Beyond the Pool of Stars Page 23

  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. Iv
rian 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.