh kept his eyes fixed on the closest trireme.

‘Have the women said anything to hint that they have some scheme of their own?’ the Mandarkin persisted.

‘No,’ Hosh said slowly.

Though he would wager that they had, when this particular rune bone rolled to reveal the truth. He didn’t see these women whoring themselves in hopes that Grewa and Molcho could protect them from Anskal, any more than he believed they were spreading their legs in hope of learning secrets to offer up to the Mandarkin. Whatever these women sought, it would serve their own interests. They were mageborn, after all, even if they had only so recently learned it.

The grass beneath the terrace rustled irritably. ‘Come to see me at dawn, before Grewa wakes.’

‘I will,’ Hosh said meekly.

Anskal climbed the steps, apparently paying no heed to Hosh at all. He went into the pavilion and closed the door behind him.

Some while later, the door opened again. One of the Aldabreshi raider-mages came to shove Hosh’s shoulder.

‘You’re standing sentry?’

‘If you like.’ Hosh shrugged.

The man grunted but didn’t say anything, going back inside and shutting the door.

No one else came out. Hosh guessed that the Archipelagan had told the Ensaimin mariners and the Lescari that there was no need for them to lose a night’s rest.

The few night birds that had returned to the island of late began to call tentatively to each other. Faint noises from inside the pavilion gradually stilled and the lamps and cook fires of the encampment along the shoreline were doused one by one. The aroma of that succulent stew faded in the cool night air. Only the shuttered lanterns on the prows and sterns of the anchored ships glowed faintly in the subdued moonlight.

Hosh wondered what he was supposed to tell Anskal when he went to his room at dawn. Or was the Mandarkin going to tell him something he didn’t want Grewa to suspect?

Hosh guessed that the wizard understood all the intricacies of this cursed amulet; in particular knowing that Hosh’s eyes opening to a new day of misery and fear wouldn’t wake Grewa too. If it did, even if the magic carried no words, only visions, surely Grewa would know for certain that Hosh was telling tales to his true master.

But the old corsair already expected that. He’d made that plain in the hollow clearing, when he’d been declaring the heavenly compass’s omens to the rest. He’d be a fool not to know that Hosh was Anskal’s spy. Whatever else Grewa and Molcho might be—murderers, thieves, despoilers of women, and that was only the start of it—neither of them was stupid.

Hosh heaved a sigh. Why try to puzzle it out? What did any of this matter? One way or another, he would surely soon be dead. Maybe Saedrin would offer some answers, before he ushered him through the door to blissfully ignorant rebirth in the Otherworld. If he didn’t, that was no great concern since Hosh wouldn’t remember any of this torment.

He blinked. He frowned and looked more closely. Was that a pale ripple of foam on the star-burnished water? Because that galley was certainly moving. Hosh could see the outline creeping along against the unchanging silhouette of the headland behind it, though the lanterns that might have betrayed it had been inexplicably doused.

But the vessel was moving so slowly. Far too slowly to ruffle the placid waters. So what was that pale smudge? And there was another. And now that trireme was moving too, where it had been formerly settled at anchor.

Anchors. That was what those pale smudges on the water were; the stone slabs that the Aldabreshi used.

With metal so scarce in these islands, stone slabs were pierced to bristle with sharpened wooden stakes to catch on the reefs and the seabed like a real anchor’s flukes. The stone was more than heavy enough to curb any tendency of the wood to float. Except those stones were now bobbing on the water’s surface like some bladder full of air.

How could that happen? Magic. It had to be.

Hosh’s breath caught in his throat. In the next instant, he looked up at the uncaring stars, drawing in a great gasp. His heart was hammering in his chest.

He so desperately wanted to look round. Were lamps being kindled behind the pavilion’s shutters as someone inside had seen what he had seen? Anskal would be swift to draw the same conclusions. Hosh had no doubt of that.

Unless this was the Mandarkin’s magic? But why would Anskal be sending those ships edging toward the shallows? Why would any of the other mageborn do such a thing, even assuming they had the skills? Even assuming they dared take such independent action.

With agonising slowness, Hosh looked casually across the anchorage to the encampment along the shore. There was no sign of a light anywhere, not a candle nor a lamp and assuredly no tell-tale glow of magelight. Nothing to offer him any answers or to raise Grewa’s suspicions, supposing the old lecher was awake.

A soft bird call drifted through the trees. A brindle owl. Hosh stiffened and peered blindly into the darkness where the ironwood trees met the burning ground.

There were no brindle owls in the Archipelago. They hunted through Caladhria’s thickets and woodlands far inland from the sea. No Aldabreshin, even one who had regularly prowled the coastal saltings would ever have heard one.

How could there possibly be Caladhrians here? Hosh’s gut twisted between disbelief and frantic hope. Corrain had been here once before. Hosh knew that much. The Mandarkin had said so. The captain had brought Anskal to destroy the corsairs.

Not that the plan had worked out as Corrain had intended. Hosh knew that would infuriate the captain. Would he ever have let that go? No, Corrain would not rest until the Mandarkin had paid for his treachery. Hosh was ready to wager every last gold coin and jewel that Anskal had stolen on that.

No. Hosh was ready to bet still more on the roll of this rune. He was ready to risk his life. What was living worth to him anyway? To eke out his days as the blind corsair’s eyes, to give Anskal the satisfaction of denying Molcho the murder which the black-bearded raider so plainly lusted for?

Hosh got slowly to his feet, careful not to glance towards the water. Feeling along the terrace’s stone with his bare feet as much as seeing his way in the darkness, he made his way to the pavilion’s wall and followed it to the pottery trough full of dead, dry herbs. His groping fingers found the scabbard of the sword which he had hidden there more in desperate defiance than in any real hope of ever using it.

So no one had discovered it. He could take that for a portent if he liked. Slowly, carefully, he edged the weapon out of the gap.

But he mustn’t be too slow. He must act and quickly if that owl’s cry had truly been a signal of some approaching Caladhrian attack. If he hadn’t been mistaken, half drowsing and longing for home.

Hosh found he didn’t care if he had been dreaming. He took the sword by its hilt and kept the weapon pressed to his thigh, the blade running down his leg to make certain that no jutting outline could possibly betray him.

He eased the pavilion’s main door open, his body shielding the blade. His leathery soles scuffed on the tiles. As dim as the starlight was outside, the darkness within the building was absolute. He strained his ears for any hint of movement at either end of the hallway, where doors opened onto corridors linking the four sides of this hollow building.

He crossed to the inner door and went through the chamber to open the windowed doors overlooking the garden. Hosh had made up his mind. He would see this through to the end. Whatever that end might be.

He walked carefully through the garden, as silently as he could along the paths of crushed seashells. Reaching the far side, he could hear snoring. Hosh took a moment to remind himself where the raiders were sleeping. Grewa had taken the room in the off-hand corner for his own. Molcho had claimed the chamber beside it. The women had taken the central suite and Anskal slept at the other end.

Hosh didn’t know what had governed their choices. He didn’t care. But he had to get into Molcho’s room without making any noise to raise an alarm. Gripping the sword, he stooped low and felt ahead with his off-hand. His questing fingers found the edge of the window.

On the other side of these perilous scales, he had to move fast enough to strike before the Caladhrians attacked. With their leaders to rally them, those galley and trireme crews would put up a ferocious defence. Hosh had no doubt of that after these past few days sitting in that audience chamber listening to the newly-returned corsairs discuss the Archipelagan assault with the mageborn raiders.

Without their leaders the returned corsairs would be thrown into disarray. Beyond that Hosh could only hope that the Caladhrians were backed by some wizardry fit to frustrate Anskal and his prentice mages.

His fingertips traced the join of the window’s louvered shutters. One side jutted slightly proud of the other. The shutters weren’t latched from the inside. Hosh dug his chipped fingernails into the oiled wood. He managed to ease the shutter open a hand’s width.

The hinges squeaked, no louder than the most timid mouse. Hosh froze all the same before rebuking himself. What would serve him best now; stealth or boldness?

He hauled open the shutter and sprang over the low sill. With a little light now filtering through the room, he saw two figures sprawled satiated amid rumpled quilts. Three quick steps took him to the bedside. One figure stirred.

Hosh ripped the blade free from its scabbard. He drew the sword back as far as he could before slashing it down across Molcho’s throat. He felt the blade bite deep into flesh and bone. No enchantments protected the black-haired raider now that Anskal had stripped those chains from his beard.

Warmth sprayed across Hosh’s arm. The metallic scent of blood overrode the rankness of sex in the room’s fetid air. As he tore the sword free, drawing it back for a second strike, he heard a moist gurgle and the dark shape on the bed lurched upwards.

Hosh staggered backwards, dazzled. The woman sat up, a mage flame dancing on her outstretched palm. Her naked skin glistened with sweat and blood as she took in the charnel scene.

Molcho was pressing one hand to the gaping wound in his throat, gasping in mute astonishment. His other hand grabbed for Hosh.

He smacked the empty scabbard down as hard as he could on Molcho’s wrist. Something cracked; bone or the leather-bound wood.

The magewoman looked up at Hosh. He must decide whether or not he was going to kill her. Before he could, she vanished, leaving only the pale outline of her sleeping form amid the gore staining the mattress. Though for some reason, she had left him the mage flame hovering in the air.

Fresh blood splashed across the white cotton where she had lain. Molcho collapsed backwards onto the pillows, his hand falling away from his throat. The last spark of life in his dark eyes dulled, a final mist of blood spitting from his slack mouth.

Hosh stood there, trembling. He had really done it. If the Caladhrians were truly attacking, then he had deprived their enemy of their doughtiest captain.

If they weren’t, he had finally avenged Lord Halferan. That would be enough for him to lay before Saedrin, to win him passage to the Otherworld without delay.

Then he heard a shout of alarm from the room next door. Grewa was awake. Hosh kicked open through the inner door and strode down the corridor.

The mage flame followed him. Hosh didn’t care. If the blind corsair saw his own death approaching, it was no more than he deserved.

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