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In memory of my father, Victor Howard Jones, who showed me to judge individuals on merit rather than appearance, and talked so knowledgeably and lovingly with me about character concept and story structure.

1

Homecoming
Mirian

Every day, dozens of transport ships plied the waters between Sargava’s southern port and its capital, Eleder. Stacks of square-cut logs, crates of ivory, and packets of dried medicinal plants came north. Baskets of luxury goods and bright bales of Mulaa cloth went south.

These goods were shepherded by folk who sailed the route several times each week, so accustomed to the trip they scarcely came out from under the sun-bleached awnings or looked up from their deck benches. Although the occasional wanderer, pilgrim, or explorer might admire the rocky surf or the lush coastline, it was rare for the regulars to give much heed to either, and unheard of for them to crowd the rails.

But then, it wasn’t every day they saw a pirate ship. When the Red Leopard’s lookout cried warning, the passengers surged for a view of the doom to come.

Mirian Raas pushed her way through the throng. Despite the more pressing concerns, muted cries of outrage followed her wake. A pasty colonial woman openly scowled at her.

Mirian ignored them. She reached the Red Leopard’s starboard rail with the bulk of the mob to her right. She gripped it tight, searching through the tattered mist hung above the uncharacteristically dull waves. The fog had risen on the heels of afternoon rain, graying the turquoise waters and throwing a smoky curtain across the horizon. It lent a more fearsome aspect to the fast-moving raider astern—a two-master flying a snapping black banner with a sword in a skeletal hand.

Mirian scanned the pirate vessel swiftly, only to have her attention stolen by a startlingly familiar little ship beyond it, just visible through the fog.

The pirate ship had swung out from beyond the bluff, emerging only a quarter league aft, and the other passengers hadn’t the wit to see from its trajectory that its target wasn’t the Red Leopard. Mirian glanced back to the quarterdeck and read the same conclusion in the eyes and activities of the crew there. The raider was aimed for the little caravel flying Mirian’s family pennant.

Mirian would have recognized the lines of The Daughter of the Mist anywhere, even if the blue flag with a golden swordfish weren’t waving from its main mast. The ship’s sails were reefed, so Mirian knew the salvagers were below water searching for treasure, her brother Kellic probably leading.

The Daughter was swift and nimble when underway, but her crew was about to be caught flat-footed. They didn’t stand a chance against the surprise attack.

Not unless …

Mirian turned and fought back through the frightened crowd. She’d spent long years inland, but her sea legs were still good, and she had no trouble running the rolling deck once clear. In moments she stood near the wheel and Captain Akimba.

The captain cocked a skeptical eyebrow at her arrival. He was a spare, dark-skinned Ijo man with a blunt nose; he cut a rakish figure with his tricorne hat and well-tended light blue coat. He’d struck Mirian as both perceptive and good-natured as they’d traded pleasantries earlier that day.

She greeted him with a sharp nod. “Captain, we’ve got to help that ship.”

Akimba shook his head. “We can’t, Miss Raas.”

The stubby helmsman beside him goggled at the notion.

She continued her argument. “Between the Leopard and the Daughter, we’ll have enough men to stop her. I’m sure there’s a bounty on that pirate—”

Akimba’s mellow voice held little warmth. “You can’t know how many that pirate’s fielding, or how many are on that caravel.”

“Fine. Just get me close, then.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

They were running out of time. Mirian struggled to keep her impatience checked. “Damn it, Captain, tack a few degrees starboard! You’ll pass close enough for me to swim for it.”

He blinked, dumbfounded, his broad-voweled accent more pronounced. “You want to go over the side? Alone?”

“Aye!” And from the pouch at her side she withdrew a small emerald. She grabbed his right hand and placed the gem in his calloused palm. “For the risk.”

He frowned, clearly weighing her sanity.

“That’s my family’s ship, Captain. My brother’s aboard.” He was probably below, but she was striving to be succinct.

Understanding dawned on Akimba even as his frown lines deepened. “I’m sorry, Miss Raas.” He sounded sincere. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“There’s little risk, and you’re being well compensated.”

Akimba stared at the gem. His voice softened as he met her eyes. “I can’t take this. Not in good conscience. You’d be killed.”

She showed teeth in a mirthless grin. “That’s my look-out, Captain.”

He stared at her only a moment longer before his fingers closed over the emerald. His voice deepened as he roared an order. “Helmsman, tack us four points to starboard!”

Even as the thickset man at the wheel growled acknowledgment, Akimba was shouting orders to the men in the masts. The cluster of passengers shifted along the deck and a handful advanced toward the helm, presumably to protest at a course change that even they could see put them closer to the pirate’s line.

“I’ve got to get my gear,” Mirian said.

“Make it fast,” Akimba growled.

She dashed for the port gangway, threw herself down the ladderlike stairs, and pushed through the tiny door to her cabin. Precious seconds flew as she unlocked and opened the curved lid of her sea chest.

Mirian withdrew the weathered sword belt and the sheathed cutlass that hung from it. After a moment’s hesitation she pulled off her blouse, leaving her torso garbed only in a tight undershirt. She dropped the garment into the chest.

She fumbled off her sandals, then slung her sword belt over one shoulder, put the key to the lock, and bowed her head briefly. Eyes closed, she asked for blessings—from Desna, goddess of luck, and from her ancestors. For the first time, she realized the latter now included her father. “Guide my hand,” she finished.

She dashed barefoot up to the weather deck. Chilton, the handsome first mate, addressed a gaggle of middle-aged colonial merchants and their families. Akimba was at the wheel, the air of immersion in his duties shielding him from the protestations below. A steady wind belled the sails and tore holes in the mist. The pirate was slowing as she neared the Daughter. For a moment the view was clear enough that she saw marauders readying swords along the pirate’s taffrail. The numbers indeed looked daunting.

Akimba glanced at her. “Closer than I dare, Miss Raas.” He looked almost apologetic. “You know my first duty is to the people and property entrusted to the Leopard.” He continued before she could thank him. “I’m sure you have some special salvaging gear, but think: what can one person do here?”

“Never underestimate the element of surprise, Captain. You’ll ship my dunnage to my mother at the Raas estate?”

“Aye, woman. You’ve paid me for both shipping and your suicide. May Gozreh bless you. Go!” He sounded angry, but she touched his shoulder in gratitude, for he’d brought his ship to within four cable lengths. She held off promising him a drink when next she saw him. Like most Ijo, Akimba probably had a healthy belief in sea ghosts. She didn’t want to sound like she planned to haunt him.

Mirian felt the eyes of the ship’s crew and passengers as she ran for the rail, and heard them speculating about the mad native woman.

She’d show them mad.

Mirian dove neatly over the side and passed seamlessly into a white-capped wave with the tiniest of splashes.

The water of Desperation Bay in the spring was only a little cool. The salt in her eyes was the worst transition, though one she’d expected. She kicked on, swimming steadily as her eyes adjusted.

Already the twin rings she wore had powered into effect. In appearance, they were virtually identical—plain black bands etched with sharp-tipped waves. Above water they seemed unremarkable. Below, they were something else entirely.

The ring on her right hand granted her the ability to move through water with the same ease she moved through air. Though she could still push against the water to swim, there was somehow no drag or delay in her actions.

More obvious were the magics activated by the ring on her left hand. The moment she’d struck the water, yellow translucent gills had blossomed along her neck. Matching flippers encased her naked calves, and glowing fins extended from her elbow to her wrist, tapering as they went.

These rare items were her heritage, one of two matched sets of arcane tools handed down from her eccentric great-grandmother. When she’d last seen the other pair, they’d been in her father’s possession. She assumed they were now worn by her brother, likely somewhere underwater nearby.

Mirian surfaced to get her bearings, rising only far enough to see the Daughter’s hull, dead ahead.

She kicked onward, felt her curly hair streaming out to brush her shoulders. A school of silver minnows darted past, pursued by a trio of hand-sized yellow arrow fish. Far below, a sea turtle browsed in a patch of sea grass waving on the edge of the drop-off to deeper waters

She spotted the pirate’s hull as it swept up beside the Daughter, a dark shape that blotted light. Grimly, she kicked with her full strength, willing herself to swim with all her might. Every moment she delayed might cost a life.

Agonizing minutes later she reached the pirate ship’s side. There were no sharks, the gods be praised. Maybe these pirates weren’t the sort who threw bloodied victims overboard.

Or maybe they just hadn’t gotten started yet.

Mirian focused on the pirate’s hull, looking for weakness as she kicked along. It probably lost a knot or two whenever it moved, owing to the barnacles encrusted everywhere. Yards of seaweed dangled from the keel like weird undersea banners.

Mirian opened the stiff pouch that dangled from the left side of her belt and grasped the haft of the third tool that was her family legacy. Here in the shadows, the wand was only a slim dark stick the length of her forearm. In direct sunlight it was a dull ivory banded in green. According to family record, her great-grandmother Mellient had waded into battle with a sword in one hand and her wand in the other. But Mirian Raas had little to no magical aptitude. Sometimes the wand refused to work for her, even when she gave it her full concentration. It was the most challenging of all her magical tools—and the most deadly. It was also the only one that required maintenance. After that Bandu assault outside Kalabuto, she had only seven charges remaining in the weapon. She’d have to make every one count.

She leveled the wand and concentrated. A stream of bubbles left her mouth as she said, “Sterak.”

A line of green energy streamed from the wand’s tip, striking the tarred planks with an audible hiss, burning a head-sized hole through the port hull halfway between keel and waterline. The rupture sent more bubbles streaming toward the surface. The expanding edges glowed green as the acidic energy ate into the wood.

She swam on. Three more times she struck. By the last she thought the ship might truly be listing: an undeniable distraction.

Mirian swam straight on to the smaller hull of the ship she knew so well. The Daughter showed little sea growth, but then her father and Rendak always meticulously saw to her care. Mirian had so often navigated to the starboard ladder that she could practically reach it with her eyes closed. She hung suspended beneath it for an agonizing minute to undo the jute knot securing her hilt, hoping her delay didn’t mean people were dying above. But there was no going forward until she had her sword free.

As the twine drifted, she saw a flash of movement from below the pirate ship. A distant creature swam toward her with a glowing yellow eye.

She readied the wand.

Only when she saw a second light behind the man carrying the first did she understand. She was looking at salvagers returning from the deeper water, each carrying a glowing, fist-sized stone. The man in front was a shirtless, paunchy colonial with a black fringe beard and receding hair: Rendak, the Daughter’s first mate and a seasoned salvager. His mouth enclosed one end of a tube that stretched over one shoulder. Mirian knew it was attached to one of the enchanted air bottles her grandfather had purchased when the salvaging team grew larger.

Rendak halted a few yards from her, his expression torn between pleasure and concern. He’d obviously noted the strange ship, as well as Mirian. Perhaps he thought she’d arrived on it. The second figure swam up beside him, his lips likewise about a tube that led to a shoulder pack—Gombe, the broad-shouldered Mulaa salvager who’d joined the team a year before Mirian left. Where was Kellic?

Explanations and a reunion would have to wait.

She pointed to the hull and gave the salvagers a hand sign that signified pirates. Rendak’s eyes widened. He was a little heavier, a little grayer than she remembered, but he still looked more than capable. Bald Gombe was trim and fit.

She then pointed to the lights and brought her hands together. Rendak nodded and dimmed the glowing stone. That was new equipment. Gombe hesitated before doing the same.

Three against forty or so was better than one against forty or so … Mirian pushed the odds from her mind and focused her attention on the ship. She thought she heard shouts above. Hopefully that was the pirates expressing outrage at the calamity overtaking their foundering vessel.

She indicated herself and the ladder, then pointed the salvagers toward the ship’s prow. Rendak gave a thumbs-up.

Mirian waited just below the surface, watching as the two men swam for the Daughter’s prow. Despite the irk of additional delay, she judged it best to time their attack to occur at the same moment as her own.

She breathed out while still underwater, then took a slow breath after breaching the surface. It was a hard fight not to cough. Magical assistance or no, her lungs had to acclimatize once more to air. She steadied herself with the ladder.

From the deck came the sounds of men shouting for others to stand still, the clomp of boots.

There was no telling how many pirates were really up there, or whether they’d actually been inconvenienced by her attack on their ship’s hull. She might have overestimated the damage, or it might not yet have been noticed.

She supposed she’d find out. She started stealthily up the ladder, through the mist.

2

Treasures in the Deep
Ivrian

You ask how I first met Mirian Raas? She came to me through a miasma of fog and blood, like some avenging angel dealing death with both hands.

—From The Daughter of the Mist

At nineteen, Ivrian knew one of his mother’s sales pitches when he heard one—but then, he also detected the sound of opportunity. With surety, Alderra Galanor meant to take him on a salvaging expedition in hopes he’d be lured by the lucrative opportunities that allegedly turned up when you worked for the Sargavan government.

Nevertheless, what better chance to stock up on ideas for plays and stories than to talk to people who’d actually had adventures? He could hear wild tales from sailors in every dockside tavern, but not firsthand accounts from actual salvagers—and the famed Raas family salvagers at that.

And so he left the second act he’d been drafting in his desk drawer and borrowed money from his mother for a sealskin pouch to protect his papers from ocean spray. Under a pseudonym, he’d already written a line of moderate sellers about pirate depredations. But a serial character—a heroic salvager, say—might bring in some real money, and then he wouldn’t be beholden to Mother any longer.

The problem was that the Daughter of the Mist didn’t seem to have any heroic salvagers. Leovan Raas was dead, and his son sent word at the last minute he would not be accompanying them. That left a fairly typical ship’s crew, only two of whom were veteran salvagers, and neither of them was the sort who’d appeal to pamphlet readers.

Captain Rendak was a short, broad commoner, though the sun had burned him nearly as brown as a native. He was well muscled, but going to fat around his belly, and his hairline was receding. He’d be winning no beauty contests, nor would his first mate, a native named Gombe with ears too large for his shaved head. Worse, no one was ready or willing to chat; they were too busy with ship’s duties. All Ivrian learned in four hours sailing southwest was that the crew was searching for the wreck of the Amber Queen, sunk a hundred and fifty years previous with a hull of gold looted from a Kalabuto ruin.

They dropped anchor a few leagues beyond Eleder Point. Alderra Galanor watched solemnly as Rendak and Gombe pulled on eelskin shoulder satchels, took up short spears, and slipped over the side.

From morning to afternoon to evening, Ivrian watched them rise near the ship’s ladder, report in, and descend again. It was only when he finally got Tokello, the thickset native healer woman, talking about the Raas family and old Leovan’s dives that things got interesting enough to break open his pouch and take notes.

That elder could certainly spin a tale. Take, for example, the time Leovan had discovered a ruined city ten leagues west of the Bay of Senghor, complete with chests brimming with gold, a beautiful mermaid, and a tribe of savage fish people who chased him through an underwater maze. Or the time Leovan had gambled his life for the lives of his crew against a hideous storm witch who was furious he’d drawn water from the springs on her tiny island. Even if it wasn’t true, Leovan Raas was clearly the sort of man Ivrian could base stories around, a landholder who’d spurned the privilege that was his birthright for the love of adventure, surrounded by faithful friends and aided by ancient artifacts.

“How did he die?” Ivrian asked.

Tokello’s smile faded. “You’ll have to ask his son.”

And just like that, the stories dried up. The big healer went aft to her tiny cabin, allegedly to pray.

Rendak and Gombe resurfaced a little later and climbed aboard, ordered the ship in motion, then dropped anchor a half hour west for a final dive. They’d only been down for a few minutes when the mist started to roll in. Fog was apparently an occasional navigational hazard in these waters, and the crew seemed untroubled by it.

Tokello emerged from her cabin to pace the deck, peering into the gloom, but avoided Ivrian’s hopeful glances. The little boat didn’t have a mast heavy enough to support a crow’s nest, so sailors were posted both forward and aft as lookouts.

Ivrian returned to find his mother standing near the ladder, looking over the side. Though ever proper, Alderra Galanor was hardly dressed like the typical Sargavan noblewoman. Instead of a fine dress, her thin frame was clad only in loose breeches and a tailored short-sleeved shirt, only barely rendered fashionable by the blue cravat that matched her eyes. Her light Chelish skin was browned from a sun her peers strove studiously to avoid with parasols and wide-brimmed hats.

As she turned her head to acknowledge Ivrian, he wondered again whether the theatrical touches of black among her silver locks were entirely natural. He hoped they were. She was a handsome woman still; he’d been told he resembled her, and hoped that he would age as well.

“So,” he whispered. “Why are we here, really?”

His mother’s eyes flashed. “For two weeks, Kellic Raas has had this ship searching for his pet wreck, and they’ve turned up nothing. I thought it high time to look in on my investment.”

“And they’re coming up empty.”

“Yes.”

“The baron’s hoping to salvage some money out of a wreck to pay our yearly tithe to the pirates, is that it?”

“I’ve been authorized,” his mother said quietly, “to venture some funds to seek additional, greater revenue sources.”

“So money’s tight, then?”

“Yes. Money is ‘tight.’” Alderra’s clipped words betrayed her irritation. Ivrian knew the tone well and steeled himself for another lecture about the way the world “really” worked. “You do realize what happens if money remains tight, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“I don’t think you do. The only thing standing between Sargava and the retribution of our former masters in Cheliax is the Free Captains of the Shackles. And their fee to protect our waters gets a little steeper every year.” She sighed and, fortunately, turned back to nearer matters rather than gathering steam to attack “impractical notions” about frivolous creative pursuits when real money and power was at stake. “Leo thought that the Queen was farther out, and spent several years searching for her.” His mother glanced back at him. “Leovan Raas.”

“I know.”

“Kellic thinks she might have sunk a little farther in. And I think it’s becoming clear that he’s dead wrong.”

“I’m beginning to guess why the salvagers themselves looked so unenthusiastic,” Ivrian said.

“They were Leo’s crew. Now that he’s dead, Kellic’s giving the orders, but I don’t think he’s got the talent.” She sighed. “A pity his sister didn’t stay on.”

“His sister?”

“His full sister, Mirian, not the half-sister that married Lord Goleman. Mirian seems the only one of the bunch that inherited any of Leo’s talent. But she wandered off years ago.”

“Mirian,” Ivrian repeated. Why was that name familiar? “Why’d she go?”

His mother eyed him sharply. “I gather she wasn’t interested in taking over the family business.”

Ivrian could relate to that.

Clearly his mother knew it, because she started in. “I’d hoped you’d see some leadership in action today. If we ever come out with them again, I think I’ll bring some salvaging gear of our own so we can see to the work below as well.”

Ivrian barely heard her, because he had been seized by a new idea. “What’s Mirian like?”

“She was always sharp-eyed—like her father. Quick-witted. And I hear she was a natural in the water.”

“What did she look like?”

“I haven’t seen her for years. She was a gangly thing. Darker than Kellic. Pretty. She took after her mother.”

Ivrian was far more interested in handsome men than pretty women, but he knew a good thing when he heard it. This daughter of a famous salvager could be the star of his stories—a proud Sargavan woman fighting to keep her country free from the devil-sworn puppets of the Chelish Empire. He could envision a dark adventuress on the cover of the first leaflet now. And she’d be drawn with generous cleavage, of course. Even if some colonials would turn up their noses at the idea of a half-native heroine, that should still attract some interest.

“Sail to stern!” the lookout cried. And then: “She’s bearing down fast. Gozreh preserve us, she’s raised the black flag!”

The crew scurried like ants, but with neither captain nor mate aboard, no one seemed to know what to do.

Alderra turned from the rail, voice crisp and commanding. “Sailors! Panic gets you nowhere! You two—bring out the weapons!”

Though the commands came from an unexpected quarter, they were quickly obeyed. The crew seemed grateful to have someone providing direction. A pair of sailors ran down the gangway. The remaining dozen watched the oncoming ship.

“Pirates?” Ivrian asked his mother. “What are they doing in these waters? They’re not supposed to attack us!” By terms of Sargava’s agreement with the Free Captains, any ship flying the Sargavan flag was to remain unmolested. He checked—sure enough, the white flag of Sargava with its single black square and vertical red line flapped beneath the little blue family pennant. No one could have missed it.

“You may have to explain that to them,” Alderra said.

He ignored her sarcasm. “Can’t we sail away?”

“There’s no time. They’ll be on us before we could raise canvas.”

The two sailors sent belowdecks clambered back with a heavy chest. They set it down just beyond the gangway and threw it open. Inside was the gleam of metal, and the sailors filed forward to lift cutlasses even as the prow of the pirate ship neared the Daughter’s stern. The mist parted long enough for Ivrian to see dozens upon dozens of snarling faces lined along the railing, ten or twelve feet higher than their own.

Tokello had appeared out of nowhere and approached Alderra directly. “Lady Galanor, our crew can’t take them on. You’ll get all of us killed.”

One large, black-haired pirate called loudly to lay down their arms if they wanted to live.

Tokello exchanged a grim look with Alderra, who had a hand on the hilt of her cutlass. For the first time, Ivrian noted that the sword was the one part of his mother’s outfit that didn’t look gleaming new.

She eyed the pirate, then the healer, and her frown deepened. “Down weapons,” she called to the sailors, then cursed under her breath.

“There’s little of value here,” Ivrian whispered, gulping. “Won’t they just see that and depart?”

“We can hope,” his mother said grimly.

The pirate ship was a huge two-master. As it ground to a halt against their side, its deck looming above their own, Ivrian saw men with arrows nocked and a contingent with raised spears. The rest all but bristled with cutlasses.

His mother cupped her hands around her mouth. “We’re no fight for you, but have little worth your trouble!”

“That’s for us to decide!” a gruff voice called back.

Grappling hooks dropped to catch in the rail. Pirates swung down on ratlines. Before long, tens of them swarmed the ship, carting away food, drink, ship’s supplies, and the rather sad-looking coin purses carried by the Daughter’s common sailors, who they’d herded together at the prow.

The chief collector was a big bronzed Keleshite with vivid blue eyes. He would have been handsome if he hadn’t had such a scowl, as though he found this whole pirate business an annoyance. He didn’t smile until he caught sight of Ivrian and his mother. For a moment, Ivrian thought he could flirt a little to improve their odds of survival.

“Where’s your money?” The Keleshite stopped in front of them, sword leveled. “I know you’re hiding jewels someplace.”

The pirate had recognized them as aristocrats. His smile, Ivrian realized, was one of satisfaction, not appreciation.

While Ivrian and his mother turned out their pockets, a short, pale man with an absurdly well-groomed mustache climbed down from the high deck of the pirate ship. His eyes settled on the sealskin pouch that Ivrian clutched.

“Take that, Mylit,” he ordered the Keleshite.

The big man smiled mirthlessly at Ivrian and waggled his fingers.

“These are my writings,” Ivrian said. “Of no value to anyone but me.”

Mylit grabbed the bag with one hand and smashed Ivrian across the cheek with the other. The lightning attack dropped Ivrian to the planks. He blinked in pain, staring stunned at his mother’s polished boots, then looked up as the little man stepped closer. Ivrian supposed he was the captain.

“Open it,” the captain commanded. Was he Chelish? That was no colonial accent.

Ivrian blinked as he propped himself up on an elbow. His cheek stung, and he was flooded with shame, unsure if he should rise. A trio of pirates by the wheel chuckled at him. Ivrian climbed carefully to one knee, watching Mylit lift a page from the pouch. He considered it carefully, as though reading were a labor. “It’s just a bunch of letters.”

The captain snatched the paper, eyes roving quickly before he relaxed. Ivrian glanced longingly at the now-guarded chest of swords.

“I’m making notes for a story,” he explained.

The little captain sniffed, crumpled the paper into a ball, and pitched it over the side.

Ivrian felt his eyes widen in astonishment, although words failed him.

“And where are the salvagers?” the man asked Ivrian’s mother.

Alderra answered the question calmly. “My apologies, Captain, but they’re diving right now.”

The captain pointed a beringed finger. “You’re Lady Galanor, aren’t you? One of the baron’s lapdogs.”

“That is my name,” Alderra said with great dignity. “You, sir, however, have me at a loss.”

The captain sneered. “No, I have you at my mercy.”

Mylit’s laugh was interrupted by a shout from the pirate ship.

“Cap’n! We’re taking on water!”

The Keleshite and the little man both whipped around. “What? How?” Mylit demanded.

The deck lurched, and Ivrian fought for footing. The pirate ship had listed, and as it creaked to starboard the grappling ropes tightened and tilted the Daughter to port.

The Keleshite shouted for his crew to get back across and get to the pumps. Most of the boarding party scrambled over. Now it seemed to Ivrian as though Mylit commanded the crew. Who, then, was the fellow with the mustache?

The mustached little man pointed accusingly at Alderra. “This is the work of your salvagers, isn’t it? They’re attacking the ship?”

“I don’t know how they could,” Alderra said reasonably. “They’re only armed with spears.”

“You’re lying. Mylit, just kill her,” he fumed.

The Keleshite pulled a cutlass from his belt. As he lifted it, an emerald beam of energy shot out from behind Ivrian engulfed the pirate’s arm. The huge man screamed, and his sword clattered to the deck as cloth and flesh dissolved in bubbling smoke.

Ivrian hesitated no longer. He snatched the cutlass as it came to rest, still ringing from its fall. He lunged at Mylit even as a second blast caught the mustachioed man in the shoulder. Ivrian stabbed the pirate straight through the chest, turning his scream to a ragged gurgle. The man dropped and breathed his last.

Ivrian hadn’t ever attacked someone outside of a practice bout before, and if he’d had time to reflect, he might have been appalled. Caught up in the moment, however, he advanced with a flourish and a shout, as though he were on the stage. The nearest pirates backed off. His rush was enough of a distraction for his mother to draw her own blade, and for three of the Daughter’s sailors to rush the weapons chest.

But the pirates were not easily cowed. Ivrian caught a swing on the late Mylit’s notched blade, a little higher than he’d hoped. While he tried to untangle from his foe, he had to lean left to miss a beheading from a different snarling pirate.

Suddenly his mother was beside him, wielding her cutlass with astonishing vigor. The onslaught enabled Ivrian to break free and plunge his sword through an enemy’s throat.

“Less flash, son,” his mother said, as if coaching the proper use of a salad fork at a state dinner.

The fight was furious. He was vaguely aware there remained at least one pirate for every member of the Daughter’s crew, but he had to focus on the hairy face above the gnarled, sword-wielding hands that thrust and sliced right at him. He chopped one deadly edge away, leapt a stab from an evil-looking Halfling he hadn’t noticed earlier, then cut through the little man’s head.

He dispatched the other pirate, who had turned to grab a nearby line back to his own ship, then took stock of the area around him. He saw three foes rushing Tokello, apparently eager for easy prey, and he stepped in her direction, but she raised her arms and called out for Gozreh to protect her. After that, none of the men could close on her, and Ivrian guessed she’d worked some spell.

She might have been safe, but that meant all three turned their attention to Ivrian. They grinned as they spread out to flank him.

A dripping-wet woman suddenly leapt to his side, her cutlass sweeping to clear space and stopping the pirates in their tracks. Even as Ivrian was wondering who in Shelyn’s name she was, Tokello shouted, “Mirian!” with the sort of conviction usually reserved for declaring thanks to deities.

This was Mirian Raas? Ivrian stared. Where had she come from?

While her brother was light enough to look almost full-blood colonial, Mirian clearly took after her native mother, as Alderra had said, with rich dark skin and a dripping mass of black hair.

She also looked dangerous and capable, rippling with sleek muscles under her clinging, sodden clothes. She leaned away from a one-eyed pirate’s clumsy overhand slash and cut deep into his arm. While the fellow screamed, she kicked him off balance into a second foe, then followed with a thrust that skewered both. The third pirate turned to run. She leapt after and hacked him down, then dashed on without a backward glance.

“Boy!” Tokello cried. “Cut that line!” She pointed to a grappling hook buried in the Daughter’s straining starboard rail.

Ivrian parted the tense rope easily. Captain Rendak had appeared from nowhere, also dripping wet, and was bellowing at his men to free the sails.

Someone on the pirate ship sent an arrow thudding into the planks a hand-span from Ivrian’s boot, and an arrow pierced a sailor on his left.

He glanced up and around.

Mirian downed her final opponent with a powerful slice, then turned and raised a wand, shouting an arcane word as she did so. A line of green energy blasted from the end of the weapon and felled an archer wedged along the tilted and now significantly lowered pirate deck. He slid out of sight with a scream, his bow clattering after him. Others were clambering to take his place, but Gombe and Lady Galanor warded them off with well-cast spears. Ivrian worried that the pirates planned to drop to the Daughter’s deck.

Mirian pointed her sword at Ivrian. For a moment he thought she might attack him. “You, cut the rutting anchor!”

He knew right where it was, over near the ladder. He split the thick old rope with two good swings.

The main canvases dropped, and sailors slid down the braces to secure the sheets even as Rendak flung himself at the wheel. The wind caught the caravel and the Daughter swayed away from the pirate ship even as a final spray of arrows rained down. All but one missed: Ivrian saw it strike Rendak’s arm.

The older man cursed and kept a hand to the wheel, no matter the shaft and point protruding through one large biceps.

It was only then that Ivrian felt a little green. Perhaps it was the blood dripping from Rendak’s wound, or the blood on his own sword, or all the bodies, or that he’d suddenly realized how many times he’d come close to death in the last few minutes. The gentlemanly sword schools his mother had sent him to and the showy moves he’d learned working with actors really hadn’t prepared him for the result of bladework.

He sat down beside the rail, his face cool and moist, and concentrated on not throwing up. With measured care, he turned his head, for it seemed any sudden movement might make him ill. The stranded pirate ship showed no signs of following. For some reason, its deck was canted at almost thirty degrees.

The Daughter of the Mist tacked away, catching nearly the full strength of the wind as she turned north by northwest—or at least, that’s what the sailors called to one another. Dead pirates were tossed over the side, though he noticed Mirian Raas and his mother searching both the man with the mustache and Mylit.

The two women were doing quite a lot of talking. Ivrian rather wished he felt well enough to listen in. He tried to rise, but grew dizzy and sat back down.

He watched Tokello walk among the crew. Two of the Daughter’s sailors were apparently done for, but a fellow in a striped shirt who’d been holding his chest was now talking with a mate as he was helped belowdecks.

Tokello tended five others for minor wounds before coming finally to Rendak. He turned the bridge over to Gombe and faced Tokello, offering his wounded arm.

Mirian and Ivrian’s mother, still in conversation, stepped into the cabin at the back of the quarterdeck. Ivrian stood up to follow, but then Tokello cut the arrowhead with her huge knife and pulled the shaft out of Rendak’s arm by the black fletching.

That final spurt of blood from Rendak’s wound was the push that brought Ivrian to the rail’s edge, where he vomited lunch and breakfast out onto the churning waves.

3

Percentages and Proofs
Mirian

Mirian frowned as she took in the shambles the pirates had left of the narrow captain’s cabin. Fading light from the slim galley windows spilled over broken desk drawers and torn papers and charts scattered across the deck. The mattress from the bunk under the windows had been slashed apart, probably in a search for hidden valuables.

At least the little dining table was intact, although one of its chairs lay with a smashed back—the one at the head of the table, where her father would have sat. Fitting.

One of the few unsullied items was the wood carving Mirian laid carefully on the table. She’d found it tossed aside on the deck above, dropped in the mad scramble before the bloodshed. Her mother’s work, in brown and blond woods, showing Leovan smiling, with Mirian herself grinning up at him. How old had she been? Nine? Eleven? Her fingers trembled as she returned the carving to the nail that had secured it to the bulkhead, but the bracket on the carving’s back was warped, and it wouldn’t hang straight. She thought she might be able to fix that, at least. Her eyes dropped to her fingers, trying to decide if they shook with anger or sorrow.

She heard the light step of Lady Galanor behind her and the click of the cabin door as the noblewoman shut it.

“Please, sit, m’lady.” Mirian forced calm into her voice. “I apologize for the décor.”

“I’m sorry for it as well,” the woman replied as she righted a chair to settle on.

Mirian rooted among the shirts lying beside a chest that had been hacked open. Rendak’s clothes, not her father’s. With a muttered apology she turned to remove her wet undergarment and slipped the shirt on in its place. Rendak’s arms were longer than hers, so she rolled the sleeves up to the elbow.

Mirian picked up the broken chair, then took the seat across from Lady Galanor. She rubbed at a spot on her pants she suspected was blood.

Lady Galanor wistfully contemplated the crooked carving. Here, in the dim light from the galley windows, she seemed younger.

Like many Sargavan nobles, Lady Galanor was olive-skinned, with a proud hawk’s beak of a nose. Her shoulders were high with assurance. Yet she lacked some of the arrogance of manner so common to aristocrats, and judging from her skillful swordplay, she was no layabout. Mirian gave up trying to guess her age. Was she prematurely silver, or simply an older woman who’d stayed in shape?

Lady Galanor smiled apologetically. “Thank you, again, Miss Raas.”

“Thank Desna,” Mirian demurred. “I happened along at the right time.”

“I shall praise her for your timing, and you for everything else.” A glance back at the carving. “There was a spark in you when you were a child. I see it has flared into something grand.”

Mirian looked more closely at the woman, but couldn’t recall seeing her before. “You knew me as a child?”

Lady Galanor smiled wistfully. “Your father and I were close friends once. I helped him found the Sargavan Adventurer’s Club.”

“The club?” She eyed the woman across from her even more carefully. Father and a small band of like-minded Sargavans had purchased a building where they could celebrate their exploits, trade information, and, naturally, drink. The club’s failure had been a bitter memory for him.

“It was a fine notion,” Lady Galanor said. “But like many fine notions in Sargava, it was crushed under the weight of tradition.”

Mirian considered Lady Galanor’s face and tried to subtract the years. She was still striking now; what would she have looked like twenty or thirty years ago? Was she looking at one of her father’s former lovers? “Father never mentioned you.”

Lady Galanor’s smile turned sad. “I’m employed by the baron, the Noble Custodian of Sargava. I’ve had to be away for long periods. Your father and I hadn’t seen much of each other for a long time.”

And how much of each other did you see before that? Mirian had decided to humor Lady Galanor’s request for a private chat, but there were things that needed doing, the least of which was fixing this cabin. She wanted to look in on Rendak, find out why the Daughter was here, and learn why her brother wasn’t aboard. It was time to speed things along. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something important.”

The aristocrat reached into a pocket and produced the rumpled letters she’d taken off the pirate’s leader. “The captain was commanded by that Chelish man.”

So she’d said outside. Why couldn’t they discuss this on the deck? Mirian nodded.

Lady Galanor touched the paper. “Someone without a signature specifically ordered him to target your ship. And me.”

“It’s not my ship,” Mirian said. “But go on. Why were they after you?”

Lady Galanor folded her hands and cleared her throat. “I’m raising funds for the yearly tithe. And the Chelaxians want to stop that, naturally. Before he died, your father was setting up a salvaging expedition into the interior he thought would be particularly helpful to our cause. Did he mention anything about it to you?”

Mirian shook off a shiver. She wasn’t getting any warmer as the sun went down. “I haven’t heard from my father since I left home six years ago. My mother wrote once a month, but the messages didn’t always reach me right away. I only learned of his death last week.”

“I see. I’m sorry for your loss, then.”

“We were no longer close.” Mirian’s fingers found a loose thread in Rendak’s shirt to pull. She thought of the man her father used to be. “Lady Galanor, my father was perhaps the least prejudiced colonial ever born, with one exception—he despised Sargavan nobles. Passionately. If you let him, he could rant about them for hours. It’s not that I doubt your story, it’s—”

“Of course he hated them. It was Lady Daugustana who drove the wedge between Leo and his first wife.” Lady Galanor tapped the table near the carving for emphasis. “And it was Lady Daugustana and her cronies who destroyed the club. We wanted to move Sargava forward, and the old always want to keep it the same.” She laughed. “Now I’m the old.”

“Not as old as Daugustana.”

“Hah. No, not nearly. Mirian—may I call you Mirian? I did, once, when you were very young.”

“You may,” Mirian said cautiously. “Pardon me, m’lady. I wouldn’t mind a little light, would you?”

“You may call me Alderra. And yes, that would be appreciated.”

Both lanterns hung above the table had somehow escaped the wrath of the pirates. After rooting around through one of the cracked drawers lying on the deck, Mirian located flint, steel, and a length of slow-burn cable. In a moment her practiced hands had lit the lanterns, obligingly opened by Alderra.

Once flames were flickering in the glass, Mirian blew out the cable and returned it to the drawer. As she bent to set the drawer into the desk beside the door she caught sight of a familiar panel in the bulkhead at knee level.

Why not? She pressed her palm to the wood. Concealed behind the ordinary plank was a narrow cubby where her father usually kept a bottle of wine. There was still a bottle there, although as she lifted it to the light, she found it a dark amber rather than the red she expected.

Leovan Raas’s tastes had apparently changed over the years. Or Rendak had found the wine cache and replaced it with something he liked better.

“A drink, Alderra?” Mirian said. “I can’t vouch for the vintage, and I’m not sure I have any glasses. I believe its whiskey.”

“After that scrape, I can’t say I’m picky.”

Mirian uncorked the bottle, sniffed, and passed it to her.

Alderra took a swig and seemed satisfied. “Heady stuff.” She handed it back.

The aristocrat was right. The whiskey opened with a kick and closed with a smooth fade. Mirian held it up to the lantern light but couldn’t make out the writing on the label.

Lady Galanor cleared her throat. “Here’s my problem, Miss Raas. Your father died as he was finishing up a dive on an unrelated venture. I allowed some weeks to pass before I pursued the matter with your brother, and that is perhaps where I erred.” She smiled glumly. “I did not wish to push business matters during a mourning period.”

Lady Galanor seemed to want some sort of response. “Understandable,” Mirian said.

“By the time I asked your brother about the expedition your father planned, he told me he had dismissed the other parties involved.”

“Other parties?” Mirian was still thinking about her father’s death. Her mother’s account had been vague.

“Lizardfolk. Kellic said he found them ‘unseemly.’”

“Unseemly,” Mirian repeated. That didn’t sound like the Kellic she knew, a boy who’d followed Father like a puppy, imitating his every gesture.

“I’ve decided to hire you to find the lizardfolk that your father planned to work with. And then lead the salvage team.”

Mirian plunked the bottle down unintentionally hard—a ringing thunk filled the little cabin. “Alderra, I didn’t come back to run the business. I returned to comfort my mother and throw some flowers on my father’s grave. I intend to depart Eleder and its embalmed grandeur at the earliest opportunity.”

Alderra Galanor contemplated her before gesturing for the bottle and pulling another swig. “There are good people in Eleder. They need your help.”

“I’m a Pathfinder now, m’lady. Alderra,” she corrected herself. “I left my team at a dig site north of Freehold. They need me there.”

“Do they? What if Eleder needs you more?”

“Eleder needs a half-native salvager? Tell me another.”

Alderra smiled thinly. “The baron knows Sargava needs to move forward. He’s hampered by crones like Daugustana and all the petty councilors. He has to fight for every tiny concession. Extending that road down through the city outskirts—”

“The slums?”

“If you like.”

“They’re slums.”

“The baron extended the main road through the slums last year so the laborers wouldn’t be calf-deep in mud during rainy season. To get enough votes to put it through the house, he had to promise a tax break to the nobles for the next three years. And that’s put him in a bind, because there’s one large payment that has to be made every year unless we want a Chelish fleet at our quays.”

“To the Free Captains.”

“Yes. Daugustana and her ilk won’t find their money much use if Cheliax sails back in and reclaims our country, but they’re blind to the threat. They’re obsessed with their little games, conveniently forgetting that without the pirate fleet protecting our waters, they’d all be kicking from a gibbet, or screaming on the tines.”

“Eleder’s petty politics, Lady Galanor, are just part of the reason I left.”

“So I gather.” Alderra paused but didn’t follow up that line of thought. “I must find a revenue source so we can pay our tithe to the Free Captains of the Shackles. Your brother has been wasting my time poking around the deeps for a wreck ever since your father died, and produced nothing. I cannot continue working with your family unless you take over.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Mirian said. “But I’m not interested.”

Alderra’s eyebrows lowered. “If you find me the lizardfolk and set up the salvage run, I’ll cut the Raas family in for twenty percent of the profit.”

Mirian blinked away her astonishment. “Let me get this straight: You mean to induce me by taking eighty percent? While I find the salvage drop, furnish the ship and the experts, and run the risk? Why should I give you any percent at all?”

Alderra cleared her throat. “It’s possible that you’re not aware of certain circumstances.” She watched Mirian for a reaction.

“What circumstances?”

“This is awkward.” Alderra took a deep breath, observing Mirian, as though she expected her to interrupt at any moment. “Your family is heavily in debt. There’s little room left to meet those obligations apart from selling off your ship or your home. Perhaps both will be needed.”

Mirian stared, seeking meaning in words that made no sense. She searched the older woman’s face for some sign that this was a joke. One in terrible taste. Could Alderra be telling the truth? Where would her family live without the house? Mother and Kellic would be devastated, to say nothing of the men and women who worked for them both in the home and on the ship. How would they make a living?

Alderra’s expression softened. “I’m sorry. I see now that you had no idea.”

“No,” Mirian managed, finally. She felt flushed. It’d been a long while since she’d downed such potent whiskey. She was surprised by how calm she sounded. “Is this your doing? Is that how you maneuvered my father into working for you?”

“What? No! I had nothing to do with your father’s choices, my dear. I gather he’s had a hard time of it for the last few years. I needed his help, and I thought he could use mine.”

Mirian felt that flush fading. Lady Galanor could be lying, but it was more likely her father had run into some bad luck. Salvaging had its lean years. And it would be just like Mother not to send word of anything upsetting. It was a wonder she’d even written to inform her about her father’s death. “How did he get into so much debt?”

“He sank a great deal of money into a new ship, and there was a dockyard fire when it was two-thirds built. Apparently he promised more than he actually had to spend.”

Father had occasionally dreamed about a larger ship, but Mirian had never thought he’d actually want to part with the Daughter.

Alderra misread her silence as skepticism. “I’m not trying to threaten you, Mirian. That twenty percent should be enough to pay off the debts and leave you with a little profit as well.”

Mirian set the bottle back down and found herself asking: “Twenty percent of how much?”

“Did you ever play cards with your father? He kept things very close to his chest. All I know is that he promised a fortune in gems. Enough to drown the crone.”

The crone being Lady Daugustana. Mirian felt a smile pull at the corner of her mouth. “Now that sounds like my father. But he was prone to exaggerate.”

“When he told a tale, yes. But not when he gave his word. Leo shook hands on it with me, Mirian. I believed him. And I believe in you. You can find the necessary partners and lead the salvage team.”

It was strange to hear this woman calling Father by his first name, and in such a comfortable way. Again she wondered just how close Alderra and her father had once been.

Mirian ran her eyes along the carved image of her father’s face tilting heavenward on the wall. “I’m not as skilled at salvaging. Not like he was at his prime.”

“Perhaps not. But he wasn’t in his prime when we shook on it.”

That was surely true. Long years had passed since her father was that smiling, bronzed man who could shrug off whatever the world threw his way. In the years before Mirian left, the bitterness had worn him down, and more and more often those powerful shoulders had been fortified by a constant influx of alcohol.

She thought about the trio of Pathfinders waiting for her in Freehold. Tyrin was seasoned enough to manage things until she got back. She frowned, remembering that mosaic they’d found the day before she left. She’d dearly wanted to make a good sketch of it, but Tyrin could probably handle that duty as well. She’d have to write him with instructions.

For now, it looked as though she would be stuck here. “All right, then.”

“There’s one more thing you need to know: the Chelish may have played a part in your father’s death.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t. Not for sure. But they certainly appear to have tried to arrange mine. I suspect that either someone close to the baron is a Chelish spy, or…” she let her voice trail off. “I’m afraid I shall have to be indelicate. Your brother has taken up with a Chelish woman.”

Mirian’s voice cracked like a whip. “You’re implying my brother was involved in my father’s death?”

“I didn’t say that. Spies can be very clever. They can sew information together from little threads. If she is a spy, and Kellic happened to mention where your father was diving, it would be all she needed to act. Without him, the arrangement fell through, which is awfully convenient for Chelish interests, don’t you think?”

Mirian fingered the neck of the bottle and let out a low sigh. She dearly wanted another drink, but decided against it. She was near her limit.

“I know it’s a lot to take in all at once. And, in all fairness, your brother’s paramour may be completely innocent.”

“Suppose,” Mirian said, “my brother’s the only one who knows where to find the lizardfolk? If I have to talk to him about it, he might talk to this woman.”

“You’ll have to ask him not to do that.”

She hadn’t seen Kellic in years. She didn’t relish the idea of casually working “your lover might be a Chelish spy” into the conversation.

“I didn’t promise that your job would be simple,” Alderra reminded her.

“Nothing good is ever simple.” Mirian tapped the table a last time, then thrust her hand across it. “Very well, Alderra. It seems I’ve little choice.”

The noblewoman shook her hand formally. “You had other choices. They just weren’t good ones.”

4

Reunion
Mirian

By the time Mirian joined Rendak at the prow she could see the stone walls of Eleder rising along the darkening coast. The fog had rolled away with the evening breeze, leaving a clear view of the city from leagues away. It sprawled beyond its great walls. Distant lights twinkled a white-and-golden welcome, although Mirian knew most were lanterns hung in harbor taverns, gambling halls, and brothels in the deliberate buffer zone between the wharf and the proper city districts. The city had to be open to the Free Captains, but the governing elders preferred to trap them in a single district, where there would be plenty to distract them from advancing into more upscale neighborhoods.

Mirian had already asked about Rendak’s arm, which he’d reported as sore but healing, and his family, which he reported as fair. And then she began to test the truth of what Alderra Galanor had told her. Right away Rendak took exception to the idea that the Chelish had anything to do with her father’s death.

“Oh, no, lass.” Rendak’s gravelly voice fell to a low rumble. “That was sea devils. And they don’t work with nobody.”

Sea devil was the name all the folk of Desperation Bay gave the sharklike humanoids that laired in the deep waters and sometimes prowled the wreck of the Chelish fleet, the ships that had been sunk during Sargava’s battle for independence. “Sea devils killed him?” She had a hard time believing it. “Why were you anywhere near them?”

“Money’s been a little low.”

“I’ve heard it’s worse than that.”

Rendak scratched the back of his neck. “Your mother tell you?”

“Lady Galanor filled me in. Are the coffers as empty as she said?”

“Empty enough to make us dive the Chelish fleet wreck. We’d had our eye on a big old four-master for years but didn’t want to risk it. We figured we didn’t have a choice.”

“You’re certain it was sea devils that killed him?”

“It was sharks that killed him,” Rendak said, “but sea devils made them. We could see one of them floatin’ nearby. You know how they get on with sharks. A big one sneaked up on Leo.” He paused, as if to gather strength for the rest of the story, then remained silent. “Go on.” Strange. She thought she’d made peace with her father’s death, and now she felt a tightening in her chest.

Rendak stared a moment, then blurted out, “He was going for the sea devil, just raising his wand at that figure floatin’ out there in the dark, when the shark came out of a hole in the hull and took most of his arm off. We managed to get him away, but he’d bled out by the time we got him to Tokello.”

Mirian could picture the moment too well, a mad flurry of shapes in black waters, sharks driven to frenzy by the blood. Rendak and Gombe fighting desperately with their diving spears to drive off the great predators, Gombe pulling her paling father up as Rendak swam guard.

Rendak’s jaw tightened and he lowered his head. He let out a long breath, looked at her as if he wished to say more but had forgotten the words.

Mirian gripped his shoulder. “I know you did all you could, and more than you should have.”

“I never thought it’d be him to go down,” Rendak said.

Maybe her father’s death really had been an unconnected tragedy. It didn’t change that he was gone, or the state of affairs he’d left things in. “Lady Galanor said Father had lined up another salvage run that was potentially lucrative. Why didn’t you hold out for that instead of risking anything near sea devil territory?”

Rendak’s eyes narrowed in thought, and he dropped his voice. “You mean with the lizardfolk?”

“Aye.”

“Leo said that one was likely to be dangerous, lass. More dangerous than going into the fleet wrecks. Leo was hoping we could maybe score big with a quick drop, and then we wouldn’t have to go through with it.”

“Did he tell you where the lizardfolk drop was?”

“No.”

“What about the lizardfolk? Do you know where they went?”

Rendak shook his head.

“That’s too bad. Because I’m going to have to find them.”

He looked at her sidelong. “Is that what you’ve been talking to Lady Galanor about?”

“Yes.”

A smile pulled up one corner of his beard. “You taking over?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can count me in. Probably all of us.” His smile broadened. “Will you be leading from here on out?”

“No. I’ll help with the debt, then I’m gone.”

“Huh.” Rendak sounded disappointed

“Don’t say a thing to anyone else. Lady Galanor thinks someone’s leaking word of our plans. They were sent to sink the Daughter on this salvage run.”

“You think someone on board’s a traitor?” Rendak’s eyebrows rose in astonishment.

She shook her head. “No, I think someone talked too much.” She studied her father’s trusted friend and hoped that she’d judged right by sharing the information with him.

Mirian shook off that moment of doubt. If she couldn’t trust the loyalty of Filian Rendak, then she might as well give up on the human race. “How do you like being captain?”

Rendak grunted. “I always figured you’d be captain, once Leo was done with it.”

“What about Kellic?”

Rendak scratched his neck, looked away, sighed. “He’s not a salvager. He’s known it for years. You were the one. That’s why Leo gave you the rings. And that’s why he knew you were coming back.”

“Father actually said that?”

“Aye.”

Mirian was a little surprised her father mentioned her at all, especially after their final conversation. She’d assumed that Leovan Raas, champion grudge-holder, would keep a closed mouth about his second daughter, just like he did his first wife, his first daughter, and the old explorer’s club—anything that hadn’t worked out for him, really. “What did he say?”

“That the sea was in your blood.” Rendak’s bold cadence briefly mimicked her father’s. “That you would’ve turned those rings over to your brother if you meant to leave the trade forever.”

“It wasn’t the trade I hated, Rendak. It was Eleder.”

“Oh, there are worse cities. It’s what you make of it.”

She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “Eleder’s fine, so long as you know your place.”

“Leo made his place,” Rendak said with pride.

“That was his problem.”

“No. That was what everyone else’s problem was. You want to know why Kellic doesn’t salvage?” He eyed her squarely. “He wants all the little colonial lords to approve of him.”

Mirian winced. “That’ll never happen.” The little fool. “He should know that.”

“Aye.”

“There are countless places across the world where they’d accept him just as he is. Even Cheliax could give a toss about the color of his skin. It only matters here.”

“Things are getting better,” Rendak said.

“You’re just saying that because you want me to stay.”

“No, really, they are. The new generation’s a little more accepting.”

“Then why is Kellic having trouble?”

“I didn’t say things were perfect.”

She snorted. “That’s your sales pitch for keeping me here?”

“Give me time. I’ll think of something better.”

Rendak’s loyalty was touching. “How’s my mother?”

“You can see how Leo’s death got to her, but only if you know her well. Poor thing hides behind that Bas’o pride. Stiff neck, show no emotion. You know. Sort of that look you were just giving me.”

Mirian felt a grin pull weakly at her. She knew exactly what Rendak meant. Her mother had worn that same expression after any disappointment, most memorably that evening Mirian had talked a six-year-old Kellic into sneaking down to the docks with her to spy on pirates.

“That’s Leo’s smile! The only time you look like him, gods be praised. But you’ve got his spirit. You were born for this, Mirian.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

Rendak clapped her on the back. “Well, however long you’re staying, it’s sure good to see you.” He swaggered off.

Mirian remained at the prow while the Daughter sailed on toward Eleder. It was too dark to pick out the color of the flags flown from the tall ships anchored along the long stone quays of the great harbor, but she knew that they came from all across the region, some probably from as far away as the Inner Sea.

Gombe guided them for home, along the coastline south of the city. Walled mansions stood on the low ridge above smaller wharves, each owned by the descendants of wealthy Chelish colonists who’d built beyond the protection of the central settlement. Eleder had expanded over the intervening centuries so that the mansions had been transformed from an independent community into a suburb.

Small pleasure yachts were anchored beside the dark quays of neighbors nearest the Raas dock. If things remained as they had been, the Raas’s were the only ridge family that worked for a living, one of any number of strikes against them. It was perfectly fine to own ships, but colonial aristocrats certainly didn’t captain them, and they didn’t marry native women and father half-native children and demand they be accepted into society.

Not that there weren’t thousands of half-native citizens running about Sargava. But for an aristocrat to admit having a child with a native was simply a bridge too far. Such children were acknowledged with a quiet stipend so that they could learn a trade, if at all. Only an occasional madman like her father insisted someone of mixed race be fully accepted into Sargavan high society.

Even with his straight hair and lighter skin, Mirian’s younger brother Kellic had a difficult time of it, though his challenges were nothing like Mirian’s. She had been treated like a servant by her peers at a series of young ladies’ academies. Her last aristocratic schooling had ended in one cataclysmic moment, when her father dropped by at lunch to find her sequestered with the help. The sharp words he’d exchanged with the woman in charge would have resulted in a duel if Madame Corlander’s husband had not been rightfully afraid of Leovan Raas.

Leovan always had been much better at making enemies than friends. Back then, Mirian had been embarrassed by him. Once she’d been old enough to salvage, she’d grown to idolize him. In the end, she’d realized her father was a man of complexities. He might truly believe in a colorblind society, but he also burned with deep-seated anger. As Mirian matured, she’d sometimes wondered if her father had chosen to marry a Bas’o woman in part because he knew how badly it would piss off his neighbors.

Two lanterns blazed high and bright on poles raised at the dock’s end. Rendak, at the wheel himself now, guided the Daughter in. The usual crowd of relatives emerged from the gabled dock house and took hold of ropes tossed from the prow as they called out to their loved ones.

Some of them, she reflected grimly, would not be answering.

The moment two sailors lifted the gangplank into place, a tall figure in dress pants and a waistcoat hurried across, carrying a cane. Mirian thought at first he was one of Lady Galanor’s contacts, for he moved immediately toward her and her son and offered a formal bow.

Then she heard his voice. “Lady Galanor, I hope your voyage was a pleasant one?”

Kellic. That was Kellic?

Rendak, meanwhile, was overseeing the ship’s tying off even as some of the sailors were calling up to the huddle of waiting relatives about what had happened. The resultant gasps and lone wail drowned out Lady Galanor’s response.

Mirian carefully walked around the laboring sailors, looking at her brother as she drew closer.

Tall, slim, elegantly dressed. His straight hair was pushed back from his forehead and lightly powdered, as had been the fashion in Cheliax at some point. He’d grown into a handsome man, with high broad shoulders and a gently cleft chin he’d inherited from Father. His fine nose came from Mother, though it was hard to see much of her in him without close scrutiny, for his skin appeared even lighter than Mirian remembered. Was he wearing makeup?

And resemblance to either parent ended completely with Kellic’s wardrobe, tailored from the most expensive cloth, with more conservative lines than Leovan Raas had ever worn, complete with a brown cravat, a silver-tipped ornamental cane, and a hand that glittered with rings.

Next to him, Lady Galanor looked like a laborer.

Her brother’s face fell as Lady Galanor spoke to him. Mirian drew up near Ivrian, waiting by his mother’s side.

The younger Galanor offered a hopeful smile. Mirian still wasn’t sure what to make of him. Ivrian’s own clothing was flamboyant, and he carried himself with a sort of careless exuberance. Yet she knew he’d been a crucial player in driving back the pirates, so she nodded a bow.

Ivrian brightened and returned the gesture.

“Mirian?” Kellic had finally noticed her. “What are you— How—”

“Your sister happened to be in the right place at the right time,” Lady Galanor said. “If she hadn’t dived off her passenger ship to help us, the pirates would probably be sailing the Daughter off to Smuggler’s Shiv right now. And I don’t care to think what they would have done with us.”

“Mirian.” Kellic’s eyes brightened for a moment. He grimaced at her clothing, yet nevertheless opened his arms to her. The two embraced.

They pulled apart. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Mother wrote me about father’s death. I returned as soon as I could.”

“It seems like your arrival was timely.” His smile was polite. He turned back to Lady Galanor. “I’m very sorry to hear that you were placed in danger, Lady Galanor.” His eyes slipped over to where shrouded forms were being carried up the gangplank. “Gods.”

“We lost some crew,” Mirian said.

“That’s terrible,” he said. “Terrible news. I don’t suppose Rendak found anything to make all of this worthwhile?”

Mirian thought Kellic should probably have dwelt on the former sentiment a little longer, then reminded herself that her family was in grave danger of losing both home and ship.

“There was nothing there,” Lady Galanor said.

“Oh.” Kellic’s disappointment was almost comic.

“Fortunately, your sister has a new salvage site.”

“Oh?” Kellic’s brows rose. To Mirian’s ears, he didn’t sound as pleased as he should have.

“We’re keeping the details quiet, though.” Lady Galanor stepped close, and beckoned Kellic to lean forward. She spoke into his ear so that Mirian had to strain to hear. “We think we were deliberately targeted, so the location’s remaining secret until after we launch.”

“My goodness.” He straightened and looked between Alderra and Mirian. “How soon will you leave?”

“I have to look into some things,” Mirian answered. “It’ll be a few days.”

Rendak came up beside Mirian and saluted Kellic.

“So you didn’t find anything, then,” Kellic said. “Who did we lose?”

“Vemik and Alia. We’re taking up a collection for their families.”

Kellic nodded. “Quite right. Quite right.”

With their wage-earners dead, both families would have a difficult time making ends meet. The proper thing for Kellic to do would be to hand over money immediately, but he only shook his head and fingered his cane. “I wish that we ourselves weren’t so severely stretched for resources. I hope the families understand.”

“Here.” Mirian lifted Rendak’s hand, pulled two of the three remaining emeralds from her pouch, and dropped them into his calloused palm. The moment, and Rendak’s reaction, was so similar to the one that had played out with Captain Akimba that she found herself wondering about the Red Leopard. The ship was probably at a wharf unloading its cargo. There might even be a carriage en route to her home with her sea chest.

Rendak stared at the sparkling gems and whistled under his breath.

“Allow me, as well,” Alderra Galanor said, and passed over her coin purse.

“That’s very generous of you, m’lady,” Kellic said with a bow.

But Lady Galanor’s attention was focused only on Rendak, who inclined his head politely. “You’re very kind, m’lady. Mirian, are you sure you can afford this?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

“I’ll pass these on immediately.” Once more Rendak bowed to Lady Galanor, then moved up the gangway after Gombe and Tokello.

“Well then.” Lady Galanor indicated the wharf. “Shall we be off? It’s been a long day.”

“Oh, of course.” Kellic indicated the exit with a sweeping bow and then followed on the heels of Lady Galanor and her son. Mirian trailed, trying not to look at the woman huddled weeping beside Alia or the two young men staring down at the other sail-wrapped body, wiping their eyes while Rendak talked seriously with them.

Tokello stepped out of the shadows and fell in step with Mirian. “Someone of sense needs to run this business.” She flashed a smile. “It’s good to have you back, child.”

She wished it felt good to be back. “It’s good to see you, Tokello.”

“Wait until you see my niece. She’s practically as tall as you now. And running the stables! She loves those nags. She’d sleep out there in the hay with them if I let her!”

Mirian peered past the lantern burning at the wharf’s end to the ridge road and the sloped walk up to their house. She could just make out the second-story tower that jutted above the manor wall. Not so long ago her mother had routinely watched each night from its roof for the Daughter’s return. Had she observed them as they dropped anchor this evening?

Tokello could read her mood easily enough. “It must be a hard homecoming for you, Mirian. I’m so sorry about your father.”

“Thank you.”

“Death’s harder on the ones left behind,” she said sagely.

The sailors and salvage crew dispersed in groups, heading home in the horse-drawn carts family and friends had brought for them. Kellic had a carriage waiting for the Galanors. He offered to escort them home himself, but they demurred, and Alderra called out to Mirian that she hoped she’d be in touch soon.

Kellic stood at the end of the drive, smiling, hand raised in farewell until the carriage and carts rolled away.

Once again his eyes swept over Mirian. “Couldn’t you at least have borrowed some shoes?”

“Couldn’t you at least have handed over your cane? The jewels in that would have been a fine gift to the families of those dead sailors.”

“I have to maintain appearances.” Kellic started up the drive, punching the cane into the ground every other step, as if he actually required its use.

“Does that include potions to alter your appearance?”

His stride lagged but didn’t stop. He looked over his shoulder. “Sometimes it does. Some of us have to stay and manage things.”

His sharp tone was so different from what she remembered. What had happened to him? She held back from asking as she followed.

A cart came rattling down the road. She turned to see it was pulled by a swayback horse. Two men sat with the driver on the rickety bench.

“Are you coming?” Kellic called from up the drive.

The cart drew closer, slowed. The two men on the bench beside the driver were silhouetted by the sky and sea behind them, and appeared to be in conversation.

Finally the driver reined in his horse, and his head turned her way. “Pardon me, miss. I’m looking for the Raas family estate. Is this it?”

“It is.”

“Oh, good.”

He snapped the reins and brought the horse up the steep drive and on toward the house. Mirian stood in the grass to one side as the cart rolled up. As it came closer, she recognized her sea chest in the back. Both of the passengers stared at her, wide-eyed. “A spirit!” said the nearer. “That’s her! The one who dived over the side!”

At some other time, Mirian might have had a little fun with them, but she reassured them she was flesh and blood, then tipped them a few coppers. They were still a little wary of her even after she had them carry the chest through the stout oaken door in the manor wall and onto the porch, but they promised to convey her thanks to Captain Akimba.

Kellic watched the whole thing, arms crossed.

“You should probably have had them carry it into the house for you, don’t you think?”

“I can manage.”

“I’ll do it, then.” Frowning, Kellic handed his cane off to her and bent low. He grunted in surprise as he lifted the chest.

Mirian pushed the door open and was immediately greeted with a familiar and comforting mix of scents, a blend of old wood and cooking spices and worn leather, a trace of her mother’s perfume and her father’s pipe smoke and a hundred other things.

“Do you carry this wherever you go?” Kellic’s voice was strained.

“Not everywhere.”

He moved ahead of her. “Where’s this salvage drop you’re taking the Galanors?”

“That’s a secret.”

“Don’t joke, Mirian.”

“I’m not joking. It must remain an absolute secret until departure time.”

“I run the business now, Mirian.” Kellic halted. He turned to face her as they heard the pad of slippered feet in the rooms beyond. A lantern light bobbed as someone approached them down the hallway.

“Lady Galanor has asked me to lead the expedition, Kellic. And she’s sworn me to secrecy.”

“I see.” His tone was sharp. “So you’ll simply take over, then?”

“Just this drop, Kellic. Then it’s yours to run. Into the ground again, if you wish.”

She wished she’d held back from the last. It had slipped out, and with a lantern suddenly shining on the both of them and the glad cry of two old servants who saw her, there was no chance to apologize. Looking at the hardened expression on her brother’s face, she wasn’t sure it would’ve done any good if she had.

Old, round-cheeked Venta squealed like a little girl and called out for Mirian’s mother.

“I’ll just take this back to your room.” Kellic stiffly shouldered past.

Venta’s husband, stooped with age, was grinning as well. Then Mirian saw her mother.

Tall, slim, garbed in an orange wrap belted in brown, she was as elegant as ever. She stared at Mirian from the courtyard archway as if she were looking at a ghost.

Odonya Raas had been just out of her teens when Leovan married her, and in her early forties she was still a handsome woman, with the slim build typical of Bas’o people. Her dark face was reminiscent of Mirian’s in many ways, though rounder, softer. He full lips opened in wordless wonder, and then she beckoned her daughter into her arms. The women embraced fiercely.

Venta excused herself, saying that she’d cook something, but her precise words were lost in flood from Mirian’s mother.

“Let me look at you!” Her mother held her at arm’s length. “By my ancestors! Your hair’s so wet. You’ll ruin it if you keep it wet like that. And what is it you’ve come home in, child?”

“Rendak’s shirt, Mother.” Then she hastened to explain, lest her mother get the wrong idea about how she came to be wearing it.

They stood there in the dim entryway, lit only by the lantern Venta left them. Mirian provided an abbreviated version of her homecoming. Kellic returned near the end of the tale and waited beside their astonished mother.

“Kellic,” Odonya asked. “Have you heard this?”

“Something of it.”

“Now, what is with that face? Aren’t you happy to see your sister?”

“Quite happy,” he said with funereal dignity. “She’s found a new salvage drop for us, since this one went so badly.”

“Has she?”

“But she won’t tell me where. She says that she’s sworn to secrecy.”

“Kellic,” Mirian began.

“Sworn to whom?” Odonya asked.

“Lady Galanor. Mirian’s going to manage things for a while.” Kellic took the cane from where it was leaning against the side of the wall. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” Odonya demanded.

“I have a few errands before a late dinner.”

“No you don’t.” Odonya’s voice was stern. “You haven’t seen your sister in seven years. You’re sharing a meal with her.”

“I’ve waited seven years,” Kellic said as he opened the door. “I can wait a little longer.” He slammed it behind him.

Odonya sighed in disgust. “He’s rushing off to that woman again.”

“A girlfriend?”

“One he won’t introduce me to. Well, come on then. It’ll just be the two of us. Have you eaten?”

“No.” She was famished, and she could already smell sizzling pork.

“You have something proper to change into?”

“Ivrian carried my sea chest back to my room.”

“Get yourself dry then, girl, and we’ll eat.”

It was strange to join Mother at the long dining room table, and Mirian was all too conscious of the two empty chairs, one at the head where her father should have sat, the other across from her where a younger, smiling Kellic should have been.

Her mother kept conversation light, asking her further about the attack, and her explorations, and her Bas’o cousins, whom Mirian had seen far more recently.

Afterward, they retired to the slatted wooden chairs in the courtyard. A low fire burned in the small stone pit at its center, for Odonya Raas felt the evening’s chill.

Both women fell silent. Mirian was wishing she’d handled Kellic better. What had turned her gracious younger brother into the miserly would-be lordling who’d met her at the docks? She felt her fists balling in anger as she remembered the casual way he’d dismissed assistance to the families of the dead sailors, all while holding his expensive cane.

She wanted to ask her mother about him, and any number of things, but after the meal it was much simpler to sit in silence with her and admire the stars.

Mirian found her gaze drifting to the other doors that opened onto the courtyard: the one that led to the room she’d called her own for eighteen years, and where she’d just changed out of Rendak’s shirt and into a yellow dress. The door in the corner led to her father’s office and the second-story watchtower rising above the overgrown acacias and the home’s slanted roof.

Her mother’s eyes followed the path of Mirian’s gaze. “I used to sit up there every evening, when you were out with Leo.” She had told her the same story a hundred times, but this time the ending was different. “I still watched, most days. But you know, the day he died, I was in the market. I didn’t find out until I walked in and Rendak was waiting on the porch.”

“I’m so sorry, Mother.”

Odonya sighed and faced her daughter. “There was no need to keep things secret from Kellic, was there? This is his business.”

“Not for much longer, to hear tell of it.”

Odonya’s eyebrows climbed her forehead. “And who told of it?”

“Lady Galanor. She’s ready to pull up stakes.”

“Kellic can’t be blamed if the pickings are slim, any more than your father could. You think you can do better?”

“A leader leads from the front.”

“So you’re taking over Kellic’s business.”

Her mother’s tone clawed at her patience. “I’m saving it. Not taking it over. I’ll run just this one job. Afterward I’ll turn everything back over to him.” She held off commenting about how well she thought him suited for the post. Maybe she wasn’t seeing him at his best.

Odonya looked at her sidelong. “You must have something very big planned.”

“It may be,” Mirian said.

Odonya let out a long sigh, then shook her head. “You want to salvage with the lizardfolk, don’t you?”

“How did you know?” Mirian asked in astonishment.

“I know what Lady Galanor wants. Don’t do it.”

Mirian’s exasperation grew. “Why not? You might have mentioned you’d borrowed money on both the house and the ship in one of your letters. I could have sent money.”

“It would take a fortune at this point. Have you gone and gotten yourself a diamond mine in the Bandu Hills?”

Mirian ignored the jibe. “So it’s true?”

“It’s true.” Her mother’s chin rose defiantly.

“And how do you expect to survive without a house?”

Odonya indicated the homestead with a sharp jerk of her arm “None of this is worth your death. Rendak says a sea devil shark killed your father when he was scrounging the Chelish fleet wreck, but Leo knew how to handle them. It wasn’t the sea devils. It was folk who knew he was going to work for Lady Galanor.”

Mirian stilled. She started to repeat what Rendak had told her, but Odonya pressed on.

“There’re spies out there who know very well that Lady Galanor’s trying to find funds for Sargava. They don’t care who they kill to stop her. You sign on with ‘Alderra,’ and it’s your death warrant.”

“I’ve already shaken on it.”

Her mother’s eyes might have been coals, so bright did they seem to burn. “You stupid child! You let that woman run you!”

“She didn’t ‘run me’! What choice did I have if I’m to save this place?” Her mother didn’t answer, so Mirian pressed on. “What are you planning to do, Mother? Go back to selling carvings on the beach?”

Odonya raised her head and looked away. In profile, she looked every inch the Bas’o warrior woman she had never been, for she’d been raised by a Mulaa aunt who recognized her artistic talents at an early age. It was that aunt who’d taken her to the beach the same day Leovan happened by her display of wood carvings. Love at first sight, Father had called it in his oft-repeated rendition of the moment.

“Mother, look at me.”

Odonya’s chin rose higher.

Mirian’s tongue grew sharp to draw her out. “You could dress Kellic up in bright Mulaa robes and have him carry the goods—”

Odonya bared her teeth. “Do you mock your own blood?”

“Kellic wouldn’t survive anywhere but here. And neither will you. And you know it!”

“There’s where you’re wrong. I’m sick of this place and what it’s done to me. What it’s done to Kellic. What it did to your father.” She put a hand up to her face to wipe moisture from the corner of her eyes. Her voice was still fierce. “This city ate him away from the inside, Mirian.”

“He would have given his life to protect his family’s holdings.”

“He did. Is that what you mean to do?”

“I’ll manage things.”

“No. There’s enough money left for an apartment in the city, at least for a few years. Kellic will have to adjust.”

“And what about our servants, and our sailors, and Rendak and Gombe and Tokello? What will they do if you give up? This family has a responsibility to them!”

“They can find other work.”

“Can they? Who will they salvage for, Mother?”

She saw her mother’s jaw tightening.

Mirian swung her legs off the reclined chair and sat on its edge, sandaled feet on the tiles. “It was you who taught me to stand by my obligations. This homestead has been in Raas hands for over two hundred years. We owe it to those who fought and suffered and died to build this place. They’re buried out back of the stables. Would some stranger tend their graves?” She halted for a moment, watching her mother’s expression for signs of change. She saw none, even though she knew her mother’s people placed as much or more importance on gravesites as colonials. “And we have an obligation to the living who depend upon us for their livelihood.”

Her mother’s response sounded almost petulant. “Says the woman who wandered away for seven years.”

Mirian spoke quickly, for she sensed her mother readying to interrupt. “Six and a half. I can handle myself in the wilds. I can handle myself below the waves. And I’m the one who stopped that pirate attack.”

Odonya’s gaze was still stern, but there was a hint of steely pride in the set of her lip.

“I’m going,” Mirian said.

Her mother was silent for a long moment. “Stubborn,” she said at last. “Just like your father.”

“No. Not just like.”

“No.” Her mother reached slowly out for her hand, squeezed it tight before releasing and climbing to her feet with a sigh. “Come on, then.”

“Where are we going?”

“I thought you needed to know about the dive. I know damned well your father didn’t tell Lady Galanor about it, or she would have someone else running down those lizardfolk.”

Mirian stood, watching as her mother stepped into the house and returned with a lit candle. She used it to light a rusty lantern hung on one of the vine-wrapped pillars supporting the courtyard’s overhang.

“Come, child.”

Her mother strode across the tiled courtyard to open the weathered teak door to Leovan’s office. She replaced the keychain about her neck and held up the lantern.

The room was ordered and neat—shipshape, her father would have said. The sweet bouquet of his pipe tobacco still lingered, along with the comforting smell of old paper. Rolls of parchment and charts were organized on long shelves behind glass panels. The bookshelves were liberally sprinkled with knickknacks, many of which Mirian recognized as her mother’s carvings, but there were other odds and ends besides—a framed oil painting of her great-great-grandmother Mellient on the wall across from the desk hung beside a lovingly detailed chart of Desperation Bay. Hand-drawn, she knew, by Mellient and her husband.

Her father’s heroes. Not just because they were bold and daring, but, she now understood, because they were rebellious. Her great-great-grandfather was said to have been at least a quarter native, of the seafaring Ijo people. And that, to hear tell, had raised more than a few eyebrows among the neighbors.

Odonya closed the door behind her and stepped past the old desk, imported all the way from a Chelish port when Mirian’s remote ancestor, a fourth son of a minor noble, departed to claim land for himself. Mirian’s gaze lingered for only a moment on the heavy furniture, recalling childhood days spent pressed up against its cool black side, drawing in her sketchbook while her father scanned charts or consulted family journals.

There was a treasure trove of information stored in the volumes that lined the bookshelves, provided one could decipher the family code and had the sailing knowledge to make use of it. Mirian used the same code in her Pathfinder journal.

Mirian gazed up at Mellient’s portrait again, the plain woman with the copper-tinged black locks and the high-bridged nose who’d been so important to her family ancestry. Cracks had long since begun to show in the paint.

Mirian hadn’t realized how different the painting of Mellient truly was until she’d seen other portraits from the same period. Those early Chelish colonists had been so determined to retain their cultural heritage that they had already ossified into an imitation of dignity. Their grim faces in the Hall of Councils had frightened her as a little girl.

Great-great-grandmother Mellient had insisted the painter show her smiling, and that she be depicted with the tan most colonists developed rather than the phony lily-white used in painting aristocratic skin tones of the time. As a little girl, Mirian had been disappointed Mellient wasn’t more lovely, but she now recognized a strength of character in her appearance that was its own kind of beauty.

Odonya had been watching her. “Pay attention, child. You’d think you were half in love with her the way your father was.” Odonya gently pressed a dark finger to the glassed image next to the painting. A long peninsula extended east above Desperation Bay, northwest of all Sargava’s coastal settlements. This was a nautical chart, so the only topographical feature indicated on this portion of the map was the wide mouth of the Oubinga River.

“There you go, the Kaava Lands. More than four hundred miles of dense jungle. It’s said everything living inside there wants to kill you or eat you. Probably both. And that goes for any people, apart from the Ijo. That’s your destination. Still interested?”

“I thought this was a salvage dive.”

“It is. The Karshnaar lizardfolk mean to march in to their ancestral ground near some place called the Pool of Stars to retrieve lost chronicles of their people.”

Mirian had never heard of the Pool of Stars or the Karshnaar clan. The only lizardfolk in the Kaava Lands she’d heard of lived along the Little Vanji River and were known as the Vanizhar. She’d spoken with a Pathfinder who’d interviewed one of their elders at length.

“Why do the Karshnaar need salvagers?” Mirian asked.

“The clan’s very small and needs assistance if they’re to get in and out of the Kaava alive. And they came to your father because they’d heard he could dive. The old Karshnaar city is built into cenotes. Blue holes.”

Mirian had heard both terms, natural clear-water sinkholes that formed in limestone. She’d dived in one south of Kalabuto. “Are these lizardfolk aquatic?”

“No, but the city is linked up with a cavern system. To navigate through the city, you have to hold your breath for as long as the Karshnaar, which is a good long time, I’m told. Or be a salvager.”

“You seem to know a lot about the Karshnaar.” Mirian was a little surprised. Usually her mother kept apart from her father’s clients.

“I met them,” Odonya said. “One was a female named Kalina. I quite liked her.”

“Alderra said they promised gemstones in return.”

“Baskets of them. They were certain the majority of the gems lay hidden in secret chambers.”

“And why aren’t the Karshnaar clan still on their ancestral land?”

“You sound like your father. He asked them the same question.”

“And they said?”

“Some other clan drove them out.”

“The Vanizhar?”

“It may be. I don’t recall. Whoever they were long since abandoned the city.”

“If it’s such an excellent site, there may be something else living there.”

“Of course there is. The jungle never stops growing, and you can guarantee that some things have crawled into such a fine set of hidey-holes for protection, and that other things have crawled in after to hunt them. If you go there, you’ll be in the middle of the food chain.”

Her mother could be blunt when she meant to drive home a point.

“And what is this Pool of Stars?”

Odonya shook her head. “That I can’t answer. A landmark the Karshnaar need to reach before they find their city.”

“Do you know where the city is?”

“No. The lizardfolk trusted your father, but not that far.”

“Where are the Karshnaar now?”

Her mother pointed to the top of one of the glass-fronted cupboards, lifting the lantern so Mirian could see the warped end of a harpoon propped beside a frowning wooden mask and a cracked, cobalt-blue planter.

“They’re hiding on the cabinet?” Mirian joked.

Her mother’s lips turned down in irritation. “Look there, at that mask. Kalina noted it.”

She considered the mask and its drooping eyelids, its exaggerated mouth.

“The Karshnaar lands are in the Laughing Jungles, west of the Undaru River.” Odonya pointed at the face. “Near the edge of their territory, right outside the jungle, is a huge boulder with that face. You find that, you’ll find their hunting land. And likely a whole mess of trouble.”

Mirian didn’t tell her mother she was used to trouble. “It looks like I have a long ride in the morning.”

“By yourself?”

“I’ll take Rendak and Gombe.”

“You’ll not stay longer?”

Mirian shook her head. “We’re short on time.”

“You’re just like Leo.”

Mirian didn’t think that was true, but she held her tongue as she hugged her mother.

The older woman insisted she take the lantern. “I don’t think there are any candles in your bedroom. The sheets should be fresh. I had Venta change them.”

She bade her mother a good sleep as Odonya was locking the door to her father’s study.

“Be careful,” her mother called after, then added hastily, “I know you will, but it’s a mother’s duty to say such things. And you find time to pay respects to your father. He did love you.”

Mirian bore the lantern’s pool of light away. For the briefest instant, she remembered what it had been like as a young girl, to hear the swish of her mother’s skirt, the creak of her sandal, as she slipped away after singing her a Bas’o lullaby each night.

And then her mother walked away, and Mirian was once more in the present, standing before the door of a room in which she hadn’t slept in almost seven years. Somewhere, out back of the wall, her father lay at his final rest. As she put her hand to the doorknob, Mirian wondered whether she would have the strength to visit his grave come morning.

She would have to see. In many ways, she preferred the thought of a long journey into the brush searching for lizardfolk.

5

The Way through Darkness
Sylena

“I love this place, but I do tire of the heat.” Sylena looked away from her own image in the mirror to meet the reflected gaze of the man who’d entered her bedchamber. She paused with the kohl pencil beneath her left eye. “If I had my way, I would go naked most of the day.”

“I’m sure the folk of Sargava would be both delighted and scandalized,” Atok replied.

She smiled at him in satisfaction, shifted forward on the mirrored dressing table, and returned to her work. With her perfect complexion, huge black eyes, and sharp features, Sylena knew she was a beauty, but she never tired of compliments. She wore only a black, shoulderless, thigh-length slip that hugged her petite curves. She understood the effect it could have upon a man, and planned to use it shortly.

Night always fell fast in Sargava, and this evening it had come faster because of the mist. She’d had to cast a light spell on the mirror to finish touching up her appearance, for the candlelight was sucked up by the dark woodwork of the ancient inn’s “noble’s suite.” What she wouldn’t give for one of the lovely houses of the aristocrats, with their fine, wide courtyards and shady trees. Instead, she must play the part of a merchant’s daughter and live in this moldering room.

“What news?” Sylena asked. She knew Atok would not have returned so swiftly without good reason.

“The ‘news,’ mistress, is unlikely to please you.”

She’d been watching from her room’s private balcony when the Daughter of the Mist sailed back in to the harbor. “I’m already displeased, Atok. I want specifics. Clearly Edrek and his privateers missed them. Did the salvagers recover anything valuable?”

“They don’t seem to have recovered anything at all,” Atok said. The gillman’s eyebrows were severely arched, leaving him with a perpetual look of amused disdain. Sylena didn’t typically find the bald attractive, and the flaps along the gillman’s thick neck that enabled him to breathe underwater should have disgusted her, but there had always been something strangely magnetic about her bodyguard. He frowned minutely. “Edrek has been slain.”

She sighed. Edrek had been a useful operative.

“Kellic’s sister killed him with a magic wand.”

She paused in her work and turned in her chair. “Kellic’s sister? No one told me she was on the salvage ship.”

“She wasn’t supposed to be. Apparently she was on her way home to pay respects to her dear father, saw the salvage ship under attack, and dove off to fight them. She surprised Edrek mid-ambush, then she and Lady Galanor led the counterattack that drove the pirates back to their ship. There was some talk that she’d sabotaged the ship from below before she attacked above.”

Sylena eyed Atok carefully, trying to decide whether he were developing a sense of humor. The account verged on the preposterous.

“Either Edrek chose his pirates poorly,” she said finally, “or Kellic’s sister is quite formidable.”

“Both, I think. I’m sure the stories passing through the tavern are exaggerated, but she’s said to have thrown herself into the fray with a wand in one hand and a cutlass in the other.”

“And Alderra Galanor survived.”

“Yes.”

Her frown deepened. “Is there any word about what Lady Galanor plans next?”

“I’m afraid I heard nothing but talk of the adventure itself. All else is wild speculation.”

“Such as?” she growled.

“Forgive me, mistress. I didn’t wish to report speculation without indicating—”

“What,” she said sharply, “did you hear?”

“That Mirian Raas will take over the salvaging operation and use her powers to find riches. They say she spent years mastering the tribal magics of her mother’s people and is now a sorceress of great repute.”

“Is it true?”

“It’s well known that Mirian Raas is a scholar affiliated with the Pathfinder Society. Apparently she used a wand, probably identical to the one Leovan used. That may be all this talk of magic is.”

“But you cannot say for sure that she is not a practitioner?”

“No, mistress.”

“Then go find out.”

“As you will.” He bowed his head.

She returned to contemplating the mirror, noticing that crow’s feet showed near her eyes when she frowned. She was painstaking about the measures she took to preserve the appearance of youth. Sargava’s sun was a constant threat to her skin, but she had found, more and more, that the place’s climate agreed with her, at least in the mornings and evenings.

Atok hesitated at the door. “You are expecting company, mistress. Do you need me in attendance?”

“Kellic Raas is no danger to me.” In fact, the youth was one of her limited pleasures. She had the protections afforded by both her necklace and her ring, should she ever require them.

“Don’t you think he’ll have all the answers you require?”

“Do you grow lazy, Atok?”

“No, mistress.”

“Perhaps you need a little nap,” she said with mock sympathy.

“No, mistress.”

“The boy is credulous. He’ll repeat whatever he’s been told by his sister and the salvagers, but he won’t know much else. Seek the truth from other sources.”

Atok bowed formally. “It is kind of you to clarify. I will do my best.”

“See that you do better than Edrek.”

“Of that,” he said curtly, “you can rest assured.”

He shut the door behind him. She heard his footsteps receding through the outer room.

She hadn’t expected the assignment to drag on for as long as it had. Kellic was a pretty boy, and she’d turned him into a fine lover, but she was long past her patience for the backward Sargavan culture. To many, the only reason to reconquer Sargava was to punish the nation for its insubordination. Her sister, she knew, hoped the place would be abandoned to die of rot. But then, Rajana wasn’t a people person.

Sylena understood the land’s potential. When Cheliax reconquered the country, preference would be given to those who had worked hard to reclaim it. And there would naturally be some Sargavans who would welcome the return of Chelish rule. Lately she had begun to toy with certain ideas about her own position in that future.

She worked on her appearance for another twenty minutes before opening the balcony doors. Now, at last, the air was cool. The view of the stars over the ocean was stunning, for the mist had ebbed.

Unfortunately, she had no time to take it in. The late dinner she’d ordered would arrive in an hour, along with Kellic, and she had studying to do.

While schooled in magic, Sylena had little interest in the careful work required to master its complexities. Unlike her sister, she labored only a little now and then to keep up a handful of spells. Even the time spent with them was onerous. She dragged out a heavy leather tome and spent a boring quarter hour poring over pronunciation charts. If you put a syllable in the wrong place in the midst of a spell, you might just end up burning your hand off.

She was delighted when the inn servants announced themselves in the outer room, giving her an excuse to put the book aside. While they arranged the meal, she dressed in an off-the-shoulder red dress with a plunging neckline and a skirt slit to the upper thigh—the kind of thing Kellic likely never saw in Sargava.

He arrived punctually at half past eight, carrying a box of expensive candied nuts and a huge bouquet of tropical flowers. Sylena dismissed the hovering servants and allowed Kellic to pull the chair out for her.

The outer room of the suite was lit by a candle-heavy chandelier. She knew her age was better disguised by dimmer light, and that the candles gave her skin a golden glow.

They didn’t do badly for Kellic, either—but then, he was a good-looking man, even when dressed in the high-necked collars and cravats of a century ago. Sargavan styles were so backward.

His were a lovely blend of the best features of two peoples. A proud nose, but not long or severe. His lips were full and sensual, his hair black but as straight as hers. Unfortunately, he must recently have downed one of his potions, for his skin was not the natural light brown that she so admired, but more of a Sargavan olive. He’d explained to her that even though everyone in Sargava knew his heritage, his changed appearance smoothed the waters when he managed business affairs. The potions were expensive, however, and he claimed to use them sparingly.

When she had suggested they meet for dinner tonight, she’d expected to be consoling him over the loss of his ship. Now she was determined to find out not just what had happened, but what his family planned.

There was only a token difficulty in getting him to talk, owing to typical tight-lipped Sargavan social niceties. Kellic, though, was too incensed to remain silent long. By the time they’d reached the dessert course he’d opened up completely.

“I just don’t understand how she made such a good impression on Lady Galanor.” Kellic pushed away the half-finished torte. “You should have seen what Mirian was wearing.”

“Perhaps you underestimate your sister’s charms.”

“I’m not saying that Mirian’s unattractive. I’m just saying that she lacks social grace.”

Sylena smiled as though she understood. Privately, she thought the Sargavans had rather too much social grace; perhaps Alderra Galanor approved of Mirian because she was more direct. But then she knew how much Kellic idolized the Chelish nobility. In their ranks, his true skin color would be no hindrance to social mobility.

Sylena poured another glass of the strong Chelish wine she’d brought with her and handed it across the table. “It doesn’t seem a situation where social grace was paramount. If Lady Galanor felt grateful to her for helping, she might have wished to overlook Mirian’s manner. You say that they came to some accord?”

“I believe so.” He shook his head in anger. “She means to take over from me. She says she doesn’t, but she won’t even tell me where the new salvage drop’s going to be.”

Interesting, and likely problematic. “Did she say why not?”

“She says Lady Galanor’s sworn her to secrecy. Yet I’m the one who’s been running things, not her! I don’t even know when she intends to leave!”

Worse and worse. Sylena had thought that eliminating Leovan Raas had removed all competency from the family. Then Kellic had blathered on that his team was sure to find a famous wreck today, so she’d sent Edrek with those pirates. That had proved an expensive failure, one she’d be taken to task for by her sister. To make matters worse, Alderra Galanor was once more allied with someone who knew what they were doing.

It was vital she learn more about Mirian Raas. “Is your sister a sorcerer, Kellic?”

“I don’t think so. I suppose she might be. She’s been gone a long time. Why? Do you think she tricked Lady Galanor with magic?”

He was obsessed with his perceived loss of status in front of the Galanors. “I was just curious. You said she wielded a wand against the pirates.”

“A family heirloom. Like the one my father had.”

“Oh?” She knew that wand well. Atok had recovered both it and a magical ring from the arm his shark had torn off Kellic’s father.

“There were two sets, and father gave the other to Mirian, even though she was leaving.” It was obvious from his tone whom he thought they should have gone to.

“But you wouldn’t have wanted them, would you? You’re a landholder, not a laborer.”

Sylena studied him while he frowned, trying to decide her best course of action. It was crucial she find out what Mirian Raas planned, and that she stop her. But the best way to do that might result in the sacrifice of one of her favorite pieces. It would be a shame to have to lose Kellic. It would take a lot of work to establish herself with another nobleman, and he might not be as easily controlled.

Still, she had her orders. She smiled sadly. “Do you wish advice?”

Kellic shook his head. “Oh. No.”

“I’m a businesswoman.” She broadened her smile. “And we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes, of course we are. My dearest friend.” He gave her his best smile.

“Then, while I know it’s not completely proper, allow me to offer a suggestion.” She put a hand over his own. “I hope you don’t think me too forward.”

“I would naturally be grateful for any advice, Sylena, though I don’t wish to impose.”

“Of course not. You must learn what Mirian plans and what sort of arrangement she made with Lady Galanor. And when she leaves for that salvage trip, be sure you accompany her.”

She might as well have told him to stick his hand into a sack of snakes, judging by his reaction. She had long since suspected Kellic was a coward. She didn’t mind. It made him more malleable.

“Sometimes,” she said, “a gentleman must take risks. A woman likes a man who does that.”

Sylena had his interest now, naturally, so she took his hand as she rose and led him toward the door to her bedchamber. She saw him gulp in desire.

She liked to be appreciated. She paused with one hand on the doorknob, her lips inches from his ear. “I have a magical gift that I will give you, to help keep you safe.”

“A gift?” he repeated stupidly.

“A ring. I will let you wear it if you promise to come back to me.” She opened the door into the darkness. “Now fetch one of those candles from the table. The heat’s been stifling, and I think I shall be far more comfortable without all this clothing. But I don’t want you to lose your way in the dark.”

6

The Karshnaar
Mirian

Mirian woke with the dawn, light streaming through the windows to reveal the walls she had painted long ago. On her right wall was a seascape, the earliest and least sophisticated of the paintings, though she was still pleased with the way she’d drawn some of the distant ships. Facing her was a complex jungle landscape. As she blinked and sat up, she remembered her father bringing her the small tinctures to add to the paints to create the vibrant violets on some of the flowers, the yellow-white of the urdan roots.

He’d been a good father, once. Before he’d been consumed by bitterness.

Mirian found Tokello’s little niece already awake and caring for the horses. She sent her out to round up Rendak and Gombe. Then she helped Venta pack fresh fruits and bread for the day’s journey. Or tried to—Venta grew tired of her “interference” and chased her away so she could get the job done faster.

Rendak and Gombe hadn’t yet turned up, although little Keasha reported they’d be along presently. And that left Mirian standing in the courtyard by herself, contemplating the visit she’d been dreading.

She trudged out to the edge of the family holdings, beyond her grandmother’s long-abandoned vegetable garden, past the shack with its sagging roof where she’d shared her first kiss with a raffish sailor. She smiled at the memory and made her way to the rough stone fence that surrounded the family plot.

The tropic sun had aged her grandmother’s stone. After fifteen years, it was pocked and stained as though it had withstood fifty. Only her father’s was new.

She stood looking down at it, reading the engraved name and thinking of his broad rugged face. So kind, when she was young. So often frowning in later years, brought down by the city’s prejudices and the vagaries of the family profession. It was almost as if he had deliberately chosen trouble, to spite the establishment and give him better reason to hate it.

She knelt by the side of the stone and put her hand to it, bowing her head. “Goodbye, Father. I hope you’re in a kinder land now. I wish things hadn’t been so bad there between us, at the end.” She wished, too, that she knew what he’d done to twist Kellic, but she didn’t say that aloud. “I miss you,” she added. “And Mother misses you.” She would have said more, but she suddenly found it difficult to speak.

After she’d left home so many years ago, she’d spent time among her mother’s people, the Bas’o. In their tongue, she asked her ancestors to welcome him into their home and asked him for forgiveness for all the worries she had given him. Then, softly, she sang the Song of Sleep. It was the same she had heard from her mother every night, save for the final stanza, which dealt specifically with final rests and long journeys.

She rose, wiping tears from her eyes. When she turned she found Gombe and Rendak waiting solemnly on the graveyard’s edge, straw hats removed respectfully. Despite the fact that one was a trim, bald native and the other a tanned, burly colonial, at that moment they seemed almost like mirror images.

Before long, all three were riding under the old stone arch and headed onto the cobbled roadway. Soon they left the ridge road and reached the Diomar Wall, where khaki-uniformed native soldiers stared at them from on high.

Once she reached the main thoroughfare, Mirian might have turned north into the city, joining the long line of ox-carts laden with pineapples, lumber, sugar cane, and pelts, but her course required a southern turn onto the cobbled thoroughfare that had caused so much trouble for the baron. Miles of thatched mud huts stretched ahead of her on either side.

A small scouting patrol, distinctive in their gray-green jackets and helms, had gathered just behind the drovers, awaiting their turn through the gate. Their colonial officer eyed her stolidly as she drew closer, and she half expected a challenge. Would he question whether the animal was her property? Ask for identification? She steeled herself for the insulting inevitability of it, and was surprised when he simply looked away.

Perhaps she wasn’t the only woman of Bas’o heritage who rode a fine horse south. Or perhaps he simply wasn’t in the mood to harass someone this morning.

She led her men past the soldiers and moved through the long streams of natives dressed in red, blue, and yellow cloth. Some headed toward the gate, others south toward the vast pineapple fields. These, too, looked at her with guarded curiosity and some envy.

The colonials might lump all of Sargava’s native peoples together, but there were as many different tribes and ethnicities among the so-called “Mwangi people” as there were among the light-skinned northern races. Not only were they not all the same; they didn’t even necessarily get along. In Eleder, for instance, the Mulaa often viewed those of the more nomadic Bas’o tribe with suspicion. And even simple things like her sturdy boots, the plain bridle, and the horse itself spoke to wealth that many natives could never hope to obtain.

Such was Eleder. And yet, even with such poverty, the folk she passed laughed and joked among themselves.

When she passed from the slums and the end of the cobblestone, she arrived at the great sweep of pineapple fields, the plants in carefully staggered stages of growth, all tended by Mulaa workers in their bright robes, heads shielded by equally brilliant scarves or grass hats.

Another hour’s ride took them to fields of sugarcane, scattered with stands of palm trees and tropical grasses that demarked property lines.

They rode for hours, the sun hot on their backs, before they ventured past settled lands. Even then, the Laughing Jungle was just a smear on the southern horizon.

During that long ride, Rendak and Gombe fell to asking her more about her time away: what it had been like wandering with the Bas’o tribe through the plains, whether she’d seen anything truly interesting as a Pathfinder, what she was working on now. The two had an easy camaraderie, and she soon discovered Gombe brought out a more playful side of Rendak. When she’d left, Gombe had been a raw but promising recruit, a close-mouthed newcomer. Now he and Rendak bantered with the ease of old friends.

She had a harder time with her own spirits. The rings on her fingers felt like weights, and her eyes were drawn to them like lodestones. As angry as her father had been when she declared her plans to leave Eleder, he’d refused the return of the tools he’d given her. He claimed they were her birthright, even as she protested she’d never have need for them. It tuned out she had, countless times, making her way through swampland or diving in that Kalabuto cenote. Or just the other night, to save the Daughter and its crew

Because of Rendak, she now knew her father had fully expected her homecoming. And the strange thing was that once she was back on the deck, feeling the roll of waves and breathing in the salt spray, she wondered whether she had chosen right all those years ago. It wasn’t that she regretted getting to know her mother’s side of the family or learning the secrets of the adventuring scholars who called themselves Pathfinders, but there was something invigorating about the pounding surf and the ocean breeze. She would never have admitted as much to Rendak and Gombe, but she looked forward to more time upon the waters. The thought of returning to the dusty cave she’d been exploring so far from the ocean felt like turning her back on life itself.

And yet, to return to the sea meant to return to Eleder, and all of its ugliness.

They stopped at noon to let their horses graze. She mulled over her feelings while she fanned herself with her hat. Rendak and Gombe rooted through the supplies to arrange a meal. Only when they sat down together did she fully explain her mission.

“The lizardfolk, eh?” Gombe said. “I wondered why we never ended up working with them.”

“You know why,” Rendak said.

The native glanced covertly at Mirian.

“I know my brother’s being an ass,” she said.

“It’s not quite like that,” Rendak said charitably. “He’s just got himself so worried about what people think that he forgot who he really is.”

“He used to be a nice enough lad,” Gombe agreed.

As they ate in the shade of a baobab tree, she looked for the edge of the jungle just visible through the haze to the south. Lizardfolk were rare enough anymore, at least anywhere close to Eleder. She was a little surprised that a tribe managed to live so close within the Laughing Jungle and still avoid any incidents. Humans and lizardfolk had an uneasy relationship. Either this tribe had only recently come to the Laughing Jungle, or they had learned to deal better with human encroachments than others.

Rendak broke her reverie with a light touch on her arm. He pointed toward a cheetah lying in the shade of a bush only fifty yards off. The big cat watched them with bright green eyes.

“She’s a beauty,” Rendak said.

Gombe froze. “Pretty’s fine, but I hope she’s not hungry.”

Rendak laughed at him. “Cheetahs don’t hunt humans.”

“They don’t?”

“Only bald ones,” Mirian said.

Both men looked at her in surprise, then chuckled.

Mirian nodded to the cheetah as she climbed to her feet. “Good hunting, sister.”

The cat stared as they mounted up and rode away.

By four bells they had left the trail and moved into the clumpy jungle grass that had grown up to replace burned-out trees. A herd of native cattle grazed only a half league west. Nearer at hand was a huge boulder. On drawing closer, Mirian saw that it did, indeed, resemble a slightly rounder version of the face in her father’s study, with pouting lips and immense closed eyes.

Mirian slipped down from her horse and considered the jungle. It began abruptly, sharply, seemingly as impenetrable a barrier as a cliff face. Rendak and Gombe were more than a little troubled when she informed them she’d be heading in alone.

“You brought us all this way to watch the horses?” Rendak asked.

“I’m walking onto someone else’s tribal ground,” Mirian reminded him. “Don’t worry. I’m an old hand at this.”

“Even old hands can get hurt,” Gombe said.

Rendak agreed. “Why don’t you leave one of us with the horses, and the other can—”

She shook her head. Lizardfolk were famously territorial. If something went wrong, she didn’t want it to go wrong for anyone but her. “If I don’t come out, don’t come in after me.”

Rendak snorted.

“That’s an order. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve got to get moving.” She turned her back, heard Rendak’s furtive protest die when he saw her kneeling. Praying had been a useful way to cut him off, but it was also entirely proper to ask for both Desna’s blessing and her ancestors. After the proper words, she took her shoulder pack from her horse, buckled it in an X over her chest, and started forward, machete in hand.

“We’ll be waiting,” Gombe called.

Mirian walked just inside the tree line for almost a quarter hour before discovering a trail. In the press of the dirt nearby she detected the print of an elongated, four-toed foot. Lizardfolk.

She advanced into the jungle. It was dark beneath the canopy, but not the unalterable blackness those sensational pamphlet-writers led one to think. Bright orchids bloomed at face level, and tulu birds and parrots called to their flocks from branches above.

Mirian didn’t know whether this was a trail cut by the Karshnaar or just an animal track they used for convenience. She walked for nearly half an hour, machete in hand, wondering whether she should turn back. Rendak and Gombe would be setting up camp. She could join them and head deeper into the jungle come morning.

A branch snapped behind her. She whirled.

A lizardfolk stood there, pointing a long, straight spear at her chest.

“You are not wanted here, human.”

7

Weapons and Scales
Mirian

The lizardfolk’s arms rippled with muscle. Its scales were the color of palm fronds, touched here and there with spots of brown or lighter green, as a human might be dusted with freckles. Its long neck was adorned with a necklace of turquoise stones, identical to the belt that held up its loincloth. The frill that stretched from the back of its head and ran down its spine was fully erect, a sign she’d been told by fellow Pathfinders meant aggression, although the pointed spear was already a fair indicator.

“These are the lands of the Karshnaar,” it continued in a rasping voice. “Leave.” Was its deep voice a sign of masculinity?

Mirian hoped she sounded calmer than she felt. “I come seeking Kalina.”

Her challenger’s head tilted a minute degree. “For what reason?”

“I am the daughter of Leovan Raas. The man Kalina spoke with about salvaging.”

“Salvaging,” the lizardfolk repeated, awkwardly. “I do not know that word. But the Raas man is completed, and his hatchling sent us away.”

Hatchling? She wondered how her brother would react to that description. “I’m his other hatchling. Can we continue this talk with lowered blades?”

“You enter our land without ceremony.”

“I ask your pardon. I wasn’t sure where your territory began.” Again she wondered how this tribe had existed so close to human lands without coming into conflict before, especially if they challenged all human visitors.

“Jekka!” The higher-pitched voice rang through the jungle behind Mirian.

The lizardfolk with the spear hissed. Its long, slim red tongue flicked out to taste the air. Its snout was longer and slimmer than the lizardfolk Mirian had seen before.

Mirian stepped to the side as another lizardfolk came trotting up. The new one was slightly smaller and wore a kind of armored disk that nearly obscured its torso, as well as a tanned loincloth that matched the other’s, held up by a similar belt decorated with stones of polished turquoise. In one hand it carried a distinctive axe with a blade almost the length of Mirian’s machete.

The two creatures exchanged a string of vocalizations that sounded something like low-pitched bird calls. Mirian studied them and the way the skin that wasn’t a true lip pulled back to reveal sharp teeth as they spoke. She longed to break into her pack and sketch one or both of them, but settled for memorizing their features.

The eyes in both faces were not cold and blank like a snake’s, but alive with curiosity. Their snouts projected like a hound’s muzzle rather than a bird’s beak. Some colonials called the lizardfolk “frillbacks,” but the frills on the Karshnaar were small, stretching only from the base of their spines to the backs of their heads.

At the conclusion of their talk, the sentry lowered its spear, its head half turned so it could speak to both Mirian and the newcomer.

The sentry’s frill had begun to droop, the way a dog’s hackles lowered. It stepped aside, its amber eyes boring into Mirian’s own as its companion stepped forward.

“I am Kalina,” the second creature said. “You have come to our lands to speak with me?”

So the new one was female. Mirian curtsied with a pluck at the sides of her pants. “I have. I am Mirian, daughter of Leovan Raas.”

Kalina’s head cocked to one side, birdlike. Her own coloring had none of her companion’s freckling. Was that, too, a sexual characteristic? “Your markings are different,” she said. “More like your mother’s.”

“I take after her.”

Kalina blinked large golden eyes. “Your mother was kind to us.”

“She is a kind woman.”

“But you are a warrior. I see it. You are not like your brother. Speak, daughter of Leovan Raas.”

“I want to work with you. As my father planned.”

“It is too late for that,” the sentry said.

Kalina’s head whipped swiftly around on the snaky neck, and her voice was sharp. “It is not too late, Jekka.”

“Am I, chief warrior, to take orders about safety from the chief hunter?” The sentry then lapsed into its clicking chirping language, and Kalina responded in the same.

After a few sharp exchanges, Kalina brandished her axe-like weapon, and for a moment Mirian feared the two would come to blows.

But the chief warrior pulled its spear to one side, and the blade snicked away so that the weapon seemed nothing more than a grayish quarterstaff ornamented with intricate markings and sigils.

“Wait,” Kalina said. She was still looking at the sentry as she spoke, but Mirian assumed the instructions were intended for her.

Kalina disappeared around a bend in the trail and was quickly lost behind intervening foliage.

Jekka stood statue-still. No, Mirian reflected, lizard-still, blinking seldom, turned sideways to her.

Mirian was left wondering how dangerous her situation was. She rested her hand on the hilt of her cutlass. Thinking about the speed she’d seen demonstrated by both lizardfolk, she flexed the hand that still held her machete. She wished that she’d undone the hook and eye clasp on the side holster where she kept her wand. She had one shot left.

“Planning tricks, human?” Jekka asked.

“I plan no tricks.”

Its tongue flicked out. “You lie.”

This one was certainly going out of its way to make things difficult. “What makes you think I lie?”

“And you waste air with stupid questions.”

Mirian took a slow breath. She had learned diplomacy and patience on her sojourns in the wilds. “Pretend that I’m stupid, and tell me why you think I’m lying.”

The dark green head turned to regard her directly. “My blade is sheathed. I do not offer battle posture. My frill is down. I do not signal danger.”

“I don’t know what your stance means, or when you might threaten me again. My people explain their actions so there will be no misunderstandings.”

Its tongue flicked out, and she saw it was forked. “That has not been my experience.”

“That’s fair enough,” she admitted. “The honorable among my people practice such methods. I want trust between us.”

“If you wish trust between the two of us,” the sentry said, “your wait will be long.”

“You tell me you don’t plan to attack, but say I cannot trust you.”

It growled deep in his throat. “You wish to pretend hatchling ignorance? I will give clarity. You are welcome upon our land. You will be offered no hostility unless you present it. My brother, records keeper of my people, will speak to you. And then you will leave. At no time before or after will I attack. Unless you give me a reason.”

She’d expected any number of challenges today, up to and including pursuit by Chelish spies, or the absence of the lizardfolk. She’d never thought she’d have to try to win over an antagonistic sentry.

“What is your name, warrior?”

“I am Jekka Eran Sulotai sar Karshnaar.”

“Your Taldane is excellent.”

It seemed uninterested in the compliment. “An elder nest mate taught us your speech. She thought it would aid our dealing with humans.”

“Has it?”

“It showed me your words were as untrustworthy as your actions.”

“Do not,” a new voice interjected from farther down the trail, “give heed to my brother Jekka.”

Another of the lizardfolk stepped out of the trees, one with a longer snout, though the creature was shorter in stature. It wore a beige robe with the hood thrown back. At its waist was a belt adorned with the same turquoise stones the others used to support their loincloths. It raised a long-fingered hand. “I welcome you to our lands, daughter of Leovan Raas. I am Heltan. Do you speak for your tribe?”

Mirian thought for a moment. Did “tribe” mean her family or her nation? “I speak for my family.”

Heltan’s head moved back and forth, rapidly. “Do you revive the agreement I made with your Leovan?”

“That is what I mean to do.”

Kalina came up behind Heltan and stood at its shoulder.

“That is fine!” The lizardfolk sounded truly pleased. “How soon do you wish to leave?”

After the difficulties with Jekka the sentry, Mirian hadn’t expected the rest of the negotiations to be so simple. “As soon as possible,” she said. “It may take a few days to ready the ship, however.”

“We may sleep in your courtyard, as before?” Mirian considered her answer for only a moment. “Yes.” Mother hadn’t mentioned that particular arrangement. Likely the lizardfolk wouldn’t have felt safe in the beds her father would have offered, and they wouldn’t have been welcome anywhere else inside the city. “Just so I’m clear on the agreement, we’re to help you find your city, and then you’re to give our family the jewels of your people?”

“We have little need of them,” Heltan replied.

“We value other things,” Jekka added.

All to the better. “Well then, when shall I expect you at my homestead?”

“We can leave as soon as Jekka gathers his gear,” Heltan said.

So the angry one was coming as well. Mirian looked over to him. “Did you come last time?”

“I was there. I am chief warrior,” he added, as though the matter were obvious.

How safe was her mother with Jekka around? She looked to the other lizardfolk for reassurance, found their expressions inscrutable, save that Heltan all but shook with excitement.

“I guess you’d best grab your gear,” she said to Jekka. As he wandered down the trail she asked Heltan, “Will he be a problem?”

“Jekka is brave,” Heltan said.

“He seems angry.”

“He is disappointed.” Heltan’s head tilted first left and then right. “I do not know the words to explain. But now it will be better.”

“Do not worry, daughter of the Leovan,” Kalina told her. “If he does not know your ways, you can teach him.”

Somehow Mirian doubted working with Jekka would be that simple.

8

Off to the Shining Sea
Ivrian

As I scanned the faces of the lizardfolk, I wondered at their seeming. I knew with dread certainty that beneath that placid façade lurked a volcano of primitive savagery and violence, one ready to destroy any who aroused the fires of the ancient hate that burned beneath.

—From The Daughter of the Mist

There was no warning. His mother simply appeared in his doorway that evening and said, “It’s time.”

Ivrian pretended calm as he laid down the pen. He considered the paper where he’d been scribbling possible titles for the epic he’d write, then rose and straightened his shirt.

In the five days since their return from the ill-fated salvage expedition, Ivrian had learned everything possible about the Raas family, particularly Mirian. Half native or not, she would make for the ideal heroine to feature in a new series of leaflets. She was good-looking, and if he sank some money into the booklets to hire a good artist, she’d be gorgeous, which always drew in the male readership, especially if there were another picture or two of her on the inner pages.

He was so certain the leaflets would sell that he was even considering the use of his real name on the byline. Stories about a sexy salvager might have appeal beyond the colony. What he wouldn’t give to have them gathered into some kind of book, like those of the great Ailson Kindler, mistress of adventure. Her novels of brave heroes battling terrible horrors were in demand throughout the Inner Sea, one of those rare instances where a popular writer was also one of the best, and he’d long dreamed of following in her footsteps. Just as Ailson had based many of her tales around her own exploits, he planned to base his around those of Mirian Raas—provided he could get her to open up about said exploits. He could write an entire series with her as the star. He’d cut her in for a percentage, of course, and he was still debating how much he should suggest as he glanced out the window at the estate’s wide courtyard. The sun had dropped behind the outer wall, but its lingering glow painted the clouds with amber and gold.

Ivrian had moved to the city’s center to dwell in the heart of the small theater district. When his mother had told him they’d have to depart at a moment’s notice, Ivrian hadn’t understood at first that it meant he’d have to abandon his quarters downtown. Spies, Mother had explained, might be watching their every move.

True or not, the notion that he might be the subject of espionage appealed to Ivrian’s sense of the dramatic. Besides, his old rooms at the estate were far more spacious, and Cook babied him with his favorite dishes and desserts every night.

He remained fully cognizant of his mother’s hope that he’d follow her footsteps as a government troubleshooter, not to mention the inevitable family duties. Despite that, he’d actually enjoyed his mother’s company in the last few days as they hosted a steady stream of specialists including tailors, bootmakers, and even wizards to outfit them for the adventure that lay ahead.

Ivrian grabbed a pack made from waterproof sealskin identical to the one his mother was already shouldering. Their traveling gear had been moved to Mirian’s ship days ago so that when the Galanors left home they’d carry no luggage. They’d ridden out several times together in the last few days, hoping to lull any watchers into a false sense of security. If their watchers thought the Galanors were simply out for another jaunt, they might not pay close enough attention until it was too late.

“Coming?” his mother shouted.

“Yes, Mother.”

He caught up to her on the central stairs. Together they hurried outside, down the stone steps, and past the carefully squared shrubberies to board the closed carriage.

The vehicle rolled forward as soon as his mother knocked on the panel behind the driver.

With the curtains closed, his mother, sitting across from him, was little more than a dark suggestion of herself, but there was no mistaking the excitement in her voice. “Are you ready for this?”

“Very much so,” Ivrian said.

She laughed.

Ivrian felt a little guilty. His mother seemed certain that this expedition was going to change the direction of Ivrian’s life. “Mother.” He cleared his throat. “I want you to know how much I appreciate this. All of this exposure will make wonderful background for my writing.”

“I thought you’d say that.” His mother sounded pleased.

“I’m still not interested in working with the government. Permanently, I mean.” He didn’t add that he also had no intention of marrying or carrying on the family name or any of that. His mother surely knew his feelings on those subjects hadn’t changed. He’d been perfectly clear about it before he moved out.

She was so silent that Ivrian was afraid he’d hurt her feelings.

“Son,” Alderra said at last, “it’s just a pleasure to be spending time with you.”

That made him feel even worse, and he couldn’t decide if she was still playing master manipulator or if she really meant what she was saying. Fortunately, another line of conversation presented itself.

“We’re going north,” Ivrian noted.

His mother sounded faintly amused. “Yes.”

“The Daughter is berthed to the south.”

“We’re not sailing on the Daughter.”

Ivrian was puzzled for only a moment. “We are still sailing, aren’t we?”

“Yes.” His mother drew out the word as though hoping to lead Ivrian to a conclusion.

“You think the Daughter is being watched.”

“I can almost guarantee it.” Alderra Galanor sounded a little smug. “And any of them would have noted a surreptitious effort to load the ship with foodstuffs and gear over the last week, and careful tending of the vessel itself. I’d hoped they’d assume we thought we were being clever.”

The carriage came to a halt along the north quays. Alderra must have paid in advance, for the carriage left the moment the two climbed down.

The sun had finished its low fade below the horizon during their journey. Now there was only a dim line of light in the west.

The tall masts of ships stood black against the lighter darkness of the night sky and the wealth of stars. Waves lapped against the old stone pylons that held up the wharf as they started down its length.

Lights burned here and there along the ships creaking at their anchors, for there were sailors keeping watch aboard.

Alderra made immediately for a two-master. Ivrian followed her up the gangplank.

Waiting with a directional lantern was none other than burly Captain Rendak. He flashed the light toward but not at them, presumably so they wouldn’t be blinded.

“M’lady.” Rendak bobbed his head slightly.

“Is everyone aboard?” Ivrian’s mother asked.

“Everyone but Mirian and the guides.”

Ivrian’s gaze swept over the ship and saw it was not as abandoned as he’d assumed. It might have looked silent and empty as the other ships, but it was peopled with men and women who sat against the rail or stretched out along the planks.

One lean fellow came strutting across the weather deck and stopped before them, a brimmed hat cocked rakishly over his head. He swept it off with a formal bow.

“Lady Galanor,” he whispered.

Alderra swept a hand to her son. “Ivrian, this is Captain Akimba of the Red Leopard. He comes highly recommended.”

“A pleasure,” Ivrian said.

“The pleasure is mine,” the dim shape whispered. Ivrian had little sense of the fellow save that he had a broad native accent and wore a calf-length coat. Ivrian envied him that choice, for the wind off the water was chill.

“Although,” Akimba said, “I’d naturally feel a little better if I knew precisely where we were headed.”

“Ah,” Alderra Galanor said mischievously. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

Akimba grunted noncommittally. “Do you wish to be shown your quarters?”

“I think we’ll wait here. Thank you.”

Akimba replaced his hat and stepped over to Rendak.

Ivrian leaned close to his mother’s ear. “Why aren’t we taking a government ship?”

“They’re spread thin as is. The government can’t afford to have a navy ship wait offshore for a week or more. So I’ve hired the Red Leopard. It’s swift, and Mirian thinks highly of her captain’s judgment. We should be able to outrun any ship afloat, especially with as little cargo as we’re carrying.”

There was a clatter of wheels along the road. Ivrian turned as he felt Captain Akimba and Rendak tense. A few of the sailors muttered among themselves, and a stern voice from near the wheelhouse ordered them to shut their damn mouths. He recognized the voice as belonging to Chilton, the handsome sailor who’d become a steady presence in the household the last few days.

A covered carriage rolled into view, passing a final row of taverns and warehouses before rolling to a stop at the end of their quay. The paneled door opened, and a slim figure dropped to the ground. Though she was garbed in an ankle-length coat, her hair hidden by a tricorne hat, there was no mistaking the wide-hipped figure for a man. Behind her came a man similarly garbed, and Ivrian heard a whispered discussion between them, though he could make out no words.

“Who’s that fellow with Mirian?” he asked.

“Kellic Raas, I expect.” His mother didn’t sound pleased.

Ivrian was about to ask where their guides were when three more figures slipped out of the carriage. Each wore a hooded robe. One carried a strange axe with a very long blade, and another held a staff.

Ivrian’s attention was momentarily diverted by a sudden expostulation from Kellic, who’d drawn up beside Mirian. He was gesticulating in protest as they reached the end of the gangway. Ivrian smirked. So Kellic didn’t approve of the ship.

And then Ivrian’s eye traveled back to the three robed figures and he saw for the first time that something trailed along the ground in back of their robes. Were those tails? His hair rose along the back of his neck.

“What are those things?”

“Lizardfolk,” his mother answered quietly, then moved forward to join Akimba and Rendak as Mirian climbed the gangplank to the ship.

Ivrian lingered just behind so that he might overhear. Mirian kept her hat brim low and brusquely returned their greetings, verifying with Rendak that the team and gear were aboard and stowed, and with Akimba that the ship was ready.

Ivrian watched Kellic. Mirian’s brother removed his hat and stood frowning, his gaze taking in the ship as if he disliked every single thing he saw. He’d sour his looks if he kept up that attitude. What was he so angry about?

Akimba cleared his throat as Mirian and her brother made way for the three robed figures, and Ivrian heard not just mutters but entire conversations, curses, and whispered prayers as sailors caught sight of them. More than one voice could be heard talking about “frillbacks” and how they were bad luck or untrustworthy.

“Belay that!” Akimba snapped. A dark figure moved out from the wheelhouse to mouth warnings to the little clusters of crew. Chilton. Now the sailor’s presence in the house as a “maritime advisor” seemed far less a pretense for his mother to spend quality time with a good-looking younger man. He must have been the go-between for finalizing arrangements like this.

Ivrian’s attention was quickly pulled back to the nearer figures. “It’s time to set sail,” Mirian told the captain.

“I’m at your service.” Akimba bowed his head. “But I lack a course. Or destination.”

“North by northwest for now. Once we’re out of the harbor we can talk at length.”

Akimba’s posture stiffened, but he nodded acknowledgment. “As soon as we’re under way, I expect to see you in the cabin.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Akimba turned and began calling orders in a stage whisper. Instantly his men were up and moving, some scattering across the deck, some scampering up the lines.

Mirian waved the lizardfolk closer, but they remained rooted to the spot. Two sailors stepped widely around them before hauling in the gangplank.

Mirian said, “Step forward, you three. I’d like to introduce you.”

Ivrian paid a little too much attention to the lizardfolk’s movements and their look for their strange, savage names to sink in. The only one he remembered was Kalina. There was something ominous about the one with the staff.

The one without a weapon proved the most talkative, and civilized, for he bowed his head to Ivrian’s mother in a birdlike motion. As he moved, Ivrian caught a glimpse of wide-set eyes behind a lipless, muzzle-like mouth.

“We’d best clear the deck,” Mirian said. “Rendak, why don’t you show everyone below?”

“Of course.”

“I’m not going below,” Kellic said crossly.

“Follow me, if you wish,” Rendak said with a sweeping arm gesture. He led the way aft toward a door beside the stairs to the quarterdeck. Beyond it was a gangway, more ladder than stairs.

Ivrian’s mother was the first behind him, and Ivrian after, which meant that the most savage-seeming of the lizardfolk, the one with the staff, came immediately behind.

But Alderra Galanor seemed not at all troubled. She said, conversationally: “We really won’t be aboard very long. There’s just one overnight.”

“The site’s that close?” Ivrian asked.

“That close.”

Beyond the short gangway was a warren of narrow doors. Rendak indicated one, immediately on the left. “There you are, Lady. And, uh, Lord. The rest of you, follow me.”

Ivrian wouldn’t technically be a lord until, Shelyn forbid, his mother’s death, but he didn’t correct Rendak.

Ivrian watched the salvager lead the lizardfolk into the darkness and wondered whether Rendak was still to be addressed as “captain.” Probably not, given that Akimba commanded the ship and Mirian seemed in charge of the salvagers.

His mother opened the door to their cabin and shone her lantern into the tiny space.

There was barely enough room to slide in sideways. Ivrian spied their storage chests under the bottom bunk and a small porthole beside the top berth. His mother hung the lantern on a hook high on the bunk’s post.

“I call lower bunk,” his mother declared sprightly. “A perk of age.” She grinned. “I’m going topside. I need to be in on this meeting.”

“Can I come with you?”

“No, son. This information is on a need-to-know basis. And you don’t need to know, yet.”

“Oh.” Ivrian was a little disappointed.

His mother squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll tell you all about it later. For now, settle in and get a good night’s sleep. It’ll be your last one on a mattress for weeks. I’ll try not to wake you when I return.” She raised a hand in farewell before stepping out, closing the door behind her.

Ivrian reexamined the cramped surroundings. He could hear the pad of feet on the decks above and occasional low voices, but he had no idea what was happening up there or how he’d describe it in his account. He doubted readers would be interested in seeing a cabin described in any great detail. What would he do, go on about the shades of wood grain or the precise size of the porthole?

Fortunately, he’d been on enough trips he could fake the steps of this departure. Easy enough to imagine the rattle of lines as the sails swung down, the muscled sailors straining to heave up the anchor, the billow of the sails as they swung to meet the wind.

He patted the upper berth. There was very little mattress, but at least it was stuffed with clean-smelling straw. There were two blankets, both of which felt superfluous in the stifling cabin, so he folded one into a pillow and then took off his pack.

He set it on his mother’s bunk. Constructed of sealskin, the pack was clearly new. What wasn’t immediately obvious was that it also bore a powerful enchantment. His mother had personally invested in five of the packs, one for each professional salvager and each Galanor. Every pack opened onto far more internal space than was apparent from the outside—a sorcerous trick. And no matter how much weight was added to one, they’d never feel heavier than five pounds. Ideally suited, his mother had said with a smile, for transporting a fortune in gems.

Right now, all that Ivrian’s pack held was his portable writing desk, which he withdrew and contemplated with pleasure. Nonmagical, it was still a small marvel, complete with hinged top to double the workspace size and a wealth of small drawers that held his inkwell, quills, sharpeners, and paper. While nowhere near the expense of the magical haversacks, it had still seemed an extravagance, and he’d been delighted when his mother presented it to him.

There didn’t look to be enough room to sit upright on the top bunk, so he climbed onto his mother’s, rested the desk in his lap, and began to record his impressions of everything that had happened that evening. He was distracted as he felt the ship surge forward like a great beast let free from its leash.

Ivrian couldn’t help grinning with a sense of exhilaration as the ship rose and fell over the wave swells. They were underway.

Once his notes were complete, he packed up the writing gear, his fingers lingering lovingly on the dark polished mahogany of the desk before restoring it to the haversack. He then stared out the porthole for a while. Mostly he saw endless waves under a velvet, star-shot sky, but under the silver moon he beheld the jagged outline of the Lizard Kings: a weathered series of huge reptilian heads carved out of a line of reefs northeast of Smuggler’s Shiv. They reared out of the waves as though behemoths stood sentinel along the deep ocean beds. He’d glimpsed them only once before, and had been a little disappointed, for most had been softened by wind, wave, and rain. By night they were more fearsome, and it gave him a satisfying thrill imagining what they must have looked like in ancient times.

With the Kings receding, he reached into one of the haversack’s side pockets and carefully removed his second treasure—an autographed copy of Ailson Kindler’s best work, the outstanding In the Council of Corpses.

It was a first run of the first edition, with the misnumbered second folio, which made it even more valuable. He’d leave it on the ship rather than taking it into the jungle, of course. Now that he realized how little they’d actually be on board, he felt silly having brought it. Still, it was always a pleasure to soak in Kindler’s prose. He’d give a lot to write with such luscious, evocative phrases. Every time he tried, though, it sounded too forced, as though he were a child jumping and waving his arms to get attention.

He read the familiar pages for a good hour or more before fatigue crept in. Mother still hadn’t returned to tell him about the meeting. He resolved not to worry about it. There was always the morning. Besides, she had told him it was vital to catch sleep when one could while on an expedition, and he was more and more beginning to sense she knew her business.

He restored his treasure to the sealskin, dragged the heavy chest out from under the bunk to store his pack and shoes, unbuttoned his shirt, and climbed into the bunk. Already he was thinking of the strange coast that lay ahead. His mother had said something about an inland trek and a secret pool, so he fell to sleep with visions of an ancient city built of emerald blocks, choked in greenery and gleaming with golden idols shaped like lizardfolk.

So soundly did he sleep that he never heard his mother return, nor the rising winds and lash of rain and the shouts of sailors.

He didn’t wake at all until the ship slammed into the reef.

9

Landfall
Mirian

Mirian woke in the darkness to the sound of the weather bell. The vessel rocked madly, and the decks creaked and trembled under the press of rain. Thunder rumbled, and a sheet of lightning outside the porthole blinded her.

She threw off her coverlet and sank down on one knee to yank her sea chest out from under her bunk.

The Leopard rolled forward to aft, which meant it remained under a modicum of control. Akimba was a seasoned captain with a hand-picked crew—these sailors knew the way of the seas and would do their best to keep their ship afloat.

But the gods didn’t always care about the fates of individual men and women. Mirian took the key from about her neck and threw open the chest, guiding herself by the frequent slashes of lightning.

Within lay most of her gear, well ordered so that she might have found what she sought without light, if need be. There were changes of clothes, her survival pack, a satchel stocked with tiny vials filled with antidotes for jungle poisons, fine tools, and a watertight pouch of eel hide where she kept her Pathfinder journal, ink, and pens.

It likewise held her equipment belt and sword belt, both of which she buckled into place. She then threw on a light, hooded rain cape given to her by a Bas’o aunt, restored the chest, and hurried from the cabin.

Beyond the door, the storm was a monster that tore at the sky with lightning fingers and shrieked at those who dared ride the waves.

The sails were reefed, of course. Canvas raised in these winds would not only be useless; it’d be shredded.

The rain lashed her as she crossed the plunging deck. The ship rode down a valley of water and crashed into a wave higher than the ship itself. Water foamed over the prow, but the Leopard rose and the ocean ran back out of the scuppers.

Mirian found Akimba at the wheel. The lantern beside him had burned out, and no one had troubled to relight it.

He caught her eye as she steadied herself on the post where the weather bell hung.

“It’s not safe up here!” He shouted over the storm.

“I can handle myself,” Mirian shouted back. “How bad is it?”

“We’re taking a lot of water.”

“I’ll get my people to help.”

Akimba shook his head. “Plenty of hands for the pumps.”

She steadied herself as the Red Leopard climbed a smaller wave, then rushed down another. Beyond the occasional flash of lightning rolled black sea and storm clouds in every direction.

Akimba motioned her close. As she leaned in, he spoke into her ear. “Might put guards on your fr— lizardfolk. The crew thinks this is their fault.”

Mirian frowned.

“They say frillbacks are unlucky.”

She steadied herself as they hit another rough wave, one that left the deck ankle deep in water before the Leopard bore on and spray flung from her sides.

“You know the time?” she asked. “Or our course?”

“Coming on half past five bells. The wind was with us until the storm hit. We’re still north by northwest, and veering north.”

“We weren’t that far south of the Kaava!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. I’ll handle it,” Akimba added. “Now get below. See to your people.”

Mirian clapped his shoulder before she left him.

Rather than a lantern, she took a glow stone from her pouch and whispered it to light as she started down the gangway. The stone was small and flat, one of several her father had recovered from a wreck a few years ago, after her own departure. By its light she saw not only the gangway, but her brother, braced miserably against it.

Kellic had put on the same gentleman’s dining pants, boots, and blue short-sleeved shirt he’d been wearing last night, as though he were headed for an evening on the town. His pallor now had less to do with any potion and much more to do with seasickness. Judging from his misaligned shirt buttons, he’d dressed in the dark.

“Mirian,” he said with a groan. “What’s going on?”

“A storm. You’d best get back to your cabin.”

He shook his head. He’d been defiant ever since she’d returned from the jungle with the lizardfolk, and increasingly ill-tempered when she refused to divulge her plans. It had driven a further wedge between them. How could she persuade him she trusted him when it was so clear that she didn’t? All she could repeat was that she’d been sworn to secrecy by Lady Galanor, which hadn’t impressed Kellic.

“Go on,” she said. “Look at you. You’re going to throw up any second.”

“Where are you going?”

“To check on our team.”

“That’s what Tokello said.”

Her brother and the healer shared the final passenger cabin. Every other passenger but the Galanors were in the vast and mostly empty cargo hold.

“Come on, then.” If nothing else, maybe the healer could give him something to settle his stomach.

They maneuvered through the warren of little side doors and then sternward into the cargo bay below the weather deck.

Were this a normal voyage, the lower decks would be crammed not just with hammocks but with supplies and cargo. Owing to the nearness of their destination and its purpose, barrels and chests were at a minimum, leaving ample space.

She stepped around the gangway to the lower deck where she even now heard the steady clank and cursing of the crew working the bilge pumps. Most ships leaked, and when a ship was tossed like theirs, it leaked all the more. Probably a quarter of the crew was working below, taking turns on the hand cranks.

She walked easily over the wildly rocking planks, passing between close-hung hammocks where sailors turned fitfully. Another glow stone was a yellow beacon by the door that led to the forecastle, and it was there her own team was stationed, on the starboard side along with all three of the lizardfolk. The Karshnaar hammocks hung empty. Kalina lay curled against the bulkhead, her long, inhuman foot clawed securely into ropes that lashed a barrel to the bulkhead.

Heltan sat beside her, still and quiet. It was only after they’d supplied them with beds and canopies for the courtyard that she’d understood Heltan and Kalina were mated, for they slept together. They also tended to linger near one another, occasionally touching fingertips.

Jekka watched Mirian approach, his eyes seeming to glow with malevolence. He studied her the way her old gray cat had watched her father’s blue-crested parrot, as though he held back from killing only because there were too many witnesses. She’d heard almost nothing from him from the time they’d arrived at her home.

Heltan turned his head to face her as she walked up. “Salvager Mirian,” he said, “and Salvager Kellic. Good early morning to you.”

Heltan was always formal and polite; he had invented titles for them based upon their occupation, apparently a lizardfolk custom.

“Chronicler Heltan,” she said.

Gombe lay in the nearest hammock, snoring fitfully. Rendak had one of their chests open and was rooting through it. Tokello crouched beside him. She looked a little pale herself, and seemed to be whispering under her breath. A prayer to Gozreh, Mirian realized, muttered over and over.

She put a hand to the woman’s massive shoulder. “You feeling all right, Tokello?”

“I hate the damned storms,” she whispered, then rolled her eyes heavenward. “No offense, Gozreh. I know we all have days when we need to let it out, and your purpose is mysterious. Far be it from me to question—”

The rest of the healer’s words were drowned out by another huge crash of thunder.

“Do you have anything to settle Kellic’s stomach?” Mirian asked her. “He’s feeling a little ill.”

“I’m fine,” Kellic said.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine,” her brother insisted.

The ship rolled and Tokello steadied herself. “I have something that will settle him, but it will also put him under. And if Gozreh keeps working his way, we may have to swim. May he see fit not to do that,” she said with a further flash of holy signs.

Kellic blanched further.

“I don’t think it will come to that.” Mirian tried to steady the healer with a calming hand. She moved on to Rendak, Kellic lingering at her rear like an ill-tempered shadow.

“I’m readying the gear,” the mate said to her unanswered question.

“Why?” Kellic asked. “We can’t even see the coast, let alone drop anchor.”

“In case the ship goes down,” Mirian whispered.

Kellic’s eyes bugged. He looked more frightened than ever, which was a little exasperating. He wore the water-breathing ring recovered from their father’s corpse. Rendak and Gombe had air bottles. Tokello didn’t even have one of those, because the things were damned expensive and she never went overboard in any case. The emergency plan had always been to band together underwater to pass the bottles back and forth, but it would be hard going in the depths of the sea, at night.

Just because you could breathe water didn’t mean you wouldn’t exhaust yourself getting to shore, provided you could find it.

And providing there wasn’t something down there hunting you.

Mirian stepped over to check on the lizardfolk. Jekka stared. Kalina slept. Heltan bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Has there been any trouble here?” she asked. Akimba’s warning aside, no one seemed to be bothering them

“No,” Heltan answered. “You come to check the safety of your clan and allies. That is wise.”

“They are not her clan,” Jekka corrected softly. “They are slaves.”

Mirian stiffened. “They work for me.”

“She twists meaning, like all of them,” Jekka told his brother.

She supposed he could have spoken in his own language, but Jekka was astonishingly like a human tough trying to provoke reaction.

And Heltan spoke swiftly, just as would a human diplomat eager to keep the peace. “Perhaps my brother has confusion. He says they who serve you are slaves. I think they are lesser clan.”

“They’re neither. They choose to work for my family, and can come and go as they please. My family pays them,” she added, “so that they can afford food, shelter, and goods of their own.”

“An interesting idea,” Heltan said.

Rendak crossed to stand beside her. He was a few inches shorter than Mirian herself, and in the loose-fitting pants and tight shirt there was no missing that he was built of corded muscle, even if his belly was shielded by a layer of fat.

“What she means,” he said, “is that Tokello and I have chosen to stay with the Raas family for almost ten years. There was no finer salvager than Leovan Raas, Pharasma preserve his soul, and his daughter’s forged in the same mold.”

Mirian couldn’t help noticing that he made no mention of Kellic, and she held off glancing over to check if her brother listened.

“It is always about coins,” Jekka said softly to his brother. He then considered the humans once more. “Our loyalty is to blood, not metal.”

Rendak was amiable and quick-thinking, but he could also be a little temperamental. “Now wait just a moment.”

The ship rocked and dipped. They heard the wash of water over the decks and every one of them looked up to the joists. But the ship rose once more, and the wave washed away.

Rendak resumed as if there’d been no interruption. “Leo paid for my services. But he earned my loyalty because he was a good leader. Like Mirian.” Then, belatedly, “And her brother.”

Jekka’s hostility was faintly tempered now with curiosity. “What happens to your loyalty without the metal she pays?”

“I’ve served the family in lean times, too,” Rendak said. He didn’t mention this was one of them.

“In our cities,” Mirian explained, “people need money to eat, and to buy clothes. Different clans specialize in providing different things. And our blood ties are smaller than yours.”

Jekka’s teeth showed at that; Heltan put a hand to his brother’s shoulder.

Mirian pretended she hadn’t noticed. “When my clan takes in metal, we share it out with those we trust so that they can buy food, and clothes, and whatever else they need.”

“Such as Crown’s End whiskey,” Heltan suggested. The lizardfolk had a great fondness for the alcohol, although it didn’t actually seem to have any effect upon him.

Rendak laughed, and a little of the tension left his shoulders.

Heltan cocked his head at him and then let out a soft, coughing noise.

“Yes,” Mirian agreed.

“You see, Jekka” Heltan said. “It is as I told you.” He turned back to Mirian. “Unlike me, Jekka has kept from humans.”

“Most of them,” Jekka said darkly.

Heltan spoke quickly, forcing cheer into his voice. Probably he hoped no one would pry further as to Jekka’s meaning. “Our clan has specialists as well.”

“You probably have other clan members at home who make your clothes, or bake your breads,” Mirian suggested. “And perhaps you barter with other lizardfolk for some—”

“No,” Jekka said curtly. “Brother, rouse me when the storm ends. The chatter of humans tires me.” He closed his eyes and leaned against the barrel.

Heltan looked up, his expression unreadable. “It was interesting to speak with you, Mirian Raas. And you also, Filian Rendak.” He added after a moment: “Is Filian a title?”

Rendak chuckled. “No. That’s just my name. Like Mirian’s.”

“So Mirian is not title of clan leader?”

“It is my personal name,” she said.

“Forgive me, then. When Rendak used it, I assumed it was a title used in deference. I do not mean to take liberties.”

“It’s fine, Heltan. Rendak knows me well enough to use my personal name in casual situations.”

“So your personal name can be used by those outside your family in certain situations?”

“Yes.”

“How does one judge when that is permissible?”

“Brother,” Jekka said softly, his lids closed, “now you weary me and the humans.”

Once more Heltan made that soft coughing sound, and when Mirian raised her hand in farewell he returned the gesture. She stepped over to the chest with Rendak.

“Is everything in order?” she asked.

“Aye.”

Gombe snorted in his sleep, shifted, and resumed snoring.

Rendak rolled his eyes at his friend. “Gombe can sleep through a rutting earthquake. And lizardfolk staring spears at him. Gods, I could feel Jekka’s eyes on my back the whole time I was sorting through the chest, as if he was wondering where to stick me. Or how good I’d taste.”

“I don’t think he was wondering that,” Mirian replied, though she thought he might have been contemplating the former. “It’s hard to guess what they’re thinking.”

“Damned right it is.”

“We’re going to be working with them for days,” Mirian reminded him. “Weeks, maybe.”

“So you said. You really think we can trust them?”

“They’re probably wondering the same thing.”

Rendak nodded, pushed his dark hair back over his forehead. “Look, I’m all for us getting along smooth as Taldan glass. But I’m not planning on eating them, so it’d be real nice if I knew none of them were—”

The ship slammed to a halt with a smash of broken timber. Mirian was thrown into Gombe’s hammock, stubbing her foot on the open supply chest. She grabbed the rope from which Gombe’s hammock dangled. Gombe’s grunt of surprise was followed by screams below, shouts above, and panicked exclamations from sailors starting awake. Loudest of all was Kellic as he lost his footing and tumbled away under four swaying hammocks.

The ship canted almost twenty-five degrees to port, and Mirian heard water rushing in.

A reef? The shore? A sandbar? There was no way to know what they’d hit, and no time to curse. Every moment counted. “Up!” Mirian shouted, biting her teeth against the pain in her foot. Gombe lurched out of his hammock. Kellic’s glow stone had tumbled down the deck after her brother and lay shining near him. By its light she saw him pulling himself upright. “Kellic! Are you all right?”

“I think so,” he called back. He said something more, but his voice was drowned out by the sailors, cursing as they struggled from their hammocks and scrambled for the gangway aft. None came their way, likely because the door to the forecastle had a lock on it and only a ship’s officer would have a key.

She hoped Akimba was still alive up there. She hoped that there were enough boats, and that they could get everyone into them. She thought fleetingly of Lady Galanor and her son. Right now they’d have to manage on their own. She had her hands full taking care of her people here. She’d warned Alderra this trip was likely to be dangerous.

Gombe and Rendak were quickly slipping on their packs, one padded side pocket of which held an air bottle. Tokello held a glow stone for them to see by. She no longer looked nervous, merely disappointed, as if things had gone just as badly as she’d expected. At another time her expression might have made Mirian laugh. She put a comforting hand on the healer’s wide shoulder and felt the hard muscle beneath the woman’s robe. “We’ll get all of us out of here alive,” she said.

“If Gozreh wills it,” Tokello managed, and she bent her head, mumbling a prayer.

Mirian had already prayed to both Desna and her ancestors before turning in last night; she hoped they’d still be watching now and would understand there was little time for such niceties. She unsheathed her wand as she walked on across the slanted deck past the lizardfolk, who were up and gathering their gear. They watched as she steadied herself beside the door to the forecastle.

Beyond the door lay the forward cargo compartment and a hatch to the deck. Assuming they got past that, there was still a storm and an ocean trying to kill them, and Gozreh alone knew how they’d fare even with salvaging gear if they were out in the deeps.

One thing at a time. She tried the door, ensuring it was as locked as it looked, then pointed her wand and muttered the single word.

Nothing happened, apart from the ship settling another five degrees further to port. Was it her imagination, or was the sound of water rushing in getting louder? And there were people screaming for help below.

Focus, Mirian. She had to get her people to safety first. Before leaving Eleder she’d tracked down a wizard to recharge the weapon to its full capacity. She spoke again, and this time the bolt of acid appeared along the end of the white wand and sped toward the lock. She was almost too close, for it spattered, and the sizzling sound it made against the lock was an uncomfortable reminder of what it could do to flesh.

She heard a hiss behind her and turned to see the lizardfolk staring at her. All three stood in a row, perched like birds to lean at an impossibly steady angle. It was damnably eerie. And water was starting to come up through the planks along the port side, just inches behind her brother, who’d foolishly left the glow stone in the water as he climbed his way up beside Mirian.

A nacreous hole outlined in green had formed where the lock in the door used to be, reeking of burning wood and metal. The top of the handle remained splattered—the bottom portion was pitted and smoking. She gritted teeth, set hand to the thing and stepped away, so that as the door fell open toward her the damaged portions swung past her torso.

In the dim space beyond Mirian perceived a jumble of casks and chests, although most of the gear within remained securely tied. From starboard there was a feeble light source. Gray light poured through the grating that led to the deck.

She then turned and waved on her people. “Go! Go!

Rendak, Gombe, and Kellic needed no urging and quickly hurried through. Tokello came after, still muttering a prayer.

“Hop to it,” Rendak said to Gombe. “We’ve got to force that hatch open.”

She looked back at the lizardfolk and found them staring.

“What are you waiting for?” she demanded. “Go!”

The Karshnaar clan raced nimbly ahead of her. The water, meanwhile, had climbed a third of the way up the deck.

She heard one of the men grunt, and the sound of creaking hinges, and then Gombe’s deep voice called: “We’re out!”

Only then, with her own people free, did she turn back and fire three times into the deck below, creating a hole.

“There’s a way up here,” she called down. “But the edge is hot, so protect your hands!”

She couldn’t tell if anyone heard, but as the ship lurched ominously she started after her team. Mirian pulled herself over the canted doorway, then clambered easily up the stair steps of supplies lashed to the shelves in the forecastle. The square of lighter darkness that shone above brought in crisp, cool air, and salt spray. She recognized Gombe’s silhouette as he reached down to offer a hand. He sounded relieved. “You decide to go sightseeing, ma’am?”

From somewhere beyond, a trilling threnody whistled through the air, and she saw Gombe react violently, withdrawing his hand to clap it over his ears.

Mirian scrambled past him.

In one sweep she took in a flurry of information. The storm had mostly spent its strength and rolled eastward, a line of night shot through with lightning. The horizon brightened beneath it, enough to show a shadowy coastline to the north, no more than a half mile out

The Red Leopard lay broken on a string of jagged fanlike reefs that stretched out from the shore, now hidden, now exposed as the choppy waters slammed in and out.

The ship’s two boats were over the side, along with a good portion of the sailors. The one to port was overturned, and people scrambled to hold on to its side or throw themselves across it. The first mate was in charge of the other, on the starboard side, and was tossing a rope back to the ship, up to where Alderra braced along the rail. The ship had listed far to port.

Mirian’s gaze snapped back toward the cabin, searching for sign of the captain, and that’s when she saw the trio of bird-winged figures gliding past the men clustered at the rail. The figures sang, and men and women alike cast loving eyes upon them.

Harpies.

10

Flight
Ivrian

We were tossed like the toy of a titan, flung with the casual disregard of an angry child so that the ship lay broken upon treacherous, surf-pounded rocks. But the gods were not done with us yet! Out of the predawn sky flew three winged devils, singing a sweet melody of death. Harpies, determined to lead those few who survived to a watery grave. As I stepped onto the deck, I met the lovely eyes of Mirian Raas, emerging from a hatch at the prow, and we nodded at one another in resolve. We would slay the harpies and save the sailors, or die in the trying!

—From The Daughter of the Mist

Ivrian was tossed bodily from the bunk into the hull below the porthole. For a long moment, he wasn’t entirely sure where he was or what had happened, and the lack of motion and the frantic calls of the crew only prolonged his disorientation.

He only fully awoke to what was happening when some of the words penetrated his consciousness. The men and women outside shouted about boats, and abandoning ship, and some called out for aid from Desna or Gozreh, or pleaded with Pharasma not to take them. What had happened? Was the ship sinking?

He climbed to his feet on the listing deck, astonished he wasn’t more badly hurt. Only his back was a little sore. “Mother?” He reached out to the lower bunk, but his mother wasn’t there. In fact, the sheets were undisturbed.

The ship slanted more on creaking timbers, and he heard the rush of water. Not just from somewhere outside, but in his very cabin. “I’m not going to drown,” he said. “Definitely.” He fought down the panic, bent down, and dragged out his chest. It was wedged tightly against his mother’s, and he realized instantly that the moment he pulled it clear it would slide into him. Yet he had no other choice if he wanted his air bottle. He got the chest free, bracing it against his own body as he keyed the lock and pushed open the lid.

He ignored the cool ocean water creeping up his toes and felt around inside the chest, fumbling past his shoes. First he came to his sword belt and sword, which he grabbed, but of greater import even than the pack with all his writing materials was the enchanted air bottle, which might be all that lay between him and drowning. The blessed thing lay jammed protectively at the bottom, snug in a padded leather case. He grabbed it and slid it onto his sword belt.

The water had risen to his ankles now, and he cursed. Where was his mother? He was going to have to grab her gear for her.

He slung his pack over his shoulder, then slammed the chest shut. He was getting ready to manhandle it into place when the ship shifted again and he lost his footing. He slipped into the water and the chest slid after. He hit the hull with his rump and heard an alarming smashing sound from the leather case with the air bottle. Then the chest rumbled toward him. It struck the water with a splash and crashed into his knees.

Cursing in pain, Ivrian pushed free, climbed over, then fought his mother’s chest clear even as the water climbed calf-high. He wrestled with his mother’s lock, grateful the same key opened both chests. He felt inside for agonizing moments before finally realizing that neither his mother’s weapon, pack, nor air bottle was within. At some point in the night she must have come in and removed them.

Cursing once more, Ivrian stepped past his mother’s chest and let it slide into the water after his own. He dropped his broken air bottle after it. So much for breathing underwater. He’d have to find a boat.

The cabin was filling fast. He was waist-deep in cool water as he pulled himself along the bunk for the door. The cursed thing naturally opened inward, falling open with such speed that it banged one knee. But then he was through and into the passageway. There was no mistaking the pound of the surf rolling the ship, or the crack of further timbers. He started up the tilted gangway toward a patch of lighter blackness and fresh, salty air.

Ivrian reached the threshold in time to see Akimba cutting at the rope that tied him to the wheel.

And then he heard a warbling from somewhere above. It was strange, beguiling, enchanting. Gods, he thought, it was like a gift from Shelyn. Surely she had sent some angel down to perform for them. Smiling, Ivrian looked skyward. Nearby, the captain dropped the knife, and it went skittering down the deck. His haggard face widened in a beatific smile.

Ivrian found the source of the melody in the three winged forms hovering above the ship. He just had to get closer to them. But how? The mainmast was broken and pointed the wrong way, but it suddenly came to him that there were stairs behind the quarterdeck that led to the stern deck. He started toward them.

His mother grabbed his arm and shook him. “Snap out of it, Ivrian! Those are harpies! They’re playing with their food!”

It was the pain that broke the spell, and Ivrian rubbed at the stubble on his face. He heard a horrible scream and whirled around to see that one of the harpies had dropped on the captain, planting one taloned foot on his face as the other tore his jugular. Blood fountained.

“Gods,” Ivrian whispered again.

His mother whipped a knife from under her billowing blouse and tossed it in one fluid motion. It drove into the creature’s back, dead between the spot where its wings met.

“Nice shot!” Ivrian cried.

The creature screeched in pain and rose in a sweep of beating wings that sent a fetid stench wafting over them. In that dawn light, he saw only her outline, but there was no missing the widening of the creature’s jaw as she swooped down toward his mother.

Ivrian dashed up the ladder he’d been eyeing. Halfway up he twisted and struck at the harpy, slicing deep through one of her wings. The creature turned, lashing at Ivrian with a whip.

It missed the hand he gripped the ladder with; he gritted his teeth and leapt out, slicing. He connected with the creature’s thigh, the injury spraying blood.

But the harpy wasn’t finished with him. He felt the sting of her whip as he dropped away.

He struck the rain-slick timber, his feet going out from under him. He bumped past the captain lying limply in his remaining ropes and slid on toward the submerged rail visible through the steel-gray water.

Ivrian released his sword and scrabbled for purchase on the deck, and the weapon clattered beside him so that he now had two further fears: breaking himself on the rail, and cutting himself on the length of his own sword.

But the sword bounced on and plunged into the water. He braced himself for impact, feet first.

Shelyn finally smiled, for as he struck the water his feet didn’t drop between the rail posts but on them. He had a surface to support himself. And as he caught his breath he perceived an overturned boat drifting nearby. A trio of sailors clung desperately to it.

One looked past him and pointed. Ivrian couldn’t make out the woman’s words over the pounding and warbling and screaming, but the expression on her face was clear enough.

Ivrian turned in time to see the harpy drop toward his face.

11

Farewells
Mirian

She choked back a cry of rage as Akimba sagged. Ivrian’s brave slash at the harpy’s wing startled her, but Mirian couldn’t spare that conflict more attention, for a crowd of sailors climbed eagerly toward the rail to greet the closest harpy, charmed by her song and oblivious to the wicked blade she carried.

As the ship settled, one of the bedazzled sailors lost his balance and fell past Mirian, grinning as though he hadn’t a care in the world. He smashed his head on the hatch through which she’d climbed and then twirled into the water below, vanishing from sight.

Heltan and Kalina had already started down toward the choppy water, but Jekka scrambled lizard-swift to join the line of crowding sailors.

Heltan called warning to him, but he didn’t turn back. Could not, Mirian knew, just as she knew Gombe was caught by the same song.

The harpy glided in, slashing at upraised throats. One by one, the sailors slumped, alternately falling over the side or tumbling down the deck, gurgling and dripping blood.

Next in line were Gombe and Jekka.

If Mirian were a real magic-worker, the wand would be more dependable, but her chance of success with the weapon was only fair, and there were no second chances with this. She thrust the wand back in its holster, leapt up, and grabbed two ankles—one Gombe’s, one Jekka’s.

Precariously as both were balanced, the sudden weight took them out of the line of attack. Gombe slid with her in a heap so that they wedged against the frame of the open hatch. Jekka dropped down, missing the hatch cover by inches, and plunged into the water, his staff clumping along the canted deck in his wake.

Rendak and Tokello had their swords out, but the monster swung away from the falling bodies, the dawn revealing her malignant grin.

Heltan shouted something in his own language and dove after his brother.

Kalina was more surprising. She reached toward her round cuirass and produced a slim metallic disk a little wider than a pie pan, then sent it curling through the air after the rising harpy.

The weapon caught the creature in the shoulder blade just over the black wing and brought forth a scream of pain. The lizard woman sent a second of the weapons whirring at a another harpy. This one was in mid-dive for Ivrian, who’d ended his slide against the submerged ship rail. Kalina’s second throw was even keener than the first, and sheared through the creature’s neck.

The womanlike head bounced one way while the limp body dropped near Ivrian.

That, apparently, was enough for the harpies. One turned and beat wings to the northwest. The one wounded by Kalina tore the weapon from its body and tried hurling it back. The cast flew wide and the disk dropped into the choppy water. Kalina pushed off the deck in a graceful dive, parting the waters at about the same place the weapon had vanished.

The wounded harpy flew after her sister and they circled like vultures a half league out.

Mirian paused to catch her breath and take stock of the situation.

The sky had lightened further, though the coastline was still a dark silhouette to the north. She spotted a low, sickle-shaped sandbar beside the reefs, and in moments she was urging those in the water to swim there and right the overturned boat.

She could find only seven living sailors, and five were streaked with blood. It was hard to tell how severely injured they were, so she sent Tokello to the sandbar to treat them.

As the Galanors climbed over the deck to join them, Heltan dragged Jekka out of the water. The warrior had survived, but his right leg was twisted at a gruesome angle.

The ship seemed to have settled in, though it still creaked ominously. Mirian was staring at it when the Leopard’s strapping first mate’s rowed in from the stern. Chilton had eight crew members with him, and she waved him close.

The man made a handsome spectacle as he braced himself in the prow and formed a speaking trumpet from his hands. “Where’s Captain Akimba?”

“He didn’t make it,” Mirian answered grimly.

At that moment, Kalina rose from the waves with one of her silver disks and dropped it beside her mate. Her appearance brought an audible gasp from the nearby sailors. She ignored them, turned, and dove back in.

Chilton called to Mirian. “We’ve got to load up and get out of here.”

“Take the crew to shore, then come back. My people will salvage supplies.”

This met with some debate aboard the boat, which the mate silenced before calling to her again: “Ma’am, you’ll be killed.”

“We’re salvagers,” she answered. “This is what we’re experts at.”

The boat rocked with another wave. “But what about those harpies? You’ll be in danger from them as well.”

“Go on, Chilton,” Alderra urged. “Mirian knows her job.”

The mate still looked troubled. “We can watch for ourselves,” Mirian assured him. “We need food, and maps, and a compass or three. By the time you have a camp up on the shore we should have everything ready. Leave us the one boat, and take the rest of the sailors.”

There were mutters about not boarding a boat with any frillbacks, but Chilton called back, saying he’d row back with a few people once they were settled.

“I’ll head in with them to help pick a good site,” Kellic suggested.

Mirian didn’t want to criticize her brother in front of the sailors, so she kept silent as he splashed out waist-deep and clambered on board. All but two of the sailors on the sandbar went with him.

Earlier, Kellic had sworn he meant to prove his worth to the salvage team. His chances of that were sunk even further than the Red Leopard.

“We’ll come back for you,” Chilton called. “Good luck!”

Mirian waved a farewell, and soon the vessel was rowing out, heavily laden. She thought she caught Kellic looking back at her, but turned away in time to see Kalina resurface. She’d nearly forgotten the lizard woman was below. Her people truly must be able to hold their breath for a long time.

Kalina exchanged a few hooting chirps with her mate as she stepped onto the sand, then turned to Mirian. “Why doesn’t your healer mend Jekka?”

Mirian looked to Tokello, who was watching the receding boat. “Tokello, we have wounded still.” She pointed to the lizard man lying beside Heltan.

The big woman frowned, stepped around the Galanors, and moved in close Mirian.

She spoke almost directly to Mirian’s ear. “You want me to heal the frillback?”

The extent of her hostility was startling, and Mirian pulled back in surprise, studying the older woman’s blocky face. “I want you to heal one of our company.”

“Each time I use the magic, it drains me. You want me wasting it on a frillback when there’ll be who knows what to worry about ashore?”

Mirian had no time for nonsense. “He’s one of our guides, and without them, our ship and family are on the chopping block.” Her voice snapped like a whip. “And it’s a gods-damned order, not a request!”

Tokello grumbled, but stepped away and knelt by Jekka. She set her meaty hands to the wounded lizard man’s leg.

Jekka’s mouth opened spasmodically in a hiss, his eyes widening further, but as the healer chanted, the warrior’s leg straightened, and a dark brown patch among the green scales faded completely away. Tokello rose, wiping sweat from her brow, then frowned at Mirian.

Mirian was disappointed to discover such prejudice in a woman she’d always admired, but she had more important things to worry about. She glanced over the rest of her team. Rendak and Gombe waited with the Galanors. Ivrian, she thought, had proven more able than she’d expected. More useful than her own brother, at least.

“How far off course do you think we are?” Alderra asked. She looked a little disheveled, but capable and determined, her long silvery hair clubbed in a ponytail.

“I’ll have a better idea when we reach the shore,” Mirian answered. “Right now, though, this is a job for experts. I want you two to stay with the sailors and—”

“We can help,” Alderra objected. “We have air bottles.”“

“We only have one, actually,” Ivrian added. “Mine broke when I lost my balance.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Mirian said. “You two aren’t trained. Stay close. We can hand things down to you.”

Heltan had come up beside Alderra. “We, also, can assist. And I thank you for having your priest heal my brother’s wounds.”

“We’re working together now,” Mirian said.

Kalina emerged again from the choppy water, this time bearing Jekka’s staff. The lizard man visibly brightened before formally bowing his head. So thankfulness was not unknown to him. He and Kalina stepped up to stand on either side of Heltan.

“You were pretty formidable with those weapons of yours,” Mirian told Kalina.

The lizard woman regarded her with luminous eyes. The dawn painted her in reds and golds. “We call them gwangas.” Kalina sounded a little breathless. “Usually I hunt for meat,” she added, “but I do not think those bird women would be good to eat.”

“No,” Mirian agreed. “Kalina, I want you to stand watch. You’re the only one besides me with a distance weapon. Heltan, Jekka, pull those bodies out of the water.

“Ah, yes,” Heltan agreed. “To keep predators off.”

“Yes,” Mirian agreed, although she had actually been thinking of burial.

“You two,” she motioned to the remaining sailors, “stand here with Lady Galanor, and we’ll hand goods down to you.”

The elder of the two, a sun-browned woman with a bulbous nose, knuckled her forehead in a casual salute. “We’ll help any way we can, ma’am. We’re glad you’re not leavin’ the bodies for them monsters.”

“No.” Mirian’s voice softened as her mind turned back to poor Akimba. “We won’t.”

Her gaze tracked to where the boat closed toward the shore. Gods willing, the sailors would face no challenges once they put onto the beach. All she could see with the rising sun was white sand and palm, but there was no telling what lurked within the jungle. Along with the standard predators could be any number of angry tribes, human and otherwise. Maybe, if their luck had turned, there’d be an Ijo fishing village close by.

“All right, you lot,” she said to her salvaging party, “come with me.”

She started up the slanting deck, using rails, barrels, and broken lines for leverage. “First priority’s looking for survivors, then finding the rest of our gear. Be careful in the hold. The ship seems wedged pretty tightly but—”

“This ain’t my first dance, Mirian,” Rendak said, not unkindly. “We’ll get it out. And then the ship’s stores?”

He was right, of course. She felt a little foolish, but decided against apology. “Right.”

The salvaging job proved one of the simpler she’d managed. As the storm dispersed, the waters smoothed, which meant the ship remained safely against the rocks. There were no survivors left aboard. Charts, weapons, and a great deal of food stores were recovered easily enough, and the shoal was soon crowded to overflowing.

They’d also found one of the ship’s cats, which had clung ferociously to Gombe’s shoulder and badly gashed his arm as he handed the feline down to the sailors. The ship’s rats were out and swimming in a line for the shore, sensing the route by sight, scent, or some sense unknown to Mirian.

Heltan’s assignment had proved the most challenging, and when Mirian popped out of the forecastle hatch to hand the last case of charts to the waiting sailors, she saw him resting a few feet from a pile of sodden bodies. The lizardfolk’s white robe was stained red.

“What happened?” Mirian asked.

“A wave pushed him against a reef,” Kalina answered. “He is but surface-hurt. The rest of the bodies are lost to the sea god. There are sharks now.” She pointed.

Fins circled only a hundred yards out, and two sharks wrestled with a lumpy, pale object in the water. Better not to think about what that had been.

Mirian made a last trip with Rendak up to the captain’s body. As she bore his front half she couldn’t help reflecting that he and all of his crew would be alive even now if she hadn’t sought his services.

“You,” she said quietly, “were a good man.” She would have liked to have known Akimba better, in gentler circumstances, and she was somber as she handed him down to his waiting sailors.

When the ship’s boat returned, pulled by weary sailors, they loaded it with weapons and the dead. The other was weighed down with casks of salt pork, fresh water, and themselves.

Almost everyone on the shore seemed inclined to laze on the sand, thinking their survival had been enough work for the day, but Mirian and Chilton organized them into work parties. Watches had to be set, food had to be prepared, bodies had to be buried, and temporary shelters of canvas rigged.

The sailors approached all of these duties a little less grudgingly after they’d breakfasted on some salt pork and meal cakes.

“Any idea where we are?” Mirian asked Chilton.

The big mate shook his head. “The captain tried to hold us on course, but I’d need landmarks to know for sure.”

“That’s what we’ll find, then.” She spent some time going over the peninsular map with Rendak and the rest of her team, Ivrian watching over their shoulder.

That reef that had keeled their ship was almost surely the Manta’s Spine, but she’d been in the wilds long enough to know that not verifying locations could be very dangerous. She sent Rendak and Chilton east along the shore while she and Gombe journeyed west. She’d hoped Kellic would volunteer for something, but he seemed set on losing every possible chance to make a good impression.

The tropical sun blazed down as they walked, and Mirian was glad they’d been able to recover footgear, for the shoreline beyond their landing point was rocky.

The jungle steamed in the morning, and a cacophony of sound rolled out at her as she advanced. She did not fear the jungle, but she treated it with wary respect. There was good reason to stay clear of it this morning, for once they were a few paces within they’d have no chance of seeing any landmarks through the vegetation.

She and Gombe walked forty-five minutes southeast before spotting the broad mouth of a river. Seabirds hovered over the water, diving now and then for fish.

There could be no mistake about their location, for there was only one true river in all the Kaava Lands—the Oubinga. Mirian chuckled a little and looked at the expanse of fronds directly to the north, otherwise completely identical to all the others they had passed.

“Captain Akimba got us close enough for spitting, storm or no storm,” she told Gombe. “This is just about where we need to be.”

“You still mean to go in?”

“I don’t see why not. Chilton can find a fishing village and Lady Galanor can get word back to Eleder. By the time we come out of the jungle there’ll be a ship waiting to take us home.”

Gombe stretched a hand up to rub his nose, then nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds just like what your father would say. Why not? We’ve got everything we need to do it.”

She really wished people would stop telling her how she was doing just what her father would have done.

Upon their return they discovered Rendak had experienced even better luck. He and Chilton had found a small Ijo village just a half hour east. The Ijo had coexisted peacefully with the colonists for centuries. The sailors could make their way there, and back to Sargava, safely.

While Chilton had his surviving crew ready their gear, Mirian gathered her expedition.

Once apprised of the situation, Heltan eagerly bobbed his head. “If that is the Oubinga, I can find us the Pool of Stars.”

Kellic ceased playing with a silver cuff link. “Wait. You mean you want to go in? Still?”

“Everything we need survived intact,” Mirian said. “Lady Galanor can go with the sailors and send another ship to pick us up.”

“I’m going with you,” Alderra said. “I thought I’d made that clear. I can send a letter with Chilton to deliver to the Minister of Defense. They’ll take care of us.”

“I thought you might insist on coming.” Mirian’s gaze drifted to Ivrian.

“Don’t even suggest staying behind, ma’am.” Lady Galanor’s son shook his head. Of all of them, he was the only one who looked well rested. “I know what I’m in for.”

“I don’t think you do.” She cleared her throat and glanced at Alderra, wondering why she was so set on taking the boy with her. Did she really think he was up to this? Her attempt to season him would likely kill him.

Rendak spoke up then. “What Mirian’s being too polite to say, m’lady, is that we’ll have our hands full enough just keeping ourselves alive, and we don’t want to take anyone in who can’t hold his own weight. Now I know you’re brave, lad, and I know you can use a sword, but it takes more than that to survive in the jungle. No one here will think less of you if you go with the sailors.”

But Ivrian was already shaking his head, adamant. “I’m a fast study.” He all but bounced on the balls of his feet, so eager was he to get moving.

The elder Galanor didn’t interject her own opinion; she simply observed. If anything, Mirian thought, she looked amused and a little proud.

“All right then,” Rendak conceded. “Just so you know if you fail to heed us, it might be your final lesson.”

“Social station’s got nothing to do with survival in the jungle,” Mirian continued. “You two need to do what we say, when we say it, if you want to come out alive. Understood?”

“Indeed it is,” Alderra said at last. “You’re the expert, and my son and I both know it.”

Mirian still didn’t think that either of them quite grasped what they were getting themselves into, but they were adults.

“Very well. Lady Galanor, you’d best get that letter written so Chilton can deliver it. The rest of us will start gearing up.”

She started to move out from under the canopy of sailcloth with the others, but her brother plucked at her sleeve. His voice was low. “Mirian.”

She stopped, turned.

He had trouble meeting her eyes. “Do you remember your murals?”

What a stupid question. Mirian had loved her bedroom, and painting it with assistance from her father and mother remained one of her happiest childhood memories.

“I used to stare at your murals for hours,” Kellic said. “I’d sneak in when you weren’t there and pretend I could vanish into that jungle wall, into a land of adventure, or go diving into that seascape.” He finally found the courage to face her. “But I’m not as brave as I thought. I’m not an explorer like you and father.”

She nodded, slowly. At least he was being honest. “I was starting to guess.”

“I realized that I’m just not cut out for this.” He was fiddling with a small ring on his right hand, set with a ruby. “The whole time the ship was sinking, and all morning, I just kept thinking about Sylena, and how if I died I’d never see her again. And now I think about walking into that jungle and I just can’t do it. I don’t want to be anywhere without her.”

So maybe it wasn’t that he was a coward. He was in love.

“Look.” His dark eyes bored into her own. “You’ve got a gift for this, it’s clear. Why don’t you stay and run the ship? I’m sorry I was so rude before. I was trying to take care of things, and I should have realized we really needed someone on the ship. Someone like you.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to stay, Kellic. I’m leading this one expedition for you and mother. Then I’m gone.”

He seemed not to have heard her. “I could manage the business side, and you could lead the salvagers.”

This was neither the time nor the place. She realized he wasn’t really looking to discuss the future in detail; he just wanted to explain his actions. “Kellic, it’s fine. If you want to go, go. We can talk about the rest of this later.”

He nodded quickly. “All right.”

He suddenly seemed very young, and she felt a surge of affection for him. She put a hand on his shoulder. “You really love this woman?”

“I do.”

“Well then, introduce her to Mother. And then get to proposing.”

He nodded. “It’ll be a little easier to do when you come back. With money, I mean. No one wants to marry a half-breed, let alone one without any money.”

She shook her head. “No one who dislikes you for your race deserves you, Kellic.”

Kellic fidgeted with his hands. Mirian wondered where he’d picked up this particular habit, then realized he was removing their father’s ring.

He pinched the black band between his thumb and forefinger and extended it to her. “Here. Let Lady Galanor borrow it.”

“That’s generous of you.”

“Good luck,” Kellic said, and then he embraced her. It was tentative at first, but he pressed himself to her with honest affection.

A little bewildered by the moment, Mirian returned the hug.

“I’m sorry,” he finished as he stepped away.

As he smiled awkwardly, she thought of the little boy whose hand she used to hold as she walked him down the jetty to see their father. Maybe a little bit of that loving, loyal person was still there. “It’s all right, Kellic. You have a safe trip.”

“And you, too. May Desna guide and protect you.”

Rendak accepted the news about Kellic with little reaction, then turned down the ring, saying he was too used to the air bottle. “Give it to the little lordship.”

“What about Tokello?”

“Tokello can take care of herself. Lady Galanor’s got an air bottle. But a prancy fellow like Ivrian will need any extra edge he can get to improve his odds.”

Ivrian brightened visibly when presented with the ring and told its properties.

“It’s wonderful,” he said. “Thank you! I’ll take very good care of it.”

“You’re welcome.” She turned from him, trying not to wonder why her own brother hadn’t shown some of the same spirit. She addressed the group. “All right, you lot! Let’s not keep the jungle waiting.”

12

A Verdant World
Ivrian

Only days before, I had thought those reptiles savage, primordial, feckless beings. But as we advanced into the jungle, we learned to depend upon one another. It was either work to one goal or die in the trying, for death’s shadow loomed behind every jungle fern, shone in the gleaming eyes of poisonous vipers and the coiled roots of vampire vines. It glistened on the surface of the blood-red berries of the jurap bush, which produced so virulent a poison that merely brushing against one with open skin could send a man into convulsions.

—From The Daughter of the Mist

Mirian’s team wouldn’t permit Ivrian to carry any essential gear, probably worrying that he’d wander into a sinkhole and lose a shovel or cook pot or something. He didn’t understand their lack of faith. Hadn’t he proven himself against the pirates and the harpies?

He didn’t complain, though. Complaining had never gotten him anything. Instead he waited, knowing there’d be more chances to prove himself.

While he’d studied a great deal of information about jungle travel, there were many surprises: how cool and dark it was under the canopy; how loud it could be, what with bird calls and chattering monkeys and other strange sounds echoing around them; how frequently they had to stop and apply the oily pulp gathered from fever grass to keep off small biting insects.

The writer in him was always at work. When he slipped and caught himself on a tree trunk a hand’s span from a snake, he tried to remember that stark feeling of terror so he could later set it down. When his right heel began to ache, he amused himself by trying to choose the best adjectives to describe the pain.

Most of the time, Mirian kept them walking single file. Occasionally they had to halt as the vanguard cleared a path with machetes. As they advanced deeper and deeper into the jungle, though, the canopy thickened and heavy undergrowth grew less common.

*   *   *

As they walked, Jekka or Kalina was always in the front, usually with Mirian. Heltan kept to the middle of the pack with Tokello and Ivrian. Rendak and Gombe usually brought up the rear, though one of them occasionally traded out with Kalina or, as the day wore on and the salvagers’ faith in his mother grew, Alderra Galanor.

The middle was obviously reserved for noncombatants, and as a reprieve for those who weren’t patrolling. While it irked Ivrian to be so casually placed here, his position of relative security meant he was better able to watch the expedition at work.

He was bone-weary by midafternoon, and very pleased when they stopped for a breather upon a boulder-strewn hillock. He imitated the others in searching carefully before he sat to make sure there wasn’t anything on the rocks inclined to bite him. He found nothing but moss and a few black ants.

Mirian put Heltan and Gombe on first watch before sitting down with one of the maps. Just half a day through the jungle and the paper was creased and sagging. All the humans looked to be sagging a bit as well. Their exposed skin was beaded with sweat, which eventually washed away the fever grass paste.

Ivrian studied Mirian’s profile, trying to decide if he should describe her as “striking” or “beautiful.” She must have sensed his attention, for she looked up suddenly and met his gaze. He glanced away, staring at the back of Gombe’s head and then down, as if he’d been slowly surveying the camp and had just happened to look her direction. From the corner of his eye he saw her fold the paper, take a swig from her canteen, cap it, and join Rendak and his mother, who were pointing into the jungle and talking in hushed tones.

That left him alone with the two lizardfolk sprawled on the hill beside him.

“Do you plan to court her?” Kalina asked.

He was surprised to find her staring directly at him. She was shorter than the two male lizardfolk by several inches, and her color was duller. He thought that her eyes might be a touch larger and brighter, too.

“Court her?” Ivrian asked.

“Do I use the wrong word?” Kalina crawled closer and crouched beside him. “I do not know how you humans do it. I assume you sing a song or build a home.”

Ivrian grinned. “Well, yes, that’s sort of how it’s done. But I don’t plan to court Miss Raas.”

“Why not? She has vigor and—how do you say it? The wiles.”

“She’s in charge, for one thing.”

The lizard woman cocked her head. Her color brightened.

“She’s my leader. I’m lower in status.” He decided not to add that this demotion was only temporary. “Plus, she’s not impressed by me.”

“But you stare and stare. Do you think of impressing her with a song?”

“Is that how your people do it?”

“Heltan sang his love. He is a fine one for words, and knows the whole history of our clan. But tell me of your song.”

Apparently he’d met a romantic lizard woman. “Um, I’m not a musician. I’m a writer, and I was thinking of how to describe her when I write about our journey.”

“Oh!” Kalina’s head bobbed. “Will you describe me?”

“I will.”

“What words will you use?” She sounded eager as a child offered sweets.

“I’ll say that you are a fierce hunter, very brave, and extremely inquisitive.” At her uncomprehending stare he decided to use simpler words. “Er—that you ask good questions.”

“These things are true. You should say them.”

“Also,” he said, “I’ll tell people how you’re nice, and that you befriended me.”

“Is that true?”

“You’ve said more to me than anyone else in the last four hours. That seems kind to me.”

“Is that how humans know if they are friends?”

He laughed, a little sadly. “Sometimes. I would be your friend, though, if you wished it.”

Her mouth opened, and she produced a dry coughing sound. “How strange to have a human friend.”

“You can have no human friends,” Jekka said. He had risen to one knee. “Their hearts bleed, but they carry no feeling. It is only coins they want.”

“You know that about all humans?” Kalina asked.

Jekka nodded toward the other side of the hill, where Mirian’s head was just visible. “She saved me because she needs guides. To find money. And him—” He pointed a finger at Ivrian. “He sells stories for money.”

Kalina’s eyes widened. “Is this true? You trade stories for money?”

“I do.” Normally he said this proudly, or with carefully modulated modesty, but the confusion he felt was present in his voice.

The crest along Kalina’s neck and head fluttered as she stood. She cocked her head at him and walked away.

Utterly confused, Ivrian found himself in the uncomfortable position of seeking an explanation from Jekka, who supported himself with his staff as he stood. The lizard man’s eyes were brooding pools.

“What did I say?”

“Stories are sacred. For the teaching of young and the sharing of truths. For lessening sorrow and remembering past—and evils done,” he added. “Kalina’s sister was our clan’s storyteller. She would have sooner died than trade her tales for gold.”

“It’s different for humans.”

“Yes.” Jekka lifted his staff and walked away.

As they started back up, Ivrian felt even lonelier than before.

A few hours later they halted along the banks of a river. He was about to ask if it were the Oubinga again, but his mother was already asking the same question of Mirian.

She shook her head.

“This is a tributary,” Heltan answered. “We are still days from the Pool of Stars.”

That, Ivrian knew, was a landmark (rivermark?) they sought, a place where the Oubinga broadened almost into a lake. He’d heard Mirian talking about it with the lizardfolk earlier.

Mirian, Rendak, and Kalina walked cautiously along the muddy bank, studying the murky waters. They consulted briefly, and then Kalina whipped out one of her metal disks and sent it spinning into the lower treetops.

Nearby birds erupted from the greenery with frightened squawks and spilled into the sky above the river.

It wasn’t until a brown monkey thudded into the ground that Ivrian saw the disk embedded in its chest. The mammal’s brethren shrilled in alarm and scrambled, setting branches swaying, but they weren’t swift enough to avoid Kalina’s second disk, which brought down another monkey larger than the first.

Ivrian was impressed with both the speed and lethality of the lizard woman. Mirian and Rendak went forward with her and stood looking at the corpses.

“Kalina is an excellent shot,” Ivrian told Heltan.

“She is a fine hunter,” the lizard man agreed.

“Are we going to eat the monkeys?” Ivrian asked.

“Fish,” Heltan said. “The fish who rend. I don’t know your human name for them. The monkeys are for those fish.”

“He means the piranha,” Tokello said.

“Why are we feeding the piranha?”

“To distract them.” The healer herself seemed distracted, uncertain whether to be concerned about the jungle behind them or the dark river before them, for her gaze shifted warily between the two. “The fish can shred an animal to bone in a dozen heartbeats. At least that’s a quick way to die in the jungle.”

“You mean there are worse ways?” Ivrian asked.

Her laugh was without humor. “You don’t know the half of it. There’re bugs out here that can bite you so gently you’ll never notice, and then you’ll waste away for weeks. And then there’re the boggards. If you’re lucky they’ll kill you before they start eating.”

“The writer Ivrian looks troubled,” Heltan observed. “Perhaps you should give him fewer details.”

“I wish I knew fewer of them myself,” Tokello said, stepping away.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Heltan said, “the root salve should protect you from the bugs.”

“What protects me from the fish?”

“The monkeys,” Heltan said, as if it were obvious.

Ivrian didn’t fully comprehend the plan until Gombe wandered over with an explanation. “Rendak’s going to toss those monkeys upriver. The moment the water froths, we start across.”

Ivrian finally understood. “Wait—are you sure this will work?”

“Probably,” Gombe said. Then he grinned. “If it doesn’t, you won’t care for long.”

Heltan broke into a coughing laugh, one he traded with Jekka.

Ivrian crowded near the shore with the rest of them. They were rejoined by Kalina, who’d cleaned her weapons and was returning them to her chest holster. Mirian had wandered upstream with Rendak and now watched the thick jungle behind him.

Gombe lifted a hand to Rendak, signaling readiness, and Rendak heaved one of the monkeys farther upriver. The corpse hit with a splash of droplets that seemed bright and clean when separated from the dark river. By the time the second body struck, the water was alive with foam. It didn’t take much imagination on Ivrian’s part to picture small silvery bodies tearing those monkeys into bloody hunks.

“Go, go!” Gombe urged, and Ivrian stepped into the surprisingly cool water, ankle-deep in muck, then onto a firmer river bottom. He was knee-deep, thigh-deep—and then abruptly there was nothing at all beneath him, and he was left behind as the lizardfolk swam ahead with undulating grace.

Ivrian was a decent swimmer, but he didn’t usually try to move through the water while carrying a pack of gear. He dropped like a stone, hit the floor of the river with both feet, and pushed up enough to gasp at the air. He held his breath, marveling a little at the green glowing fins that had formed from wrist to elbow and extended from his feet. He paddled frantically, gurgled for help. He felt a firm hand grasp him, pull his head above the surface. He found his mother looking at him in disgust, locks of wet silver hair straying over her forehead. “You’ve got a ring that allows you to breathe water.”

He reddened even as Alderra Galanor dragged him with her, kicking for the shore.

In another moment he was once more on solid footing, then staggering up into the shallows, scared witless that he’d soon feel the brush of those horrid teeth. He knew piranha could reduce flesh to bone in seconds. He was just walking onto the muddy bank when Rendak and Mirian emerged from the water and turned to consider the river.

His mother stepped close. “You’re embarrassing yourself, and you’re embarrassing me. What’s gotten into you?”

“Sorry.”

“You’re better than this. Get your head out of your ass or you’ll get yourself killed. And maybe whoever’s trying to save you, too.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled again.

His mother stepped away to consult with Heltan, who was soon pointing one green finger northwest. Gombe sidled over, scratching his broad dark nose. Ivrian braced himself for another joke at his expense.

“It’s not easy getting used to the tools,” the salvager said. “You should have seen me the first time I went down with an air bottle. I didn’t have the tube down far enough, and I sucked in half the ocean! I nearly drowned.” He ears seemed to waggle as he shook his head. “You just have to stay calm.”

Ivrian nodded.

“That’s really the secret,” Gombe went on. “Keep your wits, and keep looking. But don’t be like Tokello. She wears herself out every day because she’s so damned nervous something’s going to snatch her. She looks over her shoulder so much she’s going to strain her neck.”

“Thanks.”

Gombe grinned. “Hey, next time you sit down for a seafood meal, think back on this. Kind of puts the whole ‘fish dinner’ thing in a different light, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose it does,” Ivrian said. Gombe whopped him on the shoulder and trotted on.

Normally someone of Gombe’s station wouldn’t have dared touch him, but that didn’t bother Ivrian. He watched the salvager join the others, reflecting that people often proved different than one expected.

“Stop daydreaming, lad,” Rendak said as he passed him. “Time to get back to it.”

They resumed their trek. Late in the afternoon, Jekka came rushing back from the front and ordered everyone to halt. Ivrian was walking with Heltan and his mother, and both went statue-still. He was about to risk a whispered question when he felt the ground shake beneath him.

Earthquake?

No. It was too regular.

Something vast and terrible was striding through the jungle. Monkeys in the canopy screeched warnings as the treetops swayed. Birds scattered. Smaller animals bolted through the undergrowth.

Greenery obscured the stomping monster from his sight. Curious as he was to glimpse the thing, he was grateful when its tread receded.

Just as Ivrian was about to ask what the monster was, the entire jungle echoed with a bone-rattling roar.

He decided then that he’d stay quiet for just a little longer. This, he thought, must be what the rabbit feels when the hound is loosed.

They remained still while a second, more distant roar shook the jungle.

“What was that?” Ivrian whispered at last.

“A thunder walker.” Jekka sounded surprised. “Have you never heard of it?”

“A dinosaur,” his mother said.

“What would we have done if it came after us?” Ivrian asked

“Scattered,” Gombe said from behind him. “And prayed.”

As evening drew on toward night, they climbed into the canopy to hang their hammocks, but not before there was some extended—and alarming—discussion among the salvagers and lizardfolk about scouting for giant spiders. Apparently the site they’d chosen was safe, for they were soon perched on sturdy branches dozens of feet above the jungle floor.

Dinner consisted of preserved rations and water, and was followed by an application of more fever grass paste. Ivrian tried to rig his hammock and was embarrassed to have to call over to Rendak, who was assisting Tokello with hers. The salvager raised a hand. “In a moment.”

But it was Kalina who swung down from a higher limb, landing dexterously along his branch.

“What do you need help with, Writer Galanor?”

He gestured to the tangle of netting and ropes. He’d made a thorough mess of things, mostly because he was too nervous about falling while he secured the ropes. Sixty feet looked a lot farther from above than it did from below.

Kalina set to work, undoing knots and spreading lines, scrambling back and forth along the heavy tree limb while Ivrian watched. The lizardfolk might not be civilized, but they knew how to rig a hammock.

He spoke quickly, for it was the first chance he’d had to try fence-mending with her. “Kalina, I think you may have misunderstood about me. I think stories are sacred, too. But my people can’t hunt for food in the cities. We have to find other ways to eat.”

She manipulated the ropes, her back to him.

“And I tell stories. That’s what I’m good at. Or, at least, that’s what I’m okay at. I’m trying to be better. I suppose I’m really an apprentice at everything I’m doing.”

She finished at last and turned to him. “Your ways are different. Heltan has reminded me of that, and of how important your moneys are to you.”

“It’s true.”

“Jekka says that you have no god but metal.”

He thought about that for a moment. “I suppose there’s a lot of truth to that as well. What is your god?”

“Our god is Gozreh.” Her voice took on a reverence. “The two-part god. He breathes the wind that brings rain, and she makes the seas that give us fish. He gives us speed and cunning, and she shows us the resilience of the river.”

Once again, Jekka joined the conversation uninvited. His voice drifted down from above. “Our god looks the other way while our people die.”

Ivrian looked up and saw the lizard man’s face peering down at him from a hammock the color of dried leaves.

“I used to think that he slept,” Jekka continued, “or that he had other needs, or that he worked in ways unknown to us. But I think Gozreh is lazy or forgetful, or that he prefers humans.” This gloom-filled pronouncement delivered, Jekka withdrew his head.

“Is he always like that?” Ivrian asked.

Kalina’s tongue flicked out delicately before she answered. “His mate and younglings died last year. He has never been the same.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He honestly was, although it was difficult to imagine Jekka’s animosity might not simply be borne of unreasoning hatred.

“Have you had younglings, Writer Galanor?” Kalina asked.

“Me? No. And please, call me Ivrian.”

“Ivrian. That is right. You have no younglings, but you are thinking of mating.” She stared at him with unblinking eyes.

“No, no. I’m not interested in women. For mating, I mean.”

There was a rustle to their left, and he saw Mirian climbing her way over. “How is everything here?” she asked. “Shipshape?”

“It is fine now,” Kalina said. “We were just discussing the making of younglings.”

Ivrian blushed. “I’m not really interested in younglings.” That wasn’t quite true. Ivrian liked children. “I mean, I don’t need them of my own blood.” And that wasn’t quite true either, because his mother had hinted, sometimes not so subtly, that he was going to have to marry and produce an heir, no matter his personal preferences.

“Some among my people take pleasure with the same sex. Is that how it is with you?”

“Sort of.” He wasn’t entirely comfortable talking openly about sexuality in front of Mirian Raas, who still lingered.

“Some people,” Mirian said, “find talk of such matters a private thing.”

“Oh. I did not know.” The lizard woman’s gaze swung to Mirian. “Do you have younglings, Salvager Mirian?”

Ivrian half expected Mirian to explain that this, too, was private, but she only smiled. “No. Do you?”

“Not yet. But Heltan and I hope. We must have others to whom we can teach the songs of our people.”

“What of your folk back home?” Mirian asked.

Kalina’s tone was flat. “There are no folk back home.”

“I don’t understand,” Ivrian said.

“This is my clan.” Kalina pointed to the row of hammocks slung above. “This is all that’s left.”

“Only you three?” He’d had no idea.

Kalina nodded. “Only three here. But maybe more elsewhere. The city we seek—the place our clan comes from—was but an outpost. There may yet be others of our larger clan, out there in the far green, if we can find record of where their cities are. Heltan says that the books of the city will tell us.”

Mirian slid closer on the branch and bowed her head in a gesture reminiscent of those nods given by the lizardfolk. “I’m truly sorry, Kalina.”

“You are kind-souled. Like your mother.”

“Kalina,” Ivrian said, “I hope this isn’t too forward, but can’t you breed with other clans?”

“You do not understand. We are—how do you say? Learned. The Karshnaar are ages old. When your folk still hunted with flint and stone, we had mastered steel. We sailed the waves in great black ships and gave names to the stars. We were many. Now, we are only three.”

“I have but two in my clan,” Ivrian said. “My mother and me.”

“Ah, but you are in a human world, and you have loyal allies and means to find gold to bring you more. We Karshnaar have no allies.”

“You have us,” Mirian said.

“That is good.” Kalina stared at them for a moment, expression unreadable. “It is time for sleeping now, Salvager Mirian and Writer Ivrian.” And without any more preliminary, she scampered up the trunk.

“Your mother mentioned you were a writer,” Mirian said. “I hope you’re not thinking of writing about our expedition.”

Ivrian felt his stomach sink. “I’m mostly a playwright,” he said. “But being out here, seeing how real people have adventures, will add some verisimilitude to anything I set down on paper.” As he said it, he realized it was true, but he wondered why he didn’t just come out and tell her his plan. Was he as much of a coward as Kellic Raas?

“I see you’ve got the same hammock setup as your mother,” Mirian said as she looked over Kalina’s work. “Don’t forget to rub some more salve on your hands and face. Something always finds its way through the net, even one as fine as this.”

He nodded slowly, then exchanged a good night before sliding back to the sturdy-feeling trunk where his pack was fastened. As he opened it to extract the container of salve, he berated himself for lacking the courage to be honest. Yet soon he realized that it wasn’t just cowardice that stilled his tongue, but understanding. Mirian would never let him write about her unless he proved himself first.

Well, he could do that. Doubtless there would be other chances for distinction. There would be more rivers to cross, and the next one wouldn’t frighten him.

He hoped.

It proved to be loud in the jungle at night, but Ivrian woke only once, when distant screaming broke through the canopy. It went on for several long moments. It sounded human, but from what direction it came, or how far off it really was, no one could say, though they whispered of it in the darkness.

No one thought it would be a good idea to investigate.

After that, Ivrian had trouble sleeping. He grew more and more uncomfortable, feeling his throat was dry, and finally clambered out of his bag. He pushed the netting aside and carefully made his way to the tree bole to retrieve his waterskin. It was there that he heard a low mutter of conversation from farther up in the canopy. His mother’s voice, he thought, but he didn’t pay heed to it at first, for he was taking a long swallow of water. Probably too long a swallow, really, for only the gods knew when they’d have access to clear drinking water again.

Frowning at his own weakness, he capped the container, stowed it in his bag, and then was distracted by his mother’s low laughter. What could possibly be amusing after that horrific scream?

Brushing a small black ant from his arm, Ivrian advanced softly to one tree limb over and looked up to where he could dimly make out a row of hammocks. He could see nothing, but by straining he heard a soft conversation underway between Mirian and his mother.

“Of course I’m serious,” Alderra was saying. “You’re a capable and intelligent woman. And you could keep a lover. You wouldn’t be the first Sargavan couple to pretend a marriage.”

Ivrian paled in embarrassment. Was his mother actually suggesting marrying him off to Mirian Raas? How dare she!

Mirian laughed, which wounded him a little. “I’d think you’d want a colonial woman.”

“I want someone of sense, so my grandchildren have sense. And I think the two of you could be friends and allies. You know he’s a brave young man.”

“He’s got heart, I’ll give him that.”

That was a compliment of sorts, at least.

“He needs a strong woman to inspire him. A passionate woman.”

“A woman to turn him from men, you mean? That doesn’t work.”

“It can,” Alderra said. “He’s a boy still. Self-absorbed, wide-eyed. Someone like you, who sees how the world works, could guide him into adulthood.”

Ivrian felt his nails digging into his palm. How dare his mother speak of him like that! He was most assuredly not self-absorbed! Shelyn save him—he didn’t even want his mother’s money, or her obligations!

“When I marry, I’d rather not have a project,” Mirian said.

“My dear, marriage is always a project. But I’m glad to hear you’re not opposed to the idea in principal.”

“Then you’re not listening. I don’t want to battle for any man’s interest. Are you interested in a daughter-in-law or a brood mare?”

“I’m not sure, but I think you’ve just insulted me.”

“You badger me with proposals when we both need sleep, then take offense when I challenge you?”

“See,” Lady Galanor said, agreeably, “you’re honest and practical.”

“More qualities you want bred into your line?”

“No! That was a compliment. Surely you can’t fault a woman for trying to look out for her son’s interest. I mean to make a man of him, one way or another.”

“Boy.”

It was a low-voiced warning call. Ivrian looked up to find the square shape of Tokello’s face looking at him from a hammock slung along a branch to the left.

While Mirian and his mother whispered on, Tokello braced a hand on the branch and peered out of her bug netting.

“I don’t think Mirian would like you listening in,” the healer whispered.

“It’s not her I’m angry about.”

Distantly, his mother said something about “shaping the boy up.”

Tokello glanced up toward the source of the noise, then looked at Ivrian with unblinking eyes. “Sometimes you hear things you shouldn’t. Take me—I’ve heard the whole conversation. I don’t want to, but I can’t help it. I can’t sleep through everything like Gombe.”

Sure enough, the salvager’s snoring sounded even over the omnipresent buzz of insects and the call of night animals.

“I don’t even think that scream woke him,” Tokello said.

“Mother’s trying to engineer my life,” Ivrian said. “She thinks I’m still a boy.”

“She thinks you’re young. And she’s got the truth of it. If anyone could straighten a man out, it would be our Mirian.”

The healer’s double entendre seemed to have been unintentional—Ivrian was pretty sure she hadn’t even noticed.

“But she’s got no right,” Ivrian objected.

“If she’s your mother, she’s got the right. It doesn’t make her right, though, boy. You seem fine to me. The gods know I’ve seen enough snot-nosed lordlings in my day wanting old Tokello to step and fetch for them. Fah! As though a fifth-generation Mulaa healer were a porter. Two of those little blue blood bastards nearly ran down my grandchild in the street last week.”

“I’m not like that.”

“I know.” Tokello’s tone gentled. “You hold on to that, boy, and you fight for what you believe as strongly as you fought for us back on the Daughter, as bravely as you fought that harpy, and you’ll end up all right. Now get back to your bunk and get some sleep. This night talk is foolishness.”

Ivrian stared at her a moment longer, then nodded and moved carefully back to his own hammock. He didn’t feel entirely settled, but the healer’s words, gruff as they were, had lessened the heat of his anger.

He shook his head as he felt fatigue washing back over him. He had to find his own way. Maybe even strike out on his own and leave Sargava—although that, too, would take money he didn’t have.

It was all so unfair.

As he drifted back to sleep he wondered briefly what it would be like to have Mirian in his life each day. The idea was too strange to consider for long.

He drifted off thinking again about a handsome but useless Varisian actor he’d wasted a month on, although when he dreamed, he found himself standing before Tokello at a white altar in the sunlight.

When the healer told him to turn and lift the veil of his bride, he did so, but found nothing there but a star-shot void full of whispering insects. As he stepped back in horror, he could hear his mother shouting to get on with it and kiss her, and he screamed as the darkness reached for him with clawed hands.

13

The Stone and the Mirror
Sylena

Sylena rarely thought of herself as fortunate, but she smiled almost gleefully as she looked up from the black stone where Kellic’s distorted image was projected.

He’d survived. Even better, Kellic had decided to stay upon the shore rather than venture into the jungle, which made it all the more likely he wouldn’t end up dead.

It was as though the Infernal Dukes had shown her special favor. Now the salvagers and Lady Galanor were nearly certain to get themselves killed exploring the hinterland, and she would still get a marriageable Sargavan landholder.

She had watched much of the previous night’s events through the focus of the magical ring she’d given him, hearing almost everything Kellic himself had heard, which is why she’d set sail in the early morning, packing her goods in a rush and taking up residence once more in her “father’s” trade ship—in actuality a Chelish warship decked out as a merchant.

Now they were two hours out from Eleder, and a weary Sylena sat at the desk in her cabin, employing the ring’s sophisticated scrying magic to obtain a navigational fix on her lover’s position. Beside her on a ring of gold was the monitor stone and a large map of the coastline, over which she dangled a crystal shot through with crimson flecks.

Just as the crystal settled into its position, the mirror she’d hung on the cabin wall crackled with a burst of violet energies.

Rajana. Of all the cursed luck.

Sylena scowled and raked her hair back with her fingers, then set down the crystal and smiled at the mirror.

The image was not quite a twin to her own, but there was no mistaking the family resemblance. Rajana had the same fair skin, but her eyebrows were more highly arched, her nose thinner. And there were no humor lines about her eyes because her sister almost never laughed. Certainly she seemed ill disposed toward laughing now.

Rajana’s eyes took in the surroundings. “You’ve boarded a ship.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Perhaps you’re already on your way to Crown’s End to celebrate your success?”

“No.” Sylena put on a brave smile. “I’m merely off to clear up the loose ends.”

Rajana coolly appraised her. “Which loose ends are those, Sister?” Even in that emotionless tone, she managed to sound disappointed. But then Rajana was always disappointed.

Sylena forced her smile wider. “Naturally, I want to carry through the assignment so as not to displease Her Infernal Majestrix—or you.”

It wasn’t enough. Rajana’s frown deepened. “Please, Sylena, just give me the details. I called in a number of favors to buy you that storm. Did it work or not?”

“It wrecked the ship, but Lady Galanor and the salvagers survived. They’re heading into the jungle, but they’ll probably die there.”

Rajana slowly closed her eyes and put a hand to her head. “You’re aware that our expenditures, both in capital and in favors, are going to attract attention very, very soon? Attention we will not want.”

Sylena managed a gay laugh. “You’re always so gloomy, Rajana! At every turn, the Sargavans grow more desperate, their task more difficult.”

“They’re still on the expedition!” Rajana cut in.

But Sylena went on as if she hadn’t heard. “With any luck, Lady Galanor will never return from that jungle, which will mean an end to all of her schemes.” She sniffed. “I don’t understand why we couldn’t have moved against her more obviously to begin with.”

“Because Her Infernal Majestrix wishes subtlety in our dealings. Assassinating one of the baron’s chief advisors is hardly subtle!” Rajana breathed out. “You still haven’t explained what you’re doing on the ship. Do you have a plan?”

“I intend to wait offshore to see whether any of them come out of the jungle. If they do, I’ll take their treasure.”

Rajana considered her. “You’re certain where they’ll emerge?”

“The other survivors are supposed to go in search of a ship to pick them up. I intend to be that ship.”

Rajana’s face remained expressionless for a long moment. “That’s not a bad plan, Sister.”

A rare compliment. Sylena bowed her head.

“I pray that it goes well for you,” Rajana continued. “I want to wrap up this mission and return home.”

“Of course.”

“I hope that you haven’t grown too fond of that Raas boy. I know how emotionally involved you can be.”

Sylena cleared her throat. “I’m not ‘emotionally involved.’ I just don’t know that we should kill Kellic. I may yet have a use for him.”

Rajana sighed. “Use him however you want, so long as you kill him before he returns to Sargava.

“Of course.”

Rajana frowned. “Report to me as soon as you have news.”

“Yes, Rajana.”

Her sister swept a hand across the distant mirror so that the image cleared, and Sylena confronted her own face. Only then did she flip it the tines, something she would never dare while Rajana watched.

The scrying ring was of Rajana’s own design, and both sisters could use its magic to watch what its wearer did. But Rajana had little patience for listening to people talk, and it appeared that she must not have been eavesdropping when Kellic told Mirian Raas he would propose marriage to Sylena.

It was all working out so very nicely. In a half day or so, Sylena would drift up to offer assistance, then anchor offshore until she had proof Alderra Galanor and Mirian Raas were dead, or else had seen to that part herself and taken their treasure. Then she would have the gratitude of her superiors and a marriage proposal from someone who would be an important player in the new regime, as well as Sylena’s pretty puppet.

14

The City and the Stars
Mirian

Over the next few days, Mirian saw Ivrian handling himself with more and more confidence. Apart from crossing the stream, he’d made few newcomer blunders. She found it difficult to believe that an aristocrat—a pampered artist, for Desna’s sake—could be so honestly eager to please a bunch of common folk the typical Sargavan blue blood wouldn’t have been caught dead with. A few days in his company, though, assured her he wasn’t acting.

She tried not to reflect too much on the difference between Ivrian and her own brother. Both were inexperienced and city-bred. Like Ivrian, Kellic had attended the finest fencing academies in Eleder. Yet it was Ivrian, not Kellic, who’d thrown himself into the fray when the Daughter had come under attack. Her brother couldn’t even be bothered to sail on his own ship. What, she wondered, was the difference? Upbringing? Natural affinity?

That the well-mannered aesthete had more guts than her own brother, raised around salvagers, disappointed Mirian more than she wanted to admit, though it engendered no animosity toward Ivrian. Instead, she found herself thinking about her father’s drunken tirades about the other colonial nobles. Was her brother a natural coward, or would he have grown into the man she thought she’d seen in her little brother if Leovan had been less focused on the other colonials, a little less lost in his own problems?

Maybe the difference was Alderra Galanor. With her for a role model, it was no wonder that Ivrian had turned out well. Alderra never complained or shirked duty, even when given the opportunity due to her age or alleged lack of experience. The latter was obviously a cover, as Mirian had quickly realized that Alderra was no stranger to the jungle, or privation. Mirian figured Alderra for a well-preserved mid-fifties, but she might have been older. She was fit enough that she had no trouble keeping pace, and she certainly showed no lack of energy in the evenings, when she would regale them with tales of her journeys to far courts.

As the days marched on, the group began to function more and more cohesively, its members growing accustomed to depending upon one another and becoming familiar with each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Even Jekka changed a little. He could hardly be described as warm, but he seemed comfortable with some of his human companions. Mirian came to prefer walking point with him even over Kalina, whose attention was a little too easily distracted.

Mirian was on point with Jekka on the morning of their fourth day of travel when he pulled up short and crouched, slim tongue extended. This, she’d learned, was how lizardfolk smelled. She sank to one knee, watching him

The branches overhead stirred in the wind, and creatures far above hooted to one another. Jekka turned his head right and left, then dropped to advance in a rapid, scuttling crawl.

He vanished into the undergrowth, popping up again next to the trunk of a great tree. He rose slowly with his back to it. It was only then that he looked back to Mirian and gave a sharp nod.

She followed, head low. Her machete was sheathed at her left hip, her cutlass slung at her right. She loosed both as she came forward.

She reached the bole, wide enough for three people to link arms around. Jekka met her eyes once more and started around on the left, gray staff lifted.

Mirian circled on the right. They arrived together to find a deserted campsite and a fly-encrusted head impaled upon a sharpened stake. They crept about the site looking for spoor and sign. The tracks were not dissimilar to those made by Jekka himself, though the foot that made it was broader and the impression of the toes slimmer.

The desiccated head was human, possibly an Ijo tribesman, though it was so decayed it was hard to tell. Other, older stakes were thrust into the ground nearby, a single skull impaled upon each. Most were human, others human-sized but oddly proportioned. The collection resembled a grisly fence.

When the rest of the party came up, Ivrian pointed to the human head, his handsome face a little green. “Was he the scream we heard a few nights back?”

“Might be,” Mirian said.

“Possibly.” Jekka leaned closer and flicked out his tongue. Mirian couldn’t help her mouth from twisting in disgust. The lizard man didn’t quite touch the fly-encrusted face; the tongue quivered an inch or two away from the head, then got sucked back into Jekka’s mouth. “Probably. He’s about four days dead.” He looked to Mirian. “This is a boggard tribe making territorial claim.”

“Boggards.” Gombe pronounced the name like a curse.

Heltan sounded genuinely troubled. “These should not be boggard lands.”

Alderra strode up to Mirian’s side, almost brushing against her. “Are we off course?”

“I don’t think so. Keep your eyes open. If the frog-people are here, it means we’re coming up on swampland, and they like to leave vicious little surprises in ankle-deep water.”

They found the swamp a half hour on, as well as the most recent victim, his head impaled upon another spike in a line of seven. This time the others realized to their horror that the nearby fire pit was for roasting the rest of the victim. The boggards didn’t let the material left over from the fence go to waste.

“Who was he?” Ivrian asked.

“No way to know,” Mirian said.

Alderra answered him. “Some poor tribesman, probably. Or some unlucky chap out looking for treasure. There’s said to be lost cities and pirate gold and magical fountains hidden in the jungle.”

Tokello was looking more and more dour. She wiped more salve across her high forehead. “Does this mean the boggards have a big territory?”

“Boggards claim a lot more land than they can defend,” Mirian said. “Because they’re cowards. A tribe will put up a fence like this and refresh it every few months, hoping no one will come into their lands and hunt them.”

“Somebody should,” Jekka said with frightening intensity.

She understood his feeling. “Much as I’d like to take a few more boggards out of the world, I’d just as soon keep us out of trouble. I think we can steer a little out of the way and swing back toward the Pool of Stars. We’ll veer west for about an hour, then due north, and we ought to arrive about noon.”

Unfortunately, on her course they ended up in lowland after only a quarter hour and had to venture north, right past another death fence. There was no helping it: they had to cross into the lands of the boggard tribe.

Still, there was no sign of the hated things either within or without their territory, and just after noon they finally arrived at the banks of the Oubinga once more.

The Oubinga was the largest river in the whole of the Kaava Lands, its source deep in the jungle highlands, three days east of the legendary Mbaiki ruins. From records she’d studied in Eleder’s Pathfinder lodge, Mirian knew it began as a stream, but here it was more than a quarter mile of muddy water flowing swift enough that they could see the current.

Mirian looked up from the river to the ribbon of blue sky unobstructed by the canopy. After so many days beneath the leaves, open sky seemed incongruously bright.

Heltan relaxed upon sighting the stretch of water. They moved quickly along its southern banks, ever on the alert for both the crocodiles that sunned on the riverside and boggards that might well be watching them from the jungle.

In another half hour they arrived at the Pool of Stars.

It was not at all what Mirian had expected. Heltan had described what she’d imagined as an inlet. What she found instead was a huge rim along either side of the river, so perfectly circular on either side that it might as well have been carved. The currents slid past the curving banks, allowing moss and detritus to collect and scum the surface.

Alderra, beside her once more, pointed to another skull fence facing the river from a few feet into the jungle. “It seems we have boggards here as well.”

“At least it’s the end of their territory,” Gombe said.

Heltan exchanged a few words in his own language with Jekka, who seemed to start, then hissed violently. Heltan turned from his brother and knelt just short of the river’s edge. He closed his eyes.

Mirian sidled over to Kalina. “Is this something I should be worried about?”

“Heltan asked Jekka if he wished to pray and give thanks. He used to be the god-speaker of our clan.”

“But he’s not now?”

“No,” Jekka said, with an air of finality. “My brother wastes breath and delays us near a border with our enemies.”

Heltan rose. “Gozreh has not abandoned us, Brother. She has helped guide us here.”

Jekka growled and turned away.

Heltan caught Mirian’s eyes and gestured to the river. “The Old Ones witnessed a trail of stars through the sky one evening. The stars burned as they fell, but one touched down at the river, so hot it burned through both earth and water, and left this mark. Behold the Pool of Stars!”

Mirian put Kalina and Rendak on sentry duty while the rest set to raft-building. Many eyes watched them from the trees: the ever-present birds with bright plumage and monkeys of varied sizes, but Mirian was sure she felt other things as well. Would boggards dare attack a large, capable party outside their territory? Their natural instincts were cowardly, but if a leader meant to prove himself, or if there were a boggard war party large enough, they’d attack with no hesitation.

The more obvious threats were sunning themselves on a sandbar twenty-five yards off. If Mirian hadn’t known better, she’d have assumed crocodiles were simply lazy and uninterested. As the expedition worked along the shore, a few nosed in closer to watch, though none ventured within striking range.

Building a raft in the wilderness required climbs into the canopy to chop larger limbs, trimming and shaping them into similar lengths and sizes, and finally tying them with rope and vines.

Although she trusted the sharp-eyed Karshnaar to keep watch, Mirian remained alert for the distinctive shush of spears through the air, or the slap of bare amphibian feet through the mud. But the boggards never showed. Maybe they were rounding farther east through their territory, planting more stakes.

The only bad moment was when Gombe’s hand was bitten by a venomous blue tree snake. Mirian was fortunately close at hand with a dose of anti-venom. Noting how he eyed the trees nervously after that, she tasked Gombe with making spears from some of the trimmings. “In case the crocodiles get too close,” she told him, which was true, but she also wanted to keep his mind focused on something other than snakes.

All in all the process took three weary hours, but she was pleased enough with the raft that she could imagine her father nodding in respect.

After all that labor, the crossing of the Oubinga proved almost anticlimactic. The most dangerous thing they encountered was a curious bull crocodile who trailed a few feet aft. About two-thirds of the way over he decided they were too big to challenge or not worth his trouble and drifted back to the sandbar.

They dragged the raft into some bushes and started north in what immediately proved hillier territory. The Karshnaar talked among themselves, then picked up the pace. Mirian knew from their previous conversations that they were now only a few hours from the ruins of their old city.

She halted the group for a quick reminder. “Now’s no time to let down our guard. We’re close, but that just means we’re nearer the lands of enemies.” She looked at Heltan. “Anything you can tell us about the lizardfolk tribe that drove you out?”

“The Vanizhar are less sophisticated, but more numerous. But as I told you, we’ve heard that they were driven out as well.”

“I remember,” Mirian replied. “But not everything you hear should be believed.”

Jekka sounded sanguine as he responded. “We are used to being surrounded by enemies, Mirian. We are vigilant.”

The air felt less humid as they climbed into rockier terrain. Even though they were among trees, they could look down upon the tops of the giants below and even make out the distant river. Mirian understood now how ancient lizardfolk might have observed falling meteorites.

Evening drew a dark blue mantle over the forest. Just as Mirian was readying to call a halt, they arrived suddenly at a decaying tower intricately fashioned from perfectly fitted stones, each carved with tiny lizard figures. It was stunning work: she longed to pull out her sketchbook and record the details while she still had light. But there’d be no time, for as expedition leader she had to secure the area.

Beyond the first watchtower was a vast clearing scattered with more, some completely crumbled into ruin. Every few hundred feet were wide pools filled with clear water. The place was still but for the croaking of frogs in the lush grass.

As they ventured deeper inside, a flock of parrots flew skyward with a beat of red and blue wings and startled cries.

Mirian was so busy looking for dangers that she didn’t realize there were stones hidden by the layer of dirt and detritus and weeds until she was well into the plaza’s middle. As she bent down to examine one, Ivrian halted beside her.

His voice was heavy with awe. “This place must be at least three miles wide. I had no idea it would be so large.”

“And our lizardfolk guides say most of it lies underground.” She brushed more dirt away to see that it wasn’t just a path but an entire run of triangular stones, carefully set one beside the other, each carved with glyphs. Words? Letters? Or merely decorations? She’d have to ask Heltan. “I think the entire space is paved.”

She wished they had time for a proper investigation. She’d have to report this site to the Pathfinder Society. It was clearly of greater import to the history of the continent than the simple cave complex she’d been exploring. Somehow, she’d steal time to sketch some of these images. All she’d managed to draw so far on the expedition were a few doodles in the dying light each evening, mostly of the Karshnaar or interesting-looking leaves and bugs near her hammock.

The lizardfolk moved swiftly through the ruins, reminding her of scurrying geckos as they advanced from place to place. Something caught Jekka’s attention, and he summoned Kalina, who motioned to Mirian. She hurried over.

It was easy to see what had them worried. There were boggard tracks in the mud beside one of the wide pools.

“These are several days old,” Jekka told her. “And look here.” He paced to a path worn by the passage of many feet. Mirian followed it, flanked by Jekka and Kalina, all the way to the edge of the trees that formed the city’s northern border.

Alderra joined her as Mirian stood frowning at the dark mass of jungle.

“A different boggard tribe,” Jekka decided.

“There are no skull fences,” the aristocrat pointed out. “Do you think there are boggards living in the pools or towers?”

Jekka sampled the air with his tongue. “No. We would have smelled them. They come to that pool only.”

Mirian led them back to investigate as twilight swept in. A stream of bats passed overhead, wakened to hunt the nighttime insects.

By shining her glow stone into the pool, Mirian could look a good long way into the cenote, enough to tell that its sides had been carved into a perfect circle. A round side-tunnel intersected the vertical tunnel some ten feet below the surface, and a faint green glow came from somewhere deeper. “What’s that light?” she asked.

Heltan had joined their group. He said, “Our people cultivated a phosphorescent fungus so there would be light beneath the water. Is it too late to dive, this night?”

“We should rest,” Jekka told him.

Mirian agreed. “We have to set up camp. We’ll approach it fresh in the morning.” They’d pushed hard today, and it would be foolish to risk a dive right now.

She tasked Gombe and Rendak with looking over the nearest tower for a defensible sleeping arrangement. Tokello plopped herself onto bare flagstone with a weary sigh and took a pull from one of her waterskins—one that Mirian had long guessed actually contained wine, for Tokello always seemed a little happier come evenings, and Mirian was fairly sure it wasn’t just because they’d stopped.

Jekka was still prowling about the site, as if on the hunt. Mirian asked Kalina to keep watch and went after him. Ivrian trailed a few feet behind.

She caught up to the lizard man. “What’s wrong, Jekka?”

The warrior halted in his examination of the same boggard trail. He turned and waited for them. His voice was low. “I am puzzled, Mirian.”

“Why?”

“This is good ground. There is fresh, clear water. Even a boggard is not so stupid as to miss the advantage. Yet they come only to this pit, and then they depart.”

She nodded. “What’s your conclusion?”

“I think there is something strong in the waters that keeps them out.”

“Something strong?” Ivrian repeated.

“Something that’s liable to find all of us tasty,” Mirian said.

Jekka cocked his head and let out that strange coughing noise she’d learned to recognize as lizardfolk laughter.

She waited for him to recover. “But if they’re frightened of it, why return?”

“The boggards worship strength,” Jekka answered.

She nodded. “Any idea what it could be?”

“Anything that likes the water and is large,” Jekka answered. “I think it will have sharp teeth.”

“That doesn’t really narrow it down,” Ivrian objected.

“It gets to the essentials,” Mirian countered. “There’s something in there that’s dangerous enough to keep out an entire tribe of boggards, and impressive enough that they come to pay their respects. If that’s not a warning sign, I don’t know what is. We’ll have to be on our guard.”

“Always,” Jekka said.

15

The Tower in the Night
Ivrian

We had come at last to the deserted outpost of the lizardfolk: a vast, broken field of towers, haunted by forgotten glories and the ghosts of the scaled people who’d shaped that city from the jungle impossible centuries before. As night fell, we took shelter at the height of one of the towers, though Mirian remained troubled that stairs led deep into tunnels beneath the earth.

We could never have guessed what tragedies lay before us. For doom clutched at our expedition with skeletal hands, and some of us would feel its grasp.

—From The Daughter of the Mist

Ivrian didn’t care much for the tower, not once they’d scaled its height and explored its depths. The crumbling stairs led down through dark chambers and into long corridors lined with that luminous green lichen. Heltan remained so eager to explore that he asked twice more if they might at least venture into the opening halls, but Mirian and Jekka vetoed the idea at the same moment.

The salvagers and the lizardfolk cleared the tower of some undesirables—centipedes as long as a man’s arm, and a few spiders as wide as pineapples—then declared the upper rooms safe for sleeping. Three rounds of sentries were assigned at both the entrance to the underground and the tower’s height, and Ivrian wasn’t sure if he should be pleased or irritated he wasn’t posted to either. Neither was Gombe, for the salvager was still a little weak from his snakebite.

Mirian advised against a cooked meal, saying there was no point attracting attention with smoke.

“The odds are good that if the boggards who made that trail live anywhere close, they already know we’re here,” she said. “But there’s a chance they’ve missed us.”

Jekka voiced agreement for the second time that evening. Ivrian wouldn’t have said that the lizard man’s attitude had become warm, precisely, but a change seemed to have occurred. It had been a day or two since he’d complained about human habits or customs, and more and more Ivrian was seeing him in consultation with Mirian.

Still, the others remained more kindly disposed. Heltan seemed to have struck up an honest friendship with Ivrian’s mother, and Kalina chattered happily with any and all. Even the wary Tokello would talk with her.

After another dinner of dried rations, Ivrian copied the habit of the salvagers and laid his hammock upon the tower’s third floor, one level below its height and two above that yawning door into darkness. The rough fabric was little enough mattress to pad him from the cold stone, but he made do like the others and sat hunched over his writing desk, making notes.

He was roughing out a description of his first view of the city when Kalina trotted up the stairs and crouched at his side, peering at what he did.

Without comment, she suddenly swung her axe about, blade at the ready. Ivrian’s breath caught in his throat. Had he broken some taboo? Were they under attack?

Then he saw the lizard woman draw out a whetstone and set it against the blade with precise, rapid motions. The scraping, whining noise was a bit of an irritant until he realized this, too, was worth noting, and so he stopped trying to conjure metaphors for the ruins and watched Kalina work.

“I’ve never seen an axe like that before.”

“It is a laumahk,” she told him. “A weapon crafted by the elders and handed down to the finest hunter of each generation.” Her lips parted, and she produced a soft hooting noise. It was a mournful sound. “I am by default the best, for I am the last.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he was. He leaned in closer. There was a curious gray sheen to the long blade. “What kind of metal is that?”

“Starmetal,” she said. “I do not know what you humans name it. It was forged from the metal found in the crater of the Pool of Stars. Like the blades of Jekka’s staff.”

“It must be a very old weapon,” Ivrian speculated.

“I do not know how to say the count of years in human words.”

“Centuries are hundreds of years,” he said, then added, “A hundred is ten tens.”

“Then my laumahk is many centuries old. You see that it does not rust.” She stopped her sharpening, and with a deft turn of the knob on the weapon’s pommel she suddenly extended the haft. “It can be wielded two-handed, if I wish.”

Ivrian was more interested than ever. “May I hold it?”

Kalina cocked her head to one side and showed the tip of her forked tongue. “May I see your writing desk?”

“Certainly. Everything I’ve written so far is just notes, though. It will sound much better once I tinker with it a bit.”

“I cannot read your language,” Kalina admitted. “But I want to see your writing and what lies within the compartments.”

They traded places. Odd to think she wanted to see what he did even though she’d understand nothing of it.

While the lizard woman opened and closed the little panels and drawers, examining the pens and pen blades, inkbottles and paper, he gingerly touched the axe—laumahk, he corrected. He kept his fingers away from the razor-sharp blade and instead studied the carved shapes of jungle animals along the haft, and the means Kalina had used to lengthen the weapon. The haft telescoped out nearly two additional feet.

“There used to be a point at the far end, for jabbing,” Kalina told him, “but it broke off against a k’rang. I do not know what you humans call them. A lizard my height, with sharp claws. They hunt in packs.”

“I’m not sure what we call those either,” Ivrian said. “But I’m glad I haven’t met one.”

“Yes. They are very hungry. Show me the symbols where you write of me.”

Smiling, Ivrian set the deadly weapon aside and searched his parchments until he found the first paragraph he’d written about Kalina. He explained to her which words said she was brave and which said she was Ivrian’s friend, pointing to them as he read aloud.

The lizard woman hissed in what he hoped was contentment. She tilted her head and stared at the wall of the tower directly across from them. Mirian sat there, a notebook propped on her knees, working quickly with a pencil while staring at them.

“What does she do?” Kalina asked. Before Ivrian could speculate, she rose and moved quickly to Mirian’s side.

The lizard woman’s frill ruffled and her scales brightened to a lighter green. She let out a soft cooing noise and knelt for a closer look.

As Ivrian walked over, Mirian tilted the paper so Kalina might see what she did.

He leaned in beside the lizard woman, curious that he should feel comfortable enough to do so. He might have expected her to smell of swamp and weeds, but she was almost free of any scent. Certainly she smelled far better than Rendak and Gombe after a long day hiking.

He marveled, for Mirian’s long, calloused fingers had sketched both of them, though she’d put far more detail into Kalina’s portrait than his own.

“You’re very good,” he told her. His artist friends had always told him that hands were hard to draw, but Mirian had great facility with them, including Kalina’s dexterous fingers as her image held the ink bottle for examination.

“Heltan!” Kalina called, “Jekka! Attend!”

Soon both of the male Karshnaar crowded, one to either side.

Jekka asked a question of Kalina in his own language, and she answered in the same. Then she said, “Do you see? She is a crafter.”

“Do you fashion this for gold?” Jekka asked Mirian.

She shook her head. “No. I draw pictures of the places where I journey so my friends can see what I’ve seen.”

Jekka blinked at this information.

There was no mistaking the eagerness in Kalina’s voice. “Do you have other pictures?”

Mirian handed over the sketchbook, demonstrating how to move the pages. “Be careful turning them,” she said. “Some are quite fragile.”

All three of the lizardfolk then gathered about the book, making it hard for Ivrian to see much. He glimpsed a ruined wall carved with Mwangi faces, a trio of unfamiliar natives at work clearing foliage. This was followed by a study of an odd-looking bird with a long beak perched on a low branch.

Heltan and Kalina talked rapidly in their own language as they turned the pages. Jekka remained silent.

“I had no idea you were so talented,” Ivrian said. “At artwork, I mean.”

Mirian shrugged, but she couldn’t completely disguise a glow of pride.

“Do you know what?” he said. “We might combine forces.”

Her eyes transfixed his own, and he felt himself withering, for there was little warmth in her expression. Perhaps it hadn’t been a good idea to bring up the matter. “I’ve been keeping a record of our journey,” he said. “I am thinking about writing a record of our expedition—”

“I don’t think so,” Mirian said.

“Hear me out. I think there’d be a real market for this sort of thing.”

“No,” Mirian said. “These drawings are private.”

That was a head-scratcher. “You shouldn’t hide talent like that.”

“I’m not hiding it, Ivrian. It’s just not for sale.”

“But—”

“I don’t wish to discuss it. Now, the hour’s late. Tomorrow may be the most dangerous day we’ve yet spent, so you’ll want a good night’s sleep. I suggest you get to it.”

Confused, he nodded. As Mirian retrieved her notebook, he reflected that it was curious he’d won the friendship of a creature not of his own species far more easily than he’d gained that of their expedition leader.

16

The Sunken City
Mirian

They began at dawn, only to learn that the passage below the tower was blocked by a cave-in a hundred paces farther in. That disappointed Mirian more than it did Heltan.

“It is better to go in through the central pool, anyway,” the lizard man said blithely. He reached out to touch a huge clod of black dirt that lay before them. “The central route through was told to me, as it was told to my ancestors. If we had gone in this way it might have taken days to orient ourselves.”

Mirian grunted her disapproval. She liked the idea of a safe spot to which they could retreat, especially since she needed to leave a few members of the expedition aboveground. Tokello and the Galanors were no divers.

The tower had been an ideal base camp, but she didn’t want them stationed far from where they were going in, so they’d have to find a new one.

She made the best of the situation. There was another tower, one a little less sturdy, only a hundred yards from the pool Heltan declared to be the city’s central entrance. She and Rendak climbed up to explore, Jekka trailing.

If this second tower opened onto the tunnels, there was no longer any evidence, for its bottom floor had collapsed into its lower level, making further exploration impossible. Still, the upper floors were defensible once she and Rendak and Jekka had divested them of a small snake nest and cleared out enough vines and leaves to determine no other dangerous creatures laired inside.

They climbed down and she surveyed the team. The sun was visible over the tree line, which disappointed her. She had hoped to start their exploration at dawn. The longer they delayed, the more chance boggards would turn up in force. “All right, Tokello.” She pointed up to the tower. “You’ve got the roof and a half level beneath.”

The healer sighed.

“Gombe, I want you to stay with her.”

“But Miss Raas,” the salvager protested, “I’m feeling fine now.”

“No ‘buts.’” He still looked a little pale. And then there was the other matter. “I’m not leaving Tokello out here by herself. Which reminds me. Lady Galanor, Ivrian—”

“We’re coming with you,” Alderra said, a hint of steel in her tone.

“I thought you’d say that. I leave it to you. But let me remind you that I’ve no idea what lies below. It’s something that keeps the boggards away. It’s my recommendation you leave this to Rendak and the Karshnaar and me.”

“I’m up for any challenge with you,” the older woman said confidently.

“I’m sure you are. But you’re not a trained diver.”

“I’m a quick study, Mirian. And so’s my son.”

She nodded politely. “Ivrian’s held up nicely, but he’s not nearly as well seasoned as yourself. I think he should sit this one out.”

The lady brushed back her mane of graying hair, an action somehow vain and strangely endearing at the same time. “If there is something under there, won’t you need more swords?”

“Perhaps.”

“If there’s one thing I’m good at,” Ivrian said, “it’s bladework.”

Mirian had to nod. She supposed Alderra had a point. And Ivrian had followed instructions to the letter. She studied him and wished again it was Kellic standing there, so filled with enthusiasm to prove himself he was practically ready to burst. She sighed. “If we have to fight underwater, you two stay well clear. Do you understand? If you try to help, you’re liable to blunder in and trip us up.”

“You can count on us,” Ivrian said with a smile.

Definitely one of the most upbeat young men Mirian had ever met. It wasn’t all naivete, either—more just curiosity.

Like a Pathfinder, she realized. She wondered if that was what her venture-captain had thought of her the first time they’ve met, when she and some Bas’o hunters had helped the Society track an artifact thief through Devil’s Cradle.

“All right, gear up.” She pointed at the Galanors. “Remember: you two follow our lead. And I mean you listen to our guides, too. If this were an army, you’d be the privates.”

“Any army would be lucky to have a general so accomplished.” Alderra quirked a smile and offered a salute.

Mirian had Rendak go over the use of an air bottle with Lady Galanor again while Mirian pulled Ivrian aside and explained once more how best to use the water-breathing ring. He nodded and asked no questions, which didn’t reassure her. She then motioned Gombe forward and had him pass over two of the short spears he’d carved. Alderra handled hers with familiarity, and Ivrian imitated his mother.

“If you must fight underwater,” Mirian said, “you’ll have much more success with a spear than a sword. Jab, don’t swing. Unless you’re me.” She’d already explained that her second ring let her move more easily underwater. “Don’t try to do what you see me doing. It’s not possible without magic.”

Heltan led the way in, his brother at his side. The more scholarly of the lizard men carried a spear himself, and Jekka flipped out the spear blade of his staff. Mirian and Rendak followed them.

The water was cool and clear and tasted rich with healthy plant life. She floated a moment to let her lungs adjust.

The lizardfolk were already moving into the circular maw of a large tube that opened into the cenote, their tails and feet granting them extraordinary momentum.

Mirian would have liked to have examined the drop site in more detail, or waited to ensure the Galanors got in safely, but she had to keep the Karshnaar in sight, so she kicked after. She heard the dull sound of a splash as one or both of the Galanors plunged in behind. As prearranged, Rendak lingered to swim with them.

The lizardfolk moved on, sleek and graceful. It was odd to see Heltan without his robe. He looked much more the warrior, now, focused solely on what lay before him.

In contrast, Jekka sometimes glanced back, just like Mirian. Rendak, shirtless and barefoot, swam just behind the Galanors, who were side by side in tight-fitting short pants and blue shirts. Kalina brought up the rear. Her laumahk was strapped to her back, a spear in one green hand.

Mirian had thought they might have to rely on glow stones, but the phosphorescent fungus shone in long green lines among the fitted stones. The light source appeared to have been set up to grow in slotted channels on either side of the tunnel, but it had overflowed and eaten into the mortar.

Two hundred feet on they came to a point where two tunnels crossed. The lizardfolk surfaced in a small vaulted chamber to catch their breath. Mirian, troubled by a flash of white below them, dived.

She found another tunnel mouth running diagonal to the upper one. At the floor below the intersection, she spied a pile of bones.

Many were animal skeletons. Others were the froglike skulls of boggards. But there was no missing the distinctive look of human jaws mixed among them.

Troubled, she kicked up to join the lizardfolk, breathing out the water so she could gasp in cool, stale air and converse with them.

“Are you ready to move on?” Heltan asked, clearly excited.

“There are bones down there,” she said. “A lot of them. Boggards. Lizardfolk too, I think. And humans.”

Rendak surfaced beside her, then Ivrian, who didn’t remember to breathe out the water before he tried to breathe in air and had to steady himself against the limestone roof as he heaved up the water in his lungs. She winced in sympathy. That was a mistake he probably wouldn’t make again.

Jekka eyed her. “That makes no sense. No one who lives here would dirty the waters. I don’t think even the Vanizhar would do that.”

“I don’t think it’s the Vanizhar,” Heltan said.

Ivrian’s coughing rang off the stone in the tiny space, echoing loudly. If there was something here, the noise he was making would surely attract it.

“Do you have any idea what it is?” Rendak asked. “Did your people keep crocodiles as pets or something?”

“No.” Jekka sounded insulted. “We do not keep crocodiles as pets.”

Mirian shifted her attention to Heltan. “The water must be connected with some outside source, or it would be stagnant. Do you know how large that source is and where it originates?”

“I do not. Your reasoning is sound, though. Probably there are ancient grates so that unwanted animals could not enter the city, but water could. If one of those grates is broken, something may have gotten in.”

Kalina surfaced beside her mate, patted his shoulder. The dull green light reflected brilliantly off the turquoise stones of the lizardfolk’s necklaces, as though conjuring a sympathetic glow. Mirian pushed over to check on Ivrian, who was still coughing.

The elder Galanor was diving deeper to explore. “Keep an eye on her ladyship,” Mirian told Rendak, who nodded, fitted his mouthpiece, and ducked under the water. She addressed the others. “All right. We know there’s a predator in here. Let’s stick a little closer together. Heltan, how far do we have to go?”

“Not too much farther. Follow me.” Heltan ducked his head and turned into the north tunnel. Jekka followed a moment later.

“Come on, Ivrian,” Mirian said. “Breathe out before you try to breathe air, or this will happen every time.”

“Right,” he gasped.

It was much farther than Heltan had suggested. They swam deep into the tunnels, veering now right, now left. Heltan never hesitated, though he and the other lizardfolk rose occasionally for the necessary gulps of air. Seeing that they didn’t pause to converse, Mirian remained below, constantly scanning the passages. Twice they passed through cenotes that opened to the sky, which was a little reassuring. If they had to get out fast, at least they wouldn’t have to retrace their way through the entire maze.

They finally arrived at a set of stairs that started in the water and led up into a soaring stone chamber. The tiny glowing, shell-like fungus grew here as well, spread out all along the sides of the wall. It cast eerie emerald light into the thick cobwebs that walled the place.

“I hate spiders,” Rendak muttered.

“Stay in the water for now.” Mirian stopped on the first stair above the water. Heltan paused just ahead, two down from the rim, and waited as Mirian pulled off her waterproof haversack and set it on the stair. “I don’t think there’s enough living down here for spiders to grow monstrous. But even little ones can be deadly poisonous. Heltan, are the books you seek close?”

“They will be close,” Heltan promised.

“Then I’ve no good way to clear these webs.” At Heltan’s inquisitive head-turn, she said, “Fire would destroy both the webs and your books.”

Heltan gave a little coughing laugh. “Neither flame nor water will harm a Karshnaar book.”

“What do you mean?” Mirian said. “Are they stone?”

“My people wrote upon book cones formed of metal. Paper was unknown to them, but it would not have lasted down here in any case. Burn the webs if you wish.”

“Oh, I wish. You’d best get back to the water for safety.”

The lizard man seemed reluctant, but he retreated to Mirian’s side, his scales glistening from immersion.

Setting the web ablaze proved simple. Mirian carried two wooden hafts for use as torches, along with cloth and oil, and it was the work of mere moments to prepare one, strike a spark with flint, and toss it.

The barrier transformed into a vast sheet of flame. A blast of heat rolled over their faces. Rendak cursed in astonishment.

Mirian had known what to expect. The surprise was the high-pitched scream and the skittering of something within the flames. A large shape blundered around inside.

“What is that?” Ivrian whispered.

“Let’s hope we don’t find out.” Mirian pulled her wand free and loosed her sword from its scabbard.

Whatever it was never wandered out of the engulfing fire. Thankfully, the terrible noises stopped after the first minute. The inferno raged on, and when Mirian realized the entire expedition was almost hypnotized by the fiery destruction, she reminded Rendak to keep an eye out below. Shamefacedly, the salvager slipped his air bottle between his lips and dropped. Jekka went with him.

A moment later she felt the stairs themselves shift beneath her, and she started, worried she’d somehow set off a trap. But the stairs remained solid, merely shaking. Her eyes then tracked instantly to the ceiling, fearful a quake had struck and the whole city would come tumbling in upon them. But the motion ceased.

“Are earthquakes common here?” Mirian asked.

“Not that I have been told.” Heltan’s gold-flecked eyes never stopped watching the blaze. “The fire dies at last.”

The lizard man was right. The last of the fuel had been consumed, and darkness followed in its wake, for the flame had burned all but occasional patches of the fungus.

“Time for glow stones,” Mirian said. There were only six in all, and she’d left one with Tokello, so she restored her cutlass and stepped out of the water with one of the rocks, commanding it to life with a single word. She saw a tiled floor worked in bright greens and blues, scorched here and there. Off to one side lay a blackened heap.

“Kalina,” she said without looking back, “get Jekka and Rendak. Forward, Heltan?”

“Forward.”

They walked on, and the light from the glow stone shone on a browned pile of bones.

Heltan glanced at the skeletal remnants. “Boggards,” he said.

They reached a branching corridor, one lined with archways into small chambers. Heltan hesitated only a moment before veering right.

“You’re sure?”

“I am sure,” Heltan said. He sounded almost as though he were.

Mirian was troubled by the darkness beyond each of the archways and the thought of what might lurk within it. Though there had apparently once been a track along both the floor and wall, just as in the underwater tunnels, other fungus had mostly taken over from the sort that glowed.

A hundred feet on they walked around the rim of another cenote entrance, veered north down a nearly identical tunnel, and discovered a second webbed hall.

Mirian had them stand back while she worked the same trick. This time there were no screams from inside, though Mirian counted no fewer than eight piles of bones. Some in this group Heltan identified as lizardfolk, but most were boggards.

“Were the spiders guardians of your people?” Ivrian asked.

“No!” Heltan turned, his voice thick with disgust. “They must have crawled in here after our enemies drove us out. We would not have allowed such horrors in a place where our hatchlings walked.”

After another turn, Heltan stopped, hissing, and shone his light midway upon a wall. He had discovered a metal plate inscribed with lizardfolk faces. Beside it was a round opening of decorative red stone. Unlike nearly every other surface, the frame was completely devoid of decoration. That, apparently, marked it as special.

Jekka said something in his own language to Heltan and held up one hand, as if to motion his brother back.

Mirian stepped forward with Jekka, wand in one hand, glow stone in the other.

Mirian quickly had the sense of a large open space. The light fell upon a floor laid in alternating veins of blue and crimson marble. She couldn’t imagine how much effort it had taken to maneuver such stone into these corridors. Her light then spilled onto a skeletal rib cage of approximately human size. She plied the beam farther and found an entire being lying across the marble, humanoid but topped with what was certainly a lizardfolk skull.

And then Heltan said a word behind her, and gentle amber light bloomed from the ceiling, illuminating the entirety of a vast rectangular chamber. The ceiling was tall and supported by octagonal pylons as wide around as tree trunks, each carved with the minute figures the Karshnaar artisans seemed to love. Row after row of shelving stood scattered in an almost haphazard fashion between the pillars, each stacked with black cones incised with strange glyphs and symbols.

Between and before the shelves lay bodies—dozens upon dozens of them, each picked clean to the bone, though there was no mistaking the cause of death. Spears and axes were thrust through rib cages and embedded in skulls.

To Mirian’s eye it looked as though the boggards and lizardfolk had met in some great battle, though she was surprised that the victor had simply left all the bodies where they lay.

“These aren’t Karshnaar, are they?” Ivrian asked.

“These must be the Vanizhar, who drove us out,” Kalina replied. “And they were killed in turn.”

“Stay sharp,” Mirian said, mindful of all the shadows and potential hiding places. She glanced back at Heltan, who stood frozen, one hand depressing a red square sunken into the door frame.

“Rendak, I want you on watch by the door. Ivrian, stick with Kalina. Alderra, you’re with Heltan. We’re all to stay in sight of at least one other group at all times. Clear?”

The rest of the team replied in the affirmative.

“Heltan, how long is that light spell going to last?”

“Until we depress the panel once more.” The records keeper’s voice was tense with restrained excitement. He finally withdrew his hand and crept forward, eyes bright.

“Do you know where to find the books you need?” Mirian asked.

“I never knew that there would be so many…” He trailed off.

And there were so many. As a lover of knowledge and ancient secrets, Mirian understood something of Heltan’s reverence for the shelves of black rock and the strange dark cones stacked concentrically upon them, even if she could not read them. She felt herself drawn toward the nearest shelves as a needle toward a lodestone, but resisted. She refused to be distracted until she was certain the area was secure.

Jekka’s presence was reassuring as they walked forward together. It was strange to think how threatened she’d felt beside him only a few days earlier.

Each bookshelf stood as high as her own head, supported by intervening struts. Their perfectly smoothed black stone was chiseled with a parade of inventive images. Lizardfolk walking, running, lying down—and sitting in contemplation of book cones.

The hollow black cones themselves stood upon their wider ends, sometimes with five or six cones stacked together, sometimes only one or two. All were covered in tiny red glyphs.

“By the gods,” she said. “Heltan, this is beautiful. What’s recorded here?”

“The history of my people. The history of the world. Poems and songs and deeds and discoveries.”

Jekka advanced past the corner of the next shelf. He stopped short with an explosive hiss, and Mirian hurried to his side.

Here was horror of a different sort. Not a monster waiting in ambush or some trap weighted to fall, nor even a macabre battle remnant. What Jekka had found instead was a makeshift oven assembled from broken pieces of stone and a vast pile of melted slag. Nearby, a long line of carefully prepared spear lengths stood propped against the wall, ready for the dusty metal points strewn on the floor beside the oven.

Each of those points had been manufactured from the melting of ancient books.

When Heltan rounded the corner, he let out a strangled cry unlike any sound she’d heard from the lizardfolk. The noise brought Kalina running, Ivrian puffing to catch up. Rendak shouted to make sure everyone was all right.

“No one’s hurt,” Mirian called back. She looked at the grief-stricken lizard man. Words failed her.

He chattered in his own language with his wife and brother. Kalina cooed and stroked the frill along Heltan’s neck while he babbled, hands rising and falling uselessly as he contemplated the ruin.

Fully a third to a half of the books seemed to have been torn from the central shelves, many of which had been smashed to create the oven.

“How many books do you think were lost?” Ivrian asked. “Who could have done this?”

She’d momentarily forgotten the writer’s own love of the written word. Of course this would affect him. “I have no idea what was destroyed,” Mirian answered sadly. “There may be no way to know. This is a loss for all the world.”

She turned away from the lizardfolk and scanned the rest of the area.

Alderra Galanor waited quietly to one side, like someone come to a funeral to pay respects who hadn’t known the deceased especially well. Jekka stepped away. Mirian motioned to Ivrian to go with him.

As the writer followed the lizard man, Mirian moved to Heltan and addressed him. “Records Keeper Heltan. I grieve with you.”

He looked up. His color had dulled almost to a gray.

“Have you lost the books you required?” Alderra’s focused question, her precise diction, cut through to the heart of the matter and awakened Heltan’s dignity.

The records keeper climbed to his feet and adjusted his necklace. Some of his pallor faded. “I do not yet know. It may take me a while to find what I seek.”

“Perhaps now that you know where the books are,” Alderra continued, “you can show us the jewels.”

Heltan’s head bobbed in agitation. “But I don’t know for certain that the books I need haven’t been destroyed, or where they are. It may take some time.”

“How much time?” Alderra’s tone cooled.

“We shouldn’t delay down here for long,” Mirian pointed out. “There are boggards above and scavengers below.” Not to mention something that the boggards themselves feared in the water.

“I have no certainty how long this requires. Will require. I would like to verify the books are here first.”

Alderra’s age showed as lines deepened around her frown. “Perhaps you can tell us where to find the jewels for ourselves.” She glanced to Mirian. “We can briefly split our forces.”

“I’m not certain that’s wise,” Jekka said. Mirian was inclined to agree.

“I don’t see a problem,” Alderra insisted. “Heltan’s going to be busy here for a while. How far away is this treasure vault?”

“Not so far,” Heltan said. It seemed to Mirian that he had grabbed on tight to this suggestion. “I can describe the path for you.”

“Lady Galanor—” Mirian began.

“We have verified that what the lizardfolk wanted is here,” Alderra said without looking at her. “I want to verify that what we want is here.”

Ivrian stepped forward with parchment, ink, and even his desk. Mirian hadn’t realized he’d brought that as well. “Can you draw us a map, Heltan?”

The lizard man bobbed his head. “Yes. A map.”

Mirian joined Ivrian beside the records keeper. Heltan’s gray-green coloring brightened as he played with the desk’s drawers and ran his hands over the dark wood. Perhaps all Karshnaar were crafters at heart. After a moment he took up the pen and dipped it into the ink that Ivrian opened for him.

Heltan called to his brother. “Jekka, you must take them. Kalina will stay and assist me. Come. Look.”

Jekka approached reluctantly, leaning on his staff as he peered over Heltan’s shoulder. Mirian stood on the other side while Alderra and Ivrian watched with interest.

Heltan drew with no real facility. There were vertical lines and horizontal lines that crossed them. At least they were straight.

Heltan pointed. “Here is the hallway outside. Follow it north past two cross points.” He pressed a green finger against a hash mark. “At a third cross point you will arrive at a water entrance. Take it to the lower crossway. Pass another cross point and turn south. Pass another cross point and turn east, then surface. You will arrive at the Chamber of Ancestors.”

“The Chamber of Ancestors?” Ivrian repeated. “What’s that?”

Heltan turned his head farther back than a human could have managed. “A repository of beautiful things made by our people.”

“And you’re certain that the jewels will still be there?” Alderra seemed focused keenly upon the money. As well she might, Mirian thought, given that it was her job to recover the jewels for the state. But it still made the aristocrat sound grasping.

“Yes.” Heltan bobbed his head swiftly. “Now listen with care. Once you arrive, you will see a wall of Karshnaar faces. You must push in the proper sequence of stones to enter, and wait no more than a slow count of five between each depression. Anyone who fails will not live. Pay close attention.”

“‘Will not live,’” Ivrian repeated. “How will they die?”

“That information has not been passed down.” Heltan looked seriously up at the young man. “Consider, though, that my people designed Jekka’s staff. Such spring blades might hide within the walls. Or there may be some other danger. So you must pay attention. I wish neither my brother nor my human allies to perish.”

Heltan then described the order of the faces, and their look. He quizzed Jekka and Mirian until he was satisfied, then handed his rudimentary map to Mirian and the desk to Ivrian.

Mirian stared at the map, committing it to memory.

“Well,” Alderra said with forced pleasantness. “What are we waiting for?”

“It’s a little farther off than I’d expected.” Mirian was still uncertain. “Jekka and I will scout out the area. The rest of you—”

“Now hold on a moment,” Alderra objected. “How are the two of you going to carry back a fortune in gems?”

Mirian shook her head. “You’re staying here. This place is too open and exposed, and needs more warriors to protect it. Jekka and I will leave most of our supplies with you so we can carry whatever we find.”

“I’m afraid I must insist that I accompany you,” Alderra said icily.

Mirian’s gaze was cool. “Remember when you promised to obey me? We already know there are giant vermin and boggards down here.”

Lady Galanor drew herself up. “Then take Rendak and Ivrian. They can help carry, and I daresay they’re stronger than I am.”

“Rendak’s the only one of you I’ve got complete faith in. Sorry, but I’ve known him far longer. So he stays here to keep you out of trouble.” She held up a hand to silence Rendak’s protest and considered the younger man waiting eagerly nearby. Was he ever not excited?

Alderra’s look was sharp. “Sargava needs these gems, Mirian. Take my son. And if you must leave Rendak, take his haversack. Fill it with gems. That’s what I bought it for.”

Acting general or no, Mirian knew when she heard an order, one that ultimately came down from the Baron of Sargava. “Very well. Ivrian, leave your blade and take a spear. Empty all else. We’ll take any shoulder bags with us. Heltan?”

“Yes?” The lizard man turned away from the row of black cones he’d been running a finger along.

“Is there anything from this chamber your people want? You said it’s full of beautiful things. Do you want any of them?”

Heltan’s head tilted to the left, and he tasted the air with a minute flick of his tongue. “Salvager Mirian, I would that I could bring it all. I would that I could look upon the place with my own eyes. But I have enough sorrow lying before me already.”

17

Faces in the Stone
Ivrian

Our imaginations peopled the place with a hundred dangers even as they raced ahead in contemplation of the wonders that awaited us in the Chamber of Ancestors. I did not speak to Mirian of it, but I worried that someone might have learned the Karshnaar code and plundered the tomb, almost as much as I worried that we might misremember that code and be cut in half or crushed to paste beneath some ancient trap.

—From The Daughter of the Mist

The corridor was in slightly better condition than the first ones, complete with short runs of shining little fungi. Certainly the green light was eerie, but it was better than nothing. Because it grew in long trenches at both head and foot level, Ivrian could easily see there weren’t any monstrous spiders or centipedes waiting to drop on him. What webs he saw were of the typical variety. He still gave them a wide berth.

With his pole shifted to its spear end and pointed before him, Jekka sounded almost friendly as he spoke with Mirian.

“It is wise,” he said, “to leave more warriors to guard a larger space.”

“Yes,” Mirian said.

They neared an intersection. “You are not more worried that we will be encumbered while carrying the treasures?”

“Not with these magical backpacks.”

He’d grown a lot friendlier today, and Ivrian wondered whether that was just the natural result of his spending time with Mirian. Perhaps seeing her artwork last night had something to do with it. Whatever the cause, a calmer, less irritable Jekka was a more reassuring companion.

They advanced into the next segment of hallway. A long swath of its ceiling was cracked. Mirian flashed her light over its surface and revealed tree roots that had fought their way through the rock.

Jekka continued to prove uncharacteristically talkative. “I begin to see that a contract is a pledge that guarantees honor between humans. I suppose such contracts are necessary when there are so many different clans.”

“Yes,” Mirian agreed.

“Unfortunately,” Ivrian added, “many humans don’t honor their contracts anyway.”

Jekka glanced back at him and stopped to consider Mirian, who halted and cocked an eyebrow at him.

“But you do,” Jekka said.

“My clan prides itself on honoring its contracts,” Mirian said. “My father risked his life to honor his.”

“All for the riches?” the lizard man asked.

Mirian’s smile was a little sad. “Not really. For the thrill. To go places no one had ever seen. To find secrets, to solve puzzles.”

“He was a hunter, then.”

“Of a kind.”

“And you are like him.”

“I suppose I am.”

They reached another intersection, surveyed the dark corridors, moved on. What else lay down these silent halls, he wondered? How many lizardfolk had lived and died here and raised families? And how many artisans must it have taken to chisel the carvings into every surface? It was, he thought, a little too much. Like the homes of the extraordinarily rich, where everything was gilded, even the bathing chambers.

Jekka was talking once more. “I think you are more interested in the hunt than the riches.”

“What about you?” she asked quietly. “What are you interested in?”

Jekka was suddenly brusque. “I am here to help my brother and my cousin.”

“But not yourself?”

Jekka paused, just a few yards shy of the glistening pool at the center of the next intersection. His voice became solemn. “The mark of doom is upon my people, Mirian. Do you truly think there is some lost land where my clan still lives?” He didn’t leave time for her to answer. “We are finished. It doesn’t matter if the final blow comes from your kind, or the boggards, or even others of our own folk. All are instruments of Gozreh. He does not want us here. My mate said he must have great need for the Karshnaar in the spirit world, for he had taken so many. But I think he does not care.”

“I don’t know about gods,” Mirian said. “But I can hope, Jekka. You and your people are brave and determined. Sometimes that’s enough.”

He studied her.

“Enough talk. It’s time for a dive.” Mirian turned to Ivrian. “Do you have the hang of this now?”

“I do.”

“All right. Jekka, he can’t swim as fast, so you and I will have to slow down. I don’t want us spread out too far.”

“Understood.”

Jekka and Mirian consulted the map a final time. As Ivrian completed a second scan of the hallway behind them, he understood the depth of the change that had occurred between the two. He couldn’t imagine seeing the tall woman and the slim lizard man standing so easily side by side in that seemingly long-ago age when they’d boarded the ship together.

Apparently satisfied, Mirian slipped the map into her haversack, one of two she now carried, like Ivrian, each on a shoulder. “Let’s be on with it.”

She pulled free her sword, stood with feet planted wide as she blew out all her air, then dropped into the water. Jekka slipped in a moment later, facing the opposite direction. Ivrian waited a moment for the waves to cease their rocking, then watched as his companions got out of the way. Mirian waved him on with one dimly glowing, fin-coated hand. He could tell from her pained expression that she was still transitioning to gill breaths.

Soon he was cold and wet along with them, sucking in the water through his own set of glowing gills. He would have thought whoever had dreamed up the kind of magic that made it possible to breathe underwater could have worked a little harder and made it comfortable.

Before he’d adjusted, both Mirian and Jekka were kicking down through a circular passage to the lower level of water tunnels and turning south. Using the fins that appeared on arms and feet wasn’t as simple as Mirian made it seem. He couldn’t imagine he looked as graceful as she did.

Underwater fronds were mixed in with the fungus in the lower transit hall, casting strange shadows.

Here and there he was startled to see the silvery flash of tiny fish. He hoped these weren’t piranha—he’d neglected to ask what those looked like. The creatures seemed wary, which was probably a reasonable indicator they weren’t inclined to eat him.

He thought he’d paid attention to Heltan’s directions, so he was surprised by a couple of turns Mirian and Jekka made. Most alarming of all was a deep thrumming noise that scattered a school of those tiny fish. It sounded as though someone were beating a great underwater drum.

It was so startling that once again he forgot to empty his lungs before he surfaced, and he spent a long minute coughing water as Mirian and Jekka climbed free. He decided he’d leave that out of any account he wrote—assuming he could acquire permission to write it.

He studied the hall as he recovered. It was different from the others he’d seen. First, it was on the same level as the upper water passages, but it was filled with air. Second, the floor was covered in an inch of water. Third, there was nothing at all within the short corridor but clear red tiles. Only at the hall’s far end, thirty paces on, was there any ornamentation whatsoever. Hundreds upon hundreds of small Karshnaar faces looked out on him, arranged in parallel rows from floor to ceiling.

“This,” he managed weakly, “is going to be trickier than I thought.”

As if placed merely to add to his apprehension, a series of bones were strewn near that decorative wall. His bare feet splashed little waves as he followed Mirian and Jekka. Seven skulls. Lizardfolk or boggards, he guessed, though he wasn’t practiced enough to tell the difference. “They must not have known the pattern,” he said.

Neither Mirian nor Jekka answered.

“Hey, did either of you hear that strange noise while we were underwater?”

“Yes,” Jekka answered.

“Do you have any idea what it is?”

“No,” the lizard man said without turning. “But I do not like it.”

“What about you, Mirian?” Calling her by her first name felt unnatural, but she showed no sign that she objected.

“I’m not sure what to think, but we need to be cautious. Now stand guard behind us. Jekka and I have to concentrate.”

Right, he thought. He turned, holding his spear ready. He felt a little ridiculous poised there with a shortspear, standing with legs naked to the knee, two backpacks crossing his shoulders. If I survive to describe this, he thought, I’ll downplay the absurdity of my appearance.

His eyes widened involuntarily.

“I’m definitely going to survive this,” he muttered to himself. “Definitely.”

18

Prayers of the Karshnaar
Mirian

“It is just a matter of counting,” Jekka said. It was the first time Mirian had heard him try to reassure anybody.

“So you’re just as surprised as I am by the number of faces?”

“Yes.”

Maybe, she thought, he was trying to reassure himself. The decoration, door, or deadly trap—whatever it was, exactly—was twenty lizard faces high and twenty across, offering them a field of four hundred visages to choose from.

“It strikes me that your brother could have been clearer.”

“I am thinking the same thing. He might not have known their number.”

“Fair enough.”

Mirian studied the display for a moment more. “All right, here’s a thought. Let’s use these.” She brushed fingers through a patch of the soft, shell-shaped green fungus that supplied light for the complex and came away with dully glowing fingertips. “Let’s both count, and then I’ll mark the ones we need. Carefully. Before we start pressing.”

“Cunning,” he said. “But what if a touch is enough to activate the defenses?”

“These look like they’re designed to slide,” Mirian said. “And your brother said to push them in. They’re not going to go off if they’re touched lightly.” She paused. “Probably.”

She glanced again at the nearest bone pile. That skull, she thought, looked as though it had been crushed, and she was distracted momentarily as she searched for where there might be a trap release hidden in the red tile. Unfortunately, the grouting was well concealed by the damnably useful fungus.

“I count seven over, three down from the right, here.” Jekka pointed at a snout with a tiny horn.

Mirian counted once, twice, then nodded. With exquisite care she touched that face with one glowing finger, leaving it with a tiny stripe. It looked like war paint.

She and Jekka then spent a laborious quarter hour counting the rest of the faces. Only twice did they disagree over carved faces deep in the mix. Both times it was Jekka whose counting had been off. The first time he seemed flustered. The second time he bobbed his head low.

“I apologize,” he said, frill flaring.

Mirian wasn’t sure what to make of the physical movement of the frill, which was at odds with his embarrassed tone. “It’s all right. The mistakes won’t hurt us until we start pressing faces.”

Jekka gave a short, coughing laugh and his frill dropped. It would be nice, she thought, if someone had a handbook for what lizardfolk social cues were. And even though she was in the midst of life-and-death calculations, she realized that such a write-up would be of tremendous use to other Pathfinders. She resolved to draft that paper herself.

Providing she survived what they were about to do.

“Are you ready for this, Jekka? Let’s rehearse it once before we start pressing.”

“Given my errors, perhaps we should rehearse twice.”

She chuckled. “Among my father’s people, there’s a saying: third time’s the charm.”

Jekka tilted his head to one side. “I understand this phrase. Every action improves with practice.”

“It’s supposed to be about luck,” Ivrian added from behind them. He had been so quiet that Mirian had almost forgotten he was there.

“I no longer believe in luck,” Jekka said, “but I practice careful preparation. Let’s rehearse three times. For charm.”

And so they did, counting down, resting a hand in front of each of the nine marked lizard faces but not touching them. The first face to press was in the high middle, then down to waist-high on the right, then very low on the left, and so on.

It really seemed to her that they had the matter down after the first rehearsal, but they did it twice more. Afterward, Mirian stepped back, hands on hips. Something still bothered her. “You’re sure that your brother has the combination right?”

Jekka seemed puzzled by the question. “My brother thinks he has it right.”

“If your people entered the vault all the time, wouldn’t the places where they touched the sculptures be worn down?”

“Oh, that’s good thinking,” Ivrian said behind them.

After a moment, Jekka said: “I agree with Ivrian.”

“So where does that leave us?”

Jekka stared at the wall for a long time. “I do not see any areas worn more than others. I imagine two possibles.”

“Yes?” Mirian asked.

“One. The vault was rarely opened, so there’s little wear. Two. The material is somehow resistant.”

“Three,” Ivrian suggested, “they’ve been deteriorating at the same rate down here for so long you can’t tell anymore.”

Mirian thought that over. “No, you’d still be able to see something that had been rubbed a lot. I’m going to hope you’re right, Jekka, and it’s option one. Because there’s always possibility four.”

“And what is that?” the lizard man asked her.

“That Heltan’s wrong, and the moment we press any of them we’ll be killed.”

Jekka’s long dark tongue darted out in a hiss. “Then Gozreh would have played another joke upon my people. And two humans.”

“If I hear anything going wrong,” Ivrian said, “I’m diving right into this water here. I like you both and all, but—”

“Wisely reasoned,” Jekka said. “The only bodies lie near the faces. Presumably someone standing back by the pool would be safe.”

“You’re right.” Mirian nodded at the lizard man. “Get back there.”

Jekka turned his head to stare at her. “What?”

“This is my risk. You don’t even want the material that’s in here. You contracted to guide me, and you have.”

Jekka’s mouth parted, and she thought to see him taste the air again, but it closed, opened, then closed once more. “I am still unclear on the boundaries of our contract, Mirian,” he said, “but since you shared danger with me, I must share danger with you.”

She shook her head. “No. You were just telling me that there are only three of you left. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you risk yourself to get some gems you don’t care about for some people you hate. Go back by the pool.”

He blinked at her a moment, fingered his staff. Once more he opened his mouth as if to speak but hesitated.

“Well, go on,” she said crossly. She wanted to get this over with. “The longer we delay, the longer we’re away from the others.”

“You are right again. But there is a battle prayer of my people I would share.”

“I thought you didn’t pray.”

“Then think of it as luck, because I think the gods pay attention to humans.”

“Very well.” She hoped her impatience wasn’t obvious.

The lizard man fell silent.

More than anything else Mirian wished to start the process so she’d know whether she was going to live or die—hopefully the former. But if the latter happened, she hoped to be killed in one fast bludgeon or a good slice. If there were some sort of blade involved, could a healing potion save her?

“Are you still carrying that healing potion, Ivrian?”

“Yes.”

“So if there’s a trap and I get cut, you’ll pour it down my throat, right?”

The youth drew himself up solemnly and bowed. “You have my word, Mirian.”

Was she growing soft? She realized she had become fond of both the murderous lizard man and the self-involved writer.

“Well?” she asked Jekka.

“Your pardon. It took me a moment to think of a good translation.” He stood tall, raised his staff, and addressed the ceiling. “‘Gozreh, let it be that my comrade slides past the blows of her enemy and brings death to those who oppose her. Grant her the speed of her youth, the cunning of the k’rang, the wisdom of maturity, the luck of heroes.’”

Jekka passed one hand over her in a cryptic gesture.

She was strangely moved. “I thank you,” she told him formally.

He bowed his head. “I do not believe that a Karshnaar god-speaker has ever whispered a prayer for a human before.”

“What’s a k’rang?” Ivrian asked.

“A swift hunting lizard that stalks on two legs. Very deadly. I don’t know your human name.”

“I think Kalina was talking about those a few days ago,” Ivrian said.

Mirian offered a faint smile. “So I’m old and slow, eh?”

Jekka cocked his head to one side. “I do not understand.”

“She’s just having fun with you,” Ivrian explained. “Because you wished her the speed of her youth.”

“That is the wording of the prayer,” Jekka explained quickly. “I meant no insult.”

“It’s all right, Jekka. No insult taken. Ivrian’s right.”

“So that was mockery?” Jekka said.

“Teasing,” Ivrian said. “Not at all the same as mockery.”

“Explain.”

She held off sighing. She really wanted to get started. “It’s something friends do. Although teasing can be cruel as well, like poking a stick at a tethered animal.” She threw up her hands. “It might take a lifetime to explain our differences, and mine might be really short. But I didn’t mean it as mockery, Jekka. It was a sign of good fellowship, as your prayer was to me. I thank you.”

He bobbed his head once more.

“Now get back there.” She thumbed over her shoulder.

“Yes. Of course.” Jekka sounded troubled, but he withdrew, feet splashing through the thin film of water.

She looked back at them a final time. Jekka held tight to his weapon. Ivrian waited beside the pool as if he meant to fling himself toward her rather than jump to safety at the first sign of trouble.

“Look,” she said, “there’s no point in my risking myself if you two aren’t ready to drop into the water. And you damned well ought to be keeping sentry anyway, Ivrian. Isn’t that your job?”

He turned, reddening. Jekka’s position didn’t change at all.

Mirian pivoted and considered the faces one final time, running the sequence through her head. How had she gotten here, again? And how stupid was this? By all rights shouldn’t Alderra or her brother be doing this?

She sighed and put a hand to the first face. She whispered a prayer to Desna and her ancestors, and pushed.

The face sank halfway in with a gentle rumbling. Mirian moved quickly to the next, down on the left, and so on. The green glow she’d rubbed on the faces was fading, but she could still see the way.

Each one sank in as she thrust carefully with her palm. So far there’d been no ominous clunk or sound of gears. She arrived at the seventh face, right in the middle, then leaned down for the eighth face, one row over on the very bottom, and then finally the ninth, two faces over from the one in the middle.

It sank in.

And nothing happened.

Mirian stood on the balls of her feet, eyes shifting over the wall. Had she missed one? Done something out of sequence?

“Maybe you should get back,” Ivrian suggested.

Then the floor gave way beneath her, and she and the water and the bones all slid down into darkness.

19

The Chamber of Ancestors
Ivrian

Splendors lay to right and left, wonders the likes of which I’d never seen, nor even dreamed. But as my eyes shifted from one glittering marvel to another, I knew a sense of foreboding. Little did I know of the cunning, hungry thing that had lain in wait for countless years …

—From The Daughter of the Mist

One second Mirian was standing in front of the wall of faces. The next she’d plunged out of sight with a little cry of surprise and a thump as her body hit something hard. There was a splash and rattle as the water and bones cascaded after her.

For all that he’d been told to dive the moment a trap opened, Ivrian’s first reaction was to race after Mirian. Quick as he was, Jekka arrived ahead of him.

Maybe it wasn’t a trap, Ivrian saw, even as Jekka dropped down the newly slanted flooring. Runoff from the accumulated water in the passage trickled after him. As Ivrian reached the edge of the ramp, he saw Mirian picking herself up from a stone floor ten or twelve feet below. This surely wasn’t the end that had come to the previous explorers, or else their bones wouldn’t have littered the entryway.

It might be, Ivrian thought, some other kind of trap. He lowered himself onto the watery slide and dropped after the others, twisting his feet at the last moment so he just missed knocking down Jekka.

He stood, grinning. “That was sort of fun.”

“You should have stayed up top,” Mirian grumbled, fumbling through the bags hung along her belt. The place was completely dark apart from the light drifting in from the hall above, but there was no missing her expression as she turned to address Jekka. “And it would have been nice if your brother had mentioned the floor was going to drop in.”

“I don’t think he knew.”

“Funny what information was passed down and what wasn’t.”

Ivrian tried not to grin.

Mirian produced the glow stone. The light caught upon the reflected glow of a crystalline object: a sculpture of a lizard head, Ivrian recognized, just as the light roved on.

Once he had his own glow stone working, it became clear they were in a round room the size of a small auditorium, lined with shelving. Half of it was given over to display, the other lined with tables covered in dust-draped metal tools. He walked among the tables examining the implements. Those, surely, were pliers, and that a hammer, but he couldn’t for the life of him determine what that spiral tool with the sharp edge was for.

“Was this a workshop?” Ivrian asked.

Jekka’s attention was focused elsewhere. “I do not know.” The lizard man strode carefully through the room, his feet near soundless on the moist floor. He peered into every dark crevice.

Ivrian felt less concern. There was an air here of safety. As he swung his glow stone about, he could imagine the ancient lizardfolk sitting at the high benches beside the tables. On the curving wall behind were raw supplies: a riot of gems and colorful minerals in sagging, time-eaten wicker baskets. On the wall opposite were finished works. He heard Mirian muttering in astonishment.

“It’s everything Heltan promised,” Ivrian breathed. Container after container of gemstones of every color. He followed the circle of the wall to where Mirian marveled at a sculpture in blue marble shot through with strands of gray veins. It portrayed a sinuous serpent with sharp teeth and vestigial legs that flowed out behind it.

“Do you know,” Ivrian said, “my mother’s been afraid all along that there wouldn’t really be much here. But there’s too much. How do we even choose?”

While Jekka patrolled the shelves, Mirian walked slowly beside other carvings. Here was a row of twelve lizardfolk heads, each seemingly carved from solid ruby.

“Look at the workmanship,” she breathed. She picked one up gingerly and almost dropped it as the thing suddenly coughed at her. At that noise, all the long line of them let out the same sound: the laughter of the lizardfolk echoing through the empty chamber.

Mirian held it at arm’s length, apparently concerned the strange object might do something else. But after a few moments the sound ceased, and that made by the others died out as well.

She glanced back to Jekka, who was poised as if to spring to action. “What is this for?”

“I do not know, Mirian.” His voice was heavy with melancholy. “Perhaps my brother will. I wish he had come. He scours the dry words of my people, but here he could look upon the work of their hands and come to know them.”

Ivrian said, “We should leave most of this so that, when your clan revives, your children can come to see what their ancestors were capable of.”

“You are more hopeful for my kind than I am,” Jekka said.

“Isn’t it possible your brother’s right?” Ivrian asked. “That some other branch of your people is still alive, and he’s going to learn their whereabouts?”

“Anything is possible. But many things are unlikely.”

“Let’s stay focused on the mission,” Mirian said. “I want to gather these heads and the gems that are already cut. I think that marble sea drake sculpture might be portable, if we wrap it right. A lot of these other pieces are going to be damaged, though. Too many delicate parts.”

Ivrian concurred. It was hard to imagine carting some of the more intricate carvings along with them, like that beautiful tropical bird sitting in a nearby alcove. Claws, beak, and finely detailed feathers could all be broken or damaged.

“The government probably won’t be as interested in art, anyway,” Ivrian said. “Those are of negotiable value. The Free Captains want gold.”

“Probably true. But I’m taking these little heads anyway.”

Mirian wrapped each one individually in a wealth of rags she’d stuffed in her haversack. Ivrian, meanwhile, packed up the worth of several small cities in cut rubies and emeralds. Though Mirian worked with care, every now and then she’d accidentally activate one of the heads and its laugh would set his skin crawling.

Jekka wordlessly handed over his own empty pack to Mirian and continued to patrol, although Ivrian thought it more of a tour now, for it seemed the area was secure.

“Jekka,” Mirian said, “is there anything here you think your brother or cousin would want?”

The lizard man paused, his back to them, still as the white marble statue of a hooded lizardfolk head he faced. “No.”

“And you?” Mirian asked.

Jekka half turned, speaking to them in profile. “I wonder if one day some remnant of your folk will guide some other race to the ruins of Eleder, and a human will stand contemplating lost greatness and wondering what went wrong.” He turned the rest of the way to face her and spoke with finality. “No. The memory of this place is enough.”

Ivrian gaped at Jekka. The savage lizard man was a philosopher. He’d never have guessed.

They filled the haversacks to their brims. Magical as they were, each continued to weigh no more than five pounds, just as they had when mostly empty. Plentiful riches remained, but there was nothing more to transport them in.

“We’d best get moving,” Mirian said. “I wish we’d asked your brother how to seal this place.”

“We’ll be back, though, won’t we?” Ivrian asked.

“We might,” Mirian said. “We have more than what we came for, though. And I imagine Heltan’s going to want to cart a few of the book cones.”

“Mother’s letting him borrow a bag like these haversacks,” Ivrian said. “It’s a little heavier and harder to carry, but it will also hold a lot more.”

“Huh. I wonder if it’ll have room for our supplies. Why didn’t she mention it before?”

“Probably so we wouldn’t stuff it with our supplies,” Ivrian said. He wondered how he was going to carry his writing desk. There was certainly no room for it in his haversack now.

Climbing up the thick stone ramp proved more challenging than sliding down until Jekka noticed the narrow steps carved into the stone on the ramp’s right side. He led the way up, and Ivrian followed. Mirian came last. As she stepped to the narrow ledge on one side of the ramp, it was already returning to its closed position.

“How did the floor know to do that?” Ivrian wondered aloud.

Mirian shrugged. “Magic, most likely.”

“Oh. Right.” Ivrian was filled with giddy excitement. That room, and the treasures it carried, just about guaranteed a bestselling leaflet or two, depending on how long he stretched out the account of their adventure.

As he dropped after the others into the flooded corridor, he began to wonder, though. If he did tell the story, wouldn’t he have to change things around a little? Especially if he wanted to preserve the rest of those treasures? Maybe he could set the lost ruin to the south, in the Laughing Jungle, or somewhere else.

His mind awash with the possibilities, it took him a moment or two to notice that faint vibration again. A thrumming. Jekka and Mirian looked to right and left as they reached a corridor. Mirian dug out her wand. He heard her talking, faintly, in the water, and swam closer to see if he could understand.

“—large.” Jekka answered, and said something about moving faster, which sounded good to Ivrian, except that Jekka and Mirian immediately surged ahead and he had no way to keep up. He kicked vigorously, but he didn’t have Mirian’s extra ring or Jekka’s powerful tail, just his legs with the magical fins. Thrash as he might, his speed didn’t increase.

They reached the circular opening to the upper water tunnels. Mirian floated by the rim, waving at him impatiently to hurry.

He shouted to tell her that he was hurrying, but that’s when he saw something from the corner of his eye and wasted a moment turning to look.

In the far distance, a large creature sped along that glowing green passage.

Straight toward him.

20

The Thing in the Depths
Mirian

Mirian knew a sea drake when she saw one, even if she was stunned to find one this far inland. The blue-green water dragon’s undulations stirred the seaweed flourishing on the floor of the lower tube. Its maw seemed tens of feet wide, open in a laughing expression. Its winglike fins and whipping tail produced that thrumming they’d been hearing.

She’d been chased by one of the damned things when she was a teenager. Only Rendak and her father’s daring distractions had gotten her free. She and the two adults had spent the better part of six hours holed up near the beast as it alternately blasted with its electrical breath or slapped on the sunken hulk with its tail to try to panic them into flight.

She screamed at Ivrian to go, but it seemed an eternity before he was finally into the waters of the upper tunnel.

Jekka had swum up to the entrance to the dry corridors and waited, spear ready. As though a spear could stop a sea drake. It occurred to Mirian then that the ancient Karshnaar must have known of the thing, or they wouldn’t have carved the creature she carried in her pack.

Mirian kicked down to the writer, grabbed him by the wrists, and added her momentum to his own, pulling him up to the rim. From below came the steady, wall-shaking drum of the sea drake.

The drake sculpture in her pack was beautiful and sinuous. As the real creature pushed into the upper passage, she got a much closer look at head than she would have preferred: the spiny backward-pointing ridges on its skull, the glowing yellow eyes, the great mouth full of needlelike teeth, the fanlike frill waving from its jaw. A real sea drake was lovely in the way of a well-made knife.

Mirian shoved Ivrian up into the hole and turned, wand leveled. She spoke the magic word.

Nothing happened.

The monster squeezed through the break between the two submerged tunnels, gaining speed as it got its winglike fins past.

Mirian turned back to the surface, only to have two vise-like hands grab her shoulders.

Jekka. As she leveraged herself up, coughing in agony—she’d forgotten to breathe out, damn it—he dragged her away from the pool’s surface.

The drake head burst up, mouth agape, preparing its deadly electrical breath.

From the other side of the water pit, Ivrian rose and drove a spear deep into its neck.

There was no doubting the young man’s courage, that was certain.

The drake gurgled in pain and dropped out of sight, slopping water over the circular rim. A moment later the floor rattled, and Mirian realized it had slammed its body into the tunnel floor.

Still vomiting water, Mirian staggered to her feet and waved for Ivrian to get over to her side of the hallway. And then she realized he was facing the right direction, and it was she and Jekka who’d come up on the wrong side.

“This way!” Ivrian shouted.

“Mirian, hurry,” Jekka said.

She needed no urging.

The lizard man raced to the lip of the water and cleared it in a running leap. Mirian didn’t think she could do that, particularly while she was still coughing water. Instead, she stepped onto what had probably been a wide, safe ledge of stone the ancient lizardfolk had used to bypass the water. Except that the ledge was now slick with glowing green plant life. She was two-thirds of the way across when the shadow of the drake loomed below. Fear lent her the impetus for speed.

She slipped as she ran, tumbling to the tiles just beyond the opening to the water. She skinned her hands on the stone and tore open her leggings. Ivrian stood above her, spear ready for another thrust.

Behind her, the ledge erupted in a spray of stone and water. The drake had broken the walkway, widening the hole.

Mirian scrambled to her feet. “Go!” She imagined the drake’s lightning blasting through the young man.

The floor shook beneath them, and for the first time Mirian wondered about the structural integrity of the lizardfolk tunnels.

She ran, her allies racing with her. The corner they needed was fifty feet on, twenty—

Suddenly there was a roar from behind, then a burst of light and a lance of pain. She dropped to the flagstones beside Ivrian, her body shaking spasmodically.

“Mirian!” Jekka shouted.

The pain tingled through every limb. She forced herself up, knowing the sea drake could spit lightning again soon. Jekka took her arm and helped her forward.

Ivrian lay motionless in the hall, a jagged black mark blasted through his shirt. The smell of burned flesh nearly made her gag. He must have been the target, with the drake’s lightning playing off any other living thing in range. That’s how their attacks worked; she’d witnessed the creature that had hunted her younger self killing scores of fish while it waited for her and Rendak and her father to emerge from hiding.

Jekka seemed unharmed.

“Help me drag him,” she said.

“You can barely move. And he may be dead.”

“No one gets left behind,” Mirian snapped. She wobbled as she reached for Ivrian. Jekka was faster. He handed his staff to Mirian, grasped Ivrian by the arms, and began to drag, grunting with the effort.

They hurried down the hall and ducked left, halting just past an intersection. Mirian undid the padded flap along her belt and pulled forth the healing potion. She knelt beside the wounded writer and propped up his head, forcing the liquid down his throat.

He blinked and coughed, which meant he must not really have been dead. Expensive as these supplies were, they didn’t have that kind of muscle.

“Damn,” he wheezed. “That really hurt.”

“How do you feel?” she asked him.

“Alive,” he said.

The floor shook.

“It still wants us,” Ivrian said groggily.

The lizard man turned his large eyes to Mirian. “How are you?”

“I’ve felt better. Did you get hit at all?”

“No.”

That was odd. But then, maybe the electrical attacks weren’t quite as deadly in the air as they were underwater.

“We have to follow that passage back to the Hall of Records,” she said. “Jekka, do you know how far it can reach with that storm breath?”

“At least this far,” Jekka told her.

Mirian nodded. “Ivrian, do you think you can run?”

“Um.” Ivrian tripped over his own feet as he tried to rise, catching himself on the wall. “Maybe.”

“Take a good long breath. Slowly. In and out. There you go.”

Again the floor trembled. It was hard to tell exactly what the beast was doing. Did it mean to lure them out of hiding and then pop its head out of the pool to blast them? Or was it trying to nudge them into motion so it could feel where they were, tracking them through the tunnels from below?

“Here’s what we do,” she said. “We wait until we feel another of those bumps. Then we run like hell for the Hall of Records and hope we can find a way out through one of the towers. We’ve got to get everybody out before it gets a fix on us.” She looked to Ivrian. “Ready?”

The boy nodded.

“Go!”

Jekka was out and running at full speed. Ivrian made a good show of it. Mirian lagged back to run at his side, looking over her shoulder. The entrance to the water certainly seemed a long way back there.

The floor rocked and splintered. A huge crack appeared in the tile.

Ivrian cursed.

As they passed the next intersection, Mirian saw Rendak waiting in the doorway ahead, waving them forward. The floor rocked a second time, and then they were through the red archway and into the brightly lit room beyond.

Gasping, she explained the situation to Rendak and Alderra, who hurried forward to assist her son, immediately proffering her own healing potion. The Karshnaar consulted among themselves.

“How did things go here?” Mirian asked Rendak.

“Quiet, until you showed up. Heltan’s found something important, but he’s wanting to take about a hundred of these book cones with him. I’m not sure there’s even room in Lady Galanor’s magical bag.”

Apparently satisfied with her son’s status, Alderra arched an eyebrow at Mirian. She bent down to undo the ties that bound Ivrian’s packs. Her eyes brightened when she gazed upon the sparkling contents, and her smile spread wide. Ivrian seemed to be talking to her about the treasure room, but Mirian couldn’t quite hear over the Karshnaar, whose own conversation had grown increasingly voluble.

Kalina and Jekka had taken issue with Heltan and now gestured toward him with some violence. Each of their frills had risen.

“What’s that about?” Mirian asked.

Rendak passed her another of the healing potions. “Hell if I know. Drink this.”

“I don’t need that.” The tarnished bronze tube was a great temptation, but she knew they should hold off until they really needed it.

“Yes you do. You look like a devil’s dance partner, Mirian.”

“We don’t have that many left.”

“We use them when we need them. And if you got hit by even part of a sea drake blast, I guarantee you need it.”

Mirian finally gave into the temptation, pulled the cork free, and quaffed the potion. Mostly bitter with a hint of cinnamon. But she felt almost normal within moments.

One of the walls rumbled. The Karshnaar, seemingly oblivious, continued their argument.

“Hey. Hey!”

All three lizardfolk looked toward her at once, their heads snapping about on their long necks.

“We need to get out of here through one of the towers,” she said.

Heltan shook his head. “I think all of them are blocked.”

“There’s a sea drake down there,” Mirian said. “I don’t know if you know what those…”

Her voice trailed off. The Karshnaar stared at her, expressions unreadable, and she thought of the sea drake sculpture she’d brought with her, as well as of the bones in the cenotes.

Heltan reached up to finger his turquoise necklace.

One of the necklaces all of them wore, their stones the same color as the sea drake’s scales.

Mirian’s jaw dropped.

“Did you know it was down there?” she shouted.

Kalina and Jekka stared at Heltan as if daring him to answer.

“They were city guardians,” Heltan said. “I didn’t think any could still be alive—”

“But you brought protective necklaces just in case,” Mirian finished in disgust. “I asked you what the boggards might be afraid of!”

“We were just discussing that with him,” Jekka said, glaring at his brother.

“We didn’t know,” Kalina explained.

“Of course you knew!” Mirian said.

“Only Heltan knew,” Jekka said, hissing. “He did not tell us, either.”

“Really, everything is fine,” Heltan said. “No one has died. A beast is still down there, but we can get out. Surely you cannot blame me for trying to do a little more to protect my clan when—”

“You could at least have warned us,” Alderra told him icily. “You could at least have loaned the necklaces to my son and Mirian when they went diving!”

Heltan bobbed his head. “I was distracted. I—”

“Hey,” Rendak whispered from the doorway. “Boggards. Hallway!”

Mirian scowled at Heltan. “Jekka, Kalina, get to the doorway. The rest of you, get your gear.” She handed off her spare pack and shouldered into her own. Then she and the lizardfolk pressed themselves to the wall next to the door alongside Rendak.

“Scouting party,” Rendak whispered. “Best finish them.”

“Yes,” Kalina said. One of her disk weapons dangled from her right hand.

They stepped out together.

Down the hall, three hunched green forms with bowed legs and huge, froglike heads looked up. Immediately, the boggards let out an excited burbling, one that rose to a scream as Kalina’s disk embedded itself in the head of the one on the far right. Mirian concentrated with her wand and blasted the legs out from under the next. It fell, mouth moving in soundless pain.

The third bounded away. Mirian aimed her wand to fire again even as Kalina dashed to retrieve her weapon.

A wave of boggards poured out of a corridor farther down the hall, feet slapping the floor tiles like drums. Kalina spun, disk in hand, and raced back toward her friends. From below came the thump of the sea drake in response.

“Move!” Mirian roared, flinging herself back through the door as the lizard woman passed her. “Heltan, get us out of here!”

She brought up the rear as the others rushed ahead. The hopping boggards followed. One alone looked ridiculous. A dozen of the things, toothed heads bobbing, weren’t remotely funny.

A blast from Mirian’s wand felled one with a squeal, but its brethren hopped right over it, advancing with astonishing speed.

She rounded a corner to discover Heltan and the other humans stopped at the pool in the scorched hall. Alderra faced him, hand on her hilt.

“Then give over the necklace, if you think it’s so safe!” the noblewoman sneered.

“Belay that!” Mirian snapped. Behind her the boggards’ pounding feet sounded like thunder. “They’re almost on us!”

Heltan dropped through the hole. Alderra, eyes burning with hatred, shoved her air tube between her teeth and went in after, followed by the others.

They were all swimming within a few moments, following the lizardfolk in the forefront. Mirian half expected the drake to be waiting for them, but the water seemed clear. The only worrisome thing was the rumbling overhead of the boggards nearing their drop point.

On the way in they’d passed a number of exits to the surface; she hoped they were nearby, for boggards were excellent swimmers.

As if on cue, she heard the splashes of boggards dropping in behind her, the sound dulled by the water. She didn’t slow down to look over her shoulder.

Heltan suddenly veered left—a left Mirian didn’t remember. What was he doing? But the rest of the party had no choice but to follow, and Mirian went after, fully cognizant of the thrashing in the water behind. She passed Ivrian as she turned the corner into the wider corridor.

And there was sunlight, shining from on high into a vast, vaulted space. What this chamber once had been she could not guess, but now it was their salvation. She turned to wave Ivrian on just in time to see the first four boggards swimming furiously after. She blasted one between the eyes. It sank slowly, dropping through a slanting sunbeam.

A wide-eyed Ivrian swam toward her past a row of sculpted lizardfolk standing atop stone columns, his glowing fins briefly tinting them in emerald light. Beyond was the circular light of the pool rim. Heltan had reached it and was already clambering up.

Rendak and Alderra were halfway there, while Kalina held on to the rim, looking back. Jekka hung back, suspended in the water near Rendak, waiting for the oncoming boggards with spear readied.

Then the sea drake appeared, sending a ripple of lightning through the boggards even as it tore through the pack, leaving bloody limbs in its wake. The closest three were caught by the electrical blast.

Along with Ivrian.

Damn it!

As the boy sank, Mirian dove after, knowing it was foolish, that he was probably dead already.

The drake thrashed through the water like a winged eel, set on rending and devouring everything in reach. The remaining boggards scattered, one swimming straight down for Mirian, who paused to blow a smoking hole through its face.

Then she had Ivrian by a shoulder strap and was kicking toward the surface. She saw in surprise that he was kicking feebly himself. The boy was hard to kill.

As she rose, Mirian saw Alderra swimming down, spear in hand, and called for her to get out. But Lady Galanor drove the weapon into a boggard as another gouged her shoulder with a clawed foot. The water was a fury of crazed forms, Kalina and Jekka fighting savagely to keep the path open.

Rendak was suddenly there at her side, grabbing Ivrian’s other shoulder strap. With his aid, their speed almost doubled.

The sea drake roared, and the water hummed with another blast of electricity. Mirian silently mouthed a prayer to Desna.

Time crawled. Every heartbeat seemed an hour, the water filled with bubbling and screams. She tasted blood as she breathed in.

At last she broke into the air. She and Rendak grasped the stone rim and pulled Ivrian up.

A reptilian hand thrust out toward her from the blinding surface world. Heltan. She grasped it, and between his clasp and her knee upon the stone, she leveraged Ivrian out.

A dripping Rendak scrambled up beside her, tube hanging beside his mouth as he gasped in air. The three of them dragged the weak, coughing Ivrian farther back from the edge.

Kalina and Jekka were out in the next moment, and Mirian whirled, coughing fluid. She hadn’t been able to fully empty her lungs.

Alderra swam furiously just a few feet below the surface. The drake was only a body length behind, and rising fast. Below, scattered boggard body parts drifted in billowing crimson clouds.

Mirian aimed the wand at the drake’s bloody maw, commanded it to fire.

Nothing.

The creature’s mouth closed around the noblewoman’s lower body, engulfing her to the navel. Mirian saw the astonishment in the woman’s gaze as she was dragged off, disappearing in a welter of blood.

“No!” Mirian screamed, and fired again, then once more. Each blast of acid burned into the drake as it lashed away and out of sight. Too late.

Too late.

21

Missing Friends
Mirian

Rendak grabbed her shoulder and pulled her away. “Mirian, get back! That thing can crawl right out of there!”

He was right. Sea drakes were amphibious. If it wished, it could follow them into the sunlight. She allowed herself to be led away, stumbling. Alderra. What if she’d made Heltan turn over the necklaces to the humans? Alderra might be standing beside her now.

She pulled herself together and spun to take in their surroundings. Her eyes had finally adjusted to the brilliant noonday sun. Kalina and Jekka were on guard, him standing post to the north, her to the south. The ruins stretched away in every direction.

Mirian put her anger at Heltan aside for a moment. “Heltan, how close are we to the tower? We need to tend Ivrian.”

The boy was huddled to one side, coughing water out of his lungs. “My mother,” he said weakly, “has a potion on her belt.” He could barely hold up his head.

Rendak and Mirian exchanged a quick glance.

“She didn’t make it, lad,” Rendak said.

“What?” Ivrian fell into another coughing fit.

“Heltan?” Mirian prompted.

The Karshnaar leader was turning this way and that. Finally, he pointed south.

With Kalina and Heltan leading, Mirian and Rendak carried the wounded young man through the empty, weed-choked courtyard and around the dilapidated towers. Ivrian tried to ask about his mother, but Rendak shushed him gently. Jekka brought up their rear.

The sun was hot on Mirian’s shoulders; she could practically feel the water steaming up from her exposed skin. It wasn’t especially pleasant making their way barefoot across the rough ground, but they had no other recourse.

They found the first of the boggards about ten feet out from the tower, transfixed by a spear. There were four others about its base.

She knew then the creatures must have been watching from the jungle since this morning, or maybe even the evening before. She grimly climbed the tower with Rendak and Jekka to seek the bodies of her friends.

But the only bodies were two more boggards, lying amid a great deal of blood that may or may not have been human. Human belongings were scattered haphazardly about the room. Anything fragile was broken, and much of their clothing was in tatters, but mercifully their footgear was still intact, and while some boggards seemed to have taken delight in smashing each of Tokello’s glass bottles, a single healing potion in its brass tube had survived. Mirian clambered down to pass it off to Kalina, who’d taken it upon herself to guard Ivrian.

He was weak enough that even downing the potion was a challenge. While Kalina assisted him, Mirian consulted Jekka. “Can you find their tracks?”

“Tracks?” Heltan asked. He had donned his robe, marred now by a run of boggard footprints near the waist. He stretched his neck forward, eyes wide. “There is nothing you can do for the others.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I mean to find them. Jekka?”

“It should be easy,” Jekka announced, and crept away, head low.

“I am sorry about these others,” Heltan said, “but you know as well as I that they are probably already food—”

“You know as well as I they’ll probably be dragged back to the village for torture!” Mirian snapped. “You think I don’t know how boggards act? We can save them if we reach them in time.”

“How are you going to do that?” Heltan’s voice grew challenging. “Three humans against an entire tribe of boggards?”

It hadn’t occurred to her that the Karshnaar wouldn’t help. She stared at him, torn between a desire to punch him in the snout and the urgent need for his aid.

Kalina stepped between them. “First, I wager fully half the warriors of the tribe are food for the drake.” She paused and eyed her mate. “Second, the humans will not go alone.”

Heltan responded in the lizardfolk language.

“This is a council of peers.” Kalina sounded angry. “You will speak so we all understand.”

Heltan hissed. “That is a very noble thing to consider, Kalina, but we cannot risk this venture. Not now. We have come through, alive, and done what we were asked. I don’t want those humans ended, but we did not agree to help them.”

“So your precious library is more vital than your allies?” Kalina countered. “Maybe that is why our people are dying out. Because our leaders don’t know what’s important.”

“But if we die now, all of this will have been for nothing!”

Jekka loped up to them and interjected without preamble. “Their tracks are simple to follow. Very fresh.”

“Numbers?” Mirian asked.

“Probably two tens.”

“Right.” Mirian faced the dwindling members of her expedition. “Who’s coming?”

“You know I am,” Rendak said. He clapped a hand to his sword hilt. Ivrian, revived but haggard, stepped up behind him.

Jekka and Kalina both nodded their assent and fingered their weapons.

Heltan hissed, showing his teeth. “Brother, beloved—”

“Say nothing more, beloved, lest it be agreement.”

The lizard man all but gnashed his teeth. He stared hard at the other members of his tribe, then faced Mirian. “Very well. Do you have a plan?”

“My plan is to sneak in close and then arrange a distraction.”

“What sort of distraction?” Heltan asked.

Mirian smiled thinly. “I think you’ll like it.”

22

Reunion
Ivrian

Of that time, I shall not speak.

—From The Collected Writings of Lord Ivrian Galanor

One foot before the other. Later, Ivrian would try to remember how he pressed on so easily after the death of his mother, and recall that it was by moving forward. There might have been more to worry about, but he didn’t. Mirian was calling the shots and the lizardfolk were guiding, so he just held his weapons and looked forward to killing something.

He’d never really imagined his mother’s death, except as an abstract possibility. He’d never thought about how it would affect him.

Alderra Galanor always had a plan, but it hadn’t saved her this time. Somewhat dully, Ivrian realized he was the head of the family now. Someday, perhaps soon, he would have to find some woman with whom to produce an heir. Gods. He couldn’t even adopt, for fear the inheritance might be contested and the property handed on to some remote cousin.

He realized, too, that he was now effectively an agent of the Sargavan government, and that all of the others were his employees. Probably, then, the best action would have been to back Heltan. The success of the mission was his responsibility. They had what they needed, and to venture deeper into the jungle toward an enemy stronghold was probably a little mad.

Yet he didn’t want Gombe’s smiling face planted forever on the end of a boggard stake, and he didn’t want grumpy Tokello tortured and eaten.

And so he followed along in a fog, wiping both sweat and tears from his face.

A half hour into the jungle, Kalina found the first of the boggard snares, a tripwire that would have swung a limb stuck with spines into their chests. She guided them past that and two others before motioning them quiet. She and Jekka then split up to survey the terrain. Mirian had the rest of them ready their weapons, urging them to remain silent.

Jekka was the first back, returning to crouch beside the spade-leafed olanga bush that shielded them.

He pitched his voice so low Ivrian had to strain to hear him. “The village is close. Your healer and Salvager Gombe are being tied to stakes, and the boggard chieftain is walking back and forth before them. We haven’t much time.”

“He’ll boast a little before he gets to the torture,” Mirian said.

A moment later Kalina materialized out of the brush. She whispered her report. “There are many more scouts posted than I’d usually see.” She showed her teeth in pride. “I think they fear us. They are on high alert.”

“Are any of the scouts close?” Mirian asked.

“One is very near.

“I want him alive,” Mirian said.

“Alive?” Jekka hissed. He seemed to find the idea abhorrent.

“I want to know numbers. And I want them fast. Unless you don’t think you can capture him.”

“There is no need for insult.” Jekka drifted soundlessly away. Kalina let out a gentle coughing laugh and followed.

Ivrian listened intently, but apart from the swish of something moving through a nearby bush, nothing disturbed the omnipresent trilling of jungle creatures. It seemed only moments later that Jekka and Kalina returned dragging one of the hideous frog-people. They tossed the boggard roughly to the ground, and Jekka leveled the spear end of his staff at its throat.

“Shelyn guard me,” Ivrian said, surprised at how strained his voice sounded. “It reeks.”

The boggard goggled at them with huge eyes. Its mottled gray flesh was slick, completely naked save for a filthy loincloth.

“Rendak,” Mirian said, “stand watch. Kalina, scout the perimeter.”

Both stepped away, and Mirian turned to the boggard. “What are your numbers?”

Jekka translated for her.

The boggard’s pointed teeth gleamed as it jabbered, then Jekka spoke calmly. “Hundreds are hunting you. Soon they will creep up from behind and we will feast.”

“Your people are food for vermin,” Mirian replied. “We killed them. How many are left?”

The boggard’s eyes shifted up to Jekka while he relayed her words. Then he looked at Mirian and gabbled some more. Ivrian thought his voice had taken on a wheedling quality, and Jekka’s response bore that out.

“I did not realize you were so powerful. Do you seek to conquer our lands? Surely such mighty warriors need guides. Servants.”

“Maybe.”

“Then you will not kill me?”

“Not if you give us truth.”

“Oh, you can trust Uthla.” It showed its teeth in what might have been an attempt at a reassuring smile. “I will give you truths! What would you know? How may I serve?” Jekka paused in his translation. “He is lying.”

“I’m sure,” Mirian said. “Ask him what is being done with my people.”

Jekka asked, listened, then answered: “The chief is asking them of their numbers and their plans before they’re cooked. He says they wouldn’t do that since you our friends now.”

“Since we’re allies now, ask him how many of our new friends await in the village?”

“Two dozen. He isn’t sure,” Jekka said. “And I think he may be telling the truth this time.”

Mirian looked to Jekka. “Very well. Knock him out.”

Jekka promptly dove his spear through the boggard’s throat. The boggard thrashed like a fish on a line as it bled out.

Ivrian gasped in surprise.

“I said to knock him out!” Mirian snapped.

Jekka’s head turned, though the rest of his posture remained rigid. “I did.”

“I meant to render him unconscious!”

“Oh.” Jekka withdrew his spear and stared at the still twitching body. Its absurdly long tongue lolled out of its hideous mouth. “Why?”

“I gave my word not to kill him if he spoke the truth!”

“You said you would not kill him,” Jekka said. “I made no such promise.”

Mirian scowled. “You might have a future as a lawyer.”

The lizard man looked confused by Mirian’s anger. Ivrian sought quickly for a means of explanation. “If she speaks for the group, her word binds us all.”

Jekka considered this, then bobbed his head toward Mirian. “I have dishonored you. I apologize.”

Mirian nodded slowly as Kalina returned. She took in the dead boggard, then cleared away brush and insects on the jungle floor and quickly sketched out a map of the village with one long finger. She pointed to where the primary huts lay, where most of the boggards were clustered, and where Gombe and Tokello were staked—near the village center, naturally.

Ivrian was all for getting the people out, but he didn’t have an inkling of how they could pull it off until Mirian removed, with infinite care, the ruby lizardfolk heads she’d taken from the hall of treasure.

“You activate these by pressing their frills. Or by roughly jostling them. Kalina, take Ivrian to a tree overlooking the village to the south. Jekka, take your brother to a tree overlooking a village to the north. Kill any scouts you spot along the way.”

“Yes,” Kalina said. Jekka nodded.

“Give Jekka a slow fifty count because his position’s further out, then throw these heads to the jungle floor.”

Jekka hissed. “I begin to like this plan. The boggards will run to investigate, but their numbers will be split.”

“That’s my hope.”

“And we will slice them down as they come.”

“Right. Rendak and I will reach the center and cut our friends free. If we don’t survive this, it’s been an honor. If it goes wrong, no more rescue attempts. Get back to the shore with your lives and the treasure, which must be returned to the baron himself. Is that clear?”

“Too damned clear,” Rendak agreed.

The lizardfolk bobbed their heads, birdlike.

“All right.” Mirian handed over a cloth-wrapped packet to Ivrian, who accepted the carvings gingerly, then passed on another to Heltan. “Let’s do this.”

23

The River Run
Mirian

As plans went, it wasn’t one of her best. Apart from having smaller numbers, they were on enemy ground that might be littered with traps her scouts hadn’t detected.

In their favor was surprise, the natural cowardice of the boggards, and the sheer audacity of the attack. At least Mirian hoped it was audacity. She supposed that’s what Ivrian would call it if she succeeded.

Rendak waited with her, sword ready, still as death no matter the sweat trickling down his face. Both stared past the single bush that separated them from the west end of the village and a half-dozen mud-daub huts. Leaning to the left, Mirian could just see the backs of a crowd of boggards listening to their chieftain harangue Tokello and Gombe. She would have liked to have known what they were saying, although she couldn’t imagine any circumstance when she would have occasion to learn their language. She wondered if some Pathfinder, somewhere, had done so.

Mirian’s fingers tightened on the wand in her right hand. It wasn’t the fighting she hated so much, but the waiting beforehand.

All at once the sound of lizardfolk laughter rolled out from the south side of the camp. Mirian saw the boggards rise up and search the brush, and then an even larger burst of lizardfolk laughter erupted into laughter from the north.

The chieftain roared. Boggards grabbed spears and charged away.

“Now,” she said, and she and Rendak were running as one down the lane of huts.

In no time at all they’d arrived at the central clearing. Tokello and Gombe were knotted by neck and wrists to blackened poles. Gombe, facing her, lit up with more amazement than delight.

Five boggards remained, including the chieftain. Two were poking fingers at Tokello’s robed stomach, almost like butchers evaluating a steer to find the best cut of meat.

Mirian’s luck held with the wand this time. Acid streamed forth and blew one boggard’s eye into glowing emerald ruin. The creature fell, gobbling even as Mirian pivoted and aimed at the chieftain.

He stood a head taller than the others, and was nearly twice as wide. She caught him as one of his bodyguards frantically grabbed his shoulder.

He howled and clutched the bubbling mark in his chest, then howled all the more as the fingers touching the injury began to burn.

Mirian tried to fire a third time, but it didn’t work, so she thrust the wand into its holster and charged the chieftain’s guards.

Boggards were inveterate cowards, and these two had seen her work magics that burned their leader. They turned and bounded toward the greenery. Their chieftain screeched plaintively after them.

Mirian slashed through his head.

He dropped, spewing blackish-red blood. Mirian scanned their surroundings, found no boggards watching. She whirled to see how Rendak fared.

She needn’t have worried: her first mate was more than a match for two boggards. Both of the amphibians were down and twitching, and Tokello was already free, somewhat dazedly rubbing her wrists.

“Glad you showed up,” Gombe said. “This ceremonial necklace was a little tight.” He made a good show at sounding casual, but his voice shook a little.

Rendak cut his friend’s rope free as Mirian heard the boggards calling to one another. Their heavy bodies crashed through the brush.

“Are you good to run?” Mirian asked.

“I think so.” Tokello shook her head in wonder, deep voice thick with gratitude. “May Gozreh bless you, Mirian. I should have known you’d come back for me.”

“Well, unless we get moving, we may still be on the menu,” Rendak said. “Come on!”

They ran, Rendak leading. Mirian drifted a little to the rear, wand at the ready.

Within half a league they were joined by Heltan and Jekka, who reported that the boggards were still scattered. There was no sign of Ivrian or Kalina until they reached the tower, where they found the two already waiting.

Mirian, Gombe, Rendak, and Tokello slipped on the haversacks while the others grabbed what little remained intact among their survival gear. Seeing Heltan struggle with the bag that held his books, Ivrian shouldered it.

And then they were off, for Mirian assured them the boggards wouldn’t remain disorganized forever.

She was right.

They had their first sign of them as Rendak and the lizardfolk wrestled their raft out of the weed bank. A spear arched out of the woods and stood quivering along the rail. The tip glistened—no doubt dipped in some form of poison.

Mirian whipped around and leveled the wand. Hoping to cow their pursuers, she blasted an innocent bush into melting ruin.

It bought them enough time to slip the raft into the river and board it, but it didn’t deter the boggards from their next rush. The expedition had poled almost to the middle when boggards erupted from the forest. Some hurled spears. Others leapt into the water.

Most of the weapons fell short. One struck the raft near Ivrian’s foot.

Gombe turned to call back at them. “Nothing but your own meat for your pots tonight!”

But his gloating proved premature. The boggards proved faster in the water than they were on land, closing until they were only a few body lengths from the raft.

More spears rained down, one taking Tokello in the side and sending her stumbling into the rail.

Mirian grabbed for the healer. Her fingers brushed Tokello’s robe but failed to grasp it as the older woman plunged over the side into the murky water. Even as Mirian cried out Tokello’s name and stretched down for her, pain exploded through her shoulder. She gasped, back arching, and twisted her neck to find a boggard spear lodged beside her shoulder blade. Blood welled as she pulled it out.

Tokello shouted. The healer had managed to grab hold of the raft to keep from being swept away.

Around her, the water began to churn.

Poor Tokello didn’t even have time to scream as the piranha closed in.

Behind the raft, boggards broke off their pursuit, swimming frantically for shore lest they fall prey to the ravenous school. Of Tokello, there was no sign, other than the furiously boiling water.

Sobbing in pain and remorse, Mirian rolled from the edge. “Tokello,” she mouthed, though she couldn’t hear. The world was growing shaky.

Ivrian snatched up her wand and shouted the activation word again and again. As Rendak dragged her from the raft’s edge. She saw Ivrian loosing deadly acid blasts at the boggards lining the receding shore.

She had the sense that they grounded on the far side, heard Rendak reassuring her that she’d be all right. And then everything whirled away into velvety blackness, free of stars, pain, and fallen friends.

24

Blood Ties
Mirian

Mostly she slept deeply, without dreams. Sometimes she woke to find scaled faces leering over her, jabbering and flashing teeth. Other times she found herself floating past dancing trees. Once her mother walked at her side and sang a mournful Bas’o lullaby.

She was too tired to care that her name was called until it grew more and more insistent. Mirian opened her eyes to discover Kellic leaning toward her. That couldn’t be. Kellic hadn’t gone into the jungle.

Yet as her consciousness shambled in the direction of lucidity, she understood that he, at least, was real. She lay on a ship’s bed built near a bulkhead, the air laced with salt and a faint reek from a distant bilge.

She tried sitting up. Immediately stars bloomed in her field of vision.

A green hand settled on her arm, steadying her. She followed it up the scaled arm flecked with orange to a bare shoulder, then shifted to take in a reptilian snout and two unwinking amber eyes. “Jekka. Where’s Kellic?”

Her voice was the faintest whisper. Why was she so weak?

“I’m right here.” Kellic shifted back into view. He sounded petulant. “You need medicine and Jekka won’t let you take any.”

“I don’t trust him or his mate,” Jekka said.

Kellic’s mate? Mirian maneuvered the fluffy scarlet pillows piled on the narrow mattress and managed to prop herself upright against them. Kellic rattled on about his frustrations: how he didn’t want to hurt Jekka, but that he’d have to order sailors to march him out if the lizard man wouldn’t let Mirian be treated. None of it quite made sense, and didn’t seem particularly important.

“Where am I?” she asked hoarsely. “Where’s the rest of my team?”

“This is the Wayfarer, Sylena’s father’s ship.” The deck planks creaked as Kellic knelt beside her. “She came looking for us, praise be to Desna, and anchored off the coast until your men stumbled out of the jungle with you.”

It took Mirian a moment to understand he meant Sylena had come looking, not the ship. Her comprehension was slowed, but she didn’t like the sound of Sylena’s involvement. And Kellic still hadn’t answered the most important question. “What about my team?”

“The humans are in quarantine, under the orlop deck,” Kellic said, then hurried on: “Sylena says they’ve been exposed to sensun fever and are still suffering the effects. You’re lucky you don’t have it, too. You’re very weak from some injuries.” He pointed at the lizard man. “And Jekka here won’t let you drink any of Sylena’s broth.”

It took a great deal of concentration to draw conclusions from that information, and she saw Kellic fidgeting under her stare. “What about the rest of the lizardfolk?”

“We do not have this fever,” Jekka said. “I do not think the humans have this fever, either. And we are only hours out from Crown’s End. We will have a proper healer look over you there.”

Sensible, she thought, and while Kellic protested she forced her tired brain to sift through the information she’d heard. She ached abominably, especially her shoulder, and her face felt flushed.

“Kellic.” He didn’t stop talking, so she was forced to raise her voice. “Kellic!”

Finally he closed his mouth and looked at her.

“Don’t you think it’s odd that Sylena happened to turn up looking for you? How did she know where you were?”

“She felt like taking the ship out,” Kellic said. “It was pure chance—lucky chance.”

“Or she’s a Chelish spy,” Mirian said.

Kellic scoffed.

“Where’s the treasure, then?”

“In the chests in her cabin,” Kellic said. “For safekeeping.”

Mirian stared at him.

“She’s not a spy!”

Mirian massaged her temples. “Ancestors, grant him sight.”

“Ancestors.” He snorted derisively.

“Kellic, Sylena could scarcely be in a better position. She’s locked up my team and taken the treasure.”

“They’re not locked up!”

“They are,” Jekka said.

“If she’s a spy, why hasn’t she simply killed us all?” Kellic asked.

“She might yet,” Mirian said.

“She’s left the lizardfolk free.”

“They’re confined to the forward deck,” Jekka said. “Mirian, is he always this blind?”

“He didn’t used to be.”

Her brother scowled.

“Kellic, listen to me. Lady Galanor suspected Sylena was a spy. That’s why I kept our destination secret from you.”

“That’s why? You thought I was a spy?”

“No, but I thought you’d tell her where we were going. She found out anyway. Doesn’t that seem suspicious? Don’t you see that we’re—” she was starting to finish the sentence with the word “prisoners” when her eyes lit on the ring that still glinted on Kellic’s hand. The one Sylena had given him.

Finally her thoughts seemed to tumble into place at something like normal speed. She knew powerful wizards and witches could spy upon people at a distance—she and her venture-captain, Finze Bellaugh, had once hired a wizard to do exactly that to help track a thief into the wilds. The job of scrying, the tanned old man had explained, was far simpler if the spell’s subject carried something belonging to the spellcaster.

Mirian wasn’t versed enough in magic to know exactly what was possible. Could the ring act as a magical beacon? Was it letting Sylena eavesdrop on them even now? She decided explaining further wasn’t worth the risk. Their lives might depend upon Sylena wishing to remain in Kellic’s good graces, though she wasn’t sure why the woman thought Kellic worth the trouble. If Mirian convinced him Sylena was a spy, she might well end up getting all of them killed.

“That we’re what?” Kellic demanded. “How could you say anything against Sylena? You’ve never even met her!”

“Maybe you’re right,” she said.

Kellic’s eyebrows drew together peevishly but he held off speaking. Mirian glanced at Jekka, found his expression unreadable.

“Lady Galanor would have said anything to get the expedition moving,” Mirian said, which was almost true. Mirian improvised as she went. “She wanted me in charge, not you, because you weren’t giving her what she wanted.”

Kellic nodded slowly.

So she was convincing him at least; but if Sylena were listening, would she be fooled? Mirian forced a smile, hoped it was reassuring. “It’s hard to think clearly. I’m sorry if I insulted you.”

“You need to take the medicine, Mirian.” He reached over and patted her shoulder gruffly, but there was honest concern in his eyes.

If nothing else, Kellic’s worry was sincere. He might be a coward and a dupe, but he wasn’t a traitor. She took small comfort in that. “How far out from Crown’s End did you say we were?”

“Only a few hours.”

“You should wait,” Jekka said.

“I’m going to pray,” Mirian said, “before I do anything else.”

“Pray?” Kellic repeated in astonishment. “Since when did you get so religious?”

“I lost two women under my command. I haven’t prayed for them yet, or asked the ancestors for guidance.”

He didn’t sniff his disapproval, but it was writ large on his face.

“You have as much Bas’o blood as I do,” she said. “You should honor both traditions.”

He frowned.

“But you’re in charge, Kellic. You need to make sure the lizardfolk are well cared for. Check in on them and see that they have water. They may be too polite to ask for it.”

Kellic’s frown deepened.

“And you have to look in on Gombe and Rendak and Lord Galanor.” Strange to refer to Ivrian like that.

“I don’t want to get sick,” Kellic protested.

“Then check on them through the door. And take Sylena with you so that if they have any needs she can help them right away.”

“Are you really sure that’s necessary?” Kellic sounded as though she’d just asked him to cross through the deepest jungle in monsoon weather.

“You’ve got to take care of your people,” Mirian said. It was something they’d heard their father repeat countless times, and he nodded glumly.

“Very well. So long as you get some medicine into you when I get back.”

“I’ll consider it.”

He sighed and climbed to his feet. He seemed to find a little more of his spine as he stepped to the door of the narrow cabin. “Are you going to keep loitering there?” he asked Jekka.

“I remain until Mirian dismisses me,” Jekka replied tonelessly.

Kellic glared, then opened the door and departed. It clicked shut behind him.

She spoke quietly to Jekka. “Thank you.”

“I have done right?”

“Oh yes. I’m just not sure how to get us out of here. Are we truly on course for Crown’s End?”

“I cannot say. I do not know the ways of ships.”

“Is the coast on our port side? I mean, the left side of the ship?”

“Yes.”

Mirian pushed covers aside and discovered herself in her sleeping gown, white and rather conservatively high-necked. She had left it with her dunnage, expecting it to be carried back to Sargava with her brother along with the rest of her clothing. “Is my chest in this cabin?”

“Your chest?” Jekka sounded confused.

“A wooden container. With clothes.”

“Oh. I am sitting on it.”

Mirian climbed uneasily to her knees so she could look out the narrow porthole. Evening. They were making east, with a good wind. A long coastline loomed to the north, only two or three miles out. A hard swim, but with their gear, not an impossible one.

If she were in her normal shape.

She almost asked Jekka to turn around while she dressed, then realized the absurdity of the request. What would a lizard man care about a naked human? His people barely even wore clothes. Her arms felt leaden and her vision occasionally swam as she moved, but she forced speed.

Her gear belt had been returned to the chest, though not her sword, or her wand. Or, she realized, her rings. How stupid was her brother? Hadn’t he been suspicious that all her tools were kept from her? Or had he kept those things for himself?

“What do we do, Mirian?” Jekka asked.

“First, you’re going to go to the weather deck and create a distraction. Not a violent or dangerous one. Just something that will attract a lot of attention.”

He didn’t ask why, which she appreciated. She didn’t have a lot of spare energy to explain. “What should I do?”

“I bet if you and your brother and cousin sang it would draw all kinds of attention.”

“Shall we sing our death songs?”

“Your death songs? No. We’re not dying today. Any of us,” she added with a conviction she hoped would make her declaration true. “I just need all attention pulled from me. I’m going into Sylena’s cabin to get our gear.”

“And then?”

“Then we go over the side.”

“What about the others?”

“No one gets left behind. I just don’t know how to free them yet.”

“You will make another distraction.”

“Probably.”

“If someone can do this, it is you,” Jekka told her, which brought a brief smile to her lips.

“Here’s hoping. I’m going to try and get my brother out of here as well. It’s not his fault he’s stupid.”

“My brother disappointed me, too, Mirian.”

“You and me both.”

Jekka hissed and tilted his head to one side. “When Kalina said that Ivrian claimed her friendship, I told her he lied. But I do not think so now. Do you think humans and lizardfolk can be friends?”

“I know it,” she said. “Now let’s get moving and save our team.”

25

Complications
Sylena

“It doesn’t sound as if you had much success.” Sylena leaned against the back of her cabin chair and carefully watched Kellic’s face.

The Sargavan waved the criticism away. “She’s agreed to think matters over. And she apologized.”

“Apologized?’ Sylena pretended ignorance. She’d naturally been listening via the ring.

Kellic cleared his throat, glanced at Atok standing silently beside Sylena. “She’s a little suspicious of you because of your Chelish heritage, but she’s starting to rethink her opinion.” He laughed, a little strained. “I guess she saw the hypocrisy.”

“Indeed.” Sylena settled back in her chair.

“I’m sure it’s all because of her illness. She said she needed to pray, but I fully expect her to take your ministrations soon.”

“We can hope.” Sylena doubted Mirian’s change of heart. She studied Kellic, who stood uncomfortably in front of her.

“She reminded me of my duty as head of the family business. She suggested I check in with the lizardfolk and the salvagers.”

“They’re being taken care of. You can’t visit the salvaging team without exposing yourself to fever. Not only is the disease contagious, they’re likely to be raving.”

He nodded. “All the same, it’s my duty.”

Sylena tapped fingers on the surface of her desk. This was an irritating time for Kellic to insist upon anything.

Until now, almost everything had proceeded according to plan. Once she arrived she sent the rest of the sailors away via the Ijo boats with assurances she’d pick up the salvage party, and Kellic had reassured their leader there was no need to send Lady Galanor’s letter along. She’d easily tricked Kellic into thinking the salvagers were sick by casting a minor spell shortly after they boarded, then locked them away.

She’d thought of several contingencies for the lizardfolk, but two proved so interested in the black cones they’d brought back that Sylena left them on deck without restraint. Once night fell she’d render them harmless with a sleep enchantment. They’d fetch a good price at the Crown’s End arena.

The one wrinkle had been the lizard man who refused to leave Mirian’s side or permit her consumption of any food or liquid until she was seen by a mainland healer. That made poisoning her problematic unless she killed the lizard man, which might rouse Kellic’s suspicions. As would refusing his current request.

“I understand, of course,” she said finally. “I’ll have Atok escort you below. You can talk with your salvagers through the door, if they’re even awake. Atok will check on them first. Gillmen are immune to sensun fever.”

Kellic looked the gillman up and down, as if searching for signs of his immunity. He had never liked Atok, and she knew the feeling was mutual.

She gave Kellic her best smile. “We’ll arrive at Crown’s End in only a few hours, and then they’ll receive the finest care. For now, please, you must only check on them through the door. We can’t risk you becoming infected as well. And when you’re done, you can meet me on deck to talk to the lizardfolk.”

Kellic nodded.

“You also might want to stop by your quarters and grab something to use as a face mask. A scented kerchief, perhaps, that you can press over your nose and mouth when you get close, just to be safe.”

“Oh. Of course.”

He bent and raised her hand to his lips, then departed, closing the door behind him.

Atok listened to his footsteps retreat, then bowed to her. He couldn’t quite mask his surprise. “You really want me to take him to the men you’ve imprisoned, mistress?”

“I want you to go in first and stress to them their lives depend upon their answers.”

“Very well, mistress. I don’t think I’m actually immune to sensun fever.”

He could be so literal. “Good thing they don’t have it, then.”

“I suppose so.”

“Is there something else?”

“No, mistress.”

“Perhaps you think I go to too much trouble for him?”

“If you still believe you might be better placed as a landholder in the new Sargava with Kellic Raas twined about your finger, then it’s probably worth some trouble.”

“But?”

“But perhaps not too much more.”

He was probably right. She had to be honest with herself: marriage to Kellic was no guarantee his property would remain hers after Sargava’s reconquest, though she was certain it would help legitimize her claim.

The uncomfortable truth was she had grown fond of Kellic. He was simple and pleasant and thoroughly devoted. He was no Chelish title-seeker who’d start sparring over money and land the moment they signed betrothal papers. He simply enjoyed her company.

Why couldn’t she hold on to him? Didn’t she deserve a little something extra after all of her hard work? She frowned at Atok. “You may go. Don’t give him much time before you lead him back to the lizardfolk.”

“I’ll do my best, mistress.”

26

Chains and Challenges
Ivrian

To have come so far and suffered so much, only to end up chained in a smelly ship’s hold … When I saw Kellic and the shore party, I’d assumed we were safe at last, but the Chelish sorceress worked her magics upon us while our backs were turned. The next thing I knew, I was waking to the shake of Gombe’s hand, chained and manacled to metal plates bolted to the deck!

—From The Daughter of the Mist

It was very dim in the cramped space beneath the orlop deck. Intensely focused shafts of bright sunlight streamed in through gaps between two planks overhead. All else in Ivrian’s world was dark, and everything stank of sweat and urine and sea brine.

“What do you think’s happening to everyone else?” Ivrian shifted, and the chains rattled as he tested the manacles around each wrist. Neither was remotely loose, and the right one bit into his skin.

Rendak’s voice was grim. “I think that pretty little captain threw a spell on us. Leovan’s boy sold us out. The gods alone know what they’ve got planned for Mirian.”

“And the lizardfolk?” He wanted to ask if they were still alive, but he couldn’t bear to do it.

“No idea.”

Ivrian reflected on that glumly for a moment, then pushed the thought from his mind. Right now there was only mental space to worry about their own situation. “So what do we do?”

Rendak rattled his chains.

“Are you saying we’re trapped?” Ivrian asked.

“I’m not saying that at all,” Rendak said. “This ain’t my first dance.”

There was enough slack in the chains that they could raise and lower their arms, and Rendak fiddled with his belt buckle.

“What are you doing?” Ivrian asked.

“Well,” Rendak answered, huffing a little with effort, “one of the things a salvager has to be an expert with is locks. Think on it, lad. A lot of chests and doors and such bar our way when we’re in the middle of a drop.”

“It’s not just about glamour and grateful, gorgeous women,” Gombe added.

Ivrian felt hope dawning.

“So.” Rendak paused to grunt. “A simple wrist lock like this”—he waved a hand in the air, now bereft of chain—“ain’t no problem at all.”

“Isn’t any,” Gombe corrected.

“Isn’t any what?” Rendak asked.

Ivrian breathed out in relief. “Sweet, sweet Shelyn. How did you do that?”

“Years of practice.”

“Plus a lock pick hidden in his belt buckle,” Gombe added.

“You’re going to give the boy all our secrets.” Rendak was already hard at work on his second manacle.

“So what’s the plan?” Ivrian couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice.

“Well, first…” Rendak paused, concentrating. Ivrian heard a faint click as the second manacle opened. “We get ourselves free, although if any sailors come with slop for us we’ll have to pretend we’re still chained. We’ll stay in this fine hotel until things get dark. Come the dog watch, that’s when we make our move.”

“What’s our move?” Ivrian asked.

“He has no idea,” Gombe explained.

“There you go, giving away our secrets again.”

“Seriously,” Ivrian insisted, “what’s the plan?”

“Lad, we’ve got to free Mirian. We’ve got to free the lizardfolk, and we’ve got to get our gear.” He leaned over Gombe, who offered a chained wrist.

“Don’t forget the treasure,” Gombe said.

“Aye, and we’ve got to get the treasure. Somehow we’ve got to sneak out in the darkness and get all of that done without getting caught.”

“Or killed,” Gombe added.

Rendak grunted, bore down on the lock. “That goes without saying.”

“I think it needed saying.” Gombe lifted one hand free of a manacle, flexing his fingers as Rendak moved to the next.

“I think not being killed should always be first on the list,” Ivrian said.

“You’re wrong there.” Rendak was suddenly serious. “The way I see it, we owe Mirian for pulling our fat from the fryer.”

“She ran into a boggard village to get me,” Gombe said.

“That she did. And poor Tokello too. And then she took a spear for us on the way out. And I’ve lost count of how many times she saved your ass, Lord. No disrespect intended.”

It still felt odd being referred to as “lord,” though Rendak, Gombe, and even the lizardfolk had called him that over the last days. “No offense taken,” Ivrian said, although not getting killed still seemed important.

Rendak finished with Gombe’s second wrist manacle. He set it gently on the floor. “My point is that goal one is getting Mirian out alive. We owe her that. Second is getting the treasure out of here and away from Sylena and Kellic. ’Cause if they get the money, Sargava’s got nothing to pay off the pirates with.”

“You don’t know that,” Gombe objected.

Rendak had moved over to Ivrian, who held his wrist upright on his knee. The salvager clasped the metal in one hand and dug with his pick.

“Then you tell me why Lady Galanor headed into the Kaava Lands. The boy here will tell you the truth of it.”

Ivrian felt Gombe’s eyes on him. “There might be other ventures in the works,” he said. His mother’s absence was like a great pressure upon his heart. “But no. You’re probably right. I think Mother was one of the few people of sense the baron had, and I think things must be really desperate or she wouldn’t have gone out to manage things.” He fell silent, lest his voice crack.

For the entirety of their journey, he’d been so caught up in the tale, and the wording of it, and how the whole thing affected him, that he’d given almost no thought to the larger picture. “I’ve been so selfish,” he muttered.

The manacle popped free and he methodically removed his hand, placing the other on his knee.

“She was proud of you,” Gombe said.

“I don’t think I was proud enough of her.”

“That’s the way of things, though, lad.” Rendak paused to shake one hand out. “My fingers aren’t as nimble as they used to be,” he said, then went on. “You can’t see who your parents really are until you get to that point yourself, or they’re not there anymore.”

Ivrian felt his eyes well with tears. “She wanted to make a man of me. I heard her saying it to Mirian.”

“Then she couldn’t see you,” Gombe said. “Because you were a brave rake from the first. You never hesitate. You just throw yourself into the middle of it.”

“That’s not what she meant. Anyone can be reckless. She wanted me to think beyond myself.”

This time Rendak answered him. “Seems to me you’ve been doing that all along. You could have stood back when those harpies attacked, but you leapt right in.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“And you could’ve stayed on the shore like a coward,” Rendak continued

“Not to mention any names, like Kellic’s,” Gombe added.

“But you came in with us.”

Ivrian was still shaking his head.

“And when Gombe and Tokello were captured, you risked your life to save them. So.” Rendak popped the other manacle free. “You’re a better man than you think you are.” Rendak clapped him on the shoulder. “One I’m proud to have fighting at my side.”

“Aye,” Gombe agreed.

Ivrian wiped the moisture from his eyes. A week before he would never have guessed that the praise of these two rough-hewn men would affect him so deeply.

“The escape,” Gombe said in the sudden silence, “is going to be the hard part. But if we’ve got a calm ocean and our gear, we can get where we need to go.”

“All we need is one air bottle,” Rendak continued. “We can share it.”

Ivrian looked down at the blank spot on his finger where the Raas family ring used to rest. The gods alone knew where that or his writing desk or his rare Ailson Kindler volume had gone. The last he’d seen, the desk and book had been stuffed into the bag Heltan was carrying.

None of the material objects seemed especially important now except for the ring. And the treasure—the freedom of his people, as defined in sparkling gems.

“What about the lizardfolk?” he asked.

“We’ll get them free too,” Rendak promised.

“No, I mean, how will they breathe underwater if we only have one bottle?”

“I think they’ve got it easier in the water than we do,” Rendak answered.

“You saw how well they swim,” Gombe added.

“So really it’s just a matter of getting out of here.”

“Right.” Gombe nodded. “And maybe dying in a heroic final stand.”

“No,” Ivrian insisted.

Gombe’s teeth glittered in a grim smile. “I thought my time was out when the boggards got me. If you survive to write about this, you’ll give me a few good lines in your play, won’t you, Ivrian?”

It was the first time the salvager had addressed him by his first name, and it brought a smile to his lips.

“I will.”

From the decks above came a peculiar trilling noise, something like the call of birds, but lower-pitched, mixed with occasional guttural noises. They heard sailors calling out questions, and then a second strange voice joined in.

“The lizardfolk,” Gombe said.

“What are they doing?” Ivrian asked.

“I can’t be sure,” Rendak said, “but it’s a fine distraction. Maybe it’s time we try this lock on the door.”

As Rendak slid forward, there was a sudden flurry of steps, and all three scrambled to shove their hands behind their backs, near the manacles. With a little luck, no one would notice they gaped open. The sound of their movements was concealed by the rattle of a key chain and the rusty turn of the lock.

Light spilled in on them. There in the doorway was a burly Chelish sailor and, holding a small ship’s lantern behind him, the archly handsome bald man that seemed to be first mate. Another figure lurked in the darkness beyond. Kellic.

“Wait here for a moment,” the bald man said. “I’ll go in first and—”

Rendak threw himself at the speaker. There was a heavy thunk and a low-voiced oath. Gombe came immediately on his heels and soon had a knee in the other sailor’s gut.

The sailor gagged and struck out at Gombe, then Ivrian woke from his paralysis and drove his hand into the fellow’s face. He hadn’t meant to drive the chain as well, but there was a loud crack and the sailor groaned.

“Nice!” Gombe said.

Judging by the commotion outside, Rendak had his hands full, so Ivrian clambered out the door.

The bald first mate was partly turned away, a wicked knife in one hand. Rendak was hunched in the hallway. A length of freed chain lay next to the lamp, which had somehow landed on its side without breaking open.

Kellic watched, frozen in astonishment.

Thinking Ivrian meant to charge him, the mate turned with a flourish of his knife, which was enough of an opening for Rendak. As the mate spun to stab, Ivrian grabbed his knife hand and Rendak drove a calloused fist into the curious fleshy flaps along the fellow’s neck.

That apparently hurt, judging from the way the gillman curled up, but Rendak hammered him in the same place again. The bald man went limp, moaning, and Rendak wound up for a third strike.

“He looks finished,” Ivrian said quickly.

“Right enough.”

While Rendak and Gombe dragged the sailors into the hold, Ivrian turned to Kellic, who had backed furtively into a dark corner, pressing a cloth to his face.

“Stay back!” Kellic cried. “You’ll infect the whole ship!”

“We’re not sick,” Ivrian snapped. “We were being held prisoner. Isn’t it obvious?”

Kellic didn’t answer immediately, but his eyes widened.

Ivrian picked up the lamp. “Are you working with them, or us?”

“You’re really not sick?”

“No. Where’s Mirian, and what’s going on with the lizardfolk?”

“Mirian’s in a cabin near Sylena. I have no idea what the lizardfolk are doing. Is that them making the noise?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Ivrian said. What other explanation could Kellic suggest?

Ivrian heard Rendak and Gombe talking behind him. “You know,” Rendak was saying, “I bet you could fit into that gillman’s shirt.”

“No one’s going to mistake me for him,” Gombe objected. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that he’s devilishly handsome and whitish. I’m devilishly handsome and brown.”

“Don’t bother,” Ivrian said. “We need to move fast. Kellic’s going to take us to his sister, and we’ll see about getting off this ship.” He shone the lantern at Mirian’s brother. “Where’s our gear?”

“In the captain’s cabin. By the gods—Sylena really is some kind of spy?”

Ivrian couldn’t decide if Mirian’s brother were stupid or naive or a healthy mix of both, but he feigned good fellowship with a broad smile and a pat on the man’s shoulder. “Love makes fools of us all. I’d muster more sympathy, but right now we’re trapped on a ship surrounded by enemies. You’ve got to get us safely back to Mirian and the lizardfolk.”

“Um.” Kellic hesitated, then, shaking his head in disbelief, started down a dark passage. “This way.”

27

Expiration
Mirian

Sylena’s quarters took up the entire aft deck save for the narrow spaces that served as officer cabins, in one of which Mirian herself had been recuperating.

Though her legs still trembled with the lingering effects of the boggards’ poison, Mirian’s hands were steady as she worked the lock. In moments she was inside and closing the door behind her. Light streamed in through leaded glass windows in a thick lattice screen. A lovely, nearly full-length mirror in a gilt frame hung on one bulkhead, and there were other fine appointments, including carved devils holding sconces.

Mirian noted the chests stowed under the galley window bench. Looking through the aft windows, she saw the ship’s wake, a brighter ribbon across waters stained by the golden light of the sinking sun. She could just make out the dim outline of the north shore. She had downplayed the difficulty in her earlier estimation. It would be a challenging swim even if she were in top condition and regained her rings. And nearly impossible if they had no gear at all.

Her brother had said the treasure was in the chests. Hopefully the gear was as well.

The locks were intricate, but Mirian was hardly a novice, and they soon yielded to her ministrations. Only clothing lay in the first chest. The second, though, held two of the haversacks, including one with an air bottle, as well as Mirian’s sword and belt, which she buckled into place. The third chest contained the final pack.

From the sound of things above, Jekka had taken her suggestion to heart and been joined by at least one of the other lizardfolk in an impromptu concert.

Mirian hoped she hadn’t sent him off to his doom. Those three at least could drop overside and swim for a good long while before needing to surface. No gear was required. She had little idea how she was going to get the rest of her team to safety, but luck was working in her favor so far. Now she needed to find the rings, and as she struggled into her haversack she cast about the room, her gaze settling on a desk built into the bulkhead beside the door.

It was carved from dark wood and boasted a number of locked drawers. It might be that Sylena had secret cubbyholes, but Mirian saw no point in searching for them when the rings could lie just beyond another lock.

And so she set to work on the desk and found its protections the most complex yet. That gave her hope she was on to something good, although she cursed under her breath in frustration. There was a babble of concerned human voices on the weather deck. How much longer would she have alone?

The third tumbler yielded to her at last. Mirian wiped sweat from her face and gently pulled the drawer free.

It was deep and heavy, with room for a sturdy black book with gold foil, a sheaf of papers, and various writing instruments. But her eyes slid immediately past those to the wands lying beside them.

One was hers, handed to her by her father on her sixteenth birthday. She could still remember his solemn expression as he declared it her birthright.

The other wand, nearly identical, was her father’s.

Mirian felt her heart race. There was only one explanation for her father’s wand lying there, and for the collection of four Raas family rings that rested in a line beside them.

Both the wand and the second ring had been thought lost with Leovan’s death. His mutilated body, recovered by Rendak and Gombe, had been missing most of its right arm. Someone, or something, dispatched by Sylena, had killed her father and taken his belongings.

Mirian felt her lips peel back in a snarl.

Without thinking, she put the rings on her fingers, and had just reached for the wand when she heard the creak of footsteps in the corridor. She tensed at her brother’s voice, then heard Rendak telling him to quiet.

She stepped to the door and opened it a little unsteadily, found herself staring at a disheveled parade of figures turning upon her with menace.

“Mirian!” Rendak said. “What are you doing here?”

She smiled in relief and waved them in. “Get in here! I’ve found our gear.”

It was only as she stepped back that she realized she no longer heard the lizardfolk.

28

The Drop
Ivrian

When I was young, I used to constantly disappoint myself. I’d end up scolding my reflection and telling him how he should have handled himself better. And then, one day, I did the right thing without thinking. But not because of my self-loathing. I’d simply learned loyalty.

—From The Collected Writings of Lord Ivrian Galanor

Ivrian and his companions joined Mirian in the cabin, which, large as it was, began to feel a little cramped.

Kellic turned to his sister. “I’m such a fool.” His voice shook. “I just didn’t want to believe it.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Mirian said briskly. To Ivrian she still looked peaked. “We’re out of time. We’ve got to get over the side and hope Jekka and the others can follow.”

“Over the side?” Kellic repeated. “Do you realize how far we are from shore?”

“We can hardly wait for Sylena to take us to Crown’s End, and I’m willing to bet her sailors are trained warriors. Gombe, Rendak—gear up. Two of the satchels still have air bottles.”

She stepped to the galley window as the others pulled on the satchels. “Ivrian, I’ve got another set of rings. We’ll have to—”

Whatever she said next was lost in the sudden crash of the door behind them.

Ivrian whirled to find it smoking as it slammed into the bulkhead.

The captain’s face was ugly with anger. Ivrian glimpsed a host of sailors behind her. She shrieked a curse at Mirian, then shouted: “You’ve ruined everything!” She plucked something from her necklace and hurled it at Mirian—a brilliant scarlet bead.

Kellic threw himself in front of his sister.

The bead struck his nose and widened into flame, like a flower bud partly open. Ivrian stared in slack-jawed horror as Kellic was engulfed in a wave of fire that traveled forward, catching Mirian even as she turned away.

She and Gombe burst through the gallery window and plummeted, followed by broken shards of glass and wood.

Without really thinking about what he did, Ivrian took two steps and dived to aid his friends. As he cleared the window he saw Gombe flailing weakly as he hit the water, his clothes smoldering. Mirian was limp.

The water was a lot farther down than he’d imagined.

He hit the waves with a painful belly flop and scrabbled to get his head above water, to suck in a deep breath for air.

Then he dove. As his vision cleared, he hunted frantically for Gombe and Raas, only to find the salvagers dropping lifelessly into the depths.

He gritted his teeth. No way was he going to let them die.

“Definitely,” he swore to himself.

29

Atok’s Dive
Sylena

Everything was spoiled, and now Kellic was dead.

First she’d had to resort to spells to silence the lizardfolk. Then, hoping to head Kellic off before he saw what she’d done, she raced to the orlop deck and discovered Atok dazed and chained.

Sylena knew then things were bad, but she’d harbored hope her sister might know some spell to erase or alter Kellic’s memory, or that she herself could still explain everything.

And then he’d flung himself into the fireball.

“Put him out! Put him out!” Kellic was clearly beyond help, but there was a fair chance the burning corpse might set fire to the deck. The sailors hurried to smother him with her expensive pillows.

Atok and another sailor piled into the remaining salvager and took him down. Rendak struggled, cursing, and Atok lifted a knife to his throat.

“No,” Sylena snapped. She might yet profit from him. “The treasure was blasted over the side with Mirian and the others! Atok, retrieve it!”

“Yes, mistress.”

Atok sheathed his knife and rose, a little unsteady. He stepped past the smoking cushions and the burnt lump they hid. He dove through the broken window.

In addition to his own considerable prowess as a warrior, Atok wore an enchanted anklet that granted him the power to summon and command sharks. Even wounded, he’d make short work of Ivrian Galanor. And Mirian Raas and the native salvager were probably already dead. The trick would be getting their treasure-filled satchels before they sank too deep.

Sylena pointed at Rendak. “Pull the pack off that one and chain him back up. Don’t leave any slack this time! And use more chains!”

Rendak glared as three sailors dragged him off. “Your gillman’s not coming back!” he shouted from the corridor.

The lowly salvager’s opinion was beneath notice. She paced over to the sailors ruining her pillows, and they looked up from their work. The fire was out, and she became closely acquainted with a nearly unbearable reek of charred flesh. Her sister was a powerful wizard, but even she couldn’t bring back the dead. Even if they could find a cleric powerful enough for that feat, her superiors would never approve the expense.

If only the idiot hadn’t jumped in front! “Take that away and throw it over the side.”

The eldest sailor knuckled his brow with a calloused hand. “Yes, mistress.”

“And throw out the pillows as well. There’ll be no getting rid of that stink.”

“Yes, mistress.”

The four burly men hastened to obey, but even after they’d transported the body the smell still lingered.

Scowling, Sylena stepped to the galley window. A last amber beam of sunlight lit the surface of the ocean where she hoped to see Atok surface. He did not—but then, he hadn’t been gone long, and it might take some time to recover the treasures.

She turned on her heel, bent to open the pack the sailors had pulled off Rendak. The first thing she touched felt like one of the sculptures.

Surely not.

She pulled her hand out and stared at the ruby lizard head, which coughed. The thing’s teeth were bared, and for a moment she imagined it was laughing at her. It was all she could do to keep from smashing it into the blackened deck planks in frustration.

This was the worst of the bags, by far. The jewels that filled the others would be more valuable in any city. Only a collector would pay full value for sculptures, and the mocking lizard head seemed to know that.

“Atok will come back,” she told it, and pushed the thing into the haversack before setting it firmly on the planks. Atok would surface with the lost bags. And then all the jewels would still be in her possession, and her sister would be pleased, and so would their masters back in Cheliax.

Kellic was dead, but she might still claim some kind of property reward once Sargava was retaken. After all, she knew the city. It was a shame about him, but there would be other pretty men.

Deciding the smell was too overpowering, she left the cabin and moved up top, remembering only then to instruct the helmsman to drop anchor, and to tell the ship’s captain to lower the rope ladders, one to starboard and one to port.

She went to stand by the taffrail, peering into the dark water.

Sylena watched for long moments, but it was one of the hands who saw the shark fins a quarter league east and pointed them out to her.

She grinned to herself. That meant Atok had finished off Lady Galanor’s boy and was probably watching his minions feast.

“Go tell the crew to keep watch for Atok,” she instructed. “He may need help climbing the ladders.” Atok would have to manage two satchels, after all.

“Yes, mistress.” The sailor saluted and hurried off.

But Atok didn’t rise.

Night fell in earnest, and she stared out at the waters in disbelief.

How dare he fail her!

For a long time she gripped the rail, seething, but as the moon rose her anger was mixed with a sense of loss. What would she do without Atok? He hadn’t been a friend, exactly, but he’d been the only person she trusted. He had always apologized when he irritated, and his advice had never failed to be sound.

And now he was gone, with the treasure. She felt a tightening in her chest. What would she tell her sister?

She’d allowed a fortune to slip through her fingers. Sylena could make a little selling the lizardfolk to the arena in Crown’s End, and maybe Rendak, too, if she claimed he were a murderer. Given his disheveled state and lack of identification, no one would be likely to believe any protests he offered.

Those four could scarcely make up for the money lost, but it would be something.

The important thing, she reminded herself, was that she’d kept the treasure from the Sargavans. The salvagers were surely dead on the ocean floor or currently being digested by sharks, and so long as the jewels were with them, they wouldn’t be paid to any pirates to hold off the Chelish fleet. She hoped her sister would like that. She wished now that she’d never contacted Rajana to brag about her success over the mirror. Atok himself had suggested she surprise her.

She would be surprised now, Sylena though bitterly.

30

Deep and Dark
Ivrian

I could not let them die. Not when we had come so far together. Not when the very future of Sargava lay at stake! I summoned reserves I’d never known and dove deep, my lungs straining.

—From The Daughter of the Mist

Ivrian glimpsed the emerald glow of Mirian’s gills and fins and knew she could breath if she weren’t already dead. It was Gombe who needed help first. The salvager was struggling feebly with his haversack. Ivrian kicked through the waters for him and got the stiff black air bottle hose free from its housing pocket. He mouthed its end to suck in a deep breath of pure, clean air, then put it to Gombe’s lips. He went swimming after the figure sinking farther and farther. The magical glow about Mirian’s neck, arms, and feet gleamed in the darkness.

Mirian had said she bore the other two rings. Reasoning that because she was right handed she’d probably place them in her right pocket, he explored there first.

Nothing, apart from the feel of a muscular thigh. Her left pocket was likewise empty.

Then he remembered the equipment belt she wore about her waist. It had many containers. He didn’t think he could hold his breath long enough to check every one of them, but he set to work.

It wasn’t in the first, the second, or the third. The fourth contained a vial that felt the same size as the healing potions, which he planned to use on her as soon as he got her to the surface, providing he didn’t drown.

I’m definitely not drowning, he vowed to himself.

His lungs strained with effort. He couldn’t hold his breath much longer. It would have been wiser, he now knew, to drag her to the surface. If he surfaced, would he be able to get back down and find her again?

An object above blocked the limited light and he made out a man-shaped figure coming toward him. Gombe?

Distracted by the shape, he wasn’t watching when his fingers closed on Mirian’s drifting hand—and felt not one ring, but two.

Of course! Why would she put the rings in a pouch? He attempted to slide the ring off her finger, only to slip and send it spinning off into the darkness.

Damn! What if that was the one he needed? He quickly found Mirian’s other hand. This time he took extra care, touching his fingertip to Mirian’s as he slid the ring off of her and onto him.

Emerald fins flared into existence along his arms and over his feet. He risked a breath, and the magic gills about his neck pulled air from the water.

Gombe reached him. Ivrian pointed to the surface and dragged Mirian by one strap. Gombe grabbed the other, and they kicked hard for the surface. As they rose into brighter waters, Ivrian saw the black scorch marks burned through Mirian’s blouse and into her flesh

Ivrian surfaced first, remembering to blow the water from his mouth. He removed the healing flask from Mirian’s pouch, dug the cork out with his teeth, and poured the liquid into her throat.

Mirian blinked slowly, gagging a little. Ivrian pushed her back under, then looked to Gombe. The right side of the man’s shirt had been burned, and the skin there was blistered, but he’d live.

Ivrian surveyed the ship, more than a hundred yards distant. At that very moment, a familiar figure hurtled through the broken window in an expert dive.

Ivrian cursed. Atok was a gillman, born to the water. Ivrian ducked below, trying to pantomime a warning to Gombe and Mirian. Neither of them seemed especially alert.

His eyes fastened upon the wand holster on Mirian’s belt.

He’d used it before, back in the jungle. All he had to do was grip it the way Mirian did and whisper the word she used.

She seemed surprised by his sudden proximity, and pushed weakly at him as he took the wand.

“What was the word?” he asked. “Sterak?”

A lance of green acid shot straight out of the end of the instrument and missed his booted foot by a toe length. The energy drifted down and away, a deadly stain in the waters.

Apparently the wand was easier to use than he’d known.

Atok came surging in. Flanking him, one to a side, were the tigers of the sea; finned monstrosities with dagger-sharp teeth and beady eyes.

Ivrian could see the victory in Atok’s eyes as the gillman pointed the sharks toward the salvagers.

Ivrian raised the wand. For a brief moment Atok’s face registered concern. Then the bolt tore through his face. Even beneath the waves, Ivrian heard the scream of agony. Ivrian blasted him the second time.

The gillman stopped making noise.

Scenting blood, the sharks stopped their charge, circled back, and nudged their master’s body.

Gombe touched Ivrian’s arm and motioned him away. They grabbed Mirian’s arms and swam off many yards, and then Gombe shouted at him underwater. Ivrian had to draw close to understand him.

“Thank you!”

Ivrian nodded. He figured he’d be forever haunted by the sight of that ring drifting slowly into the depths, and his own incompetence in dropping it. A real hero would have managed both the rescue and the retainment of a priceless treasure.

Gombe swam close, so that they could hear each other, though they had to speak slowly and clearly. “What do we do?” he asked. “Where are the others?”

“Back on the ship.” Ivrian shook his head. Something must have gone wrong, or they’d have followed instead of Atok. “We need to get to shore. Hire Ijo to take us to Crown’s End.”

Ivrian looked down at Mirian, who regarded them through hooded eyes that seemed to have trouble focusing. She’d been injured before she’d been blasted out the window, and even a healing potion only did so much.

They’d have to transport her themselves. It would be hard enough going on one’s own for three or four miles. And then there was the problem of getting to Crown’s End to free their friends, on the off chance Rendak and the lizardfolk were still alive. Both Kellic and Mirian had mentioned Sylena planned to sail there, apparently to visit her sister. Hopefully the woman would stick with her plan.

He’d worry about the rest once they got there.

31

Relative Safety
Ivrian

I thought that I’d known fatigue and hardship. I was wrong. Nothing I’d ever done prepared me for that night. The aching muscles. The constant worry for my friends. The fear that some terrible predator from the deeps would hunt us. Between the mental trauma and physical exhaustion, I was sorely pressed, and to this day I’d be lying if I told you I knew what it was that drove me on. Was it loyalty? Friendship? Fear of death? It might even be that I was simply too stubborn and stupid to give up.

—From The Collected Writings of Lord Ivrian Galanor

Either because Gombe lacked a ring or because the salvager was still injured, Ivrian tired far less swiftly. Yet Gombe never complained. He insisted they push on, kicking and kicking mile after mile, surfacing from time to time to keep the shoreline in focus. There was a frightening moment when Mirian stopped moving altogether, and they had to surface so Gombe could press his ear to her chest. Her heart still beat. She was simply spent, too tired to carry on after multiple injuries, none of them fully healed.

After the first few hours of the swim Ivrian was numb, any thoughts of sea predators far from his mind. They saw few large fish, close as they were to the surface. Once a pod of squids the size of his torso streamed below him in a line, but the odd-looking creatures seemed eager to avoid them.

On and on they swam, until both men were gasping. Their legs and arms were heavy as anchors. They had to stop and drift to clear cramps. With the help of the magical rings and Gombe’s air bottle, they couldn’t drown, but Ivrian was beginning to think they might well pass out from exhaustion. To make matters worse, he hadn’t eaten well for days, and hunger gnawed insistently.

Yet neither man complained. There was too much at stake: Their leader and friend, carried between them. The treasure on their backs that could save a kingdom. Their friends, trapped still in the hands of their enemies.

And so in the late hours of the night they staggered out of the sea and onto a rocky beach, dripping wet and cold. The moon was high, or Ivrian would have stepped right onto a spiky sea urchin. He croaked a warning to Gombe, and then the two swayed like drunkards as they carried Mirian past a little tidal pool and up a rocky beach. They lay her down as gently as they could, then sank together near a palm tree and looked up at the stars.

“By the gods, I’m hungry.” Ivrian’s voice was hoarse.

“I…” Gombe breathed in and out slowly, “used to think … a moonlight swim was romantic.”

Ivrian considered their surroundings. They’d come ashore a quarter mile from a cluster of huts.

“I never realized how comfortable lying on rocks could be,” Gombe said. “If only I weren’t so thirsty.”

“Come on.” Ivrian forced himself to his knees. His legs ached in protest. “We’ve got to find a healer for Mirian. Find transport. Although perhaps we should stow this treasure.”

“Lad,” Gombe said without moving in the slightest, “we can’t risk this. Let me go in, alone. I’ve got some Ijo blood. And the Ijo know about the Raas family. Leovan dealt with a lot of villages over the years.”

“Then you’d best get moving. It’s getting cold, and Mirian needs help.”

“Just enjoying the stars a bit.”

“Come on!”

“All right, all right.” Groaning, Gombe climbed to his feet and staggered toward the huts. Ivrian supposed Mirian knew how to start a fire in the wilderness, but he didn’t want to wake her, and was uncertain she’d be capable of instruction even if he did.

His mother could have managed a fire, he was certain. Thinking about her again was like opening a fresh wound, and he forced her from his mind.

Fortunately, Gombe returned with some brawny, broad-backed Ijo before too long. The villagers proved friendly and gregarious—not unlike Gombe himself—and were more than willing to lend aid. Soon they had everyone seated around a fire pit.

The real trick was getting them motivated to lift anchor at night and set out for Crown’s End. They thought the idea rash and dangerous, especially given Mirian’s condition, and urged delaying until morning, when a healer could be summoned from a nearby village.

But Ivrian insisted, and offered a sapphire in payment. They looked insulted, but went back to fetch a boat anyway.

“What did I say?” Ivrian asked when they were gone.

Gombe shook his head. “Ijo don’t need bribes to care for their guests, lad.”

“Oh.” Ivrian felt a pang of regret about bullying them onto the ocean at night. If he survived all this, he promised himself, he’d see this village further rewarded. Somehow.

The winds were with them. Ivrian was hard put to stay awake for the two-hour trip, but he’d resolved to monitor Mirian the whole way, ensuring she stayed wrapped in blankets. Her terrible shoulder and arm wounds had been sealed by the healing potion, but he was certain the raw, burned skin would have stung terribly if she fully regained consciousness. Once she woke and asked about Kellic, Rendak, Jekka, Kalina—even Heltan. He assured her that they were all alive, and she rose up to look for them before her eyes rolled and she fell back asleep.

Gombe dozed off once or twice, then kept himself awake talking quietly with Ivrian in the bow of the little boat. The four Ijo sailors were busy manipulating the sail and rudder and had little to say in any case, resenting their guests for asking a favor so far beyond what should reasonably have been expected.

“When we arrive,” Gombe said, “we’ll head to the temple of Iomedae.”

The idea surprised Ivrian. “Shouldn’t we go straight to the governor?”

“In the middle of the night? And have you seen yourself? I mean, look at us. You think any guard is going to let us near the manor house?”

Ivrian looked down at his dripping sleeves, his torn and stained leggings. He’d left his boots drifting in the ocean. He touched his face and felt days of beard growth. And he smelled rather strongly of the ocean. “I suppose you’re right.” He hadn’t thought of any of these particular difficulties. He’d been so fixated on getting to the shore, turning the money over to the governor, and freeing his friends that he had somehow overlooked further challenges.

“My uncle’s a priest here,” Gombe said. “Of Iomedae. The head priest.”

“You’re kidding!” The news was like a welcome thunderbolt. Weary as he was, Ivrian felt a surge of energy.

“Oh, yes, a fine joke.”

“We’ll go to him, get Mirian healed, get cleaned up, then see the governor!”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” Gombe said.

“Will the temple even be open?”

“No, but my uncle lives beside it.” Gombe looked down at Mirian, stirring fitfully. “It’s going to be a long walk up the bluff.”

“We can hire a cart.”

“At this time of night? This is Crown’s End, not Eleder.”

They arrived a little before two bells, putting in at the end of one of dozens of long quays where ships were moored. Ivrian supposed that somewhere nearby he’d find Sylena’s ship, if he cared to look.

They thanked the Ijo, who gruffly replied that it had been their duty, though they looked none too happy about it. And then Gombe and Ivrian stumbled out onto the dock, supporting Mirian between them.

Despite Gombe’s pessimism, they did find a cart for hire, though the halfling who drove it looked dubious until they tendered him a small jewel. Ivrian had nothing else to pay him with. After that, the driver was the soul of courtesy, and conveyed them promptly beyond the port and up the cobblestone road to the little walled town on the cliff.

Iron gates and a stone watchtower guarded the settlement. The soldier on duty waved them past. Just beyond, to the right, was a narrow building of stone, complete with steeple and columns. It was clearly a temple, though the shadows were too deep for Ivrian to discern any further details. The halfling let them off, though he reminded them the temple was closed and suggested a variety of hostelries.

Ivrian thanked him, and then he and Gombe hoisted Mirian between them and trudged past the wide front entrance, diverted to the side and through a sagging metal gate. It creaked as it swung open, and then Ivrian shut it behind them, wincing a little both from the noise and the agony of moving his aching legs.

Gombe was already knocking on the door of the small stone home beside the temple. There was a brief exchange with grumpy servants before the door opened and a bevy of assistance whirled them forward. Mirian was whisked one way, Gombe and Ivrian another. Before long, an old, dignified Mulaa man with rich black skin and short white hair was in earnest discussion with Gombe, promising that Mirian would make a full recovery.

Ivrian rather wished to hear the assurances in more detail, but he was led to where water had been pumped into an austere but immense bathing tub, which he soaked in gratefully before climbing into a set of clean clothes. Afterward, he was taken to a narrow, high-ceilinged dining hall with a long cedar table to behold a wondrous sight: half a cormorant breast on a bed of rice beside a bowl of coconut soup.

Ivrian gratefully dug in. He’d finished off the bird and nearly half the soup, seasoned with lime and filled with chunks of tender crab, before the white-haired fellow entered the room. Ivrian wrestled himself to his feet.

“There’s no need for that,” the man told him, voice heavy with dignity and age.

Ivrian bowed. “You are a priest of Iomedae.”

“And also uncle to Gombe.” The older man stepped closer, and Ivrian noticed for the first time that he walked with a limp. He was clothed like a colonial, in tailored pants and a shirt, but wore a colorful red-and-yellow vest, and aged slippers. “From everything I hear, you are a very brave young man.” The priest gripped Ivrian’s shoulders with two powerful hands and pulled him in close. Startled, Ivrian belatedly grabbed the priest’s shoulders.

“My nephew is so tired from what you have endured that he fell asleep sitting upright, but I believe I understand the gist of the matter. My given name is Onwu, and that is what I wish you to call me. I will join you. Please. Eat.”

So saying, Onwu pulled out one of the high-backed chairs and lowered himself to the cushion—with some pain, Ivrian thought. After a moment, Ivrian took his seat, his own aches rendering his motion a mirror to the priest’s.

“I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality, Fath— Onwu. And Mirian is going to be all right?”

“I have personally tended her injuries. She will be fine, so long as she can have rest. Which you need sorely as well. I need be no healer to see that.”

A woman he hadn’t noticed behind him passed a goblet Ivrian’s way, then stepped to hand one to Onwu.

Ivrian drank gratefully. Fermented coconut milk mixed with brandy. Sweet, with a burn at the end. It felt good in his throat.

“You have a warrior’s soul,” Onwu told him. “To fight sharks. To risk all for your friends.”

Ivrian shook his head. “There are people, friends, who still need our help. I’ve got to speak with the governor and get them off the Chelish ship.”

Onwu set the goblet aside. “It is not so simple. You cannot take these treasures you brought to the Icehand.”

“Icehand?” Ivrian repeated.

The woman answered, her voice low. “My grandfather means the governor. Ilina Ysande. They call her the Icehand.”

Ivrian glanced over at her, but in the poor light he saw only a slim figure in one of the long yellow skirts of the Mulaa, a dark-red blouse hanging over a bare and muscular midriff.

“This is Jeneta, my granddaughter. And she speaks true. The Icehand will take your money. You will have to get it to the baron without her.”

“And what about our friends?”

“I’ve looked into it,” Jeneta said. “Three lizardfolk and a single man were sold to the arena by the ship Wayfarer.”

“How did you find out so fast?”

“My granddaughter is resourceful,” Onwu said. “But this information was not gained as swiftly as you might think. You were long in the bath.”

Ivrian put his hand to his head. Fatigue beat at him like a hammer. “Do you know if the man was named Rendak?”

Jeneta turned her head slowly from side to side. “No one remarked upon him, only that he was a murderer. They recalled the lizardfolk.”

“Those four are the ones we must ask the governor to free. We don’t have to mention the money.”

“The governor will not care,” Jeneta said. “It’s unlikely you’ll get them back, particularly if they’ve been judged.”

“Judged?”

“Those presented as criminals to the arena are given a chance to explain their case to a ‘judge,’” Onwu explained. “A man who takes a cut from all those brought in for combat. You can guess why he very rarely rules in a victim’s favor.”

“Then we’ll just pay off this man.”

“It doesn’t work that way. Once past the judge, any prisoners are auctioned to agents who represent the arena stakeholders. You’d have to track down the agent, or the actual owner, and bribe them.”

Ivrian was too tired for all this complexity. “Surely there’s some other way.”

Onwu leaned forward, his dark face grimly serious. “As a priest, I could gain entrance to offer final prayers. But getting anyone out is problematic. No guards would accept bribes to release prisoners, not when the wrath of the arena’s owners would fall on them.”

“Gombe says you have magics that allow you to breathe underwater,” Jeneta interrupted.

“Yes,” Ivrian said, a little annoyed by the change in topic.

Jeneta continued. “A sewer exit drains from the arena and out into the bay. It’s tied to an underground stream. A lot of blood has to be washed out of the arena every week. People have tried to escape that way, but they always drown. With your magic, though, they could live.”

Ivrian felt the first flash of hope. “That may be our answer. We have two rings that allow the breathing of water. And an air bottle.” He frowned in thought. “Do you know how long the tunnel is?”

“A quarter mile, perhaps? Maybe longer.”

“That might be a bit long for the lizardfolk,” Ivrian said. “They can hold their breath for a good long while, but they can’t breathe underwater.” He remembered those eerie green-lit tunnels beneath the ancient city and tried to estimate how long the Karshnaar had gone without surfacing. How far could they swim if pressed to their limit? He couldn’t really guess. “It may be our best chance. Onwu, can you get me in to see them?”

“I will take you,” the woman declared firmly. She stepped forward, and Ivrian had his first clear sight of her. She was tall and strapping, long-chinned. A bronze headband held back a mass of tightly curled hair from her face.

There was no missing her determination, just as there was no missing her age. He had been deceived by both her height and her low, sonorous voice. She couldn’t be much older than sixteen.

Tired as he was, Ivrian’s patience was razor thin. Still, he managed politeness. “Lives are at stake,” he reminded them. “I mean no offense, Father Onwu, but as head priest you’ll have far more authority than your granddaughter. Won’t you have better luck getting me in?”

“I will be using my ‘authority,’ such as it is in this snake pit, to find a legal way to free them. If not, I’ll find you a way out of the town. If you must visit them, Jeneta is up to the task. She is a cleric of Iomedae herself.”

The girl stepped closer and bowed her head with dignity. “You may have faith in me, young lord.”

Ivrian started to object further, but Jeneta cut him off. “Grandfather, the lord looks as though he needs rest.”

“I’ve never been more tired in my life,” Ivrian admitted, and it was true—he hadn’t been so weary since he’d stayed up for almost forty-eight hours straight writing sonnets to that damned Varisian actor. What a crashing waste of time.

“To bed, then,” Onwu said. “May your dreams be blessed. Sore trials lie before you and your friends tomorrow.”

32

Death Songs
Sylena

The arms of the vendors hawking meat on a stick and candied nuts were so streaked with filth Sylena couldn’t imagine why anyone would purchase anything from the trays they carried. Yet the merchants did a brisk business among the folk in the viewing stands. At least with those who couldn’t afford seats beneath the awnings.

She’d been in an arena before, but never one quite like this. It was a huge rectangular structure of old stone. Chipped rock benches swept up in stair-steps on its two longest sides, and one of its smaller. The north side was a raised platform that trailed the Sargavan banner down to the tallest of the barred arena gates. Smaller grilled doors were set into the walls beneath the stands at semi-regular intervals. In the early morning light there was little to be seen through them, but Sylena caught an occasional glimpse of some monstrous eye peering out.

Rajana carried a parasol despite the protection of the sagging crimson awning over their expensive front-row seat. She didn’t want to risk any stray rays reaching her arms or neck. Sylena had sneered inwardly the moment her elder sister opened the pretty little thing, but she’d refrained from comment.

Her sister and her smug Garundi bodyguard had been unaccountably quiet all morning.

She addressed Rajana with forced cheer. “How many people are there in Crown’s End? I can’t possibly imagine how much money it must have taken to build such an arena. It must usually be empty.”

Rajana’s left eyebrow arched, and she answered coolly. “Perhaps you failed to notice the age of the stone.”

Sylena masked her embarrassment with a smile. “This was here before the settlement?”

“Yes. A temple compound, long abandoned. Some accommodation was made in converting it to an arena.” An idle hand swept toward the barred openings built into the wall across from them. “I understand that some of the pens were added, and the images of savage gods removed.”

Sylena strove for pleasant blandness, her eyes roving over the stadium. “It’s hard to believe the crowd could be gathered so early.”

“It’s hard to believe any of us are here so early, isn’t it? I’d not expected to have to be here at all, sweating under this ridiculous awning.”

Sylena bit back a rejoinder. Rajana didn’t have to be here. Her sister worried that Rendak or the lizardfolk might somehow jeopardize their cover in Sargava, despite Sylena’s assurances to the contrary.

The more she’d thought about it, the more she realized her only real mistake had been Kellic. Seeing as how she hadn’t told Rajana about her plans for him, Rajana could hardly count that as an error. “That’s not fair, Sister. We earned plenty of gold for the lizardfolk and the human—”

“A few purses is not ‘plenty,’” Rajana corrected. “And selling any of them to the arena, especially a human, was simply stupid. I can’t believe it didn’t occur to you to search their belongings! Anything carried by Galanor’s son or the salvager could have been used to scry the location of their bodies.”

“Under fathoms of water,” Sylena corrected. “And we don’t have any salvagers.”

Her sister spoke through gritted teeth. “A king’s ransom—no, a kingdom’s ransom—is lying on the ocean floor! I could have found a way if you hadn’t thrown their luggage into the water! You’re an idiot.”

“I don’t think you realize the challenges I’ve been under.”

Rajana’s eyes narrowed. “Praise Asmodeus that my superiors know the challenges I’m under, working with you. The little you’ve brought back will probably be enough to pay our extra expenditures, providing I make the right connections back in Cheliax.”

“Two bags full of treasure,” Sylena countered.

“One of which holds mostly strange carvings, and the other unreadable writing of a useless race. To get any worth from them I’ll need to find a collector.”

“I think you miss the point, Sister, and are unduly harsh. I thoroughly wrecked the salvager mission, and Lady Galanor and her son are dead. And that money they found will not go to the Free Captains. That was the most important goal. Our superiors should be pleased.”

“They may be content,” Rajana said. “Perhaps enough to let us leave this place for good. I, for one, will be pleased when that day comes.”

A trumpet blast sounded.

Sylena, Rajana, and the rest of the crowd turned to face the musician standing on the platform atop the fourth wall. He lowered the trumpet with a flourish and made way for a corpulent colonial in a shiny blue shirt.

The newcomer grinned and spread his arms. “People of Crown’s End and visitors, I bid you good morning!” His voice boomed through the arena. “We’ve quite a spectacle planned today, starting with a very special treat! Your friends will wish they’d gotten out of bed early like you when they see the savage frillbacks who’ll be facing one another any moment!”

The crowd stirred, clearly unused to drama in the early slots, which were usually given over to executions. Sylena’s heart raced as Rajana turned with burning eyes.

“You said,” Rajana said with slow deliberation, “that this Rendak was scheduled for execution first thing.”

“That’s what I was promised. Believe me, I’m very upset about this. Do you want me to get up and complain?”

“To whom?” Rajana asked icily.

The crowd muttered excitedly as the announcer elaborated on the ferocity and cunning of the frillback warriors they were about to witness in a bitter battle to the death.

The trumpeter stepped forward to blow another fanfare, and then two lizardfolk were forced into the enclosure by the lash of whips. The spokesman continued to stress the untamed savagery of the imminent conflict.

Sylena was too disciplined to sputter, though she very much felt like doing so. Why weren’t the human prisoners being introduced first?

Fortunately, the announcer’s next words put her at greater ease. “These two will battle to the death, and then the winner will be set loose against the prisoners!”

“Ah.” Sylena smiled. “You see, it’ll all work out.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Weapons were thrown out from behind the grills, the clack of axes upon swords just audible over the rising bloodlust of the hundred or so spectators scattered through the stands. This early in the morning there were many empty seats yet.

It was the two smaller frillbacks they’d released first. Kellic had told her the one with the smaller snout was a female, although there were no obvious gender differences. Neither wore anything but a long loincloth that hung almost to their knees. Their frills were fully extended, and they stood near one another. The male raised his arms and called out to the people in the stands, saying something about injustice.

“Excellent,” Rajana said. “He’s bound to mention you soon.”

But the first was silenced as the second threw back her head and began a strange chirping, warbling song. The other’s head sank, along with his frill, and he plodded toward the weapons.

“Let’s get this going!” a man shouted from higher in the stands.

Now the frillback handed a sword off to the singer and began a melody of his own. Their songs sometimes clashed, sometimes met in weird harmony.

It was certainly peculiar, and diverting enough that the catcalls briefly died down.

An old woman in the awning beside theirs put hands to her mouth and shouted: “We didn’t come for frillback opera!”

Roars of laughter swept through the viewers, and the announcer cried out to the frillbacks that neither would live unless they got to the fight.

“It’s always disappointing when someone underperforms, don’t you think?” Rajana asked.

33

Song and Sword
Mirian

She was tired, so very tired, but when Ivrian shook her awake, Mirian’s eyes slid open, and she wondered briefly whether she were alive or dead.

Concisely, sharply, the writer conveyed all that had transpired, leaving her little time to marvel over her miraculous survival, and less time to formulate a proper thanks.

Ivrian shook his head at her mumbled gratitude. “I only did what you would have done for any of us, and done better. I’m sorry I lost your ring.”

“A ring I thought already lost.” Mirian sat up. “Do we still have both wands?”

“We do. And the haversacks with most of the gemstones.”

She took stock of her surroundings for the first time. She’d woken in a narrow room with a high window. Wooden carvings hung on all the walls, though the gloom beyond the lantern light rendered all but the nearest indistinct.

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Ivrian said. “He tried to save you. Honestly, you’d probably be dead if not for him.”

She nodded glumly. In the end, Kellic had proved less than she had hoped and more than she had feared. How was she going to tell their mother?

“I’ve got to be honest, Mirian. Father Onwu tells me you’re fully healed, but you look like you’ve been dragged through hell. I’m not sure this rescue mission is good for you.”

“You don’t look that great yourself.”

He chuckled with an ease of manner she hadn’t seen in him a few weeks ago. “I’ve been chewing chalva root. I couldn’t sleep now if I wanted, though I’m going to be down for a while when the effect wears off.”

“Maybe I’ll do the same.” Mirian threw off the covers and set her feet to the cold, red-tiled floor. She discovered herself in an unfamiliar ankle-length nightgown. “This is the second time I’ve woken to find someone else has dressed me.”

“This time it was definitely women,” Ivrian said.

“All the same, I’d rather avoid it in the future. Has any of my clothing survived?”

“Your blouse was ruined. Our hosts have donated another. And some footgear that will probably fit. Oh, and some for Rendak.”

It was hard to believe this confident person was the same one she’d left the harbor with. “It seems you planned ahead.”

“I knew better than to think you’d stay behind when your people were in danger. Rather,” he said after a brief pause, “your team.”

“No one gets left behind.” The memory of Tokello dropping into that churning water was overlain by Lady Galanor chewed in half by the drake. Swept by anguish, she closed her eyes and prayed to her ancestors for calm. At least the gods had seen fit that she not witness Kellic’s death.

When she opened her eyes, she found Ivrian rubbing a hand back through his hair. It was an unguarded moment, and there was no missing the fatigue and grief etched there. She wasn’t the only one who’d suffered loss. She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

He flashed a smile that showed even teeth. He’d grown gaunt in the last weeks.

“Come.” Mirian pushed to her feet.

Garbed in the white-and-gold robes of Iomedae, driven in a coach emblazoned with the sigil of the warrior goddess’s sword, Mirian, Ivrian, and tall, spare Jeneta left for the arena. The golden tropic sun swept up over the ocean and threw long shadows before them.

Mirian had never been to the arena in Crown’s End. It was apparently part of a wider circuit, the dubious crown jewel of which was a pit fight held somewhere in the Shackles. There, monsters and oddities were thrown against each other before cheering crowds. At many outlying arenas, like the one in Crown’s End, creatures were pitted against criminals intended as practice targets, though there were a few warriors who earned glory weeding out lesser monsters.

The arena itself was an ancient stone structure resembling Kalabuto’s temples, though there were certain architectural oddities Mirian would have gladly examined some other time. The town’s folk of Crown’s End were already filing in for the dawn showing, where prisoners were usually put to death prior to a day of bloodshed punctuated by musical interludes.

Mirian knew Rendak was probably slated for execution in this opening event, and it was all she could do to remain silent, hood shadowing her face, while Jeneta spoke with the pair of surly guards at the side gate.

They proved less than receptive. “Sister, these murderers don’t want any word from Iomedae.” The broken-nosed guard picked at a tooth with a dirty fingernail.

Jeneta’s response was solemn. “Iomedae’s call is insistent.”

“She can insist all she wants,” the other guard said, laughing. He was a light-skinned Ijo man, probably of mixed blood, his dyed hair a bright yellow.

“Perhaps this insistence is more to your liking.” Jeneta extended her hand and turned up her palm to reveal a small coin purse. “A donation to your fraternal organization.”

The blond laughed while his companion took it and peered inside. “Well, well. Looks like maybe you can save some souls, if you hurry. Normally I don’t like to rush in the mornings, but I’m feeling pretty thankful for your fraternal generosity and all.”

“Especially thankful,” said the blond to his comrade, “so long as you remember me.”

Broken-nose grunted, then unlocked the gate behind him and motioned the trio to follow. They were led into the corridors below the arena, where they were greeted by an astonishing mixture of aromas, none of them pleasant. Strange beasts growled and hooted in the distance.

“You’re in luck,” their escort said over his shoulder. He carried a battered lantern in one hand, and it shined on the pitted stonework floor as they walked. “Usually the humans are the first ones out and there’d be no one to pray for. But we got in a troupe of bloodthirsty frillbacks last night, and we’re letting them entertain the crowd. Shake things up a little, you know?”

Mirian felt her nostrils flare and her voice rose. “You mean the lizardfolk are already on the arena floor?”

“Out or on the way.” The guard stopped before a long span of rusty metal bars, and the scent of unwashed humanity increased. He lifted the lantern and shined it into a mass of men blinking in the sudden onslaught of light. A dozen of them huddled against the walls.

“On your feet, boys! I’ve been paid good coin to get your souls saved by Iomedae!”

Mirian spotted Rendak immediately. He sat rubbing his eyes with a grubby hand. Shirtless, dirty, disheveled, he looked little different from his companions.

“We want a word alone,” Mirian said.

“I can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

Up top, Mirian heard the roar of the crowd and a flare of trumpets. At any moment her friends were going to be released into the arena, against the gods only knew what monstrosity.

It was time to improvise.

She drew the wand without really thinking. The guard stared at it, then reached for his hilt. Ivrian grabbed his arm.

The guard was far stockier than Ivrian and easily fought him off, but in the intervening moment Jeneta stepped forward and thumped him on the side of the head. He staggered, and in an instant the priestess had him pressed to the bars, left arm raised between his shoulder blades.

The guard gasped in pain. “You’re no priestess!”

Jeneta gave Mirian a dark look. She had specifically asked that no violence be done to the guards.

“No one has to die.” Mirian took the guard’s sword. “So long as you have sense.”

In moments the prisoners were milling in the corridor and Ivrian told them to make their way out through any exit they could. Likely there were real convicts among them, but Mirian had no time for niceties, and she hoped their escape would add to the confusion. She ordered the guard to pull off his shirt and armor before she locked him up, then ordered Rendak into the garb.

The salvager stared wide-eyed at them as he dressed. “I can’t believe you’re alive! Did Gombe make it?”

“He did.” Mirian started to say more, but she heard a plaintive, soaring melody from the arena above. By now she recognized the birdlike sound of a lizardfolk song, and guessed its meaning.

“What’s that?” Ivrian asked.

“A lizardfolk death song.” Mirian cursed and searched the surrounding halls, which stretched darkly in every direction beyond the pale pool of lantern light. The rest of the prisoners had already run on. “Damn it! Which way to the arena?” She spotted a faint light to what she assumed was the north, nodded to herself even as Rendak was spoke.

“Mirian,” Rendak said soberly, “it’s too late for them. What can you do?”

“Oh, I’m good at distractions. Ivrian, give me your ring.”

He pulled it off. “You’ll need help—”

“Get out. Get Gombe and get the jewels to Eleder. We’ll follow if we can. Meet us where the tunnels empty. Just like we planned.

Mirian left them with the lantern and hurried toward the distant light, and the death song of a people.

34

Blood in the Sands
Sylena

The crowd pitched meat and fruit at the frillbacks, booing and hissing, and guards deployed along the wall leveled crossbows and shouted threats at the creatures, who continued their song.

“At least they haven’t said anything,” Rajana said.

The frillbacks brandished their swords at the crowd.

One of the guards along the bank shouted a command, and a crossbow bolt thudded into the thigh of the male frillback. He shouted and threw his sword almost to the top of the fourteen-foot wall.

There was a trumpet blast and the disgruntled crowd shifted its attention to the harried-looking announcer. “You wanted killer lizards? Well, I’ll give you one! A thunder lizard from the savage, beating heart of the Mwangi Expanse!”

The large gate directly beneath the speaker’s stand ground open and a yellow-and-green-striped lizard twice the height of a man stalked out, upright on huge clawed feet. Its great head swiveled to examine the arena and the crowd. Its maw opened to reveal sword-length teeth.

And then it caught scent of the frillbacks, roaring a low, deafening challenge, and trotted forward, its clawed front arms twitching.

“This will be the end of them,” Sylena said. Below, the male frillback limped for the wall where his sword lay. The thunder lizard hooted and dashed at him.

The female dove, waving her own sword, but the beast paid no heed. Just as the male frillback turned, sword raised, the monster’s great maw swept down over his head and chest. The frillback’s rib cage disintegrated in a single pulverizing blow. The beast lifted him into the air and blood sprayed into the stands. Women screamed.

The female frillback roared defiance. She ran forward and slashed the front of the monster’s leg.

It let out a choking roar, dropping the half of the frillback body it hadn’t swallowed, and swept its tail at the female, who threw herself aside.

“Yes, yes,” the spokesman cried from his platform. “We try to find you only the bravest here at the Crown’s End Arena. It seems the first frillback was a lover, not a fighter. Too bad for him, eh? But we have more surprises in store for you today. Much better surprises. Feast your eyes on this!”

The female dived to the left before one huge foot could stomp her to paste. The great head snapped at her, missed.

“Don’t think we just mean to have you watch the creature eat! No! For you see, we have another frillback. A killer among killers! A man-eater! Think what he’ll do when confronted by the beast who slew his nestmate!”

And the third lizard man stumbled into the arena—the problematic one they’d called Jekka. They’d given him the strange axe the female had carried. He held it in his left hand. In his right he bore the frillback staff, a scythe-like blade attached.

Jekka’s tongue snaked out and his mouth widened to reveal sharp teeth. His skin color darkened and spots of red appeared among dark green scales as his frill rose. He let out a low growl.

The thunder lizard snorted at the sound and turned. Its tale whipped into Kalina and sent her flying into a wall. She struggled to rise.

Jekka trotted forward as if he meant to meet the monster head-on.

“Look at his daring!” the speaker cried. “This one’s no coward!”

The thunder lizard’s attention was distracted by the crowd’s cheers, and it raised its head to snuffle along the arena rim. By straining, its small eyes could just see over the top, presumably finding the noisemakers of great interest. Sylena knew a tingle of fear as it stepped within ten feet.

Jekka ran on, lifting one of the weapons. Sylena was a little startled to see it had changed from a scythe to a spear. How had that happened?

The frillback was looking at her.

No. Surely it studied the thunder lizard, which had finally turned to face him with a roar that shook the stands. The crowd shouted approval.

Jekka released the spear, but the cast flew wide of the monster’s head. It was a terrible throw, arcing up over the stands, up—

“Atok!” she screamed. It was pure reflex, because she knew Atok was dead. It was just that he had been there for so many years to shield her.

Rajana’s black-clad bodyguard put his hand to her shoulder and leapt onto the railing, knocking the spear aside with a sheathed sword. The spear clattered harmlessly along the stony bench.

Sylena gasped in horror and shoved her sister’s bodyguard aside, peering over the rim. Unfortunately, the monster completely blocked her line of sight.

“Sister,” Rajana hissed. “Get down! Get back! You’ll call attention to yourself!”

“I want to see him die!” Sylena leaned out and to the left, far enough that she could just see the frillback sprinting. The thunder lizard pursued, its footfalls shaking the walls, head thrust forward to snap Jekka in half.

Suddenly a huge, white-furred ape thing with four arms climbed out of an open cage door. It reared back and beat its great chest with two of its fists.

The thunder lizard growled and halted to consider the new development. Jekka bolted clear.

The crowd murmured in puzzlement, and Sylena glanced at the speaker, who was in frantic consultation with a red-robed official. Clearly the events weren’t going according to plan for anyone.

Two rhinos charged onto the field, the sun gleaming from scythe blades fitted over their horns, and the crowd shouted in joy. It looked like things were shaping up for a bloodbath.

Sylena leaned down and picked up the lizard man’s spear, ignoring her sister’s demands that she stop making a spectacle. Jekka was in plain view. If he got close enough, she wouldn’t even have to wait for something else to kill him.

And then she heard her name, shouted from below. She looked down.

Impossibly, Mirian Raas stood directly beneath, alive and well and pointing a wand. As the glowing emerald bolt streamed for Sylena, she almost managed a scream.

But then the bolt struck her face. Wailing through her ruined mouth, she lost her balance and plummeted to the arena floor.

35

The Thing at the Shoreline
Mirian

She blasted the nearest guard in the face. As he dropped to the hallway floor, Mirian brandished her sword at the other. She’d hoped he’d back away, but these men were professionals, armed and armored, and he apparently thought he stood a good chance against a woman in a robe.

She parried high in his swing, shouted the wand’s activation word, and sent him clawing at his bubbling neck.

She’d never get used to what the weapon did to people. She stepped past the dying man and depressed the lever in the pillar beside him before finishing him off with a merciful thrust. The cage opened into the arena, and the two large rhinos tramped out into the rectangle of sunlight, pawing and snorting, swinging their metal-tipped horns left and right. The moment they were gone, Mirian used the jailer’s keys to open the pen and enter the stinking enclosure.

She’d already opened one cage to set loose a huge, four-armed white gorilla. Between the monsters she released outside and the prisoners she’d freed within, chaos reigned. She hadn’t even been challenged until she arrived at the rhino pen.

She worried about setting such dangerous monsters loose in the arena with her friends. But without a distraction, they had no hope at all.

Now, as she peered out the open doorway, she saw the gorilla turning to roar at one rhino even as the thunder lizard chased another. She looked up along the rim, and that was when Desna truly smiled, for who should she see but her brother’s murderer.

“Sylena!” she cried.

The moment that pale face looked down at her, she blasted. The wretched woman fell screaming, landing with a crunch six feet to Mirian’s left. Even over the rest of the arena noise, Mirian could hear the sizzle of the acid as it ate away at Sylena’s face.

For once she felt no pity for a victim of the weapon’s work.

“Jekka!” she shouted. “Jekka, over here! Kalina!” She’d spotted the lizard woman limping along the side of the enclosure, hand pressed to one arm.

But Jekka still hadn’t seen, or heard. He was running from the thunder lizard, which seemed to have caught the attention of the four-armed gorilla. Closer at hand, one of the rhinos saw something it didn’t like and swept its head low to gore Sylena’s body. It flipped her into the air, and Mirian realized in horror that the woman was still alive in the brief moment before she hit the arena floor and was thoroughly trampled by the rhinoceros. The crowd seemed uncertain what to make of that particular spectacle, for there were both enthusiastic shouts and screams of terror.

Kalina reached the doorway, and Mirian saw blood trickling from both her arm and her thigh. “Go on,” Mirian urged, “get out! Where’s Heltan?”

“Dead! Mirian, what are you doing?”

Mirian pushed Kalina toward the open gate. Jekka still hadn’t seen her. She lowered her wand and fired again. The acid spray hit the sand just past Jekka’s shoulder, right at the foot of the four-armed gorilla.

She had Jekka’s attention finally, but had to fire once more to distract the thunder lizard as it lunged for a bite. Mirian tagged it in the snout and it lifted its head to growl in pain.

“Jekka!” Mirian waved from the open gateway, and the lizard man turned on his heel, sprinting at full speed. He fell as the gorilla slapped him with one of its hands, but tumbled to his feet and kept running. Thankfully, the monster seemed more interested in challenging the thunder lizard and pushed into it with a demented scream of fury.

Jekka was almost there when Mirian smelled brimstone.

She whirled, sidestepped to avoid the bite from the massive, flaming hound with burning eyes that had appeared beside her.

Mirian had neither the time nor energy to care who had summoned the thing. It caught her sword slice with its burning maw and tore the weapon from her grasp.

Jekka charged in with Kalina’s laumahk. His was a mighty blow, backed up by the momentum of his long sprint, and sheared through the creature’s side. The flaming hound opened its mouth to howl as Kalina turned back and ran it through one burning flank.

Mirian rushed past, the wounded lizardfolk following. She heard the devil hound shamble after, moaning in something between pain and ecstasy.

With Kalina and Jekka beside her, she slammed home the bar on the pen. “Come on!”

She scanned her friends in the light trickling through the bars. Jekka looked to be in better shape, though a crossbow quarrel stuck out of one shoulder and a shallow claw mark stretched across his chest.

Kalina bled from half a dozen wounds, and there was a chunk carved out of her shoulder. Mirian fumbled with her hand and slipped the extra water-breathing ring onto the lizard woman. “You may need this. To breathe underwater.”

“Mirian.” Kalina breathed heavily, as though she were working up energy to say something.

“No time.” Mirian led them around a corner toward the largest floor grate only to find a squad of spear- and torch-bearing guards running their way. They ducked back as a spear clattered past.

“You came back for us,” Jekka said. He laid a clawed hand, softly, upon her shoulder. “But I think we will die together.”

“Not yet, damn it.” They raced past where the devil hound pushed against the door to the rhino pen, howling at sight of them. She was sure she’d seen a smaller grating.

There.

Just beyond the guards she’d slain lay a rusted metal grill through which dark water gleamed. She bent to it. Jekka dropped with her and the two gripped it by the bars and hauled.

The grating was exceptionally heavy. She heard something pop. It wasn’t her back, though, but rather one of the bars bending in the hound’s pen.

Mirian lowered the wand and fired, three times in succession. The first shot didn’t work, but the other two opened a steaming gap in the grill.

The guards rounded the corner.

Jekka planted his feet wide, swept a spear from the air with the laumahk.

The hound roared, and the door to its pen slammed open.

“Go!” Mirian shouted at Kalina. The lizard woman dropped through, narrowly missing the steaming acid.

“You go!” Jekka sent another spear clattering. “I’ll be right behind!”

The guards at the end of the hallway screamed at the appearance of the flaming, howling hound as Mirian dropped through the sizzling grate. Too late she remembered the air bottle she’d tucked into a pocket of the robe. She’d meant to hand it to Jekka, but under the constant assault there’d been no time.

She hoped he’d be able to hold his breath.

The old stone tunnel was even worse than she’d imagined. It sloped down and away, completely unlit and filled with not just water but offal. She didn’t want to breathe the stuff, so she held her breath as long as she could and let the current carry her.

It wasn’t very wide, either. She kept brushing her hand against the wall. Fearful that she’d damage or lose the wand, she thrust it inside its housing on her belt. The movement sent her off course, and she bashed her head against an old stone. At the same moment she heard a shattering noise and knew the air bottle had broken.

If she hadn’t been wearing the rings of her ancestors then, she would have drowned, for she was stunned and dizzy. The water didn’t taste quite as foul as it smelled, but she found herself coughing anyway. She could hear nothing now but the rush of water on stone, and she wondered if the young priestess had really known where this spillway led. Suppose she were merely descending deeper and deeper into the bowels of the world?

And had Jekka come with her? Did he trail yet, or had he sacrificed himself so they could escape?

There was a burst of light, and suddenly she was sliding into open water. Salt water. She swam up toward the light, then saw movement below her. She turned to find Kalina struggling away from a clawed, slime-coated creature like a man-sized crab.

Mirian kicked toward her friend and struggled to free her wand. The monster released Kalina to float in a cloud of blood and pushed up—not toward Mirian, but toward Jekka, out now and straining for the surface. The beast stretched with its two great claws and the writhing mass of tentacles that extended from its mandibles. She heard it chittering in excitement as it closed.

Mirian finally put hand to wand as the creature grabbed Jekka’s left leg in a huge pincer. Jekka swung desperately with the laumahk.

He missed, and the scavenger’s tentacles brushed his tail.

The lizard man went limp, drifting helplessly as the creature pulled him toward its maw.

Mirian shouted the activation word, but the damnable wand didn’t fire. Just when she thought she was getting better with the thing. Was it out of charges?

Kalina swam in and stabbed the thing’s eyes with her fingers. The scavenger dropped Jekka and lashed out at the lizard woman with both tentacles and claws. Blood gushed from the lizard woman’s side.

Mirian caught the sinking Jekka and wrestled the laumahk from his stiff fingers.

The monster had three or four hundred pounds on her, and was born to move in the water. But because of her second ring, she could move just as naturally.

At last, a fair fight.

The monster abandoned the motionless lizardfolk and churned after her. She swung Kalina’s weapon two-handed and slashed into the hideous tentacles. The monster pulled up short.

But even though the dreadful wound released ichor, the beast was undeterred. It stretched toward her with snapping claws. Mirian kicked away, risking a glance back at Jekka and Kalina, who still floated motionless. Ancestors, she thought, give me strength to save my friends. If she didn’t move fast, Jekka would drown, and Kalina might be dead already.

She bit deep with her second swipe of the laumahk, but then the beast wrenched the weapon from her hands. She backpedaled, lifted the wand, and commanded it to fire.

And again she failed.

With a powerful surge of its back legs, the scavenger swept in. She pulled away, but the tip of the claw snipped her shoulder. Blood billowed, and she knew pain as well as raw panic as the tentacles stretched for her face.

She had overestimated her own competence, and now she and Jekka and Kalina were all finished.

No. She raised the wand until the tip of it actually touched one of the tentacles. The creature grasped the weapon’s end even as it received the blast of green acid.

The creature let out a high-pitched wail and swam backward. Mirian fired again, and again and again as it attempted retreat, until at last the weapon stopped responding.

The monster moved only spasmodically. Mirian shook herself to life, kicked up to Jekka. She tried not to think about the thing below, and how it might recover and rush up to slice her feet off at the ankles.

She reached her friend, grabbed him by the hands, swam to the surface. She pushed his head into the air.

The steep, rocky shoreline lay only ten feet off. With her hand beneath Jekka’s chin to keep his face above the water, she kicked to it, then dragged him out across the rough stones, past a cluster of mangroves.

There she rolled him onto his stomach, wrapped hands about him, gripped fingers in a double-fist just above the muscular solar plexus, and pushed. Her shoulder throbbed in agony, but she pushed again.

He coughed up water once, twice, then groaned. He struggled to his knees, hands flat on the sandy soil, and vomited more water as Mirian beat his back with the flat of her hand.

He waved her off and continued to cough water. She turned, steeled herself, and dove after Kalina.

The monster was as motionless as the paralyzed lizard woman. Mirian tried not to focus on the deep gouge through Kalina’s chest. She grasped her under the chin, near the point where magical gills glowed, and swam for the shore.

Somehow, she reached it. Gasping from pain and exertion, she dragged Kalina by the arms over to her cousin, then stood panting, hands on knees. She considered the enormity of the lizard woman’s wounds. The pale green of her scales.

Kalina wasn’t moving. Wasn’t blinking.

“She’s dead,” Jekka said weakly. He had climbed to one knee.

Mirian shook her head. “Paralyzed. Like you.”

“No, Mirian,” he told her, gently.

Was he right? No. Kalina had simply taken a larger hit from the creature’s paralyzing tentacles.

Mirian was no healer, but she knew how to take a pulse. She threw herself down beside the lizard woman, sucking in a painful breath as a clam shell dug into her thigh. She pressed her ear to Kalina’s chest.

Nothing. But maybe lizardfolk hearts were located in a different place.

She put her hand to Kalina’s neck. Did they have the same big vein as humans? They were built on similar lines. “Where do you take pulses? Jekka?”

Jekka joined her and spoke quietly. “If her heart worked, her open wounds would still spout blood.”

Gods. He was right. Mirian stared down at the graying lizard woman, sank back on her haunches.

She was too stunned even to cry. “I don’t understand. The ring should have allowed her to breathe.”

“She was too badly hurt.”

Mirian was cool, dripping with water, and she stank all over. But these were minor irritants, like the bites of insects. She rose, scanning the ocean beyond the spindly legs of the mangroves. She spotted her wand among the rocks by the shore and numbly stepped out to grab it before a low wave swelled in.

When she returned, she found Jekka sitting beside his cousin.

“Mirian,” he said softly, “what happened to Salvager Rendak?”

“He got out. And Ivrian and Gombe live. My brother is dead.”

“Your brother. He worked with our betrayers.”

“He was weak, and foolish. But he died trying to protect me.”

Jekka nodded. “My brother, too, was less than I wished.”

“Yours watched out for his own clan, at least.”

“Writer Ivrian’s mother might be alive if my brother had warned her. It wasn’t just.”

“Like I said. Heltan was just looking out for his family.”

Jekka hissed. “You defend him? You, who looked out for all of us. Past race. Past clan.”

“I was your leader.”

“You came to save us, when our bargain was finished. Why did you come, Mirian?”

“Because it was my brother’s fault.”

“So it was your duty.”

She tried not to think of the still form beside them that had been so full of vivacity and charm. “My clan failed you. Now let me see that arm. We should get the crossbow quarrel out. And keep our eyes sharp for Ivrian. He’ll be coming after us.”

Mirian took the knife from its sheath and reached for his arm.

Jekka, though, seemed uninterested in letting her examine the limb. He kept it stiff beside him, and she frowned at the bruised ring where the bolt stood out from his fine scales.

“What will I do now?” His eyes were wide and bright as they met her own. “Where will I go?”

The quarrel, she saw, was lightly embedded, and judging by the feel of the scaled skin, she didn’t think it was barbed. “You’re lucky. This could have torn straight through your arm.”

It occurred to her that if she were to cut out the bolt, they’d need bandages. The only cloth anywhere nearby was on her and the lizardfolk, none of which was clean.

“There’s no point, Mirian.” Jekka reached up and put a hand on her arm. “You work too hard to save me. There’s nothing left.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have no clan. I have no brother or sister or cousin. What am I to do?”

She stared into those inhuman eyes and saw their pain, their loss. She felt tears form in her own, and put her hand to her wounded arm. When it was wet with blood, she pressed her fingers to the crimson gash across Jekka’s chest. He gasped in pain, his tongue sliding out in astonishment.

“Put your blood to mine,” she said.

Hesitant, Jekka dragged his fingers through that same wound, showing his teeth in a grimace, then touched scarlet-stained fingers to Mirian’s shoulder injury.

“Our blood is mingled,” Mirian said. “Now I will be your sister.”

Jekka stared. Slowly, his head bobbed up and down. “You are my sister. And I am your brother.”

Mirian’s wiped tears away with a bloody hand. “And right now your sister’s got to get our wounds bandaged. And then we’ve got to rendezvous with the rest of our friends.”

“And then?”

“Then we get the treasure back to Sargava.”

“Will your people want me in Sargava?”

“I don’t even think my people want me in Sargava, Jekka. But I’m a Raas, and the land is mine. And you’re my brother. So to hell with them.”

36

Wheels and Vigils
Ivrian

Against all odds, we had dragged Mirian Raas from the surf alive, so you can imagine my reluctance to let her dash off to almost certain doom. But what was I to do? At that point, the jewels were my responsibility, as was Rendak’s survival. I had little choice but to obey her orders and lead the others to the exit, hoping our luck would hold.

—From The Collected Writings of Lord Ivrian Galanor

Four men in guard armor hurried down the steps into the arena’s lower level just as Ivrian arrived with Jeneta and Rendak.

“The prisoners have escaped,” Rendak said. “I’m escorting the priests to safety.”

The scarred fellow in the lead nodded as they hurried past. From somewhere nearby came an ear-rattling roar.

Ivrian and the others were up the stairs and almost to the open doorway, a rectangle of light more welcome than a lover’s touch, when he heard the shout behind him.

“That’s not a guard!”

Ivrian turned to find all four guards halted at the foot of the stairs. The imitation blond from the side gate was pointing to Rendak while the other three turned. “He’s not wearing any shoes!”

Rendak lifted a dirty bare foot and laughed. “Come on, Sister!” He charged with Jeneta up through the doorway. Ivrian bolted after, whirled to see the onrush of the guards, and slammed the door as the pursuit was still halfway up the stairs. He looked in vain for the board that should have been nearby to bar it closed. Jeneta and Rendak ran on.

Ivrian spied a heavy table strewn with cards, leapt it. He shoved the table at the door, gaining momentum with every step. Three feet out, the door started to swing open, a hand gripping its edge.

The heavy table struck the door, slamming it shut with a heavy thud. There was a long wailing scream from its other side. Ivrian winced in sympathy. He really hadn’t meant to hurt anyone.

He turned and raced after his friends. Once in the sun, he joined a stream of frightened Sargavans fleeing the arena. Jeneta and Rendak dashed for the small carriage emblazoned with the golden-haloed sword of Iomedae.

Jeneta threw the door open for the limping salvager, who clambered inside, then hopped after and turned to reach down for Ivrian. As soon as his feet were inside, she knocked on the carriage wall, shouting for the driver to go.

They heard the crack of the carriage whip and the vehicle lurched forward.

“How far is it?” Ivrian asked, panting.

“Down past the harbor.” Jeneta eyed Ivrian keenly.

“I’m sorry about how that went,” he said. “If there’d been some other way—”

“I’ll have to leave Crown’s End.” She sounded matter-of-fact. “You didn’t tell me your friend was a madwoman.”

“Mirian’s not mad,” Ivrian objected.

“She has little chance, but I salute her bravery. We should all hope to have friends as loyal, some day.”

“Amen, sister.” Rendak pushed his lank dark hair back from his forehead, struggling to render himself more presentable. “I’m Rendak, by the way. Thank you for your help.”

The young woman nodded, her long face the picture of dignity. “I am Jeneta.”

“No offense, Jeneta,” Rendak said, “but Mirian’s going to make it. You don’t know her.”

Another nod. “I hope you’re right.”

The cart jounced and bounced down the steep road, and Ivrian peered fitfully through the curtains as they drew near the harbor. The driver advanced at a more leisurely pace through the port. They passed mule teams pulling cargo wagons, and strolling sailors, their occupation obvious from their rolling gaits.

“Is it just me,” Ivrian asked, “or does everyone here look like a pirate?”

“If you’re looking to find something, no questions asked,” Rendak said, “Crown’s End’s your best bet.”

“It’s a snake pit,” Jeneta said. “It will be a pleasure to leave this place. Though I will miss Grandfather.”

“You can come with us, if you like,” Ivrian volunteered.

“Where will you go? To Eleder?” Jeneta shook her head. “I would have no place there.”

“You can have any room in my mansion.”

The woman considered him for a moment, as if wondering whether he were serious. “You’re a generous man, Lord Galanor.”

Him, a lord! He laughed a little, but said nothing. All he could think about were his friends. Could Mirian really pull the lizardfolk out of the arena and escape with them alive? It would have seemed impossible. And yet they’d done a dozen impossible things in the last weeks.

Down one quay he spotted what he thought were the masts of Sylena’s ship. He couldn’t help wondering if their other treasures remained aboard, and if there were some way to get them back, but he supposed he was already asking for too many miracles just to get Mirian and the lizardfolk out alive. He closed his eyes and offered a prayer to Shelyn. When he opened his eyes he discovered Jeneta staring at him.

“You were praying.”

“Yes.”

“A wise idea,” she said. “Your friends need all the luck the gods can give.”

“Aye,” Rendak said glumly.

Jeneta bent her head and began speaking in her native tongue.

The cobblestones ended abruptly, and the carriage thumped onto a road now consisting solely of packed dirt.

On the carriage rolled, jolting and thrashing them thoroughly before it finally stopped. The driver called to them: “Sister, the road pretty much ends here. The bay’s about a quarter mile through those mangroves.”

Ivrian and Rendak hopped out. The younger man reached into his robes to free the wand Mirian had given him.

A forest of tropical foliage stood in the sun, leafy upper limbs waving in a breeze. The water was gray and choppy.

The driver, a curly-haired Mulaa man, tipped his dented brown hat and pointed. “If your friends made it, they’re somewhere in there.”

“Ivrian,” Rendak said, “you stay here and watch for pursuers. I’ll go in and see what I can find.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“If they did make it out, and anyone saw how they exited, they’ll send riders to follow. We need someone to stand guard. And you’ve got that wand.”

Ivrian looked back along the dirt track. The view of the harbor and the city was blocked by a mass of palm trees and an intervening hill. “All right. Good luck, Rendak.”

“It’s our friends who need the luck, lad. My part’s easy.”

Ivrian watched the sturdy older man stride into the mangroves, still limping slightly, and briefly wondered how he could ever have thought to judge in one glance what a hero looked like.

He turned to the driver and the priestess, to whom he gave a polite nod. “I’m going to go watch from that hill.” He indicated it with a vague wave and started to climb.

37

Meeting of Minds
Rajana

Guards had surrounded her as she left the arena carrying the lizardfolk staff. The first two Rajana restrained with a tentacle spell, but she recognized the blue livery of the governor on the next three, and saw others rushing to back them up. It would still be easy enough to escape—she never left her quarters without a scroll of teleportation for just this sort of event—but she decided there might be some profit in allowing them to escort her.

She was glad now that she had, for after listening to them talk, she understood exactly how to get what she needed.

She stood with her bodyguard, Narsial, in a cluttered arena office. Seated at the table across from her, flanked by two brawny guards, was the Icehand herself, a pockmarked woman with brilliant blue eyes. Her clothes were finely tailored but mannish, half hidden by well-tended ring mail. She must be suffocating in this heat, Rajana thought.

A pale, balding colonial with yellow eyes stood at the governor’s side. Rajana had waited patiently while the Icehand listened to the reports of the arena officials. They had laid the expensive destruction at the feet of the man who’d purchased the lizardfolk, and, through him, her foolish sister. And thence to her. Along with several of the governor’s guards, two stout arena men, middle-aged merchants encumbered by an excess of rings and necklaces, waited nervously to one side as the Icehand mulled over her response.

“How interesting,” she said when she was through with her questions at last. She gestured toward one of the arena men. “While Gordof here is a sniveling coward who’d sell out his own mother to suck up to me, Nalden assures me he’s telling the truth.”

The advisor’s unsettling yellow eyes focused squarely upon Rajana. This must be Nalden, then. A priest of some kind, Rajana surmised, for he’d apparently thrown a lie-detection spell. That might make matters more challenging.

“This all means,” the Icehand continued, “that the fee for this incident falls squarely upon your shoulders.”

Rajana shook her head. “I can hardly be blamed if your people didn’t take better charge of the prisoners they purchased. And lest we forget, I was not involved in the arrangements. Those were made by my poor sister, who perished in the events herself.”

“I can tell you’re pretty broken up about it.”

“I find profound displays of emotion vulgar.”

Icehand grunted and crossed her arms. “I think you’ll find what I’m about to say very vulgar, then. Rajana, is it?”

“Correct.”

“Well then, Rajana, perhaps you can explain how someone dressed as a priestess of Iomedae came in to free these prisoners of yours?”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

The yellow-eyed man leaned close to the Icehand and spoke, low-voiced. “Her confusion is genuine.”

“They had outside help,” the Icehand went on. “Someone got them free, and you can bet someone was waiting to pick them up when they got out of the tunnels. They’ll be long gone by the time the lazy-ass arena guards finally remember where the drain empties.” She waggled her finger at Rajana. “I’m guessing this means you know who that somebody is, and that you know a lot more about what’s going on than you’ve told me.”

“I do.”

The Icehand leaned forward and steepled her hands on the desk. “Why don’t we dispense with the bilge water and cut right to the good stuff. Who were these prisoners, really?”

“They were doing some work with my sister,” Rajana answered calmly. “Some salvage work, and they had a falling-out. Sylena was less accustomed to holding her temper than I, and when things went badly, she sold them into slavery. I would have had them killed.”

Icehand glanced to Nalden.

“She’s speaking truth,” he relayed.

More or less, Rajana thought. She knew how lie-detection spells worked. So long as she kept certain answers broad, she could maneuver the conversation as she wished.

“Let’s get to specifics. What kind of work were they doing for your sister?”

“They were salvagers.” Rajana thought quickly. “And there was a great deal of money involved.”

“How much?”

Rajana smiled. “How much do you trust your guards?”

“Any of these here would die for me. They know what I’d do to them if I didn’t like it. Answer my question.”

“I will. I just think it would behoove you to consider the rest of the people listening and realize what I’m about to tell you really shouldn’t be shared with anyone who isn’t a close confidant.”

The Icehand glared at her, but Rajana refused to look away. Finally, the governor muttered a foul curse. “Gordof, Mirok, piss off.” She pointed to the guards. “You two, outside as well. But Rajana’s guard has to go, too.”

The arena stakeholders departed, though they looked reluctantly over their shoulders. Rajana’s bodyguard eyed her questioningly. She gave him a nod.

He was the last one out, closing the door after the Icehand’s guards had left.

“I already know you can cast spells, Rajana,” Icehand went on. “So here’s a heads-up: I have any number of protections on me. You try anything fancy, and you’ll find it real hard explaining it away with your throat slit.”

Rajana made a sour face.

“Told you I was vulgar. Which is why I’ll come right out and ask you a question. Are you a Chelish agent?”

Rajana froze.

The governor waved a hand. “Don’t bother trying to find some half-truth. There are a dozen ways to get around a lie-detection spell, and I know them all. So now that we’ve cleared that up, why not tell me why Cheliax is interested in salvaging from our waters? There must be a lot of gold involved.”

Rajana made herself smile. “Very astute, Governor. But it’s not gold—rather, a hoard of gems. Enough to buy a small city. Or ransom a kingdom.”

Icehand’s eyes widened at that.

“Three allies of the prisoners went overboard during the dispute with my sister. They were far from shore, and she assured me they drowned, because two were badly wounded.”

“You think your sister was wrong,” the Icehand guessed.

“Yes. Two had equipment that allowed them to breathe underwater. I believe at least one of them made it back. Which means some of the treasure made it back with her.”

“Underwater breathing, huh?” The Icehand checked with her advisor, who nodded at her. “All right. Go on.”

“Who else would have known what my sister had done with the salvaging team? Or cared enough to intervene? It had to be one of them disguised as a priestess.”

The Icehand tapped her fingers on her tabletop. “It’s really not hard to guess things from here on out. You’re going to offer me a cut if I help you track them down. But why should I cut you in for anything? You think the frillbacks are still alive or you wouldn’t have been trying to leave the arena with the spear the one threw at you. Or at your dear sister, I guess. Whose body I understand you weren’t going to retrieve.”

Rajana couldn’t care less about Sylena’s body. Her sister had been an incompetent. “You may think you don’t need me, but you do.”

“How’s that? I have a wizard on staff who can use that spear to scry for the frillback.”

“I’m sure someone could. But what if word should get out that you intercepted money intended to pay off the Free Captains of the Shackles? Whereas if I recovered the money—supported by, say, a small band of mercenaries who happen not to be wearing your colors—it’s all on me.”

The Icehand stared at her, then her mouth turned up into something that was almost a smile. “I want eighty percent.”

“Governor, that’s hardly reasonable. You wouldn’t even have the treasure on your lands—”

“—if you hadn’t destroyed Crown’s End’s amphitheater.”

“It’s hardly destroyed. I say we split it.”

The Icehand snorted. “I can send my own mercenaries.”

“But you won’t be able to blame it on a Chelish agent if things go wrong. Fifty-fifty.”

“No. You can keep a fifth of it.”

“Sixty-forty.”

The Icehand muttered another vulgarity. “Seventy-thirty is as low as I’m going to go. Any more bargaining, and I might just decide to curry favor with the baron by turning over a Chelish agent for interrogation.” She gave a malicious smile.

“Very well. Thirty percent. So long as none of your seventy percent gets anywhere close to the Free Captains.”

“Oh, Crown’s End will pay its yearly tithe when it comes due. But no more and no less than usual. If the baron needs more money he can squeeze his damned nobles. I have plans for this treasure. So you’d best get with your casting. And you can leave your man behind. I’m sending my best officer with you. You’ll like Karvak. He’ll keep you safe.”

There were always challenges, but Rajana was certain she could best any presented by a soldier. “I’m sure. Now if you will be so kind as to return the lizardfolk spear?”

38

The Fortress of Fangs
Mirian

Mirian’s distraction had saved Jekka, but it had brought the city guard out in full force, and they were far more organized than Mirian would ever have guessed. They’d already completely shut down the harbor. If Gombe and his grandfather hadn’t arranged a backup plan, all of them might already be in custody. Instead, they’d managed to slip out of Crown’s End on horseback and now rode into the wilds under cover of a morning rainstorm.

There’d been a little trouble getting the horse used to the scent of both Jekka and Kalina’s corpse. They’d overcome that by rubbing the lizard man down with horse blankets and wrapping Kalina’s body in them. That problem solved, they still had to address the challenge of Jekka’s distinct lack of riding skill, so one of the others always rode close beside him.

Mirian elected to keep them a mile in from the coastal road, knowing it was a haven for bandits and would leave them in easy sight of any ships. Fortunately, the coastal plain was fairly dry along the hundred-mile stretch between Crown’s End and Eleder, so going off-road in the daylight wasn’t particularly troublesome. There was no jungle terrain to contend with.

The skies grumbled threat but never delivered more than a wet blanket of mist. All the better, as far as Mirian was concerned. Limited visibility worked in their favor.

By evening the rain leveled off, though the sky was still overcast. Mirian could just make out the long spur of the Bandu Hills arcing eastward from the sea. The distant, higher peaks were shadowy outlines in the fog.

She motioned to Jeneta, and the young priestess guided her dun mare to Mirian’s side. “Jeneta, is the Fortress of Fangs still abandoned?”

The woman’s slim eyebrows shot up her high forehead. “That ground is dangerous, Mirian. Great lizards still stalk the hills, along with the Bandu themselves.”

“All the more reason to take shelter in the old fortress.”

“They say it’s haunted.”

In fact, Mirian had visited the ruins before as part of a Pathfinder expedition to investigate precisely those claims. But all she said was, “All the better, then. Ghosts worry me less than bandits.”

Jeneta nodded and said no more. The girl might be young, but there was an economy and dignity in her carriage and words that Mirian was coming to respect.

Mirian turned her horse’s head to face more westerly, and the rest of the troop followed.

Most wild animals seemed to have taken shelter from the approaching storm, but as they rode they saw hares and lizards and other smaller game. It wasn’t until nearly twilight that they came upon anything larger, and when they did they all started in amazement.

Mirian had seen herds of the great lizards before, but only in the deep jungles had she encountered any quite this large. There were dozens of the big horned brutes, each with armored, upswept crests and long trailing tails. Any was easily two or three times the size of a full-grown rhino.

The riders were downwind of the creatures, but as their mounts snorted in concern, the creatures looked up from where they rooted among the scrubby grasses. One of them roared a warning, and then all of the lizards raised their heads as one.

“Let’s give those a wide berth,” Gombe said softly.

“You’re a man of good sense,” Rendak said in a mock aristocratic accent, “and I concur without acrimony.”

“Acrimony?” Gombe said. “Can you even spell that?”

It was good to hear the two bantering again, but Mirian silenced them with a motion and led them east.

“How close are we to the ruins?” Ivrian asked. He rode like a champion, and Mirian expected he’d received riding lessons along with the sword instruction his mother had mentioned.

“Not as close as I’d like.” The bluffs were a darker shadow against the night and the clouds, and she guessed a least a half hour farther out.

She was wrong. It wasn’t until another hour had fled that Jeneta spotted the old stone road leading up the hillside.

They guided their animals along the weed-coated flagstones, and Mirian couldn’t help imagining again what the path might have looked like when the city was at its height. She’d drawn it once, and she supposed the picture existed still, in one of her old sketchbooks stored at the manor.

That put her in mind of her mother, who might even now be sitting at the courtyard fire. What would she say when Mirian came trotting back into the city with news that home and ship were safe, but Kellic was dead?

She shook herself out of her reverie and focused on the here and now. Just because the fortress was familiar didn’t make it safe.

The Fortress of Fangs stood at the head of the trail, in the mouth of a natural break in the hills that opened onto a low plateau. Long, slim horns and fangs projected from the crenelated height of its walls. The wooden gate had long since rotted away, but the stones remained, twice the height of a man. She and Finze Bellaugh, Pathfinder venture-captain for Eleder, had supposed the fortress must once have protected an important trade route. There were remnants of other buildings in the grasses beyond, including an ancient temple that remained partly intact. There had probably once been an entire town on the plateau, one of many time-lost settlements dotting the region.

Mirian dropped from her weary animal and stretched sore legs. “Jekka, let’s take a look around. The rest of you stay by the shadow of the wall. Rendak, post sentries.”

“Right.”

A half hour’s search showed the place empty of anything particularly dangerous, though Jekka found a snake nest in the southern tower.

The most defensible spot was the tower beside the front gate. The second floor was dry and sheltered and empty, apart from a few spider webs. Next to it was a squared, shoulder-high rectangle outlining what she and Finze had determined were once stables. Gombe blocked off the single entrance by stringing a rope across it so they could corral the horses for the night.

Jekka and Ivrian volunteered for first watch, on the tower height. Everyone else bedded down in the room below. They had precious little baggage—just a few days’ worth of food and Kalina’s blanket-wrapped body, preserved from rot by one of Jeneta’s spells.

Jekka hadn’t understood the necessity of bringing the body along, for lizardfolk looked on the dead as meat, even if they had no plans to eat it. But Mirian told him burial was the way her people honored those they valued, and he’d accepted the explanation.

Mirian knew she should lie down for a few hours with the rest of her expedition, but she was seized with nervous energy, and returned to the tower height.

Jekka and Ivrian sat back to back, the lizard man looking over the empty city, the young lord staring out through a broken gap in the tusk-encrusted merlons. The storm had blown out, and the stars were bright, obscured only now and then by tattered streams of cloud, as though shredded by a great clawed hand.

Jekka was whittling at a piece of ivory. Mirian wondered if it came from the tower’s adornments. “What are you making?”

“A calling horn,” the lizard man said.

Mirian squatted down to look closer. “I’m not familiar that concept.”

Jekka raised it, letting Mirian see. It was the size of a drinking horn, and hollow. “When you blow, it makes the sound of a thunder walker. Good for scaring off intruders. But only if you make it properly.”

“Really?” Ivrian turned around.

“You should be watching the trees, Writer Ivrian.”

Ivrian looked chagrined and turned back around.

Mirian grinned. “Jekka, that’s amazing. I had no idea you were a craftsman.”

Jekka’s tongue flicked out. “It is a thing a warrior should know.”

“That could come in handy. If you want to focus on it, I can take your watch.”

Jekka hesitated, then nodded. “I will go below. Others may have better tools.”

When he was gone, Mirian sat down on the cool stone and stared out through a gap in the tower at the city. The ruined temple sat nearby. As before, she didn’t have the time to make a proper study of it. She wondered if Finze had ever sent someone back to sketch the friezes they’d glimpsed upon its walls.

Ivrian addressed her quietly. “Mirian, what are you planning to do when we get back?”

If we get back, she thought, but she didn’t want to put doubts in his mind or dwell upon those in her own. “I haven’t had time to give it much thought.” Make sure that her mother still had a house, and that the ship was paid for. But who would be running the business?

Ivrian guessed her thoughts. “My mother said you were going to turn the business back over to your brother.” His voice faltered. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I guess I didn’t think the question through. I didn’t mean to bring him up.”

“He’s been on my mind. And so has your mother.” She spoke slowly. “And Tokello. And Kalina. And Heltan. And the living. I don’t know what I’m going to do about the Daughter, Ivrian. Maybe I’ll sell it to Rendak.” Yet even as she said it, she had a hard time believing herself. Rendak was capable and dependable, and practically family, but it still didn’t sit right. “What are you going to do when we get out of this? Work with the government, like your mother?”

“I don’t think so.” There was no missing the vulnerability in his voice. “I was wondering if you needed another salvager.”

Mirian was too startled to respond.

He continued, cautiously: “I think I’ve proven myself pretty dependable.”

Ivrian thought she still doubted him! “I’d be honored to have you,” she said solemnly. “I’m just not sure that I’m going to be salvaging.”

“You were born to this, Mirian.”

“I’m a Pathfinder. Before I came back I was in the middle of a cave dig.”

“Is your team there as good as this one?”

“Yes and no,” Mirian said, then decided to be honest with herself. “No.”

“Can’t you be a salvager and a Pathfinder? They both search for lost things, don’t they?”

“They do.” And then it was as though a damn had broken, for she found the words pouring forth. “I’ve missed the smell of the salt air, and the roll of the waves, and the sights of the deep. My father swore it was in my blood, and I swore I was never coming back.”

“But you did.” Ivrian lowered his voice. “These people need you, Mirian. Rendak is a fine captain, but you’re a better leader, and you know it.”

She was flattered, but she shook her head. “I just want to get us home. We can talk about the rest when we get there.” She fell silent and leaned forward to peer out at the grasses. Then she swore.

“There’s someone moving out there.”

39

Surprise Attack
Rajana

She should never have trusted anything important to her sister.

Sylena always had extra motives apart from serving her country and adding money to the family coffers. Thanks to her sister’s foolishness, Rajana now wasn’t entirely sure she could do either herself.

Certainly it would be a trick getting her hands on the treasure she was owed by her agreement with the Icehand, for she no more trusted the woman than the Icehand trusted her. Of course, the most important thing was keeping the money from Sargava’s government.

She had two things in her favor. First was the cool weather, so different from the blasting heat typical of Sargava. The conditions almost rendered the journey pleasant. The other was careful preparation. That morning she’d wisely readied two scrying spells, and had used them to great effect over the course of their trip. With her last she determined that the lizard man rested in a stone tower. With that information, she and the Icehand’s captain, Karvak, had narrowed the possibilities down to one of the structures in a ruined native fortress.

Thinking the main approach to the ruins would undoubtedly be watched, Karvak led them to a back trail too steep for the horses.

Karvak seemed a good man to have on her side, at least for now. All the same, she still had her teleportation scroll tucked up one sleeve, and expected to use it soon.

Four soldiers were left below with the animals. Rajana hated to leave her mount, for hidden in her saddle gear was the extradimensional bag with all of those lizardfolk book cones and the pack of gems and statuary her sister hadn’t managed to lose.

One way or another, she planned to put her hands to all of the treasure at the same time, then use the scroll to vanish away to Cheliax. Leaving any of the treasure aboard her ship would have just about guaranteed its loss, for the Icehand moved quickly. Possibly the ship was already being searched.

Once they reached the narrow plateau, Karvak halted and stared at the outline of the fortress looming against the sky a half mile north. He split his forces into two groups and then led them forward. She asked him about the wisdom of attacking in full darkness, but he only tapped an amulet engraved with an owl. “I can see in the darkness pretty damned clear.”

Karvak and his guards moved carefully through the mix of low foliage. There were occasional clusters of palm trees and, more rarely, lines of stone from some edifice older even than the ruined fortress. Rajana scanned the distance, and the moon hanging a lance-length higher than the ruin’s longest tusk. She saw no one, but that meant nothing.

Rajana didn’t hope for complete surprise, or even desire it. It would be far simpler to escape with the treasures if Mirian Raas and her expedition thinned out the soldiers. Unfortunately, Karvak’s people seemed as skilled as he, and they made only an occasional sound as they threaded their way through the terrain. Could a good sentry see their movement, or the occasional shift of plant life as they pushed it aside?

Maybe not.

She told Karvak she must stop to ready a spell, and the captain warned her not to delay long. Rajana waited only until the men had their backs turned, then pushed against a young palm tree so that its trunk swayed. She pushed it twice more before moving forward. Two of the guards looked back at her as she stumbled deliberately against a jeerenberry bush. This produced only a little noise, but more movement.

Sylena picked herself and muttered embarrassed thanks as one of the men helped her to her feet. Her faint smile was genuine. If there were sentries looking this direction, they couldn’t possibly have missed what she’d done.

Bit by bit, they closed upon the partly collapsed wall of the fortress. Rajana peered at its four towers and wondered which housed the sleeping lizard man.

As they drew closer, one shape proved not to be a hill or cluster of trees, but a ruined building, still partly roofed. Karvak sent half his force to look it over and advanced with Rajana and the rest toward the silent towers.

A thunder lizard trumpeted a challenge from their left.

Rajana had heard the beast call in the arena, and this one sounded nearly as close. She jumped in surprise as the guards pulled at their weapons.

Rajana cast her invisibility spell and vanished.

The beast roared again. The three men in the vanguard broke and ran, even as Karvak shouted to hold position. She could see the moonlight silver their fear-stricken faces as they raced back the way they’d come.

A scream rose from the east. She whirled to see a man whose chest armor bubbled in a sizzling green circle. “Help me!”

A green bolt raced out of the darkness and took another soldier in the helmet. She dropped, crying out in terrible pain.

Mirian Raas must lie nearby with her acid wand.

“It’s some kind of trick,” Karvak shouted, then looked in vain for Rajana. “Cursed witch! Where did you go?”

Smiling to herself, Rajana stepped away even as a lizard man erupted from the foliage and brought a blade crashing down on another of Karvak’s guards.

Beautiful, she thought. She left the two groups to whittle each other down and went to find her treasure.

40

Duel with a Monster
Mirian

Mirian lay hidden in the palms where Jeneta had just used the lizardfolk horn, so she was more than a little surprised when another call trumpeted somewhere to the east. She glanced to make sure Jeneta remained beside her. The young woman sat motionless, hand to her long sword.

Once more the other horn call blasted.

“Is that a real one?” Mirian whispered.

Jeneta nodded.

“Sound our horn.”

“And call it here?”

“And even the odds.”

Three soldiers had raced into the darkness after Jekka, leading them straight into an ambush from Rendak and Gombe. That left ten more. One of those dropped as a well-placed acid bolt from Ivrian tore through him.

Their leader pointed his sword and sent two men scurrying toward the cluster of bushes that hid the lord.

Jeneta raised the instrument to her lips and sounded it once more. In comparison to the real thing, this call seemed ghostly, hollow.

“They’re over there,” the leader cried, pointing in their general direction.

But one of his warriors cried out because the ground rumbled. A heavy creature was closing, and let out a sustained roar to announce its arrival.

Mirian looked out to see the leader marshaling his people into a line and presenting bladed weapons even as another distant scream sounded. Jekka and his team had worked their ambush.

From out of the darkness loomed a great reptile tall enough to peer into a second-story window. While the invaders nervously stood their ground and shouted, Mirian leveled her wand and took one of the men in the side. He dropped, his scream sounding more like fright than pain. He struggled to tear off his armor. The remaining soldiers flinched, and the monster roared at them.

Suddenly a flaming hound popped into existence a few feet to Mirian’s right, identical to the one that had appeared near her in the arena. It let out a fiendish howl and pushed into the brush.

So the Icehand had sent a spellcaster.

The monster was almost as tall as Mirian’s shoulder, the shadow of a hound wreathed in red and yellow flames. Its pointed teeth bared in a sadistic grin.

Naturally, Mirian’s second wand blast didn’t work.

Jeneta rose and spoke in a sonorous, commanding voice. The creature briefly halted its approach. The black leaves through which it had thrust its body began to smoke.

Mirian backed away as she fired a second time. This time the emerald blast caught the creature in the side of its skull and the air was immediately filled with the scent of smoking flesh. Jeneta slashed the beast with her blade even as it leapt to claw her leg. The priestess dropped to one knee, and the monster bore in.

Mirian stepped to the side, brought her sword down across the back of its neck. The hound threw back its head to howl in terrible disappointment, then dissolved in black smoke.

Mirian bent to Jeneta, but the warrior priestess was fighting to her feet already. “Find its summoner! I can heal myself.”

Mirian scanned their surroundings and spotted the caster almost immediately. She was ten feet back of the line of men still brandishing weapons at the thunder lizard, launching a red bead of flame that grew into a ball of fire as it soared toward the giant lizard’s head.

The light of the flame permitted a brief glimpse of the woman’s face, one so like Sylena that Mirian doubted her eyes. How could the woman possibly have survived her arena injuries?

If it was her, she wouldn’t be standing for much longer. Mirian whispered the activation word, and the acid blast streamed forward from her wand, exploding against the wizard’s blue dress.

Except instead of burning through, the acid just stuck there, sizzling. The caster pivoted sharply, her sinister smile lit by the shimmering green energy. “Did you really think you could use the same trick twice?” She raised a hand in a cryptic gesture.

Mirian mouthed the words to activate her wand. It failed again, but the woman’s arm was painted by another harmless acid blast from her right. Ivrian, may Desna bless him. He’d escaped from the soldiers sent to kill him.

But Ivrian’s blast neither eliminated the woman’s magical protection nor disrupted her concentration. Mirian dashed and dove behind a boulder just as a powerful fireball exploded over its front.

She pulled herself up, thrusting the wand back into its holster, and peered around the boulder.

The great lizard had stamped backward, whipping its tail in agitation. Sylena’s lookalike advanced through the rubble toward Mirian’s position, clutching a wand.

Fabulous. Mirian very much doubted the spellcaster would miss as frequently as she herself had, if at all. Mirian crept backward and almost fell sideways over a broken stone that ringed a yawning hole. She clutched at a palm tree, brought herself upright behind it, and considered the black circle into which she’d almost plummeted. From below wafted the musty scent of wet stone. A well?

Mirian heard the distinct sound of Ivrian’s magical wand, then the crashing blast of some other sorcerous energy. From out of the darkness, a shape emerged, moving swift and low: Jeneta. The priestess arrived to crouch at a palm tree beside her.

“Sound the horn,” Mirian said.

Jeneta raised the horn to her lips, and once more the call rang out on the night air, to be answered by the deeper, full-throated blast from the monster.

Mirian peered out in time to see the thunder lizard advance against the soldiers, who scattered in all directions. It reached down to snatch one of the fleeing figures and leaned its massive head to snap at another.

The spellcaster set it reeling with a powerful blast of blue-white energies, directed from a wand. The monster lizard reared back, pulping the man it carried as it clenched its clawed hand in pain. It moved off to chase the running prey, the ground thundering beneath it.

Mirian blasted again at the spellcaster. She’d seen enough wizardry to know protective spells could be worn down, but there was no knowing how strong this woman’s was. Mirian threw herself flat as the woman leveled her own wand. A cone of ice swept up against boulder and palm tree and blasted Mirian’s side with cold so intense it stung like a sunburn. She staggered to her feet even as the woman charged toward them, wand leveled.

Jeneta stepped forward, blade high, and took the full brunt of the next ice blast. She collapsed, covered in deadly, shimmering frost. Mirian stepped to the back edge of the well even as the spell-caster advanced.

Mirian lowered her sword. “Spare my people,” she called, “and I’ll tell you where the treasure’s hidden.”

The woman came closer, closer, and the moonlight showed Mirian a face that was only similar to Sylena’s, not identical. A sister?

The caster’s wand pointed steadily at Mirian’s chest. “Do you think I somehow failed to notice the hole in front of you?”

“I’d hoped,” Mirian admitted. “But I’d counted on you missing the lizard man to your left.”

The woman spun as Jekka reared up, his cousin’s laumahk in both hands. His blade lashed out, catching the wizard in the side.

The woman screamed in pain, but before she could complete an incantation Mirian lunged and struck. The sweep of the blade sent the woman’s wand and three of her fingers flying into darkness. The woman shrieked and tottered forward into the well.

Her fall was silent. Mirian had hoped for a satisfying splash—or better, a crunch. But then the thunder lizard came up from behind, its stride shaking the ground. She threw herself to the right even as her friends went left. She rolled through a screen of rough bushes and emerged upright, scratched and torn.

Behind came the clomp of great feet. She diverted right again and found herself near the shell of the temple.

The monster ripped the sky apart with its call of rage, all but deafening her. She expected those teeth to close over her head any moment.

She felt rather than heard the falter of its step, and risked a backward glance.

The monster had turned, and the slapping tail missed Mirian’s head by inches. Jekka faced it, laumahk raised and glinting in the moonlight.

He’d distracted it from her, and it was time for a return favor. She slipped past the beast’s tail and drove her cutlass deep into an immense ankle.

Once more the animal roared and pivoted, moving so fast she didn’t have a chance to pull her sword out. Heart pounding, she sprinted for a gap she’d seen in the temple’s wall.

The ground rattled and the tread drew closer.

She reached the temple, reached the gap formed by the fall of a pillar through a decorative temple frieze. She caught a quick glimpse of graceful, slender folk bowing to a god descending on moonbeams.

She flung herself into darkness. There was a brief instant that felt suspended in time. Before she hit, a dozen horrible possibilities flitted through her imagination. What lay beyond? A fall of thirty feet? A nest of venomous lizards? A giant spider web? A pile of rusted weapons?

Her hands touched ground first, for she was a practiced tumbler. She landed on a salting of rubble and somersaulted over smashed tiles, popping to her feet beside a broken pillar.

The wall collapsed in a rumble of stone as the beast pushed its head in to reach her. She dashed on through the darkness, stubbing her foot on a fallen stone. Overhead, the roof swayed and a vast section fell inward, raining tile. She backed farther into the black recesses. Her ringing ears faintly detected the sound of a distant roar she knew for Jeneta’s horn. Through the gap in the ceiling, she saw the great silhouette of the thunder lizard’s head turn as the creature sought the noise.

Jeneta’s call rang out once more, and Mirian’s attacker opened its massive maw to roar a curious response, then stomped away to investigate.

She knew she should go out there and help, but she remained in the shadows for a moment longer, straining to catch her breath. As her pulse slowed, she noticed just how much her right foot actually hurt. She wondered if she’d broken a toe or three.

The remnant of the roof creaked ominously. More shingles crashed down to shatter into fragments, and there was moonlight enough to show her an upright column tilting.

She just couldn’t seem to catch a break.

The only safe course was toward the already ruined wall. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she ran ahead of the rolling thunder of collapsing masonry and threw herself clear. The building disintegrated behind her.

She landed on her hands and tumbled awkwardly down a short flight of stairs. She lay gasping, looking back to see the last temple wall collapse in a calamitous crash that hurled an immense cloud of debris into the starry sky.

So much for drawing those particular friezes.

She forced herself to her feet, pulled out her wand, and limped out to check her team. In the distance, the dark shape of the great lizard trod after a phantom caller, occasionally stopping to roar in answer. She might have been imagining it, but the beast sounded confused.

Who, she wondered, was doing that?

Not Jeneta. She found Rendak cradling her head in his lap as he raised a small gray vial to her lips.

Gombe knelt beside his cousin, rubbing her hand. For once he couldn’t joke. “Mirian.” He gave her a troubled smile. “I wasn’t sure you’d made it.”

“I’m all here,” she breathed. “I’m just not sure all of it’s working.” She pointed at the vial. “What’s that?”

“The officer was trying to down this after Jekka wounded him,” Rendak answered. “I figure it’s a healing potion.”

“What if it’s not?”

Rendak grimaced. “Looking at her, I don’t figure she has much to lose. Helluva thing, to freeze to death in Sargava.”

She nodded her blessing, and Rendak tilted the vial to the young woman’s lips. Mirian bent her head in prayer. “May Iomedae give you strength, girl. You surely showed her your bravery this night.”

Jeneta gasped once, then sucked in a huge breath. The next one sounded far better, almost normal.

“Praise Iomedae,” Jeneta said, softly.

“Praise Rendak,” Mirian said, then addressed her first mate. “Where are Ivrian and Jekka?”

“Jekka took the horn back and ran off with it.”

Mirian blinked in surprise. “How’s he going to outrun that thing?”

“He’s pretty fast,” Rendak offered, although he sounded doubtful. Swift Jekka might be, but how could he outpace a monster that could beat a running man in a couple of strides?

“Where’s their spellcaster?” Rendak asked.

“At the bottom of a well,” Mirian said. “Dead or dying. Have you seen the rest of the Icehand’s troops?”

“They bolted. Those that we didn’t kill, I mean. Or that the monster didn’t stomp.”

Mirian eyed Jeneta. “She still looks woozy. Why don’t you see if the Icehand’s officer had any more healing potions on him.”

“Will do.” Rendak rose slowly so that Gombe could shift to cradle his cousin’s head.

Mirian bent down to retrieve the priestess’s sword. “You don’t mind if I borrow this, do you?”

Jeneta’s answer was weak, distracted. “Not at all.”

A few minutes later, Ivrian joined them, moving a little stiffly. He’d taken a sword cut in one arm, and Mirian helped bandage him. She and Gombe and Rendak then helped the other two back to the tower, before she and Gombe returned to scout the area.

There was no sign of living soldiers, and no Jekka until nearly dawn, when he trouped back carrying not just the laumahk, but a familiar shoulder pack, a larger bag, and his gray staff.

Mirian was so pleased to see him alive she hugged him. She felt the lizard man’s body go rigid in her embrace.

He cocked his head at her and slung down the gear. “This is a human greeting?”

“Between those who are fond of one another.”

“Ah.” Stiffly he imitated the gesture, then stepped away. “It’s good to see you.” He bobbed his head at Rendak. “And you as well, Salvager Rendak.”

“Just Rendak,” the man said, amiably. “Or Filian, if you want. Though even my friends call me by my last name.”

“Rendak,” Jekka repeated.

The first mate pointed to the pile of belongings. “Where did you find all that?”

“I thought this would please you. I led the al’k’ring down a steep hill, and it chased horses the soldiers left. I found this on one of the ones it stepped on.”

Mirian laughed in disbelief. “That’s the third bag, isn’t it? And your book cones?”

“It is.”

She could scarce believe it, and couldn’t quite imagine why the treasures had been brought on the journey. While she was puzzling over an explanation, Jekka questioned her further.

“Everyone else is well?”

“Everyone else is alive,” Mirian said. “And healing.”

Jekka tapped the ground with his staff. “Then we did very well.”

“Thanks for your help with the thunder lizard.” She smiled. “Jekka, have you ever thought about being a salvager?”

He cocked his head to one side, as though he hadn’t understood the question. “I am a warrior.”

“Salvagers have to be warriors as well,” Mirian pointed out.

“Does this mean you’re staying?” Rendak asked, his voice tinged with a certain shy tenderness.

“Ivrian says it’s the thing I do best. And it seems to me our little team does a pretty good job of keeping each other alive. Besides, how can I captain the Daughter if I’m wandering the Mwangi Expanse?”

Rendak grinned crookedly.

“So how about it, Jekka?” Mirian asked. “You want to join the family business?”

“I will go where my sister goes,” he said simply. “And with my friends.”

41

The Sweetest Wine
Ivrian

Riches and fame were ours at last, but triumph was a bitter salve. All of us had lost much and suffered greatly. Yet the story was not yet finished, and a final surprise still awaited us …

—From The Daughter of the Mist

Ivrian wasn’t sure he’d ever get over the luxury of clean sheets and a soft mattress. But as wonderful as it was to be safe at home, he was surrounded by reminders of his mother. Grief he’d thought expended rose afresh with him each morning.

Playing host to solemn Jeneta and seeing to the writing of what proved a very difficult letter kept him fairly busy for the first two days. He finished it in time to have it delivered to the Ministry of Defense the afternoon after their return. By that evening, he’d received a formal summons to the court the following morning. The letter bore the baron’s own signature, and requested his presence alongside that of Mirian and Jekka—and naturally, the treasure.

Ivrian was tempted to take Rendak and Gombe and Jeneta as well, but all three demurred. The priestess had necessary duties at the local temple to Iomedae, and neither Rendak nor Gombe felt comfortable mixing with “blue bloods.” Ivrian couldn’t help smiling a little when Rendak said that, for it took the salvager a moment or two to remember Ivrian himself was a lord.

It pleased him very much that these two men viewed him as one of their own.

When they disembarked from the carriage in front of the capitol building, Ivrian thought he and Mirian and Jekka made a rather fine spectacle. Ivrian wore the most conservative of his dark suits, with only two spots of color, a scarlet kerchief and a matching belt sash he thought gave him a rakish air.

Mirian looked lovely and refined in her red dress, cut in colonial style. Eyebrows rose at sight of her, then lifted even higher as Jekka stepped out.

The lizard man wore a light brown robe, one Ivrian had overpaid a nervous tailor to alter the previous afternoon. It was belted at the waist with the striking turquoise stones that usually supported Jekka’s loincloth.

Jekka’s matching necklace adorned his long throat, and in one hand he carried the carved staff, which lent him the air of a visiting sage or scholar.

Each of them carried one of the expedition haversacks.

White-garbed guards advanced to meet them, nervously fingering the hafts of their halberds.

“We’re expected,” Ivrian said. “I’m Lord Galanor.”

“Of course, Lord,” said the eldest of the three, a scarred man in his mid-thirties. “The undersecretary said to expect you at nine bells.”

“And here we are,” Ivrian said, even as the nearby temple of Desna tolled the hour. They started up the steps. The guards trailed behind.

Beyond the dark teak doors lay a grand hallway hung with frowning portraits of pale men and women in black. Dark doors stood closed in long lines to right and left, and harried-looking men and women bustled in and out of them and down side corridors, carrying sheaves of paper.

One of them, a handsome matron of middle years garbed in a brown dress and lacy white blouse, drew to a stop and gave Ivrian a crisp nod. “Lord Galanor, I presume?”

“Yes. You must be Lady Felham?”

“Indeed.” The Undersecretary of Defense took in Ivrian and his companions with a practiced gaze, then cleared her throat. “Please come with me.”

She turned on a heel and started for the grand staircase leading to a row of windows looking east, almost blinding in the sunlight.

The undersecretary stopped a few paces short, glanced back at them. “Perhaps we should speak privately downstairs.” She stepped to one of the dark teak doors, rapped it peremptorily, and poked her head inside. “This will do.” She thrust it open and gestured for them to enter.

Ivrian did so, a wan smile on his face. He pretended not to notice that the three guards still trailed their little group.

They’d been led to a dark-paneled conference room with high, north-facing windows. Two elaborate chandeliers hung over an oaken table polished so thoroughly it gleamed.

“My apologies,” the undersecretary said, not sounding the least bit apologetic, “but I wish to examine the contents of your satchels before I conduct you forward. I hope you understand.”

Ivrian frowned. “Their contents are solely for the view of the baron.”

Lady Felham’s expression was stony. “I’m afraid the baron’s safety is my concern, and that I’ll be viewing their contents first.”

This wasn’t at all the sort of treatment they had earned, nor deserved. Ivrian was opening his mouth to object when Mirian touched his sleeve.

“It’s all right, Ivrian. Let’s show her what we have.” Mirian undid the straps of her pack and removed the sculpture of the sea drake. She set it carefully on one end of the table, and even Ivrian had to admit to himself it was a thing of beauty.

One by one, Mirian removed the three ruby lizardfolk heads that had survived their encounter with the boggards, then deposited jewel after jewel in ordered rows as the little idols began their choking laughter.

Ivrian smirked at the undersecretary’s growing interest. He’d described the treasures only in the most general of terms.

Two of the guards lingered in the room behind the undersecretary, and they looked even more impressed than she did.

“Jekka,” Ivrian suggested, “let’s turn out the rest, don’t you think?” And he unceremoniously shook out his pack so gems clattered onto the table in a waterfall of riches: rubies, emeralds, and diamonds of all shapes and sizes. Felham and the guards let out a collective gasp of amazement. The younger of them even swore, and the undersecretary and officer were so stunned they didn’t seem to notice.

Jekka let out a coughing laugh and dumped out the contents of his own haversack.

As the wealth streamed down, Ivrian grinned. “This is next year’s payment to the Free Captains, and probably the year after. Do you think your superior will be interested in speaking with me now?”

It took the woman a good five-count to close her mouth. “Corporal,” she said without turning, “if you will relay my compliments to the baron, suggest that he attend me at once. As a matter of fact, feel free to describe the specifics of this particular incident.”

“Right away, m’lady.” The younger soldier executed a smart salute, pushed past the gawping soldier leaning in the doorway, and could be heard running down the hall.

“Do you mind if we sit?” Mirian asked.

“No, of course not,” the undersecretary said.

Ivrian realized he was taking perhaps a little too much delight in rendering the woman speechless.

Lady Felham cleared her throat. “Your pardon, Lord Galanor, but is that all real?”

“It’s all real,” Ivrian answered confidently. “Every last bit of it.”

“Well. I must say, this is rather impressive.”

“Quite,” Ivrian said, mimicking her tone.

The corporal returned and stepped to one side, coming crisply to parade rest. The commanding officer, looking out the doorway, stiffened and brought his hand up in salute.

Ivrian had seen Baron Utilinus, Grand Custodian of Sargava, at a distance, but he’d never actually observed him up close. The man was tall, his dark hair flecked with gray, a blocky, clean-shaven man in his early middle years, garbed in a blue short-waisted coat and breeches of the finest cloth.

Mirian and Ivrian stood quickly, followed almost immediately by Jekka. The lizard man might not understand every human social cue, Ivrian thought, but he was smart enough to copy those he didn’t know.

The baron advanced, his blue eyes twinkling, uncertain whether to look at the table or his guests.

“This is Lord Galanor,” the undersecretary said hastily. “And guests.”

Ivrian bowed formally. Mirian curtsied. Jekka, unfortunately, copied the latter rather than former action, but no one commented upon it.

The baron met Ivrian’s eyes. “So you’re Alderra’s boy.” His voice was husky but pleasant.

“I am, Baron. It’s an honor to meet you.”

The baron advanced to clasp his arm, expression somber. “I was sorry to learn of your mother’s death, Ivrian. She was a dear friend.”

“Thank you, Baron.” He was surprised the words affected him so deeply.

The baron nodded once, then extended his hand toward the lizard man, an action that elicited a gasp from the soldiers.

Jekka gripped the baron’s arm in return.

“I have never met one of the lizardfolk in person,” the baron told Jekka. “But Lord Galanor reported that you served with great distinction. I thank you.”

Jekka seemed at a loss. “My friends required help.”

“And I am sorry, too, for your own losses,” the baron went on.

“I thank you,” Jekka said, then bowed his head, slowly. He was learning.

The baron turned to Mirian.

“And you’re the daughter of Leovan Raas. I understand that without you, no one would have returned at all.”

“That might be a bit of an exaggeration, Baron.”

“No,” Jekka said, at the same time that Ivrian said, “It’s not.”

The baron laughed. “I think your friends say differently. I wish I didn’t have to offer my condolences to you as well. You three risked much, and lost much.” He looked over to the table. “But you have done the state a great service. Lady Felham and her staff will conduct a thorough accounting of the moneys and award you the agreed-upon percentage, minus that amount you asked for the church of Iomedae. I wonder, though, if you three might do me the honor of joining me for a late breakfast? I’d like to hear the details from your own lips.”

Ivrian searched the faces of his friends, saw Jekka bob his head and Mirian nod.

“We would be honored.”

“Excellent.”

The baron left word that the room was to remain under thorough guard, and that the undersecretary would drop all matters and see to the cataloging and tabulation of the treasure immediately, assisted by only her most trustworthy aids.

And then the four of them headed up the stairs to a very fine suite overlooking a private garden, where they were treated to such an elaborate breakfast that Ivrian rather wished he’d eaten nothing beforehand.

They were catered to by servants garbed more finely than Ivrian, men and women so practiced in dignity that he couldn’t detect even a trace of consternation when they asked Jekka what wine or food he might desire, and the lizard man asked if they might bring one of each. They obliged him.

While they ate, the baron asked about their journey. Ivrian tried not to dominate the conversation, but his friends frequently relied upon his narration. Occasionally, the baron interjected a question or remarked upon their skill or luck, but mostly he listened, nodding and sipping his wine, or nibbling at the steady stream of delicacies.

“And that’s nearly it, Baron,” Ivrian finished.

“And the rest of your team? Are they recovering?”

“They’re well,” Mirian answered. “Happy to be home with their families.”

“And the young priestess? She’s fully healed? We owe her and her entire family our thanks.”

“She’s fully mended,” Ivrian answered. He cleared his throat delicately. “Will you be saying anything to the Icehand?”

The baron smiled in distaste. “She’ll disavow any involvement, I’m sure, but I imagine I can smooth things out for your priestess friend if she does wish to return to her home.”

“I’m not sure she does, Baron,” Mirian said.

“If she does,” he said, “you have but to contact me, and I’ll arrange things. Now, as for you three…” He set hands to the table. The servants cleared away the plates and departed, leaving them alone in the well-appointed dining room. Ivrian grew conscious of the sound of a ticking clock, and spied it upon a desk to the table’s right.

“I can’t tell you what a tremendous pleasure it is to have had you work for the state. There are a number of sites that could stand investigation, and I would reward you for looking into them.”

Ivrian looked eagerly to Mirian.

She cleared her throat. “With all due respect, Baron, while we’ll be happy to work with you again, Jekka still has some unfinished business.”

“Oh?” The baron looked to Jekka, then back to Mirian.

“We recovered the book cones of his people, but we’ve had little time to review them.”

“I see.”

“If he learns any information about where other members of his clan live, I think we owe it to him to make getting there our first priority.”

“Of course. I would expect nothing less. Most of the sites I’m aware of would be more speculative ventures anyway, and perhaps not as remunerative. If you learn of one yourselves, I hope you’ll keep the needs of Sargava in mind.”

“Naturally, Baron.”

The baron brought his hands together in a soft clap and met Mirian’s dark eyes. “While your share of what you’ve brought back is no doubt enough on its own to take care of the matter, I want you to know that, regardless of the total, your family’s debts are no longer a concern. I’ve written your mother, to offer both my condolences and my thanks.”

Mirian bowed her head. “She will be honored, I’m sure.”

The baron smiled a little sadly. “Jekka, in honor of your assistance, I am awarding you Sargavan citizenship. If Mirian Raas has taken you into her family, then allow me to invite you into the larger family of our nation.”

From his pocket he produced a bronzed medallion on a chain and passed it across the table. “This symbolizes your status as an official diplomatic ambassador to Sargava. No citizen or officer of the state can ever question your right to enter any Sargavan settlement, so long as you keep that upon you and show it when questioned.”

The lizard man took the object and lifted it in clawed fingers. Ivrian leaned close, but couldn’t catch all the words engraved upon the circle—something about the bearer, and rights and full honors.

“And as for you, Ivrian, I’ve lost one of my best agents. Do you have any interest in following in her footsteps?”

“I know it was her fondest wish that I take up government work,” Ivrian said. “But I’ll echo what Mirian’s said: I’d like to assist Jekka before I make any decisions.”

“Then I’ll repeat that I hope you’ll keep us in mind, Lord Galanor, when you finish helping your friend.”

“You are very kind, Baron.”

Sargava’s ruler rose, straightening his jacket, and then escorted them down the hall and stair and chatted with them in the entryway while a coach was brought around.

The carriage arrived. Ivrian watched Jekka, who hadn’t seemed to find any special significance in the sigil of Iomedae emblazoned upon the door. Ivrian noticed Mirian and the baron studying him surreptitiously as well.

The door swung open, and Jeneta stepped out, offering a low bow to the baron and his guards. Then she held the door open as another robed figure dropped down

Jekka hissed and stepped back. “You were dead!”

“I was,” Kalina agreed.

Any number of things could have gone wrong, Ivrian knew. There’d been a fair chance that even with the finest priests of Iomedae working the resurrection magic, it might not be enough. No one had wanted to give Jekka false hope, so no one had mentioned what they’d hoped to accomplish by bringing the body back with them.

Jekka turned to Mirian. “What magic is this?”

Mirian put a hand on his shoulder. “The good kind, Jekka. The good kind.”

Jekka stepped forward and bobbed his head formally. “Kalina. My heart speeds at the sight of you.”

Kalina bobbed her own head, first to Jekka, then to Mirian and Ivrian.

“I’m glad it worked out,” the baron said softly to Ivrian’s ear. “She’ll need this.” The baron pressed a cold, round object into his hand. Ivrian glanced down to find a second ambassadorial medal in his palm.

“Farewell, friends.” The baron raised a hand as he stepped away. “I hope to see all of you again.”

The humans returned his well wishes. Then, grinning, Mirian held the door and ushered her friends into the carriage. Once everyone was seated, she ordered it onward to her home.

Jekka sat across from his cousin, staring in disbelief. Ivrian wondered if he would ask whether the other dead expedition members might be restored, and readied himself for somber explanations.

But Jekka had other concerns. “I am sorry you missed the lunch,” he said. “There was most interesting food.”

“I was fed at the temple.”

Ivrian passed the medal over to Kalina. “I’m glad you’re back with us, my friend.”

“I am glad Jekka will not be alone,” Kalina said.

“But I am not alone,” Jekka countered. “Mirian is my sister now. We are clan.”

The lizard woman’s head swung to consider Mirian.

“My home is yours, Kalina. If you wish it.”

“As is mine,” Ivrian said.

Jekka cocked his head at him. “Even if you are not a Raas, I think you, too, are clan.”

“Close enough,” Mirian agreed.

“What is this object?” Kalina studied the bronze circle Ivrian had handed her.

“You’re a friend of Sargava now,” Mirian explained. “By order of the baron.”

“I never expected that.” Her eyes bored into Mirian’s own. “Jeneta told me all that you did for me. I cannot thank you enough.”

“Jeneta is the one who preserved your body with magic while we rode. It was her people who called you back.”

“But she said it took many moneys. Didn’t your family need them?”

“Ivrian and I split the cost,” Mirian said. “I wish we could have saved the others, but there was no way to recover their remains.”

Ivrian would rather not dwell on any of that. He cleared his throat. “Kalina, do you remember anything about what happened between your, uh, passing and your return?”

“No,” Kalina answered. “I remember fighting a thing in the water that I did not want to eat, and then I awoke near Priestess Jeneta and other humans I did not know. They were kind to me.”

Ivrian tried to hide his disappointment. “I’d hoped you could tell me a little about what the afterlife looked like.” What he didn’t add was that he’d hoped his mother would pass on a final word to him through Kalina. Or at least tell him that she was all right now, on the other side.

“That would have been unlikely,” Jeneta said. “Most who return cannot recall anything at all.”

“Kalina,” Jekka said, “I have not had much time to study the cones. We have had a mourning day for Mirian’s brother, and for you and Heltan.”

Ivrian bowed his head. The official funerals were to be held tomorrow.

Jekka continued: “There is mention of an island off a coast, and black ships. I must study them in greater detail.”

“Which coast?” Ivrian asked.

“That is not yet clear to me. You will sail with me, to find it?”

“Aye,” Mirian said, and Ivrian nodded agreement.

“Me too,” Jeneta promised.

“That is good,” Jekka said, and let out a long, rattling sigh. Ivrian had never heard the like from him, and he supposed it indicated contentment. The lizard man actually looked relaxed, and Ivrian couldn’t recall ever seeing that before, either.

But there was one last item, one that had plagued Ivrian for the last weeks. He took a deep breath. “Mirian, there’s something I’ve been meaning to speak with you about.”

“Oh?”

Was that a hint of amusement in her voice?

He faced her squarely. “I’d still like to write our adventure down. I can change your name, if you’d like, but I want to tell this tale, or some version of it.”

“Go right ahead. And keep my name.”

“Just like that?” He could scarcely believe it. “I thought you hated the idea.”

“It’s your story now, too.”

There was a long silence before he answered, softly and sincerely. “Thank you.”

“You might want to leave some parts out, of course.”

He chuckled. “You can count on that.” He nodded to Jekka. “I’ll set it in the Laughing Jungle instead of the Kaava Lands, in case you and Kalina ever want to return to the ruins.”

“Perhaps we will,” Kalina mused. “But we would need more explorers, and warriors. I should like to slay the drake and remove the rest of our book cones. For now, though, I am most excited to see the words you will write, Ivrian. If you will read them to us.”

“Whatever you wish,” Ivrian promised.

As the coach rumbled on, Jekka rubbed the circlet now hanging from his neck, then considered everyone seated with him. “It is good to have a medal, and it is good to have drunk sweet wine. But it is even better to have a family, and friends.”

“If we had more wine,” Ivrian said, “I’d raise a glass to that.”

“Then let’s open some bottles when we get home,” Mirian said. “We’ll raise a toast: To friends, family, and our future together.”

Acknowledgments

Without a small cadre of dedicated allies, this book would never have been completed. Rich Howard gave me some valuable tips about diving and life in the depths. James Sutter guided me surely through all the edges of the rough draft and pointed me toward the novel I was really trying to write. Dave Gross combed carefully through the later draft and helped me cut out the chaff and punch up the character moments. My wife Shannon gave me Kalina, and book cones, and laumahks and hundreds of suggestions that heightened description, improved flow, and brightened characters. I sincerely thank you all.

Glossary

All Pathfinder Tales novels are set in the rich and vibrant world of the Pathfinder campaign setting. Below are explanations of several key terms used in this book. For more information on the world of Golarion and the strange monsters, people, and deities that make it their home, see The Inner Sea World Guide, or dive into the game and begin playing your own adventures with the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game Core Rulebook or the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game Beginner Box, all available at paizo.com. Those interested in learning more about Sargava specifically should check out Pathfinder Player Companion: Sargava, The Lost Colony, or explore it themselves in the Serpent’s Skull Adventure Path.

Arcane: Magic that comes from mystical sources rather than the direct intervention of a god; secular magic.

Asmodeus: Devil-god of tyranny, slavery, pride, and contracts; lord of Hell and current patron deity of Cheliax.

Avistan: The continent north of the Inner Sea, on which Cheliax and many other nations lie.

Avistani: Of or related to the continent of Avistan.

Bandu: Demon-worshiping tribe native to Sargava, focused on slave-taking and human sacrifice.

Bandu Hills: Mountain range in central Sargava.

Bas’o: Nomadic tribe native to Sargava, known for its skilled warriors and hunters.

Boggards: Froglike humanoids that live in swamps and often attack other sentient races.

Chelaxian: Someone from Cheliax, either ethnically or by legal citizenship.

Cheliax: A powerful devil-worshiping nation located in southwestern Avistan, of which Sargava was formerly a colony.

Chelish: Of or relating to the nation of Cheliax.

Colonial: Sargavan slang term for a Sargavan citizen of Chelish heritage, or anyone in Sargava’s primarily light-skinned ruling caste.

Crown’s End: Sargavan port city north of Eleder, known for its corruption and rampant smuggling activity.

Custodian: Alternative formal title of the Baron of Sargava, the nation’s ruler.

Desna: Good-natured goddess of dreams, stars, travelers, and luck.

Desperation Bay: Large bay around which Sargava wraps.

Devils: Fiendish occupants of Hell who seek to corrupt mortals in order to claim their souls.

Eleder: Capital of Sargava and thriving port city specializing in shipping raw resources north to more powerful nations.

Free Captains: The leaders of the Shackles’ legendary pirate bands, paid by Sargava’s government to keep Cheliax from retaking Sargava.

Freehold: Ranching town in central Sargava.

Garund: Continent south of the Inner Sea, renowned for its deserts and jungles, upon which Sargava lies.

Garundi: Human ethnic group consisting of dark-skinned people, mostly found in northern Garund.

Gillmen: Race of amphibious humanoids descended from the Azlanti after that empire sank into the sea in a bygone age.

Gozreh: God of nature, the sea, and weather. Depicted as a dual deity, with both male and female aspects.

Halflings: Race of humanoids known for their tiny stature, deft hands, and mischievous personalities.

Harpies: Predatory and intelligent race of human-headed bird women, who use their magical songs to lure intelligent creatures to their deaths.

Her Infernal Majestrix: Formal title of the ruler of Cheliax.

Ijo: Coastal tribe of native Sargavans known for their skill with boats and fishing.

Infernal Dukes: Greater devils who rule Hell beneath Asmodeus.

Inheritor: Iomedae.

Inner Sea: The vast inland sea whose northern continent, Avistan, and southern continent, Garund, as well as the seas and nearby lands, are the primary focus of the Pathfinder campaign setting.

Iomedae: Goddess of valor, rulership, justice, and honor, who in life helped lead the Shining Crusade before attaining godhood.

Kaava Lands: Jungle-covered peninsula north of Desperation Bay.

Kalabuto: Ancient Sargavan jungle city now inhabited primarily by native Sargavans and ruled by a small cadre of colonials.

Kelesh: Empire far to the east of the Inner Sea.

Keleshite: Of or related to the Empire of Kelesh; someone of that ethnicity.

Laughing Jungle: Jungle in southern Sargava.

Lizardfolk: Ancient and tribal race of intelligent reptilian humanoids; often viewed as backward by humans.

Mulaa: Prominent tribe of native Sargavans known for their farming and ranching.

Mwangi: Of or pertaining to the Mwangi Expanse; someone from that region. “Mwangi” as an ethnicity is a catch-all term created by northern humans to describe the wide variety of cultures found in central Garund.

Mwangi Expanse: A sweltering jungle region south of the Inner Sea and north of the Inner Sea.

Native: Sargavan slang term for the nation’s indigenous peoples.

Oubinga River: Major river in the Kaava Lands.

Pathfinder: A member of the Pathfinder Society.

Pathfinder Lodge: Meeting house where members of the Pathfinder Society can buy provisions and swap stories.

Pathfinder Society: Organization of traveling scholars and adventurers who seek to document the world’s wonders.

Pharasma: The goddess of birth, death, and prophecy, who judges mortal souls after their deaths and sends them on to the appropriate afterlife; also known as the Lady of Graves.

Sargava: Former Chelish colony which successfully won its independence, and maintains it through an expensive arrangement with the piratical Free Captains of the Shackles.

Sargavan: Of or related to Sargava, a citizen of Sargava.

Scrying: Using magic to view something from a distance.

Sea Devil: Intelligent and predatory aquatic race with a resemblance to the sharks they adore.

Sea Drake: Breed of lesser aquatic dragon capable of breathing devastating electrical attacks, but still less intelligent and powerful than a true dragon.

Senghor: Prominent port city northwest of Sargava.

Shackles: Chaotic pirate isles northwest of Sargava, ruled by the Free Captains.

Shelyn: The goddess of beauty, art, love, and music.

Smuggler’s Shiv: Dangerous island in Desperation Bay known for both its smuggling activity and the many monsters that inhabit its wilds.

Sorcerer: Someone who casts spells through natural ability rather than faith or study.

Taldane: The common trade language of the Inner Sea region.

Tines: Raised fork on which Chelish criminals are sometimes impaled. Also the name of a rude hand gesture from Cheliax, which suggests that the recipient should be impaled in such a manner.

Varisian: Of or relating to the region of the frontier region of Varisia, or a resident of that region. Ethnic Varisians tend to organize in clans and wander in caravans, acting as tinkers, musicians, dancers, or performers.

Venture-Captain: A rank in the Pathfinder Society above that of a standard field agent, in charge of organizing expeditions and directing and assisting lesser agents.

Wand: A sticklike magic item imbued with the ability to cast a specific spell repeatedly.

Wizard: Someone who casts spells through careful study and rigorous scientific methods rather than faith or innate talent, recording the necessary incantations in a spellbook.

Read on for sneak peek at

by F. Wesley Schneider

Available December 2015

Copyright © 2015 Paizo, Inc.

5

Unwelcome Guests Larsa

The night’s fog was already retreating by the time I reached Thorenly Glen, withdrawing as the first shades of daylight bled over the distant tree line. The walk had taken considerably longer than I’d expected. The city’s constables would be on their way soon, following up on Lady Thorenly’s distress from the previous night. I wouldn’t have much time to investigate without interference, or to deal with what would assuredly ruin a couple of guards’ morning.

The blanket of mists receded slowly, and its removal wasn’t flattering. A manor house rose across a lake of weeds and shapeless hedges. Porch sagging, windows blinded by shutters, roof shedding shingles like an old man’s hair, Thorenly Glen lacked anything in common with the pastoral haven its name suggested. A road-worn coach rested in the weedy turnabout just before the mansion’s cracked steps. Whoever the estate’s guests were, no one had bothered to prepare for them.

I circled the manor at some distance, following a line of knotty trees. Unbelievably, the estate was putting its best face forward. The roof over the house’s back porch had collapsed, blocking doors and windows and burying much of the rear in splinters. Ivy crawled through the ruins. The damage was far from fresh.

Lady Thorenly had been discovered raving along the road leading south. Had she actually been living in this wreck? Even more outrageously, had she and her husband actually been charging others to board in their ruin? Retreat for the aged indeed.

The baffling nature of what nobles would pay for aside, the house was too still. Were Lord Thorenly, two nurses, and some number of boarders in residence here, there would be some sign—the flicker of a light left burning overnight, a window left open a crack, servants preparing for the day. But instead, nothing. With every window shuttered or boarded over, not even a rustle of curtains or a passing silhouette suggested the manor was anything but abandoned.

I slid out from behind the shell of a disused shed, approached and listened under the windows. There was briefly a noise from inside—an unexpected tromping on the floor above. Booted steps, perhaps. It swiftly faded.

I came upon a servant’s door, its threshold at waist height. A soggy barrel and mismatched crates formed makeshift steps. I skirted them and was headed back to the front when a wordless roar burst from within. Somewhere glass shattered. It certainly wasn’t the sound of a retired landlord turning down his morning tincture.

It also wasn’t anywhere near the servant’s door. I carefully scaled the crates to the entry. No one had bothered to lock the door.

The cramped kitchen within was surprisingly clean, a busy array of pans and cooking implements hanging over well-scrubbed countertops. Several tea services stood ready, but the fireplace’s hearty kettle wasn’t growing any warmer over the ashes. The tromping was louder now, boots practically tumbling down nearby stairs. They passed close by, rattling the cups and saucers. Somewhere a door slammed open.

Someone was in quite a hurry.

I cracked the kitchen’s swinging door enough to see a sliver of the hall beyond. Threadbare carpeting stretched to an open door at the end of a gallery of faded portraits. Beyond, a cast-off sheet twisted in the air, sprawling across a floral divan. Stomping and clattering continued inside.

I slipped out, checking the hall in the opposite direction—doors, bad art in cheap frames, blood. Upon steep stairs a mass of wrinkles and shredded robes, hardly recognizable as a man, no longer bled. I ignored it for now—it was one corpse I didn’t expect to be a threat. I moved on, the clamor from the hall’s end covering the complaints of crotchety floorboards and the hiss of drawing my blade.

A brass candelabra skipped across the floor as I reached the doorframe. The room had been closed up early—or never opened at all—its furniture, paintings, and fireplace all covered in linens. Stale air suggested it hadn’t been used for some time—and even then it surely hadn’t received the rough treatment it was getting now.

At the opposite end of the room, a figure in a coal riding coat pulled the covers from a pair of mismatched bookcases. With one swipe, he scattered a shelf’s contents to the floor. Delicate figurines and silhouettes in tiny frames cascaded down amid an avalanche of decorative tomes.

I stepped into the room, trying to start things lightly. “I don’t think the owners would appreciate their—”

“Where is it?” He spun with inhuman speed, his shout shooting cracks through colorless skin. Before I could reply he stormed over. His fingers shriveled into claws, already stained from feeding.

Only half surprised, I brought my blade up. He swiped for my gut, but I slid aside. “Is this how you treat your elder’s agent?”

That should have slowed him down, but it didn’t.

“You’re not him.” His claws came up for my face. My blade slapped his forearms but the blow pushed me back, heels and spine slamming against the hearth. Who had he been expecting?

I made a show of it, my sword slicing a broad warning between us. Having no clue what he was talking about, I bluffed. “Plans changed.”

“Liar!” His rage surged between us, red thoughts roiling at the edge my sight. As was the case with most of his kind, his will wasn’t entirely fettered to his mind—something in death had jarred it free. Few humans know what it is to have their thoughts invaded, but once you’ve been a captive inside your own head, you recognize trespassers.

I wrenched my eyes away and lunged. He was fast enough that his throat wasn’t pierced cleanly, but the wound looked like a woodcutter’s first chop—and was just as bloodless. He hissed, dashing into the wall and up, his claws not even marking the faded floral paper. I sliced the sheet covering some wall hanging. Suddenly the surface he clung to was sliding. He scrambled, then hit the ground solidly. I delivered the woodcutter’s next strike.

The body burst into a cloud of pyre smoke. My sword screeched across the floor, momentum thrusting my face into that blast of dry death. I twisted away, grimacing as I regained my balance. I hated that smell. The young ones smelled wet, the old smelled dry, but both had that throat-clogging bitterness.

Like a shadow given shape but not substance, the smoke fell but refused to disperse. It pooled across the floor, seeking cracks in the boards, trying to seep into the dark below. I hadn’t ended the stranger—his head hadn’t severed cleanly—just panicked him. Instincts were powerful things, even more so when immortality was at stake. He’d search out a dark place to recover, but he wouldn’t be bothering me again soon.

I scanned the room for whatever he might have been looking for, but the woman caught my attention.

The cloth I’d cut from the wall revealed a portrait of a noble family: two arch-looking young women in matching floral dresses, plus a mother and father. My slice had cut a mortal wound across the chest of one daughter, but it was her near-twin who caught my attention. Red strands strayed from beneath her broad sun hat. The traumatized canvas distorted her face, but it was clear she was a fragile thing, with her father’s calm expression …

I raised my hand to the portrait. Something about that woman seemed …

I pinched the limp canvass back into place.

It was me.

Somehow, impossibly, the other woman seated in the picture was unmistakably me. The dress was some pampered socialite’s, the hair impractically styled, and the scene’s other occupants utter strangers. But everything else was absolutely me.

The creak on the steps brought me back to the moment. Down the hall, another man in a dark coat and hat peered from the stairs. He’d already seen me, and maybe the last wisps of his companion settling into the floorboards. Our gazes barely met before he launched back upstairs.

“Damn it.” The portrait’s eerie occupant would have to wait. I vaulted the banister, swinging myself over the bloody mess staining the steps. Battered doors and artless decorations lined the upper hall. The houseguest was nowhere in sight, but most of the doors were open.

Inside the nearest room spread remnants of a gory debauch, a slaughter framed in nurse’s white. The resident was in but wouldn’t be receiving guests, butchered in what she must have known would be the last bed she’d ever own. Nothing stirred. I moved on. Each room presented a similar tableau, though the framing was different in each—a hunter, a debutant, a collector of glass figurines sprawled amid his shattered collection. Despite myself, my tongue was starting to feel dusty.

The last door was open only a crack, though the wood around the lock had been shattered. I checked behind me, then pushed into what was clearly the master bedroom. Dawn’s light drowned beneath thick, sea foam curtains, casting everything in shades of sunken green. A bulky vanity lay wrecked against one wall, its hinged mirror shattered. There was certainly truth to the vampiric aversion to mirrors, but few knew how personally some took their weaknesses.

A lavish mahogany hat box sat open upon the bed, brass clasp gleaming. Inside, white satin cushioning and nothing more.

I smelled him the instant before he struck. Rolling across the bed corner, I rounded on him, sword still in hand, my back to the window. He was already on me, fangs like a snake’s striking for my face. He was too close. I dropped my sword and grabbed the loose flesh of his forearms. My grip did little to slow his charge, a power stronger than death driving him on—but I didn’t have to be stronger.

Adjusting my footing, I pulled him to me, adding my weight to the force of his rushing frame. We toppled back. His wide hat shadowed his face except for bloodless lips. They twisted into a smile the moment before the glass shattered.

We crashed onto the sloped porch roof, glass and loose shingles slipping beneath us as our bodies slid on the tearing curtain. His victorious expression vanished and I rolled hard, forcing him beneath me. He shrieked and flailed his arms in an attempt to simultaneously throw me off and slow his slide into the dawn light. The smell came first, appropriately like sulfur and burning garbage as his fleshier features charred.

We hit the edge of roof. I let my body go limp, crashing upon him as we hit the ground. His chest gave way, crackling as though I’d fallen upon a bundle of brittle twigs. Ash and the echoes of another shriek burst into the air. As flesh or as smoke, for him this was immortality’s end.

He burned quickly.

Standing, I brushed ashes off of my hands. The house and drive were still, looking far less ominous without their veils of morning fog. Whippoorwills warbled in the distant trees.

A shadow settled near the stranger’s cinder-filled coat. His traveling hat landed gently, a wide-brimmed slouch common to the riders of Amaans. Supposedly the horsemen wore them to keep the sun out of their eyes when riding valley trails.

“Huh. Not your worst idea, friend.” I tried it on.

I checked the height of the sun from under the shady brim. The city constables were already late and might arrive at any moment, but I still had questions. Questions with answers I might learn from a torn canvas, or from a coward hiding in basement shadows. I started back toward the manor’s front door, pulling a sturdy stake from the holster on my thigh.

6

The Exorcism of Elistair Wintersun Jadain

Pain pierced my fear, forcing me back into the moment. Still the essence of the asylum’s insanity bled into the room, babbling its shattered psyche as it reached for me. My amulet, slipping in my grip, forced the edges of the goddess’s spiral into my palm.

I thrust the holy icon before me, nearly plunging it into the core of the shrieking thing.

“Get back!” I poured my swallowed scream into my words, lending them something like force. “In Pharasma’s name, get back!”

A measure of conviction, of my faith in the goddess, must have shone through my words. The carved image of the Lady’s spiral shivered to life, its cold radiance washing over the blot of murmurs and shadowy limbs.

The stray soul refused to be lit, but its inky mass diminished, flagging in the goddess’s light.

I sought sanctuary in remembered lessons. What was this? A spirit shackled to the world by its own broken mind? Literally a stray soul? As a servant of the goddess, wasn’t it my duty to banish the remnants of just such a thing? Was my fear nothing more than a novice’s unease? Could all hunters feel such dread upon first drawing their bows?

The high exorcist must have been watching me through the door—testing me.

I raised the icy blue spiral, letting its radiance fill the room. The apparition withered, and I addressed it as I knew a Kellid would prefer. “Elistair, son of Clan Wintersun—your gods and ancestors wait for you.”

The thing shuddered upon hearing the name. The babbling slowed, features congealing in the blot’s depths.

“Leave here, son of the North. The Lady of Graves waits for you. You’ll not travel the River of Souls alone.”

Eyes, lips, hands strained from the oily dark—signs of reason. The features of an aging northman fought for form beneath unlife’s stain.

“Join your lieges and the spirit of the land that once was. Your path—”

Shrieking, its form tore back open. The tarry pollution of soul surged, consuming any semblance of sanity. A lash of intangible dark defied the goddess’s light. Before I could jerk away, a corrupt limb boiled over my holy symbol. In an instant-eternity, death was inside me. It consumed my hand, and the goddess’s symbol fell from numb, colorless fingers.

“No.”

As the icon slipped, so did the goddess’s light. Shadows crashed back into the room. The madness that was Elistair Wintersun filled the cell. I groped after my holy symbol, trying to keep my desperation separate from the insane jabbering forcing into my head. The cell was not large—the thing was over me. Frozen fingers—a dull weight hanging from my wrist—scraped over stone encrusted with the madman’s blood. In the blackness, I found nothing of the goddess.

Lightning flashed. The spirit’s shriek clawed to unearthly pitches of pain. In the moment my body was still my own, I scrambled away, slamming into a wall. The flash came again, fast and limned in crimson. Behind it was the hint of the cell door, the screeching of its opening lost amid the howling. An ember-colored cloak and a glowing blue blade flared. The stained soul twisted, its shadows weakening before this new vicious light. Its song shot through every pitch of confused pain. Dark tendrils whipped toward the dancing blade only to be cut away. With every slash, the black madness lost form. Seeking to escape, it surged upward, soiling the ceiling.

High Exorcist Mardhalas stepped beneath it and plunged her cold blue longsword up, skewering the shadow and impaling what remained. A thousand franticly babbling voices gasped, the form shuttering as the sword’s glow burned through.

“Go,” the high exorcist commanded. “And be damned.”

What remained of Elistair Wintersun burned like a page cast into a bonfire. The ashes of shadows scattered, rained down, and faded away.

Next, the exorcist came for me. She reached down.

“Thank you, Sister,” I practically panted. My head pounded, my fractured thoughts slowly recrystallizing. “I don’t—”

A rough hand clamped around my throat. The sound I choked wasn’t a word. My hands sought to loosen her grip, but years of flipping hymnal pages made even my uninjured fingers poorly suited to breaking a soldier’s grip. My heartbeat pounded in my neck, frantically trying to break the high exorcist’s hold from inside.

She released me. My effort to tear away threw me back, knocking my head soundly against the wall and shooting sparks across my vision.

“Lady’s tears! Have you lost your mind?” I rubbed my throat against the sudden hoarseness.

Mardhalas looked down at me unapologetically. “Your heart still beats. As poorly as you handled that, I couldn’t be sure it hadn’t drained you and left something else.”

I was dimly aware of Doctor Linas entering the room behind her, holding the other lantern.

“Had it been a living thing, I might have let the goddess take you.” She retrieved my holy symbol, inches from my foot. I snatched for it as she stood, missing thoroughly. “But stray souls are not of Her nature.”

She held my simple amulet before her eyes, examining it suspiciously. “Bringing you here confirmed my suspicions, though. You’re too weak and sentimental to serve the goddess.”

Another cold wave crashed over me. I mouthed a word, but the sound didn’t come out.

“The cycle of life and death isn’t your rosy path of hope and wishes. It’s cold and brief. You can tell yourself otherwise, but such fairytales have no place tainting the Lady’s teachings. I had hoped to show you that here tonight, but the lesson almost cost you your life.”

She twisted the twine holding the amulet, setting it spinning. “I know you don’t accept it yet, but deep within, you agree. You know you’re not fit. In the face of that abomination, your faith proved wanting. The goddess’s own mark abandoned you.”

She tossed the holy symbol onto my lap. “A true priestess wouldn’t be separated from this, no matter the cost.”

I swallowed deeply, mining whatever stone I had to buttress my voice. “I know I’m not a warrior like you, but I am a servant of the goddess.” Still my words cracked. “I’m every bit as devoted as you.”

Somehow she took that as an insult. “You think I’ve ever shrieked and fled? Begged an abomination to leave by the whim of its blasphemous soul? Cowered?” She laughed—actually laughed. “No, Miss Losritter, you and I do not share the same devotion.”

The high exorcist turned.

Doctor Linas had been watching intently. “This is not a usual part of the exorcism.”

“No. But we’re done here.” Mardhalas’s words seemed as much for me as the doctor. I struggled to my feet, a challenge with trembling legs and one hand still numb from the spirit’s attack. I gripped my holy symbol. It felt tepid.

“Good,” Linas said. “Should we take any special precautions before assigning this room a new occupant?”

“No.”

“Excellent. I’ll have your payment sent in the morning—or donation, whatever your order prefers to call it.” Linas stepped back into the hall, ready to show us the way out.

“That will be fine.” Mardhalas followed without looking back.

We returned to the asylum’s entry in silence. Even the lunatics seemed more subdued.

Only once the door was in sight did the high exorcist acknowledge me. “Miss Losritter. Upon returning to the cathedral, I’ll be leaving a message for the holy mother. In the morning, I will discuss with her the unsuitability of your performance and advise we dismiss you from the order. Whether this means relocation or excommunication will be her decision, though I will make my recommendation plain. Expect a summons to interrupt your afternoon routine.” Her words were casually formal, as though she were discussing the weather with a respectable stranger—not promising to shatter a life. “Now go fetch the coach.”

“No.” The incredulous word escaped before I could think better of it. The idea of sharing the ride home with this vicious woman, of enduring her company a moment longer, twisted my stomach.

She looked back as though I were an impetuous child. “This sort of behavior certainly won’t encourage the holy mother to look upon you more favorably. Go get the coach.”

I ignored her, turning to Doctor Linas, pausing upon the front steps. “Doctor. Does the asylum have a shrine or other place of worship?”

Her brows lifted. “Yes.”

“Might I make use of it?”

“For what?” She asked, clipped and clinically.

“I find myself in need of the goddess’s counsel, and feel the need to pray for temperance.”

Mardhalas scoffed.

The doctor considered over the course of several slow blinks. “Through there.” She pointed to a pair of sliding wooden doors, just off the foyer.

“Thank you, Doctor.” I said as politely as possible, restraining the slurry of emotions roiling in my stomach. Something boiled over, though. I turned on the high exorcist. “And thank you as well, Miss Mardhalas. I don’t—”

The slam of asylum’s front door cut me off. The high exorcist had left, taking with her my life as a priestess.

About the Author

Howard Andrew Jones is the author of two previous Pathfinder Tales novels—Plague of Shadows and Stalking the Beast—as well as the short stories “The Walkers from the Crypt” and “Bells for the Dead” (both available for free at paizo.com). In addition, he’s written the creator-owned novels The Desert of Souls, The Bones of the Old Ones, and the forthcoming For the Killing of Kings, as well as a collection of short stories, The Waters of Eternity. His books have been honored on the Kirkus New and Notable Science Fiction list and the Locus Recommended Reading List, and The Desert of Souls was number four on Barnes & Noble’s Best Fantasy Releases of 2011, as well as a finalist for the prestigious Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel.

When not helping run his small family farm or spending time with his wife and children, Howard has worked variously as a TV cameraman, a book editor, a recycling consultant, and a college writing instructor. He was instrumental in the rebirth of interest in Harold Lamb’s historical fiction, and has assembled and edited eight collections of Lamb’s work. He serves as the Managing Editor of Black Gate magazine and blogs regularly at blackgate.com as well as at howardandrewjones.com. Or sign up for email updates here.

The Pathfinder Tales Library

Called to Darkness by Richard Lee Byers

Winter Witch by Elaine Cunningham

The Wizard’s Mask by Ed Greenwood

Prince of Wolves by Dave Gross

Master of Devils by Dave Gross

Queen of Thorns by Dave Gross

King of Chaos by Dave Gross

Lord of Runes by Dave Gross

Pirate’s Honor by Chris A. Jackson

Pirate’s Promise by Chris A. Jackson

Beyond the Pool of Stars by Howard Andrew Jones

Plague of Shadows by Howard Andrew Jones

Stalking the Beast by Howard Andrew Jones

Firesoul by Gary Kloster

The Worldwound Gambit by Robin D. Laws

Blood of the City by Robin D. Laws

Song of the Serpent by Hugh Matthews

Nightglass by Liane Merciel

Nightblade by Liane Merciel

City of the Fallen Sky by Tim Pratt

Liar’s Blade by Tim Pratt

Liar’s Island by Tim Pratt

Reign of Stars by Tim Pratt

Bloodbound by F. Wesley Schneider

The Crusader Road by Michael A. Stackpole

Death’s Heretic by James L. Sutter

The Redemption Engine by James L. Sutter

Forge of Ashes by Josh Vogt

Skinwalkers by Wendy N. Wagner

The Dagger of Trust by Chris Willrich

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

PATHFINDER TALES: BEYOND THE POOL OF STARS

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First Edition: October 2015

eISBN 9781466842656

First eBook edition: October 2015