‘Fuck yourself,’ Kramer replied.
Three-Finger’s voice dropped to a deadly whisper. ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard about me,’ he said, ‘but whatever it was, it doesn’t come halfway near the truth. I can do things to you that’d make a trained soldier piss his pants. Turn this ship around or I’ll decorate it with your body parts. Beginning with your cock.’ The convict withdrew the hatchet from Kramer’s neck and positioned it just above his groin.
The disgraced admiral swallowed and eventually his shoulders sagged. ‘All hands to deck,’ he commanded his crew, his voice full of resignation. ‘We sail west.’
The Redemption’s crew responded immediately to the order. Cole watched Red Bounty anxiously, expecting to see boats full of Crimson Watchmen closing on them at any moment, but the soldiers were still busy trying to put out the flames on the floating platform. Soon they were under way. With the wind strong in her sails the Redemption would soon outpace even the most determined team of rowers.
‘Movement portside,’ yelled Jack. ‘A hundred yards distant.’
Cole squinted at the dark shape bobbing slowly in their direction. The last of the light had almost fled and every second put more space between them, but the struggling figure was unmistakable.
Soeman.
He seemed to be slowing down. Every so often the engineer would dip below the waves only to emerge again a moment later.
Three-Finger wandered over to the bow and stood next to Cole. ‘Now that’s rotten timing,’ the convict said. He flashed that evil smile of his. ‘He won’t ever make it. We’re not even at half speed yet and he’s falling behind.’
Cole shifted uncomfortably. ‘We can’t just leave him there. He risked his life for us.’
The convict narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t be foolish, kid. If we heave to, the Bounty will catch us. Soeman’s missed his opportunity.’
Cole stared around him at his crew. They were looking at him. Looking to him, no doubt. There was only one thing to do.
‘No man gets left behind,’ he said loudly. ‘I’m going after him.’
Three-Finger scowled. ‘What’s wrong with you? Soeman’s a dead man walking. You saw his cough. Why be a hero?’
Cole drew himself up to his full height and shot Three-Finger his best steely gaze. ‘It’s the only thing I know how to be.’
The young Shard ignored the flash of irritation on Three-Finger’s face and his muttered ‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘Tell the helmsman to slow the ship and bring her around to the north,’ he ordered. ‘Give me five minutes. If we’re not back by then, sail as though your lives depend on it.’
Sucking in one final deep breath, he pushed himself up over the railing and dived into the rolling water far below.
Troubling Times
‘And what is your opinion on this matter, Supreme Augmentor?’
The question snapped Barandas out of his pleasant reverie. He glanced across at Grand Magistrate Timerus, who sat with his elbows propped up on the table and his palms pressed together in front of his face, one eyebrow raised expectantly. What had the man been blathering on about?
Ah yes, our prospects in a war with Thelassa.
Barandas cleared his throat. ‘Our navy has been destroyed. However, Thelassa has never possessed much of a fleet — and, if the rumours we have been hearing are true, the White Lady has secured the services of no less than three companies of mercenaries from Sumnia. The men from the Sun Lands have little taste for maritime warfare.’
‘What are you saying, Supreme Augmentor?’ persisted Timerus. ‘That we have nothing to fear from our neighbour in the Trine?’
Barandas sighed. ‘I am saying that trying to rebuild our navy is likely a waste of time. The White Lady will seek to invade over land, not sea.’
‘And when might we expect this invasion?’
‘Sumnian mercenary companies are famously expensive. The Magelord of Thelassa will not want them sitting idle for long.’
Chancellor Ardling raised a hand. He was a grey man, with white hair, thick silvery eyebrows and a sickly complexion. Even his magistrate’s robes were the colour of charcoal, boasting none of the devices displayed on those of the twelve other magistrates seated around the massive darkwood table in the Grand Council Chamber. He might be capable of making a corpse seem vivacious, but Ardling was a shrewd master of coin and managed Dorminia’s coffers with the deftness of a virtuoso. Money was said to be his only passion. His wife had reportedly committed suicide by leaping from the top of their five-storey mansion, and the only noticeable effect it had on her husband was his slight air of frustration at needing to hire additional house staff.
‘Our treasury is near depleted,’ the Chancellor was saying now in his monotone voice. ‘We simply cannot afford to invest more coin in the construction of ships. Last year’s harvest was poor, and a considerable sum of gold has been earmarked to pay for produce imported from the Free Cities. We still owe Emmering in excess of one thousand spires.’
‘Pah,’ spat Marshal Halendorf of the Crimson Watch. ‘Who cares how much we owe? What’s Emmering going to do, demand we hand it over?’ He winced and rubbed at his stomach as he spoke.
Barandas narrowed his eyes at the commander of Dorminia’s army. In his estimation, Halendorf was neither a socially inept genius like Ardling nor a cruel but competent schemer like Timerus. He was a buffoon. How the man had reached his current position was anyone’s guess.
‘We are not the only ones to trade with the Unclaimed Lands,’ Timerus said. ‘If we fail to pay our debts, the Free Cities will simply cease to do business with us. Any attempt on our part to bully them will be met with hostility from the Confederation. We do not need more enemies.’
‘No,’ whispered the Tyrant of Dorminia. ‘We do not.’
The chamber fell silent. All eyes turned to the wizard in the high-backed obsidian throne at the head of the table.
Three days had passed since the destruction of Shadowport, and the Magelord still appeared almost as exhausted as he had then. The colossal energies he had harnessed to flatten the city under the waters of its own bay had left a permanent scar on Salazar. And the damage wasn’t just physical. There was a distracted look in those ancient eyes.
‘The Confederation has made its position clear,’ he said. ‘Their rulers will tolerate no interference in the business of the Free Cities. It seems the brotherhood we once shared is no longer of any value to them.’
Barandas was well aware of the frustration his master felt for the cabal of Magelords who ruled the lands far to the east. The Confederation was hundreds of miles away, but the influence it extended seemed to reach into every pocket of the continent.
Salazar leaned forwards slightly. Barandas found himself inching backwards. He saw other magistrates doing the same.
‘If the White Lady desires war, war is what she will receive,’ snarled the Tyrant of Dorminia. His hands curled into fists. They were so thin and wrinkled that together with his long nails they resembled withered claws.
‘That accursed woman always was unpredictable. She sided with the Congregation when they declared war on magic.’ He paused for a moment. ‘When she finally decided to change sides, it was with a fury that would shame Tyrannus himself.’
Tyrannus. Barandas recognized that name. The god known as the Black Lord was one of the last of the thirteen Primes to perish in the Godswar. A score of mages were said to have died in order to bring him down, strangled with their own entrails or turned into piles of oozing flesh after their skeletons had been torn whole from their bodies. The image made even him queasy, and he had seen some awful things over the years.
Thurbal’s gruesome handiwork back at the abandoned temple wormed his way into his mind. Barandas closed his eyes and tried to think instead of Lena and the morning they had spent together. He still had the scent of jasmine on his fingers.