Ebben brought his dolphin close to Alemar and signalled to the prince. Sea dogs.
Alemar saw a forest of kelp to the right and pointed. The men abandoned their transport, slipping into the concealing growth as fast as possible. The dolphins streaked away.
Four sea dogs-sinuous creatures with bodies like giant eels and whiskers like catfish-glided slowly their way, in a formation that no wild denizens of the sea would adopt. Their whiskers twitched, ferreting out scents that did not belong-especially those of men. Their gift of smell was as acute as their eyes were poor. Small chance existed that they would fail to detect the traces left by Alemar and his party. If they did, they would hurry to the nearest city and guide one of the Dragon's patrols back with them.
Alemar signed to Toren. They focussed their sorcery on their trail, gathering the residue left behind and increasing the weight of each infinitesimal particle until they sank into the silt. Alemar's head rang with the strain of such subtle manipulation, but it was worth the pain. The sea dogs cruised past without the slightest deviation from their course. The other four men smiled at the magicworkers with relief.
After coming this far, nothing so ordinary as ocean bloodhounds were going to keep him from reaching his great enemy. They waited an hour, then Alemar summoned a fresh set of dolphins.
Dragonsdeep came into view quite suddenly, dome sprouting dramatically above the crest of the ridge ahead of them. It was leagues in the distance, but it was already difficult to take in in one glance. Alemar stared, momentarily awestruck. He had never seen any of the cities of Alemar Dragonslayer, much less this, his masterwork. He had thought Omril's memories would prepare him for the sight, but experiences shared secondhand did not convey the full impact.
Thousands of people lived under the glasslike ceiling, cultivating and harvesting the surrounding sea, creating crafts and handiworks prized throughout the civilized lands. The palace sprawled in the center, a lavish, architectural wonder-a small city in itself. It spread from a central nexus into eight twining wings, like the limbs of an octopus. The dynasty of Alemar had ruled from the site for many hundreds of years.
The city had not changed its configuration much in all that time. The secret of manufacturing vartham-the hard, transparent substance that made up the domes-had been lost with the great wizard and his sister. Rumors claimed that Gloroc was trying to rediscover the process. If so, he had failed, as Alemar spied no additions to the main enclosure.
The dome peaked less than two fathoms below the surface. Huge ventilation towers sprouted upward, reaching far above the waves. Next to the west, north, and south gates were massive watermakers capable of processing enough drinking water to supply the entire city. Despite the briny sea in every direction, the inhabitants of communities built by Alemar and Miranda never needed to worry about importing water. The younger Alemar shivered to think of the power his ancestor must have had to create such wonders.
Between their location and the perimeter of the city were broad tracts of cultivated sea bed, and small underwater outposts. The traffic between the city and the surrounding ocean was constant. There was no way to approach the walls without being seen. For a moment, Alemar worried that they might have to get closer, but Toren led them in a wide semi-circle that carried them farther away. They forsook the dolphins, hugged the bottom, and kept in the shadows of reefs and stands of kelp, keenly aware of the proximity of the city. They encountered no patrols, though once a spearfisherman passed by in the near distance. They successfully hid from him.
They arrived at a crevice in a reef. Barnacles and coral made the opening too small to accommodate the men. Toren began tearing loose the growth. The others tried to help, but the task required the strength of the gauntlets. Silt clouded the water. As currents carried it upward, Alemar grew worried that, like smoke on a horizon, it would reveal their position. But shortly thereafter, Toren pulled away the last piece.
The Vanihr removed his vest and supplies, except for the airmaker, and squeezed through the opening. Alemar followed, slipping down a cramped tunnel and into a manmade chamber lit by a dim, cerulean glow. Match, Ebben, and Tregay came next. Geim relayed down the cast-off gear and joined them. Once everyone was inside, Toren closed a hatch across the entryway and spun the lock wheel.
Three of the walls were featureless-fused, bare stone or coral. The fourth contained another hatch and spindle similar to that in the ceiling, but larger. Not far from it was a lever. Toren swam to the latter and yanked it downward.
Four small ports opened in the floor and began sucking the water out of the chamber. Another pair of ports appeared in the ceiling, out of which came air. Within a quarter of an hour the group stood with their heads and shoulders out of the water.
They peeled off their airmakers. The atmosphere was stale, but breathable.
"Obviously no one's been here for a very long time. That's a good sign," Toren told Alemar. "By the way, I had to neutralize a guard spell on the way in. Otherwise we would have been squeezed to death in the tunnel."
"That sounds like my ancestor's touch," Alemar said.
"Does it? Well, it's repairing itself. Keep that in mind on the way out."
The water receded to knee level, below the bottom of the hatch in the wall. They found a niche in a corner of the floor into which they placed their airmakers, suits, weights, and vests. Toren opened the side hatch, revealing a tile-walled tunnel. Geim reached in, rubbed his fingers across the smooth floor, and blew on them, producing a cloud of dust.
"Not exactly a well-travelled route," he commented. He lifted his foot as if to cross the threshold.
"Don't," Toren said firmly. He ducked, reached an arm's length into the tunnel, and pressed a tile that Geim might have stepped on had he entered.
A pair of crossbow bolts suddenly shot out of the walls to either side, whisking over Toren's head and impacting so hard they chipped the masonry.
Geim whistled. Ebben cursed.
"The Dragonslayer really didn't want strangers to use this route," Toren explained. "There's a booby trap like this at the other end. I'll have to lead, so I can trip it."
"Be my guest," Geim said.
The drains sucked up the last of the water with loud, indelicate sounds. The men sorted through their gear, selecting the bare essentials. In particular, they each broke into carefully wrapped, identical packages and withdrew long, tapered daggers. Each ceramic sheath was sealed with wax. They made sure the seals were intact. The blades were coated with fellit-dragonsbane-a substance which could kill a man with the slightest contact.
They ate a somber, quiet meal and set out down the tunnel.
XXXI
THE TENDONS IN THE back of Toren's heels ached, unaccustomed, after so much swimming, to a normal, dry tread. He welcomed the discomfort; it proved he was a man, not a fish. But he did not like the low ceiling. His lower back rebelled from the constant stooping. Of all the party, only Alemar was able to walk upright.
Geim cursed as he bumped his head again. "Let me guess. The Dragonslayer was a short man, and this is his revenge on the rest of us."
"Is this tunnel ever going to end?" Tregay asked.
Toren felt sorry for his companions. To them, the dim illumination and featureless walls must have made them feel as if the tube were constantly squeezing in on them. It was not that way for him. As they had approached the city, and eventually passed under its foundations, he sensed more and finer details about the place they were breaching. He detected several routine magical spells in progress. He estimated that several dozen sorcerers lived in the city, including fourteen adepts worthy of a king's court. Three were as powerful as Omril. He felt one particularly potent miasma of power.