Liar's Island: A Novel (19 page)

The bolts of ice that Hrym shot forth made the wall first crack and then shatter, and Rodrick stepped through the ragged hole, kicking bits of stone turned to icy shards out of his way.

He paused a moment to get his bearings. They were in a narrow street, palace wall on one side, a wooded hill on the other, part of the forested land that lay outside the city. Turning back to the hole in the wall, he saw figures moving in the garden, including one towering creature of flame, and he had Hrym seal up the hole they'd made with a patch of ice like they'd used on the ship, but thicker.

Rodrick ran for the hill. The slope was gentle at first, but soon became steeper, and he sheathed Hrym so he could grab onto saplings and bushes to haul himself up. At one point he fell and rolled halfway back down the hill, the ordinary longsword's hilt snagging on a bush and getting torn from the jeweled scabbard in the process. Rodrick paused to look for the sword, then decided it wasn't worth the effort—he couldn't sell it for much anyway, and it was extra weight he didn't need to carry. The most important thing now was to get
away
.

Disappearing into the forest was likely his only option, and he was glad when they reached a thickly wooded ridge. “We've got to get to the docks,” he muttered. “Which bloody way is it?”

The sounds of pursuit followed them up the hill. Rodrick groaned and rushed in the opposite direction. Getting away from an angry mob was more important than making his rendezvous with the smuggler, who wouldn't be in position for hours yet anyway. Rodrick ran through the dark forest, tripping on every third root, being smacked in the face by branches, and doubtless leaving a path even a blind man could follow. At least his enemies would suffer from the darkness, too, and the trees all around might keep him from being spotted by any djinn soaring overhead. Off to his left, he saw two horned giants seemingly made of fire, and angled away from them. At least he could see the efreet coming.

When the trees began to thin and the ground beneath him became more stony, he came to a terrible realization. Efreet could probably become invisible, just like djinn, so
why
had they let themselves be seen?

He cursed. Because he was being herded, obviously. He stopped short at the edge of a stony cliff, looking down fifty feet to dark water below. He'd reached the edge of the island, or else a cliff overlooking the River Sald, he couldn't be sure—his sense of direction was too muddled. Rodrick looked over his shoulder. The efreet, and who knew what else, were coming, trees going up like torches around them, and he was out of room to run. He put his hand on Hrym's hilt.

“Rodrick,” Hrym said from the scabbard, “I have no interest in a heroic last stand. Would you put on that hideous cloak already?”

“Hrym, you're a genius.”

“I have a memory, anyway.”

Rodrick slid his pack off his shoulder and began scrabbling inside it, drawing out the disgustingly slick length of the cloak of the devilfish. He'd stolen the cloak—or maybe inherited it—from a sorcerer of his acquaintance, but it worked just fine even for those with no particular knowledge of magic. He understood that cloaks of dolphins or manta rays were more common, but that sorcerer had possessed a perverse streak a league wide, and had preferred to shapeshift into something more alarming. Rodrick awkwardly shouldered the pack again, then threw the cloak on over it, fastening it closed at his throat. Just as the first efreeti emerged from the trees, wielding an axe of fire—which seemed like overkill, but perhaps it was just preparing to meet Hrym—Rodrick leapt from the cliff.

The water came at him very quickly. He hoped there weren't jagged rocks hidden just below the surface. Oh well. Better to be dashed to pieces than burned alive. Probably.

Halfway down, he put the cloak over his head, and his vision shimmered. He knew what he looked like, now. He'd seen others make the transformation. The hood closed around his face, the cloak's ragged hem thickening and elongating into seven tentacles, bristling with hooks and suckers. His upper body and head merged into something like an immense egg, with huge white eyes in the center—he was seeing through them, now, and the world was very bright by moonlight, because those eyes were made to suck up every scrap of light in the depths of salty seas. He shouted as he fell, and the voice emerged from the maw at the center of his seven tentacles, a mouth ringed with horrible teeth. Devilfish were at least somewhat intelligent, and could speak, not that he wanted to talk to anyone just now. Hrym and his other possessions were encompassed in the transformation, luckily, though he wished he'd kept Hrym loose, to swing around in a tentacle, maybe.

He hit the water tentacles-first with a terrible impact, stunning him, but devilfish were far hardier than humans, and soon he rolled and slipped beneath the surface. He spun, looking up through the water, and saw flickering flames at the top of the cliff. Would they assume he was dead, and leave him be, or would water elementals be sent down to look for him, and to recover his body?

No, he was being foolish. They probably didn't care about his body, but they
would
care about Hrym. Rodrick might be presumed dead, but a fall into cold water from a height wouldn't harm a magical sword, and Hrym was far too valuable to leave on the bottom of a river.

It
was
the river, he knew—something about the currents and the depth told him it wasn't the sea, speaking to his devilfish senses—and that meant it would lead to the docks if he just followed it down. He twisted his body, flicked his tentacles, and began to speed through the water, moving far more quickly than a human could swim. He was tempted to make for the sea and just try to swim to the far shore—how far was Nex, anyway?—but he didn't have superhuman stamina, or an infallible sense of direction, and the thought of being lost in the lightless depths of the Obari Ocean was horrifying. Besides, there were things in the oceans more dangerous than devilfish, and he didn't relish being some sea monster's prey.

Anyway, he had a ride off the island. All he had to do was reach the docks and hide in the shallows until it was time to the meet the smuggler, and then he could escape Jalmeray and get on with his life. Or try to. The thakur might hold a grudge, but Rodrick would unquestionably be safer with an ocean between them.

Eventually Rodrick noticed ships above, and moved closer to the surface, finally finding the pilings of a pier and nestling there in the water. No reason to become human again until he needed to. He settled down to wait until the appointed hour, absentmindedly snatching up small fish and shoving them into his mouth with his tentacles. Raw fish, eaten fins and eyes and guts and all, were actually quite delicious, at least in this form, and he needed to keep his strength up.

*   *   *

In the dark of the night, Rodrick dragged himself onto the rocks beneath the pier with his tentacles, then transformed back to his human form. He kept the slick cloak on, though, with the hood up, just in case he stumbled upon an agent of the thakur or Nagesh—the former would likely want him captured, but since he'd discovered Nagesh was a rakshasa, the advisor would probably want him killed. The cloak's ragged hem made him look like a beggar. That was fine. He could be a beggar. Beggars wouldn't be attacked on sight. With luck, everyone thought he was dead, and he could meet the smuggler and be away before anyone realized differently.

“Hrym, are you all right?”

“I've been better,” Hrym said. “What
happened
back at the palace? Why did the thakur's djinni attack us?”

Rodrick sighed. He'd kept this secret too long, but things were dire enough now that truth actually seemed like the best option. “Hrym, I didn't mention this before because I didn't want to alarm you, but you've been … unwell. For a while.”

“What are you talking about? I'm a
sword
. I don't get filthy fleshling diseases.”

“I know, but … this is different. All those months you spent next to the demon lord in the Lake of Mists and Veils … it affected you.”

A long silence, and then Hrym said, “Bugger. I soaked up some of his demonic essence, didn't I? Just like I soaked up these ice powers from that white dragon so long ago.”

Rodrick had expected disbelief or rage. This was better than either one, so far. “I think so. At first it was just the occasional flash of red light in your blade. Then you started talking to yourself, sometimes, without seeming to realize it. And giggling. Lately, the flashes and the giggles and the mutters have often preceded … more violent outbursts, and destructive coincidences, like shattered lamps or cracked roof beams. I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier—I didn't want to worry you, and at first I hoped the problem would go away on its own. When I realized it was getting worse, I thought we'd take the money we made from the thakur to hire a priest to try and cleanse you.”

“I see. I'm the one who nearly blew a hole in the hull of that ship, then?” Hrym said.

“Ah. It seems so.”

“Did I … did I ruin the job at the little lord's manor back in Absalom?”

“I'm afraid so. I know, I should have told you—”

“It's true, you should have.” Hrym's voice rumbled with annoyance. “I'm not a child to be protected from the truth—I'm older than
you
, by orders of magnitude. Didn't it ever occur to you that I might have some ideas about how to solve this problem?”

“Do you?”

“No,” Hrym said. “But you should have asked.”

Rodrick sighed. “You had no awareness of it happening, and you couldn't help yourself. I didn't want to make you doubt yourself, or blame yourself, or worry, when the fits couldn't be helped. I was hoping to fix you soon. But I'm beginning to think the taint in you, the demonic chaos, has begun looking for opportunities to cause the most damage. Or else we're just stupendously unlucky.”

“You kept me by your side, though,” Hrym said. “Even after I put your life in danger, and more than once. You never cast me aside, even though I really
am
a cursed blade, now.”

“Of course not. There's a circle drawn around us, remember?”

After a moment, Hrym said, “I forgive you. But don't keep secrets like that from me again. I always tell
you
when you have some horrible affliction, such as your face or your voice or your bearing. Do me the same courtesy.”

“Consider it done. Shall we find our smuggler and say farewell to Jalmeray?”

“Not a moment too soon. The climate doesn't agree with me. Too hot. And we need to find a cleric immediately once we reach kinder shores. I want this taint
out
of me.”

Rodrick clambered from beneath the pier and went up a set of stone steps to the docks. The area wasn't deserted—places like that never were entirely, regardless of the hour—but the activity this late was nothing compared to the thronging bustle he'd seen on his arrival to Niswan. He moved among the laborers and sailors without drawing any undue attention, cloak hiding his face and his jeweled scabbard. Before long, he'd reached the appointed place, a crumbling pier at the far north end of the harbor, suitable only for small craft. The smuggler he'd met in the basement tavern was there, sitting on an upturned barrel, a small boat bobbing beyond her in the water.

“Oh Captain,” Rodrick said. “I've come for our ride.”

She started and stood up, eyes darting left and right nervously, then nodded. “Of course. Please. Come, board the ship, we should hurry.” She moved down the pier toward the craft, but Rodrick didn't follow.

Damn it. The smuggler hadn't asked to be paid before letting him onto the ship. She hadn't been nearly so trusting at the tavern. “The gods are against us, Hrym,” he muttered. “All ten thousand of them.”

“What do you mean?” Hrym said.

Rodrick didn't answer, just turned and walked—he didn't run, not yet—away from the dock. Maybe he was overreacting, and walking away from his one reliable way off this impossibly irritating island, but—

A net landed on his head, sending him stumbling forward and tangling his limbs.

15

Buyer Beware

Cursing, he managed to wrestle Hrym loose and sliced through the ropes holding him, but by the time he was free the smuggler was shouting, “He's here, the assassin is here!” and there were men with torches and swords pouring from the ship to come after him. The man who'd flung the net over him took one look at Hrym and ran away, but the rest kept coming.

The smuggler might have little respect for the thakur's laws when it came to import/export dues, but she was apparently patriotic enough to report an assassin's attempt to escape, or else she'd just been offered a reward. Possibly both. People were complicated, after all.

Without being asked, Hrym produced another cloud of freezing fog, though it seemed less thick than it had been at the palace—was Hrym getting tired, or were there limits to how much he could gush forth in a day? The attackers—whether they were mercenaries, palace guards, or just good citizens, Rodrick didn't know—went slipping and sliding wildly on the rime-slicked ground as the fog froze everything it touched, and he and Hrym fled.

They emerged from the cloud of icy fog, but didn't stop running. Rodrick's cloak flapped around him, and he considered veering off and diving back into the water, but where would he go from there? He could try to steal a ship, but a craft small enough for him to handle himself would hardly be sufficient for crossing the ocean, and there was still the small matter of his total lack of navigation skills. Maybe he could get his hands on a flying carpet, somehow, or make his way to that haunted island off the coast and hope to find a less scrupulous smuggler there, or—

“Bastard!” a woman shouted, and something struck him across the chest so hard his legs flew out from under him and he landed on his back, groaning. A boot hit him in the ribs, and he rolled over to get away, then scrambled to his feet.