With the second infusion of divine power, the man finally stopped struggling for air and relaxed. Then his tattooed hand slid slowly from his tunic to the floor.
Cimozjen sped through another prayer and pressed his hand on the man’s chest at the base of the neck, firmly, but this time the warm healing glow merely spread across the surface of the skin.
“Traveler’s treachery!” gasped Minrah, huddled into a small ball on the floor.
Cimozjen pulled the man’s clenched hand from his wrist. He stared at the dead man for a long moment. “What was that all about?” he asked quietly.
“I-that is, maybe-he was trying to kill us!” stammered Minrah. She unconsciously adopted Cimozjen’s furtive tone.
Cimozjen turned to look at her. “Your powers of observation are as acute as ever, Minrah.”
She pointed. “I saw-he stabbed you in your hammock.”
“At least he tried,” whispered Cimozjen. “Thank the Host I stashed our bags in my hammock. The question we need to figure out now is why he wanted to kill me.” He sat back on his heels. “Did you hurt yourself when you fell?”
“No, I don’t think so. No, I’m fine. Dash of luck, that.”
“Good.”
Minrah crawled out from beneath the hammocks and looked at the man, still clearly nervous. “So what’s that tattoo on the back of his hand?”
“The crown and bell? That’s the Queen’s Favor. Marks him as a twenty-year veteran of the Cyran army.”
“A Cyran? True enough, he talked like one.” She looked at his face. She glanced from side to side and whispered, “I’ve seen him around the ship, but he always seemed to keep to himself. You think maybe he owned that monster that you killed last night? That is, it looked like it might have come from the Mournland.”
Cimozjen tilted his head and scratched the back of his neck. “I rather doubt it,” he murmured. “If he did own it, I think he would have mentioned it. But he said he’d not let me stop him, and something about his last chance.”
“And that he’d have embarrassed himself,” added Minrah.
“What an odd thing to say,” said Cimozjen quietly. “Embarrassed? And he apologized. That’s strange.”
“You know what’s even stranger?” asked Minrah looking around. “No one’s coming to see what the ruckus was.”
Cimozjen cocked an ear. “True, but they are a rough lot, each mother’s son of them, and it was a fairly quiet combat, as combats go. Maybe they’re used to the sounds of fighting, or they think you just fell out of bed. Which, I might add, you did do.”
Minrah smiled sardonically. “I do believe you’re being far too generous with our fellow passengers.”
“Personally, I believe that an excess of generosity is not within the realm of possibility,” he said. “Still … what do you think?”
“I think maybe they’re all in on it,” she said, spinning her finger in a circle. “They’re all after us.”
Cimozjen narrowed his eyes. “If they were,” he murmured, “they’d have all come together. No need for secrecy. But it does appear that some of our fellow passengers have no concern for our wellbeing.”
He looked at the dead man. “Maybe lack of curiosity will work to our advantage, though. His body is healed of all visible injury. If no one’s about, we should be able to move it somewhere else, on deck or in another hallway. With the blood on his lips, maybe folks will think he died of consumption. I have an ill feeling of what might result should I be forced to answer to the commander for killing someone in my cabin, regardless of my innocence in the matter.”
“That’s a plan, then,” said Minrah. “Strip off his tunic. I’ll wipe up what I can of the blood and throw it in the river.”
“Right. The blood and sword holes would make folks suspicious.” Cimozjen stripped the man’s shirt off and handed it to Minrah, then, hoisting the man under one arm, slipped out into the hallway.
Minrah stared at the closed door. “And, uh, I’ll sit watch for the rest of the night, all right? Right.” She set to cleaning up, pausing to pick up the faintly glowing bead. She rolled it between her finger and thumb. “Well, that’s a fun trinket,” she said.
“Wake up, Cimmo.” Minrah nudged her companion with her foot. “A new day has dawned, and we’re on the Sound.”
“Mm?” Cimozjen rolled onto his back and groaned. “I’ll be glad to be off this ship,” he grumbled. “I know not what’s worse-sleeping in a hammock and ruining my back, or sleeping on the floor and having my shoulders be too sore to move.”
“Oh, quit your bellyaching and heal yourself up.”
“I’ll not do that,” he said. He pushed himself into a sitting position and roughly scratched his scalp.
“Why not?”
“First, it’s wrong to abuse the blessing of the Sovereign Host.”
“Oh, what do they care?” said Minrah. “You’ve got it, use it. You think they’d even notice?”
“Second,” said Cimozjen, “one never knows when a dire need might arise. Suppose I healed my shoulders, my stubbed toe, and a canker in my mouth, and then you were to fall down a ladder and break your leg? Hm? I bear my pain for you, Minrah, and the others whom the Sovereigns may send to me for help.” With a grunt, he pushed himself up and arose.
“Well, you need not bear it alone much longer, dear heart, for I just heard we’re going to dock at Throneport.”
“Throneport?” Cimozjen snorted. “Throneport may have mattered before the Last War. Now it’s nothing but a derelict township that feigns to bend its knee to an empty throne.”
“Oh, silly Cimmo, that’s not all it is,” said Minrah. “While there’s no longer a great king, Jarot’s hand remains. Throneport is a stronghold for the Sentinel Marshals.”
Cimozjen’s eyes brightened. “You’re right, it is,” he said. He ran one hand across his stubbly chin. “I’m sure they’d be interested to hear that the Silver Cygnet was smuggling dangerous beasts.”
Chapter ELEVEN
First Taste of Freedom
Far, the 13th day of Sypheros, 998
Sunset colored the chilly autumn sky as the Silver Cygnet hove to. Sailors threw lines to the stevedores and ran out the gangway.
Cimozjen and Minrah gazed at the island before debarking. It thrust steeply skyward from Scions Sound. Farms graced the few tracts of arable land that nestled between the rocks, and the mercantile town of Throneport waited at the water’s edge. At the crest of the island stood the castle for which the island was named-Thronehold, the ancient seat of the Galifar kings, an elegant structure that looked both graceful and martial against the sky.
“That’s it? That’s the whole island?” Minrah snorted. “It’s smaller than I would have thought.”
“Let’s go,” said Cimozjen.
The ancient dock was one of several piers built from living coral by Vadalis bathymancers almost a thousand years before. During the days of the Kingdom of Galifar it had been crisply squared and rose-colored, well maintained by the servants of the throne. However, during the Last War the dock had suffered a century of neglect and was now worn, cracked in places, festooned with seaweed and limpets, and heavily stained by the seawaters. It was an unfortunately accurate allegory for the isle of Thronehold and its vacant throne, once the crown jewel of the continent.
“It’s a wonder no one ever tried to take it over,” said Minrah. “You’d think that with the Five Nations fighting for the throne, an obvious first strategy would be to seize Thronehold.”
“The true king need not seize his own throne,” said Cimozjen. “The very act of using military power to take the castle would demonstrate that one was a usurper, and would probably unite the rest of the nations against him.”
“Politics,” said Minrah. “Yech.”
“So where do you think we might find the Sentinel Marshals?”
“I’ve heard their headquarters are in the castle,” said Minrah. “If so, we’ll have to ask the Thronewardens, who look after the place.”