“Grundle and Devon returned...”
“Told the true story. You are a hero...”
“No, he isn’t. That was the one called Alfred.”
“I was only being polite...”
“Mensch were worried...”
“They don’t want to kill the Sartan...”
“They’re afraid of the dragon-snakes. Dwarven ships went to investigate ...”
“But the snakes are nowhere in sight...”
“The dwarves opened the floodgates just a crack and...”
“Stop! Shut up!” Haplo shouted, managing at last to make himself heard. “What do you mean ‘the snakes are nowhere in sight’? Where are they?” The dolphins began to argue among themselves. Some said the serpents had returned to Draknor, but the general consensus seemed to be that the snakes had swum through the holes and were attacking the Sartan in Surunan.
“No, they’re not,” said Haplo. “I just came from Surunan, and the city’s quiet. The Sartan are, as far as I know, safely inside their Council Chamber, trying to keep dry.”
The dolphins looked rather disappointed at this news. They meant no harm to the Sartan, but it had been such a great story. They were now all in agreement.
“The dragon-snakes must have gone back to Draknor.” Haplo was forced to agree himself. The serpents had returned to Draknor. But why? Why had they left Surunan so abruptly? Why had they abandoned the chance to destroy the Sartan? Abandoned their plans to foment chaos among the mensch, turn them against each other?
Haplo couldn’t answer the questions, supposed bitterly it didn’t matter. What mattered was that the serpents were on Draknor and so was his ship.
“I don’t suppose any of you have been to Draknor to find out?” he asked. The dolphins squealed in alarm at the thought, shook their heads emphatically. None would get near Draknor. It was a terrible place of great sadness and evil. The water itself was poison, killed anything that swam in it. Haplo forwent mentioning that he himself had swum in the water and survived. He couldn’t blame these gentle creatures for not wanting to go near Draknor. He wasn’t pleased at the prospect of returning to that tortured seamoon himself. But he had no choice.
Now his main problem was ridding himself of the dolphins. Fortunately, that was simple. They loved to feel important.
“I need you fish to carry a message from me to the mensch leaders, to be delivered to every member of the royal family in person, in private. Understand? It’s extremely important.”
“We’ll be only too glad...”
“You can trust...”
“Implicitly...”
“Tell every person...”
“No, not every...”
“Just the royal...”
“Every person, I tell you...”
“I’m sure that’s what he said...”
Once he got them quiet long enough to hear, Haplo imparted the message, taking care that it was complicated and involved.
The dolphins listened intently and swam off the moment Haplo shut his mouth. When he was certain that the dolphins’ attention was no longer on him, he and the dog swam to the submersible, climbed aboard, and sailed off.
2
Haplo had never completely mastered the dwarven system of navigation, which, according to Grundle, relied on sounds emitted by the seamoons themselves. At first he was concerned about being able to find Draknor, but he soon discovered that the seamoon was easy to find... too easy. The serpents left a trail of foul ooze in their wake. The path led to the murky black waters surrounding the tormented seamoon.
Darkness swallowed him. He had sailed into the caverns of Draknor. He could see nothing and, fearful of running aground, slowed the submersible’s forward progress until it barely moved. He could swim through the foul water, if he had to; he’d done it before. But he hoped swimming wouldn’t be necessary. His hands were dry, and his lower arms where he’d rolled up the wet sleeves. The runes were extremely faint, but they were visible. And though they gave him the magical power of a child of two, the faint blue of the sigla was comforting. He didn’t want to get wet again.
The submersible’s prow scraped against rock. Haplo steered it swiftly upward, breathed a sigh when it continued, unimpeded. He must be nearing the shore. He decided to risk bringing the vessel to the surface...
The runes on his hands! Blue. Faint blue.
Haplo brought the ship to a full stop, stared down at the sigla. Faint blue color, not nearly as blue as the veins beneath his skin on the back of his hands. And that was odd. Damn odd!
Weak as they were, the sigla should have been glowing—his body’s reaction to the danger of the serpents. But the sigla weren’t reacting as they had in the past and, he realized, neither were his other instincts. He’d been too preoccupied piloting the submersible to notice.
Before, when he’d come this close to the snakes’ lair, he could scarcely move, scarcely think for the debilitating fear that flowed from the monsters. But Haplo wasn’t afraid; at least, he amended, he wasn’t afraid for himself. His fear ran deeper. It was cold and twisted him inside.
“What’s going on, boy?” he asked the dog, who had crowded near him and was whimpering against his leg.
Haplo patted the animal reassuringly, though he himself could have used reassurance. The dog whined and edged closer.
The Patryn started the vessel again, guided it toward the surface, his attention divided between the gradually brightening water and the sigla on his skin. The runes did not alter in appearance.
Judging by the evidence of his own body, the serpents were no longer on Draknor. But if they weren’t on Draknor and they weren’t with the mensch and they weren’t battling the Sartan, where were they?
The submersible surfaced. Haplo scanned the shoreline rapidly, found his ship, smiled in satisfaction to see it whole, undamaged. But his fear grew stronger, though the sigla on his skin gave him no reason to be afraid. The body of the king serpent, slain by the mysterious “serpent mage” (who might or might not have been Alfred), lay on the cliffs above. No sign of living serpents was visible.
Haplo beached the submersible. Cautious, wary, he opened the hatch, climbed up onto the top deck. He carried no weapons, though he’d found a cache of battle-axes inside the ship. Only blades enhanced by magic would bite through the flesh of the serpents, and Haplo was too weak in his own magic now to impart its power to metal.
The dog followed him, growled a warning. Its legs stiffened, its hackles rose. Its gaze was fixed on the cave.
“What is it, boy?” Haplo asked, tensing.
The dog quivered all over, looked at its master, pleading permission to race to the attack.
“No, dog. We’re heading for our own ship. We’re getting out of here.” Haplo jumped off the deck, landed on the foul, slime-covered sand, began to edge his way along the shoreline toward his rune-inscribed ship. The dog continued to growl and bark and came along with Haplo only reluctantly and after repeated commands.
Haplo was within arm’s length of reaching his vessel when he caught a glimpse of movement near the cavern’s entrance.
He waited, watching. He was cautious, but not particularly worried. He was now close enough to his ship to seek the safety of its protective runes. The dog’s growl became a snarl; its upper lip curled, revealing sharp teeth. A man emerged from the cave.
Samah.
“Easy, boy,” said Haplo.
The leader of the Sartan Council walked with the bowed head and listless tread of someone deep in thought. He had not come by boat; no other submersibles were moored along the shore. He had come by magic, then.
Haplo glanced at the sigla on his hands. The runes were a little darker in color, but they did not glow, were not warning him of the advance of an enemy. By this and by logical deduction, Haplo guessed that Samah’s magic, like Haplo’s own, must be spent. Probably waterlogged. The Sartan was waiting, resting, to regain strength enough for his return journey. He posed no threat to Haplo. Just as Haplo posed no threat to him.