Brevin drew a hand over her reddish hair, all pulled back into a long queue. She let out a weary sigh. ‘Very well. To Lurk. Mael forfend.’ She raised a finger. ‘But you’d better know your way through those shoals or I’m swinging us away.’

  Gianna gave a fierce nod. ‘I’ll see us through.’

  Passage north-east skirting the edges of Walk Sea took two days, stopping at a small cove overnight. No one voyaged straight across Walk Sea. Though bounded by a ring of isles, the centre was open and free of all landmarks. Falaran sailors relied upon line of sight. Voyaging among a multitude of islands, one had no need of any more sophisticated means of navigation.

  Brevin had been keeping them to a scattering of tiny isles off the coast of Walk, one of the largest of the Falaran Isles. She was wary of approaching any larger community; even wretched War Isle possessed a temple to Mael.

  Now they were striking out for the wide swath of shallows and shoals that made up Sparrow Pass Cut, a byword for treachery and loss among all Falarans. The graveyard of ships as it was sometimes termed. The cut was deceptive: it appeared to offer the quickest and most direct route east out of Walk Sea. Yet few ever dared its shallows.

  It was late in the day when they approached the coast of Flood Isle and so Brevin once again set a heading to a small sheltered cove. In passing, she told Gianna, ‘I’ll not enter Sparrow Pass Cut at night.’

  Despite her desire to finally reach the site, Gianna had to agree.

  As soon as the sea-anchors were dropped, so too were numerous fishing lines in numerous small hands.

  ‘An eager crew,’ Gianna said to the captain, who laughed.

  ‘Aye. Eager. Quick to follow orders. Even scouring. The Glimmer hasn’t been so clean in ages.’ She squeezed the shoulder of a girl at the side. ‘But we’re over-crewed, hey? Too many mouths to feed.’ She eyed Gianna. ‘If that’s where this is headed.’ She shrugged her meaty shoulders. ‘I’d like to – but, sorry. Just not good, for them or me.’

  ‘They’re fishing. Feeding themselves,’ Gianna pointed out.

  ‘Oh, aye. But no time to lounge about and drop a line during a paying voyage. Have to buy stores for the trip.’ She shook her head. ‘That drives up costs. Eats into any profit. Not an option as I see it.’ She leaned against the side, crossed her thick arms. ‘So … Sparrow … What’s the plan?’

  Gianna nodded her cooperation and blew out a breath: Here goes … ‘Done any salvaging work?’ she asked.

  Brevin rolled her eyes in scorn. ‘Thought that was where this was headed.’ She sighed. ‘Lass … there’re more scavengers’ bones in the cut than there are wrecks. This is the Twins’ own foolish chance.’

  ‘I can see us through.’

  ‘Why? Why you?’

  She shrugged. ‘Mage of Ruse.’

  ‘Plenty of Ruse mages around. Why haven’t they been out?’

  ‘I have a – well, an affinity for finding wrecks.’

  Brevin’s doubtful expression remained unchanged. ‘Is that so?’ She shook her head. ‘Well, this is your last chance, lass. Sorry, but that’s the way it has to be.’ She walked off.

  Gianna remained at the side. Her last chance. She’d better make it count. And she knew, then, which wreck to seek.

  They heard the rocks and shoals before they reached them: waves surging and crashing. Gianna knew there were many theories as to what had created the wide stretch of shallows. A lost isle, was one. The rage of the monstrous Jhistal another. Or both together. It was suggestive, some thought, that the shoals should lie so near to the isle that most agreed was the site of the last known attack of the actual Jhistal itself, hundreds of years ago.

  Rubble Isle, some named it, after the scattered ruins of many buildings that lay across it. Ancient and semi-mythical Kayanarle, or Kynarl. Seat of the height of Old Falar’s civilization. Destroyed by its own hubris, was one theory. Delving into forbidden knowledge. Or possessing it. In any case, the evidence was plain for all to see. Incontrovertible. Mael might have sent this Jhistal against them for their transgressions – or an earthquake, as either was his to command – or so said the priests of the Faith.

  Gianna sat at the ship’s prow, her Ruse Warren raised, probing ahead for any hidden obstruction, and sensing for directions to one very particular wreck. Brevin also had crewmen and women dropping weighted and knotted ropes for soundings: she might trust in Gianna’s abilities, but wished to have a second opinion in any case.

  They proceeded in this manner for the better part of the day, tacking round taller rocks where sea-birds circled and spray misted the air. Whenever the captain crossed near to the bow Gianna could feel her growing impatience.

  ‘Finding anything?’ Brevin finally growled, late in the day.

  ‘I’m looking,’ Gianna answered, distracted.

  ‘Looking? Can’t drop a rock without hitting a wreck here.’

  ‘Most of these have been scavenged.’

  ‘Then what’re you looking for?’

  ‘One that hasn’t been discovered yet,’ she answered, curtly, not looking away from the waves.

  ‘Not discovered? Naw – not the Emerald, surely.’

  Gianna bit back her own impatience. ‘Yes, the Emerald. Now … if you don’t mind?’

  ‘There’s no chance, lass …’

  ‘Please. This isn’t my first search. I’ve been through here salvaging many times.’

  Brevin raised her hands in surrender, and, still shaking her head, walked off.

  Gianna, of course, was not certain herself. It had been an early such contract: diving for a rich client out of Walk. One who wished to become much richer, and had the funds to try. Not the Emerald; not per se. Still, something worth all his time and expense.

  And she’d come through, hadn’t she?

  Found a prize worth scavenging.

  Still, not the Emerald. But that last dive she’d sensed something, a flicker amid the murk and sands churned up by the currents. It had been only an instant’s image in her Ruse-aided awareness: a flash of piercing, brilliant emerald.

  North, her senses had told her then. Somewhere due north.

  A hint, or vision, she’d put away for future reference, thinking, maybe someday …

  And so here she was, pursuing that very mad chance.

  ‘We must drop anchor!’ Brevin shouted to her.

  ‘Soon!’ she called back. Close – it felt close. She pointed ahead to where a crowd of sharp rocks pierced the surface like jagged teeth. ‘There! Drop anchor there.’

  ‘We’ll be dashed to pieces,’ Brevin warned.

  ‘Tie off then! Snag a rock.’

  Grumbling, the captain shouted out her orders. The Glimmer hove-to close to one rock and the sturdy sea-anchors were dropped. Lines also went out to catch amid the steep sides of the tooth-like shoal.

  ‘Tomorrow, then,’ Brevin called, giving her a hard warning stare.

  Gianna nodded, ‘Aye. Tomorrow.’

  She hardly slept that night, but then no one did; the contending currents and tides of Walk Sea and Land’s End Sea fought and clashed the night through, the winds rose, and a steady cold rain fell.

  Gianna rose already sodden. The cooking brazier was still going somewhere in a slim hold belowdecks and a cup of hot tea and hard-bread was her dawn meal. She stripped down to shift and shorts and two men of the crew readied a long line. Brevin watched the preparations closely. As they raised the line she stepped in with, ‘Not the chest, fools.’ She took the line from them and cinched it tight on Gianna’s left wrist.

  Though she’d been on countless dives Gianna found her mouth dry, her heart hammering. She nodded her thanks to Brevin.

  ‘Yank three times when you find that chest full of gold, hey?’ the captain told her, smiling.

  She shared the smile. ‘Aye. In no time.’

  She swung her legs out over the side, started slowing her breathing – as best she could. The youths all stood at the side, close but not crowding, watching intently, some with knowing looks.

  ‘Ready?’ Brevin asked. She nodded.

  ‘Clear the line!’ the captain warned.

  And she dived.

  Few salvagers dared the shoals of Sparrow Pass Cut and Gianna fully knew why. The cross-currents slapped her nearly sideways as she fought to swim straight down. Churned-up sand and muck left the normally clear Falaran waters as opaque as soup. She extended her Ruse Warren as she swam ever downwards, seeking the sandy bottom.

  Savage side-currents tugged and buffeted her – these she knew to be the contrary waters rushing through narrow gaps between the rocks that now towered round her. And therein lay her greatest threat: being dashed against one.

  If the Emerald had gone down among these rocks it was fully obvious why none had discovered it – no diver would voluntarily dare these waters. Only her Ruse Warren kept her from tumbling or spinning helplessly.

  Kicking and kicking, she finally found bottom. Here she felt about, blind, amid the sands and broken smaller rocks. If the wreck were here, she assumed the powerful pulling currents must by now have spread it over a swath of shifting sands. She dug down – it might well be buried.

  She kept moving, tugging out more line, using handholds among rocks to fight her buoyancy. She kicked and pulled her way round one after another of the rearing black teeth as she searched amid the billowing sand and muck. All she needed was one artefact, one piece of corroded iron or broken crockery. Anything to prove something had gone down here.

  She’d already been down for much longer than any diver could normally sustain. She now also feared that yank on her line meaning those above were worried for her and meant to pull her up – dead or alive.

  She felt her way through one tight cut between jagged coral-encrusted rocks, only to be suddenly pushed down into a deeper rift. She tumbled and kicked yet spun helpless.

  Rocks reared before her and she was sucked between, scraping her side viciously. Her arm halted her, yanked back behind her almost out of its socket. She floated there, a cork in a savage dragging current, and reaching back for her arm she found it wedged in a narrowing cleft.

  She couldn’t reach through the rocks and she almost laughed then, despite her tightening chest. Mael had her now! She had defied him too often, staying down beyond all known endurance again and again. He finally had her now – by the arm!

  She pulled out her knife and hacked at the encrusted ledges and edges. Damn you Mael! I defy you!

  Her vision was narrowing and greying – a bad sign. This was further than she’d pushed herself in a long time. Her chest was afire! The urge to inhale almost overwhelming. Consciousness, she knew, would leave her soon and that would be the end.

  Then, small things tugged and pulled at her, almost tickling, and she smiled. Fish? Nibbling her already? She forced open her eyes and jerked, appalled. Four black-haired youths swam about her, probing at the narrow cleft. Furious, she waved them off, pointing up. They ignored her.

  Small hands reached in where she could not. From sacks tied at their waists came chisels and hammers and they hacked away at the rock. Each blow released a mass of sand and fragments that the current immediately whisked away.

  Suddenly, she was free, wheeling loosely, too weak to fight. The line now pulled her up to shimmering daylight above. And consciousness finally did leave her somewhere during the climb.

  Bright daylight stabbing her eyes woke her. She winced, blinking. Numerous small faces crowned by tousled black hair stared down at her.

  ‘Still with us,’ Brevin announced, sounding openly amazed.

  Gianna raised her head and peered around; she lay on deck, crowded by the youths, most of whom were just as sodden as she. ‘You dived …’ she murmured.

  Eager nods and grins all round.

  ‘Couldn’t stop ’em,’ said Brevin. ‘They grabbed lines and tools and jumped in. Followed your line down, I suppose.’

  ‘You saved my life,’ she told them, wonder in her voice.

  ‘Amazed you were still alive to rescue,’ Brevin growled. She touched Gianna’s hair. ‘Favoured of Mael and mage of Ruse.’ She shook her head. ‘A powerful combination.’

  Gianna tried to rise and a coughing fit took her. ‘I’m sorry for dragging you out here, captain. The cross-currents are too powerful. Maybe something is down there – just no one can reach it.’

  The big woman nodded her cheerless agreement. ‘I’m sorry too, lass. But it was worth a shot, Oponn willing.’

  The smallest of the ones who had dived, a mere stripling, raised his hand. Brevin gave him a gruff, ‘Yes? What?’

  ‘Pardon, cap’n,’ this one said, ‘but I did find this among the ledges and cracks below.’ He opened his canvas sack and pulled out a flat round object, like a thin stone.

  Brevin took it, dubious. She brushed at it, frowning. Then brushed further, harder, pulled bits of seaweed from the edges, her eyes widening. ‘Ye gods …’ she whispered, awed, and handed it to Gianna.

  Gianna turned it over and over in her hands. A rich deep yellow flashed from the thing – a plate. A plate of gold.

  And Brevin laughed, a great belly-heaving chuckle, and she turned to the crew, calling, ‘Strengthen the lines, lads and lasses – we’re going to be here a while!’

  * * *

  Tayschrenn did not spend much time in the expeditionary command tent during the march, but now that things had settled into a stationary siege it was hard to avoid stopping in. It was where everyone waited – he wasn’t certain what it was they were waiting for, but he had to wait along with everyone else. He sat alongside one wall, perusing one of the books he’d brought among his personal possessions. Hairlock sat drinking, rather sullenly, his head still bandaged where he’d been gashed by Sialle’s unexpected attack. When the Seven Cities mage had returned with news of that betrayal Tayschrenn’s immediate thought had been to regret being down one mage already while facing their greatest threat to date.

  He’d spoken by Warren to A’Karonys, Leathana and Nedurian: all were embroiled in suppressing uprisings or pursuing outright campaigns. Nightchill was in touch with Kellanved, but Tayschrenn didn’t think the Emperor would be of much help in this situation; the K’Chain Che’Malle were unlikely to be impressed by flickering shadow hand-puppetry. Or the Hounds – why risk losing them? Again, the Che’Malle were unlikely to be intimidated. As for the Claws – assassin-mages – though impressive, again what use against a monster the height of two men?

  The Sword, however, had proved his worth. The camp was abuzz with tales of his prowess in the fight. He was out now, somewhere, serving a watch himself or simply mixing with the troopers.

  Which left himself and Nightchill. Or rather, so far, just Nightchill. She stood outside the tent right now, staring steadily out into the night – keeping far closer to camp now that they faced such a dire threat.

  As for himself: he’d disappointed. Thinking about it – as he had for every night since – he was coming to the opinion that he’d been unprepared. Too hurried. He would have to ready himself for far greater exertion. Expect stronger resistance; expect more of himself. Yet how? He’d given it all he dared.

  Dujek, during these days, paced incessantly, back and forth: to the opening to stare out to the clouded, shrouded north and grumble to himself, and mutter; then away, rubbing furiously at his chin or balding pate, or the stump of his arm.

  Finally, Tayschrenn could take the unremitting muttering no longer and asked, ‘You are troubled, Fist?’

  Dujek snorted. ‘Oh, aye. I’m troubled.’ He thrust his hand to the north. ‘Why haven’t they attacked? They should be attacking. They must’ve seen how close they came to crushing us. Yet they hold back. This doesn’t make sense and I don’t like it.’

  ‘Their strategy is defensive, then?’ Tayschrenn suggested.

  ‘And why?’ Dujek asked, not scornfully, but rather inviting a response.

  From the rear of the tent, Hairlock offered, ‘Maybe because they ain’t as strong as they seem. They ain’t ready.’

  The Fist nodded. ‘Exactly. Maybe. We don’t know, and that’s the problem.’

  ‘How so?’ Hairlock answered.

  Now the Fist fiercely rubbed his neck. ‘Because this demands that we find out.’

  Tayschrenn raised his brows in appreciation of the thorny problem. ‘Ah. I see.’

  Dujek continued nodding, unhappily. ‘Can’t send plain scouts or troopers. They just wouldn’t make it back.’

  ‘Don’t like where this is going,’ Hairlock growled. ‘Send one o’ them back-stabbing Claws. Skulking around like rats is what they do best.’

  ‘None were assigned to this expeditionary force,’ said Dujek, adding, ‘that is … officially.’

  Tayschrenn smiled at the addendum. Yes, he considered, who knew how many had been sent secretly, all to keep an eye on them and report back to Surly. He cleared his throat, offering, ‘Are you asking for volunteers?’

  ‘You stepping up?’ Dujek answered, a new edge to his voice.

  ‘Well, I don’t wish to … however, yes. I am.’

  The Fist appeared quite startled. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Any rational analysis points to my doing so.’ And he shrugged. ‘Therefore, I shall.’

  ‘And I,’ put in Nightchill from the entrance. Tayschrenn dipped his head in acknowledgement of the support – though not certain of the motive for it.

  Dujek shook his head. ‘Gods,’ he murmured, ‘I’m about to dare lose the Empire two of its most powerful assets … Kellanved will have my head on a platter.’

  From the rear, Hairlock put in, ‘I notice you’re not sending the Sword.’

  ‘There’s only one Sword,’ the Fist answered reflexively.

  At this, Tayschrenn caught Nightchill’s eye and raised a brow. Well, there’s us put in our place.

  CHAPTER 14

  GLINITH APANAR, ABBESS OF THE SANCTUARY OF CABIL, Guardian of its Inner Holies, sat in her dungeon cell far in the depths of said Sanctuary waiting for her death. She had disappointed the Guiding Council of the Faith one too many times and Ortheal Leneth, Proctor of the Faith, had ordered her arrest.

 

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