“Lions and dragons?” Vash looked around worriedly.
“The tale of what happened here will grow in the telling,” the autarch said. “I merely add a few details to make the eventual history richer.”
Olin Eddon had the bloodless look of a man living a nightmare, and staggered a little as he walked. His guards moved closer to help keep him upright.
“Is Hesper dead?” Vash asked.
“Ah, I hope it is not so.” Sulepis shook his head. “I would like to think he will pass his last month or so before the poison kills him dwelling on what it means to cheat me and knowing that I will come back at my leisure and devour his little country like a sweetmeat.” He paused and turned to gaze back at Gremos Pitra, an expression of great serenity on his long face. “After this, the people of Jellon will crawl to me on the day I return. They will beg to become slaves of Xis.”
“Not everyone in the north will beg to become slaves,” Olin said darkly. “You may find that many would rather die than bend their knees to you.”
“That too can be arranged,” the autarch told him. “Now come, all of you—step lively. It has been a busy morning and your god-king is hungry.”
Qinnitan was still reeling when the nameless man dragged her out into the sunlight and began to lead her across the docks. Poor Pigeon limped beside them, his hand dripping blood through the makeshift bandage, his little face emptied by the shock of what had happened.
How could it be? How could all she had suffered and survived have given them only that few moments of freedom? Were the gods utterly evil?
Spare us, great Nushash, she prayed. I was a priestess in your sacred Hive. I have only tried to do what was right. Heavenly bees, protect us!
But there were no bees, only smoke and flecks of burning sail wafting on the wind. The ship that had brought them here was all but gone, only a bit of its burning forecastle still above water, the mast long since burned black and collapsed. Hundreds of people crowded the waterfront, shouting bits of the story to each other, staring as survivors were pulled from the water by men in small boats.
Some of them were innocent sailors, she thought suddenly, like the men on Dorza’s ship. Some of them might have been good men. Dead because of me…
It did no good to think about it—no good to think about anything. She was being taken to an unimaginable punishment at the hands of the autarch and her only hope of escape had proved futile. Even if she were to dive into the water, this nameless, relentless killer would only dive in and pull her back out again. Perhaps if she swallowed as much water as she could…
But that would leave Pigeon alone, she realized. This monster would give him to the autarch to be tortured… killed…
Suddenly a horrifying pain stabbed at Qinnitan’s arm. She shrieked and staggered a step or two, then fell to her knees. For a moment she thought her captor had grabbed her elbow and broken it, but he was on the other side, holding the other arm. He tried to yank her back upright, but her limbs were as limp and boneless as wet string.
Blackness swam before her eyes and she hung her head, thinking she might vomit. The pain in her arm was growing fiercer, as if a sliver of the burning ship had been driven into her like a nail into soft wood, as if the joint in her arm were being carved with a sharp knife.
“Gods! Stop this!” she cried, or thought she did, but she was tumbling down into blackness and could not be certain of anything any more.
Shadows moved around her, eyeless things murmuring words she could barely hear.
“Tears…” whispered one.
“Spittle…” said another.
“Blood…” quavered a third in a voice so low she could scarcely make it out.
Her arm burned as if the bone had become a white-hot poker. The darkness swung around her in a wild dance, and for a moment she saw the face of the red-haired boy… Barrick!… but he clearly did not see her, although she tried to call to him. Something covered him and kept her from him—a frozen waterfall, a cup of glass—and her words could not travel to him. Ice. Solid shadow. Separation…
Then the world wheeled back into place around her, the cry of seagulls and the shouts of people on every side snapping into place like the last piece of a wooden puzzle. The hard, gray planks of the dock were beneath her hands and knees. Somebody was pulling her roughly to her feet, but she was not ready and almost fell again; only the strength of that powerful, iron-hard arm held her upright. The pain in her own arm was fading but she was still breathless with its memory.
“What are you playing at?” her captor, the nameless man, shook her hard. He looked around as though someone might notice, but no one on the dock was near enough to hear, even if they would have cared. We must look like a father with two willful children, she thought. Behaving badly.
Something struck her then—not more pain, but a realization: if she continued to walk this path there was no hope. She could feel it, feel things closing in, possibilities withering, so that only death stood at the end of the road—death and something more, something worse. It’s waiting, she realized, although she did not know what it was. Something hungry, that was all she knew for certain, and it was waiting for her in the darkness at the end of her journey.
Qinnitan regained her balance and waited until the man took his hand off her to grab at Pigeon, then she turned and ran as fast her unsteady legs would carry her, straight toward the edge of the dock, not slowing even at a shout from her captor. The planks were wet and she almost slipped and tumbled into the water, but managed to stop herself by grabbing at a post. She held onto it, swaying, then raised her hand as the man began to walk toward her, dragging Pigeon behind him.
“No!” she said with as much strength as she could muster, the word a harsh croak in her sea-roughened throat. “No. If you take another step before you hear me out, I’ll throw myself in. I’ll swim for the bottom and drink in so much ocean I’ll be dead before you reach me.”
He paused, the look of rage on his unexceptional face changing to something else, something colder and more calculating.
“I know I can’t get away from you,” she said. “Let the boy go and I’ll do what you want. Try to bring him along and I’ll kill myself and you can take my body to the autarch instead.”
“I make no bargains,” said the nameless man.
“Pigeon, run away!” Qinnitan shouted. “Go on, run. He won’t come after you. Run far away and hide.”
The boy only stared at her, the shock of his injuries changing into something much more heartbreaking. The man still held his wrist. Pigeon shook his head.
“Go!” she said. “Otherwise he’ll only keep hurting you to make me do what he wants. Run away!”
The nameless man looked from the boy to her. He bent and picked up a piece of coarse rope that lay in haphazard loops on the dock like an exhausted snake. “Tie one end around your waist and I will let the boy go.” He flipped a coil of the rope toward her.