The Windward King, page 26
And it would be too late if Shara couldn’t get someone to Tishel quickly.
He almost spun and tried again to convince his pursuers of the truth, but another gunshot snarled in his ears, and an explosion of stone ahead of him sent him veering down another corridor. Dark wood panels greeted him, and the jar of his feet on stone became the booming echo of each stride. Even as the shock to his legs lessened, he winced. So much for secrecy. Maybe humans built things from wood to hinder spies.
Spies.
A desperate idea leapt to the front of his mind—if he could prevent himself from collapsing long enough to get there.
“Stop!” barked one of the guards.
“Go back!” he shouted. “Tishel needs—”
The flame in his lungs swelled from a candle into a bonfire. Speaking was no use, not with a band of iron constricting his chest with every heaving breath. Shutting out the sounds of pursuit and the strain of flight, he dug into his memory for a map of the palace. The room wasn’t far. To the end of this hall, down another flight of stairs, right . . . or was it left . . .
His feet slid in Iliath’s overlarge shoes, and he stumbled, caught himself, pushed on. No time to pause and remove them—behind him, the voices seemed to have multiplied. He didn’t dare turn around to confirm his fear. If he let their words roll over him without really listening, he could pretend they were cheering him on instead.
His next gasping breath erupted as a strangled laugh. Of all the molting awful times to think Korith thoughts.
Or maybe it was exactly the time for Korith thoughts.
He careened down the next flight of stairs. Too much speed, no control—he hit the opposite wall with a yelp and ricocheted away, but the motion kept him moving in the right direction. Windows lined the wall to his left. What if he smashed a window open to distract the guards into thinking he’d tried diving into the gardens? But he had nothing large or heavy enough, and probably not the strength to lift it.
He ran on instead, glancing repeatedly toward the gardens and the bay beyond, seeking the red streaks of war flags.
At last he reached the hall he’d been looking for and skidded around the corner. One, two, three—he bolted inside the fourth room, shut the door as quietly as possible, and sidled past a table to the fox painting hanging on the eastern wall.
“Please work, please work.”
He yanked it down and pried away the wood panel beneath. Shoving the panel into the newly created hole, he scrambled in after it, then leaned over the edge and grabbed the painting. After a few trembling, scraping failures, he caught it on its wall hook.
Darkness and pain wrapped themselves around him. The energy that had kept him running and dulled the fiery knives twisting in his chest drained away abruptly. He slumped against the wall with a moan, his sweat-soaked, bloody clothing clinging to his clammy skin. Everything hurt. Was this how it felt to be Korith?
Beyond his hiding place, angry voices and banging doors rumbled like thunder. Holding his breath hurt as much as breathing, so he focused on keeping the air coming steadily and quietly as the voices grew nearer. If only they’d hurry up; whether this worked or not, he didn’t have time for delay.
Breathe. Breathe and heal, heal and plan. Assuming it did work—
The door outside flew open and hit the wall, and someone barged inside. Probably for the best, because Shara couldn’t recall ever having assumed that one of his plans would actually work, and his mind had gone rather fuzzy at the idea.
The room had few furnishings and offered no hiding places but the one Shara had claimed. So long as they didn’t know . . . so long as they couldn’t hear his hammering heart or scent his acrid fear . . .
The stomping guard drew nearer. Shara held his breath. Somewhere above him, a spider scuttled along its web, impossibly loud.
Knuckles rapped against a wall, but not his wall.
“Anything?”
Wood scraped over wood in a harsh bellow. “All of these rooms look exactly the same. What could they possibly need them all for?”
“Hiding spies, apparently,” grumbled the first voice. “Come on.”
Footsteps, footsteps, the clack of the door.
Silence.
Shara blew out the caged breath and tilted his head back. Thank you, Eagle. And you too, Korith.
He grinned at the thought of Korith hearing this story, and his taut muscles loosened. It wasn’t the rush of renewed energy he needed, but it was enough. Slowly he pushed himself upright and reached for the portrait. More guards would be scouring the halls within minutes.
He had to reach that tower.
Chapter 40
The Signal Tower
Shara crouched behind the plinth of a statue and waited, counting the passing footfalls like ticks on a timekeeper marking out yet another delay.
In the scant minutes he’d been sneaking through the halls and ducking into alcoves, he’d already learned to distinguish footsteps. The heavy, purposeful strides of the guards. The hasty shuffle of the servants, whose low, urgent conversations mingled with the flutter of their soft-soled shoes. The infuriating starts and stops of the nobles, who seemed incapable of gossiping and walking at the same time, though they moved quickly enough when chasing after the servants in the hopes of gathering up spilled rumors.
Shara’s attempt to tell a servant about Tishel had earned him a look of alarm and time enough to utter half a sentence before the poor boy fled. Everyone was too on edge. The whole palace whispered, and always the whispers were the same. The Tethamari and Iliath, betrayal and war. It didn’t matter whether Gepar or Thosena had made an official declaration—everyone believed it had happened. Had or would.
Only the guards whispered something different: Shara. A description of him, speculation as to where he might be and where he’d last been sighted. And always the snarling accusation that he’d murdered their captain—never the suggestion that he’d tried and failed.
Never had Shara wanted so badly to be known as a failure.
The passing servants disappeared around the corner, and their murmuring faded away. Shara pulled himself out of his crouch with a wince and a wobble. Sneaking through the palace put considerably less strain on his body, but since he jumped at the slightest breath of wind or scrape of a tree branch against a window, it made little difference in the end. Everything still hurt.
“Come on, Shara,” he whispered, gathering bunches of his mother’s coat in his fists. “Keep going.”
With a final glance up and down the hall, he hurried on, ducking below the windows in case someone happened to be looking up or across. He still couldn’t shift, not even enough to change his hair color.
Thankfully, humans had the decency to announce their presence from three corridors away.
The tower shouldn’t be far now. He’d left the wooden wing of the palace and now wove through cave-like stone halls again. As he skirted around a corner, his feet rolled uncomfortably in Iliath’s shoes, and at the next statue, he unlaced them, yanked them off, and tossed them behind the plinth. The floor’s chill crawled into his feet and up his body like a refreshing breath of air, and he set off again.
One door, then another. One hall, then another.
Whether moving or hiding, he focused on composing the message he would send when he reached the tower. Something that didn’t sound threatening or deceitful, assuming there was a way to say The Barathi navy is bearing down on you without sounding threatening and Our king is on board your ship; could you save him, please? without sounding deceitful.
Never mind how he would convince the tower keeper to send a message to a supposed enemy, especially when the royal guard believed he was a Tethamari spy.
Save Iliath.
He ground his teeth. “I’m trying, all right? No one’s cooperating.”
The words had no sooner left his mouth when a new sound hit his ears, not a purposeful stride but the faint tap of boots and the sting of sharp whispers. Guards, but careful ones, and close. Too close.
He half jumped toward the nearest door before checking himself and dashing in the opposite direction. He was so near—not five dragon lengths lay between him and the next corner.
He took the turn too sharply, and his feet leapt out from beneath him. His hands and knees hit the stone, and a grunt of pain slipped between his rattling teeth.
The hissing stopped, and the footsteps stilled. Shara froze with them, palms throbbing.
“. . . hear that?” someone whispered.
Slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head to better listen, and his heart nearly erupted a second time—the corner of his coat trailed back around the corner, a faithless flutter of blue sitting in the dark pool of his shadow. Before he could think, he was scuttling forward.
“There!” came the hoarse voice again. “Did you see that?”
“What?”
“At the end of the— Never mind, come on!”
Abandoning it all, Shara scrambled to his feet and almost trilled with relief at the staircase waiting at the end of the hall. That had to be it.
He burst into a silent sprint, struggling to outpace the clattering footfalls behind him while some stupid voice in his head chose that moment to point out that he’d never won a race against anyone.
Shut up, he snarled at it, throwing himself at the first steps of the spiralling staircase. I’m busy.
He took the stairs two at a time and almost collided with a heavy door at the top. It groaned in traitorous welcome as he shoved into it and toppled, huffing and aching and dizzy, into a small room.
“I need to send a message,” he blurted out, slamming the door. Only one other corridor branched off from the hall below, and if the guards weren’t fooled into thinking he’d taken it, they’d be here any second.
A burly young man stared back at him, half-risen from his seat at a small table. One hand hovered over the deck of cards he’d been shuffling, and the other twitched toward his pistol. “May I—” His eyes widened.
Shara didn’t care to think about how awful he must look. Drawing himself up, he cleared his throat and tried to sound official. “I need to send a message. Immediately.”
The tower keeper was perhaps eighteen, and it was clear he’d never seen anything like Shara. “Oh.” His gaze flicked uncertainly over Shara’s unusual, ill-fitting garments. “And who’re you? Um, sir?”
“I’m . . .” He made the mistake of looking out the wide, paneless window. A cluster of ships prowled through the bay like a pack of wolves. “I’m, uh, Lord . . . ko Han.”
A jolt ran through the young man’s body, like deference was colliding with what his eyes told him about the bedraggled and barefoot figure in front of him. “Lord ko Han.”
“Yes.” He almost believed his voice this time.
The young man nodded his head toward the mirror contraption positioned near the window. “I’m, uh, very sorry, my lord, but this is a military tower. I’m authorized to send only messages delivered by the guard or signed by a superior officer. If you want to send a personal message—”
“It’s not personal. Look, I—”
Heavy boots pounded on the stairs. Shara whirled and threw the bolt in the door. The tower keeper’s jaw dropped.
Shara gestured out the window. “You need to signal the fleet and tell them to stop. And then tell the Tethamari—”
“Namel!” The door clattered, and someone cursed. “Namel, are you all right?”
Namel’s wide eyes darted from Shara to the door and back. “Yes.” His lips moved silently as if in rehearsal, but when he spoke, all he said was, “All’s fine here.”
Beyond the door, a deeper voice muttered, “Move over.” Keys clanked.
“Please.” Heart pounding, Shara inched toward the mirror device. “Please, you need to warn the Tethamari.”
For all the uncertainty in his manner, Namel drew his pistol with practiced precision and stepped between Shara and his destination. “Communicating with that ship is forbidden. Admiral Thosena fears what the Tethamari might do if—”
The door leapt open. A man and a woman rushed in, barking orders as they levelled their pistols. Shara shrank back and lifted his hands, animal panic roiling through him. Phantom shots raked at his ears.
“Don’t move!”
They closed in, and though he didn’t dare try to run, he could still speak. “Namel, please. Stop Thosena. And tell the Tethamari”—the first guard seized him and wrenched his arms behind his back—“tell them Iliath is on board their ship!”
“As if they don’t already know,” sneered the guard who wasn’t cuffing Shara’s wrists.
“They don’t!” He threw a last, desperate glance at Namel as the swirling void engulfed him. “Listen, Captain Tishel is still alive, and Admiral Thosena isn’t who you—”
A hand clapped over his mouth, and the guards dragged him from the room.
Chapter 41
Waiting for Permission
Shara’s captors marched him through the halls with a military efficiency he’d have appreciated under other circumstances. The world swirled about him, diving in and out of focus, fading and brightening like an indecisive sunset. The footsteps he’d listened to so attentively had ceased—now servants and nobles alike paused to gawk and whisper as he staggered past. He ignored them, less by choice than the necessity of keeping all his focus on walking and breathing and not passing into darkness. He hadn’t rescued Iliath yet. He still didn’t know whether Tishel had been found. He had to keep trying. Even if trying, for the moment, meant merely staying conscious.
Within minutes, they’d arrived at a familiar but unexpected location: the Tethamari guest quarters, a room several doors down from Nashai’s now-ruined suite.
Had it truly been only this morning that he’d worried about perfumes?
“Found him, sir.” The woman’s voice boomed in Shara’s ear, but he hardly had the energy to flinch.
Lieutenant Mereth pivoted as they approached, his usually smiling face hard. He fixed faintly red eyes on Shara, and they narrowed. Anger flickered to confusion. “This is the spy?”
A spark of hope coursed through Shara’s heavy limbs. Mereth had seen him once in his own form, the night of Iliath’s abduction. “No, I’m—”
Another hand pressed over his mouth, and this time he bit it. Cursing, the guard yanked her hand away and shoved Shara at her companion.
Shara seized the opportunity. “Lieutenant, please, you—”
The guard wrenched on his arms, twisting his words into a yowl.
“That’s enough.” Mereth scowled at all three of them. “Take those off and put him with the others. We’ll deal with them after this is over.”
Shara stilled as the guard reached reluctantly for his keys; he could feign docility long enough to have his abilities freed.
Energy, purpose, and relief spilled over him like a waterfall, but before he could summon it all and weave it into another protest, the guard pulled open the outer door and shoved him inside. He tripped over the upturned edge of the rug, stumbled into the desk, and pushed himself off of it and back around. The door slammed in his face.
Molting doors. Not this time.
“Lieutenant Mereth!” He rammed his fist against it. “I need to see Lord Gepar! Tishel is alive! Admiral Thosena is a traitor! She put Iliath on that ship herself! She’s going to kill him! You need to stop the fleet! And warn the Tethamari!”
“Be quiet!” barked someone who wasn’t Mereth.
He shouted every rendition of those words he could think of, and when nothing happened, he started repeating himself, punctuating each phrase with another round of pounding. Still nothing happened.
No one was listening.
Stay out of the way, Shara.
“No.” His hand hung suspended before the door, then clunked against it in defeat. “No, I . . .”
“Ahem.”
Shara whirled. Nobody outside was listening, but four people stood clustered in the doorway to the study, all staring at him as if he’d gone mad.
“Your Highness!” He took a hurried step toward Nashai.
Captain Sothal took one to match, and Shara faltered. Right. He wasn’t Iliath anymore. It was too late to hide his bare feet and the bloodstains marring his coat and shirt, but he smoothed his hair and tried for some semblance of dignity.
It didn’t work. Lord Fethan looked him up and down with disdain. “Who are you?”
“Never mind that.” Half-dragging Lady Masar, Nashai pushed past Sothal and planted herself in front of Shara. “What’s this about Iliath?”
>><<
Shara had related only part of the story, with a few significant details left out, when the door creaked open. Lieutenant Mereth stuck his head in and gestured to Shara, who hurried into the hall, Lord Fethan’s disgruntled mutters snaking after him.
“Lieutenant, listen, Captain Tishel—”
“She’s been taken to the healing room,” Mereth said. Shara swayed into the wall with a trembling sigh, and Mereth’s expression softened. “She’s alive, though unconscious, and therefore she can neither confirm nor contradict your story.” He gestured to the man at his side. “Lord Gepar, however, has assured me that you are not the person we’re looking for.”
Shara gaped. In spite of all his shouting and demanding to see Gepar, he’d never expected Gepar to respond. And judging by Gepar’s pinched expression, he was already regretting his decision to do so. Gripping Shara’s arm, he pulled him down the corridor, shooting furtive glances over his shoulder until they were well out of hearing range.
“What have you been doing?” he whispered at last, rather shrilly. “When Lieutenant Mereth said they’d captured the man who . . . Not even you . . . And Admiral Thosena said the Tethamari have—” His eyes widened. “Wait, then they have the real Iliath?”
“Yes.” Shara stopped beside the window where he, Nashai, and Lady Masar had gathered earlier in the day, drawing an odd comfort from its familiarity and the cool air spilling through it. “Thosena kidnapped him and smuggled him aboard the Tethamari ship.”
