Sword of Flames

24 Southpaw

Zanna settled back into the old routines and friendships of the Nightrunner hideout as though the months of her absence had never happened. At first Remana had been very cool with her, but her anger had been mostly due to worry over the fact that she had run away. When the matriarch of the smugglers discovered Zanna’s role in Vannor’s rescue, her manner thawed abruptly, and the two of them became fast friends again, with Remana treating her, once again, as the daughter she’d never had. There were many friendships to be renewed—the chief and most delightful of which was her reunion with her pony, Piper. Just now all the smugglers’ ponies were down in their cavern, sheltering from the wicked weather, and so he had been on hand to renew their acquaintance.

Zanna spent a good deal of time with Piper—or as much as she could spare from her dad, whose recovery had been set back by the grueling encounter with the storm. He had taken a chill from the icy soaking he had received, but under all Remana’s cosseting, and the constant care of Benziorn and the blond girl Emmie, he was gradually growing stronger, and Zanna hoped to be able to take up Tarnal’s offer to go riding with her as soon as the weather cleared.

At least it would get her away from Yanis, Zanna thought sourly. He was driving her to distraction, hanging around Vannor’s chamber all day making sheep’s eyes at Emmie—who, to be fair, seemed completely oblivious to his attentions. Zanna felt a curious ambivalence toward the serious, sad-eyed girl who, according to Remana, was older than she looked, and had lost her husband and both her children to Miathan’s depredations. Zanna felt sorry for her after that and also deeply appreciated what Emmie was doing for her father—yet she knew that by rights she ought to resent the older woman for her beauty, and for taking Yanis’s attentions away from herself.

Yet during the time that they had spent cooped up together in Hebba’s house, Zanna had found herself becoming more and more irritated by the thoughtless, self-centered behavior of the Nightrunner leader. Besides, he wasn’t very bright—and although she had known that before, it had never bothered her until now. Zanna blushed to remember that casual announcement made months ago to her father, that she intended to marry Yanis. What an idiot she had been! Without a mother to advise her, there was no one now to tell her that she was simply growing up—with all the trials and contradictions it entailed—and so Zanna was left to puzzle out her difficulties on her own.

In all her confusion, Tarnal was the solid anchor in her life. He always seemed to be there when she felt most in need of a friend, and she was always glad to see him. It also meant a lot to Zanna that the young smuggler was so considerate of her father, whom he held in great respect. Tired of the awkward atmosphere within the caverns between Emmie and the Nightrunner leader, she looked forward to having Tarnal’s company all to herself as a relief from Yanis’s foolishness, and waited impatiently for the weather to change. On the day after the storm had broken at last, she was glad to accept his invitation to go riding on the cliffs.

Wrapped up warmly against the bite of the wind that stung her glowing cheeks and ruffled her short-cropped hair, Zanna galloped her pony along the cliff top, racing Tarnal to the distant landmark of the solitary standing stone. Oh, but it was wonderful to be out in the fresh air again! Piper seemed to think so too—the pony was full of energy after his long confinement in the caverns, and needed this run to calm his fidgets. It seemed to be having the same effect on Zanna’s fidgets, for by the time she had reached the bottom of the mound on which the great stone stood—as near as she dared to approach on horseback, for the ponies were afraid of the sinister megalith—she was feeling happier and more free than she had felt in months.

Laughing, Zanna turned to Tarnal, who came galloping up behind her. “I won!” she crowed. “That fat slug of yours will have to pick up his hooves if he wants to beat my Piper…”

Zanna’s words tailed off as something—a long, dark, unfamiliar shape far out at sea—caught her attention. It certainly wasn’t a ship, though it was big enough, and from the way it moved, it seemed to be alive. “Tarnal—what on earth is that?” she cried, pointing.

“It looks like a whale.” The Nightrunner was frowning in puzzlement. “But they never come into these waters. What the blazes is it doing here? Why is it all alone? And why is it staying on the surface all the time? Do you think it’s sick?”

Together they sat and waited on the cliff top, dismounting to let their ponies crop the grass as they watched the behemoth approach the coast. At one point in their vigil Zanna noticed that Tarnal had taken hold of her hand, but it felt so pleasant that she made no effort to pull away. Suddenly, she felt his fingers tighten on her own. “Zanna”—his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper—“please tell me I’m not imagining things. I’m sure I can see people riding on that whale…”

His eyes were keener than her own, but after a few minutes Zanna could see them too. “They are people! But who could command such power over a creature of the deep?” She turned to the Nightrunner in sudden panic. “Tarnal—do you think it’s the Archmage? What if he’s found us?”

Cursing, Tarnal pulled her to her feet. “Quick! We must get back to the caverns! We’ve got to warn them!”

Zanna flung herself up onto Piper’s back, wrenching at the reins as the startled horse reared. Then they were galloping, racing back toward the Nightrunner hideout—both she and Tarnal praying that they could make it in time, before the speeding Leviathan reached the shore.

It was Sangra, whose turn it had been to keep a lookout, who first spotted the distinctive shape of the cliff top megalith that marked the location—for those privileged few who knew of its existence—of the smugglers’ secret home. “There it is!” she cried. Parric awakened blearily and rolled over, only just saving himself from sliding off the Leviathan’s curving back. Sangra put out a hand to steady him, and he scrambled back to safety, muttering epithets, before sitting up to look in the direction of her pointing finger.

“You’re right!” he cried. “Who’d have thought this beast could swim so fast? This is one up on that miserable bastard Idris, who took us south in that leaky old washtub he calls a ship.” Turning, he shook the Windeye into wakefulness—which took some doing, because Chiamh had spent most of the night sitting up in delighted conversation with Ithalasa.

“Chiamh? Chiamh, wake up, you idiot! We’re here!”

“What? Already?” Chiamh mumbled, sounding disappointed. Parric ignored that. The Windeye—though a pleasant enough lad and harmless, bless him—had always been a strange one. For his own part, the cavalrymaster couldn’t wait for this wretched, miserable, wet, uncomfortable, bloody boring journey to be over. Suddenly remembering where he was, he put a guilty damper on such thoughts, lest the Leviathan should somehow hear him. Parric was still very much in awe of the immense creature.

“Can you ask our friend to make for that standing stone on the cliffs?” he asked the Windeye quickly, and with unusual politeness.

“What cliffs?” asked Chiamh, squinting shortsightedly at the horizon. Parric sighed. This was a problem that he hadn’t considered.

“You know,” Sangra said gently, for she was fond of the Windeye, “you should ask the Lady Aurian if she couldn’t use her healing powers to help you to see properly.”

“We did talk about it,” Chiamh said, “and she offered—but I’m afraid that if she gives me normal vision, I might lose my Othersight. I just daren’t risk it.” He sighed. “I’m afraid it might be better to leave well alone.”

“Never mind that for now,” Parric interrupted impatiently. Already, he could see that the Leviathan was veering off course. “What are we going to do about getting to the Nightrunners?”

“Well, since neither the Leviathan nor I can see this stone of yours, you’re going to have to guide us,” Chiamh told him good-naturedly. “Just tell me whether we should head right or left, and when to go straight on—and I’ll pass the message to Ithalasa.”

It wasn’t the perfect solution, but they managed—and before very much longer Parric could make out the deep bay in the cliffs, with its scattered guardian reefs, that concealed the Nightrunner caverns from prying eyes. “Thank the gods we’re home at last!” he said feelingly. “Not meaning any offense to your southern lands,” he added hastily to the Windeye, “but home is—well, home, if you know what I mean.”

Chiamh sighed. He could not help but envy Parric’s talk of home. Because of his powers he had always been an outcast among the Xandim, and had never really felt as though he’d belonged anywhere—at least, not until these new Outland companions had arrived from the north. Suddenly he wondered what would happen if Aurian should defeat her foes and complete her quest. What would he do then? There was no going back to what he’d been before. For the Windeye, the future looked unbearably lonely.

“You will contrive,” the kindly voice of Ithalasa intruded into Chiamh’s bleak thoughts. “Who knows what the fates will hold for you? But whatever happens, and wherever you go, there will always be a welcome for you with Aurian and Anvar. Besides”—and Ithalasa chuckled—“through some freak of interbreeding in the past, you seem to hold some of the powers of the Magefolk—and after this sad business there will be few of that race left indeed. Will it not be your duty to find a mate, and father children, to carry those powers on into the future?”

Abruptly, the Leviathan changed the subject—and just as well, for Chiamh’s mind was reeling at his unexpected suggestion. “Windeye, I cannot pass those reefs that guard your destination. Will you ask the humans what they want me to do?”

Parric cursed when Chiamh passed on the news. “It looks as though we’ll have to swim for it.”

“Never mind,” said Sangra, “we’re wet enough already—another soaking won’t make any difference.”

“I know that—but arriving like a washed-up piece of flotsam in the Nightrunner cavern isn’t exactly the triumphal entry I’d expected,” the cavalrymaster grumbled. “Besides, its going to take days to dry my gear out—and this bloody seawater is playing havoc with all my knives.”

Sadly, Chiamh said good-bye to Ithalasa, and passed on the farewells and thanks of the others. Then he slid, for the last time, down the Leviathan’s curving sides and joined Parric and Sangra in the icy water. As soon as they were clear, Ithalasa turned and headed back toward the open sea, diving swiftly and striking the water with his elegant, curving tail in farewell. The Windeye watched him go, treading water until the Leviathan vanished completely beneath the waves. He only prayed that Ithalasa would not be called to account by his own people and made to suffer for assisting Aurian and her companions. But Chiamh had little time to think of such matters, for as soon as the weary travelers swam into the maze of rocks that filled the little bay, they were met with a hail of arrows that came hurtling down with increasing accuracy from the cliffs above.

“Gods!” Sangra cried, and dived beneath the water. Parric saw Chiamh flounder in panic, getting a mouthful of sea. Keeping his wits about him, the cavalrymaster dodged into a narrow space between two rocks, to protect himself from the deadly bolts that rained down on all sides. Rashly, he stuck his head out, and an arrow whistled past his ear, too close for comfort. Damn! They were getting the range now. “Hoy!” he bawled in his best parade-ground bellow. “Don’t shoot, you bloody idiots! It’s me—Parric!”

The barrage of arrows faltered—and then stopped completely. The cavalrymaster heaved a sigh of relief, and looked round anxiously for his companions. They seemed to be all right—save that Sangra was holding Chiamh’s head above the surface while he spluttered and coughed up water. Then Parric heard the creak of oars, and a small boat emerged into the sunlight from the shadows of the narrow cavern entrance. At the tiller was a blond-haired smuggler lad he vaguely recognized and to his delight it was Vannor’s young daughter, her hair cut short like that of a lad, who rowed the boat, wielding the oars with an expert flourish.

Giving her entire attention to the business at hand, the girl held the small craft steadily in place while the lad reached down to help Chiamh and Sangra clamber in. Parric swam toward them, knowing that there was very little space for a boat to maneuver between the submerged reefs, and clambered carefully aboard.

Only then did Zanna give her oars to her companion. “Parric!” she exclaimed delightedly, squirming round to hug him. “I’m so glad you’ve come back safely.”

“And I’m glad to see you, lass.” He ruffled her cropped hair affectionately. “I see that you’ve become a warrior, as you always wanted. A lot of the women cut their hair short on campaign. It’s the mark of a true professional.” He chuckled at Sangra’s indignant exclamation. It had been a standing joke at the Garrison that, throughout all her years as a warrior, no one had managed to persuade her to part from her long, gold braids. “Short hair saves a lot of messing about,” Parric continued blithely. “Why, even Aurian herself has cut her hair since you saw her last. Said it was too hot for her down in the far south.”

“Really?” Zanna cried.

Parric grinned at her expression of delighted amazement. Of course—he had forgotten that Aurian had always been very much of a hero for the young lass. Clearly, the knowledge that she was keeping such exalted company meant a lot to Zanna. “Really,” he assured her. “And it looks as good on the Mage as it does on you. By the gods, lass—but you’re a sight for sore eyes after only having Sangra and a bunch of foreigners to look at for months.” He glanced at his companions with a teasing twinkle in his eye. “Zanna, this is Chiamh—but I’ll introduce you properly when we’ve landed.” As they passed into the narrow, echoing tunnel that led into the cavern, his expression darkened with a scowl. “And where the blazes is that bloody idiot Yanis?”

“Waiting on the beach,” Zanna told him. “He said he wanted to give you a fitting leader’s welcome.”

“I’ll give him a welcome he won’t forget in a hurry,” Parric growled. “Has the fool forgotten how to use his eyes?”

Zanna chuckled as they emerged from the tunnel into the vastness of the cavern. “I’m afraid that was our fault.” She glanced at the young smuggler, with an expression in her eyes that made Parric wonder. “We were out riding on the cliffs,” she went on, “and when we saw you on the whale—well, we thought it must be the Archmage.” Her voice sank to a haunted whisper, and there was a shadow of terror in her eyes that the cavalrymaster could not account for. But there was no time to inquire further, for at that moment a familiar voice came booming out from the shore:

“Parric, you old bastard! Have the southerners had enough of you, then?”

“That’s Vannor!” The cavalrymaster’s eyes widened in amazement. “What are you doing here, you fat old money-grabber?” he bawled across the water—and suddenly his words tailed off at the sight of the merchant’s missing hand.

“Parric, be careful—please,” Zanna whispered urgently. “He still can’t accept it… He feels so useless now.”

“By all the gods,” Parric growled, his eyes bright with pain and anger. “Who did this to him? I’ll string the bastard up with his own guts…”

“I don’t think so,” Zanna’s voice was grim. “It was Eliseth.”

As the boat scrunched onto the shingle, Parric leapt out, brushing aside the Nightrunner leader who had stepped down to meet him. He went straight to Vannor and clasped him in a rough embrace, pounding the merchant on the back until Vannor yelled in protest.

“I never thought I’d be so glad to see your ugly face,” the cavalrymaster said—and then stepped back, his eyes going deliberately to his friend’s right arm, which ended in the bandaged stump. “Well, of all the bloody nerve!” he grumbled in injured tones. “Just because I’m a southpaw, suddenly everyone wants to get in on the act. The next thing we know, you’ll be wanting me to teach you all my tricks of fighting left-handed!”

In the horrified silence that followed, Vannor’s expression was a mixture of rage and utter shock—then suddenly his face broke into a grin. “Well, since I did have the nerve to copy you, you foulmouthed little runt, perhaps you’d better teach me some of those tricks that you mentioned—if you have any, that is.”

“Oh, I have them, all right,” the cavalrymaster promised. “The dirtiest tricks that never got into the book. And I’ll teach you them all, my friend—but it can wait until after we’ve done some serious drinking!” Putting his arm around Vannor’s shoulders, he was about to lead him out of the cavern when Sangra, who had been tactfully soothing the injured pride of the indignant young Nightrunner leader, called him back. “Hold on a minute, Parric. Aren’t you forgetting something? Your serious drinking is a fine idea, and I’m all for it in due course—but it must wait until we’ve talked to Yanis.”

“Bugger!” Parric muttered. “You can see why I never made commander. For a minute there, I had forgotten.” He turned back to the crowd of curious and expectant smugglers, forgetting that, in all propriety, he should first give his news to their leader. “Listen, all you Nightrunners,” he shouted. “We’ve come here all the way from the Southern Kingdoms with a message from the Lady Aurian. She’s returning to the north—and she needs your help.”

Even though the cavalrymaster was well accustomed to bawling across parade grounds and battlefields, his voice was drowned in the uproar that followed.

Being so short in stature, Zanna suffered her usual fate of being thrust aside as the crowd of Nightrunners, all asking questions at once, advanced on Parric. Cursing, she attempted to push herself between the mass of bodies that blocked her view of the cavalrymaster and her father, but she might as well have been trying to fight her way through the solid rock at the back of the cavern. Oh well, she comforted herself. Since she was Vannor’s daughter, at least she’d have a chance to speak with the newcomers later. For now, it was simply enough to know that the Mage was returning, and that she would be seeing her soon. Why, it might even be that she, Vannor’s youngest daughter, would have a chance to help the Lady Aurian in her fight against the evil that had seized the land!

Turning to find Tarnal in order to share her excitement with her friend, Zanna found that he, too, had vanished in the general melee. Instead, she found herself looking directly into a pair of warm, rather vague brown eyes that looked both gentle and perplexed. Standing next to her was the stranger who had come with Parric and Sangra on the back of the whale.

A tingle of excitement and trepidation went through Zanna. She’d had little time to think about Parric’s companion during the tricky business of steering her little boat safely into the great cavern, but here was a real foreigner from an unknown land across the seas—the first man she nad ever met who was not of her own race. She looked at him for a moment, suddenly feeling nervous and not a little shy, conscious that she was staring rudely, but unable to help it. Then the strange young man peered at her shortsightedly, put out a hand whose sleeve was still dripping seawater, and smiled. “Are you not the kind young lady who rescued us from the ocean?” he asked in a lilting, oddly accented voice.

No one could possibly be afraid of a man who had such an amiable smile. Zanna accepted the proffered hand and introduced herself. “And are you truly a friend of the Lady Aurian?” she added breathlessly.

The stranger’s smile broadened. “Indeed, I count myself honored to be a friend of the Mage. My name is Chiamh, and I am Windeye of the Xandim.”

“Windeye? What’s that?”

Chiamh shrugged in mute apology. “It is too long and complex a matter to explain now. I am a kind of seer, if you will.”

Since the young girl had no idea what a seer was, or what one did, she was little the wiser. She was about to press for an explanation, when suddenly Chiamh sneezed. Zanna realized, with a pang of guilt, that the poor man was soaked and shivering, and in the general excitement she had never thought to do anything for his comfort. “Why, you’re wet through! I ought to be ashamed of myself,” she told him contritely, “keeping you talking here when you need dry clothes, and something hot to drink. If you’ll come with me…”

“Perhaps I ought to wait for Parric,” Chiamh began hesitantly.

“Nonsense. He’ll be along directly—and in the meantime, there’s no sense in your catching your death of cold. Believe me, they’ll be chewing over this business for hours yet. You won’t miss much.” And with that, Zanna, much relieved to be doing something useful while she was excluded from the general discussion, took hold of the Windeye’s arm and firmly led him away into the warren of caverns.

Having settled Chiamh, Zanna slipped out of the guest chamber and came round the corner of a corridor just in time to see Remana showing Parric into another guest room. She saw Vannor, close on the headwoman’s heels, slip inside after the cavalrymaster, leaving Remana shut out on the threshold. A shiver ran through the young girl’s frame. Judging by the expression on Dad’s face, she knew what he wanted to ask the cavalrymaster behind closed doors. Zanna swore softly. She had forgotten about bloody Sara! But of course Vannor’s wife had been sent to the south with Aurian—did this mean that when the Mage returned, Sara would be coming back too?

Zanna caught herself up sharply. She ought to be ashamed of such selfishness! Whatever she might feel about her stepmother, it would break poor Dad’s heart if Sara didn’t return! As Remana’s footsteps died away along the passage, Zanna crept out and positioned herself with one ear pressed against the door. Though her conscience pricked her, for she knew it was wrong to listen to other people’s private business, she pushed the thought firmly aside. If Sara was coming back, she simply had to know!

Ever since he had first heard Parric’s astounding news that the Mage was on her way home, one desperately urgent question had been raging at the forefront of Vannor’s mind. It took every ounce of self-control that the merchant possessed to wait until Remana had finally managed to disperse the persistent crowd and conduct the visitors to chambers where they could change their sodden clothing before speaking with Yanis in private. But once Sangra had been settled in her accommodation, and the headwoman of the smugglers ushered the cavalrymaster to the room that had been prepared for him, Vannor pushed his way in on Parric’s heels and closed the door behind him, leaving an indignant Remana to fume outside.

“What?” Parric looked round, startled, as the door slammed. “Oh, Vannor. It’s you. I don’t suppose you know where they keep the drink in this place?”

To Vannor’s mind, his friend’s brightly casual tones rang false. The merchant’s heart sank. He knew that, if there had been any good news, Parric would have told him immediately, instead of trying to avoid the subject. Though he quailed inside at what he might hear, Vannor could bear the suspense no longer. “Parric—what about Sara?” he asked directly. “Do you have any word of my wife?”

The cavalrymaster swore softly. “Yes,” he replied with equal bluntness. “And I’m not going to tell you she’s dead, Vannor, so you can set your mind at rest. Nonetheless, old friend, it’s news you should hear sitting down. Go on: sit!” he added in a growl.

Numbly, Vannor let himself sink into a carved wooden chair.

Parric stood fidgeting in front of the fire, his wet clothes steaming gently in the heat. “She never was any good for you, you know,” he began awkwardly.

The merchant half rose from his seat, hot words of anger on his lips—but Parric’s next words froze him into stone. “She’s gone, Vannor. Left you for good. Aurian and Anvar say she deserted them in the far southlands—to marry a king.”

Vannor sank limply back into the chair, his thoughts an inchoate whirl of denial, bitterness, and rage. After a moment he became aware that Parric, his weather-beaten face creased with concern, was trying to push a cup into his hand. The merchant grasped it almost tightly enough to crack the glaze, and downed the strong distillate in a single gulp.

Parric, at his elbow, instantly refilled the cup. This time, Vannor sipped more slowly, and after a moment, he found himself beginning to laugh. “So a mere merchant wasn’t enough to satisfy her ambitions. Well, I always knew, in my heart, that she never wed me for my good looks and charm. Zanna, bless her, tried to warn me,” he added bitterly. “But there’s no fool like an old fool they say—and a rich old fool is twenty times worse.”

Vannor rubbed a hand across his eyes, dismissing their watering as the effect of the strong spirits. Doubtless, it must also be due to the drink that he suddenly felt light-headed, as though a massive burden had been lifted away from his shoulders. Surely, there could be no other reason! Taking a deep breath, he held out the cup again. “One more, Parric, if you please,” he said wryly. “As far as wealth and good fortune are concerned, it looks like the little bitch has outdone the lot of us. Had she been a man, you know, the two of us would have admired—or at least respected—such ruthless and single-minded ambition. Let’s drink a toast to her, to speed her on her way.”

The cavalrymaster scowled. “I’m all for speeding her on her way,” he muttered, “but personally, I’d rather drink to her never coming back.”

Though Zanna grieved for her father, plain common sense told her that Sara’s betrayal was for the best. She would do everything in her power to help him get over it—and she wouldn’t be the only one! As she slipped quietly away from Parric’s door, she couldn’t suppress a mischievous chuckle. What would Dulsina make of this when she heard? Oh, I wish I could be the one to tell her, Zanna thought. For herself, she was so relieved that she wanted to sing and dance. It had been a daily torment to look on in silence, while that ruthless little guttersnipe made a fool of her dad. “May the gods help that King, whoever he is, if someday she meets an Emperor!” Zanna muttered. But Parric was right. Who cared what Sara did—so long as she did it well away from here?

The sound of voices raised in argument brought her abruptly out of her thoughts. Zanna looked up, to find that she was passing the open door of Yanis’s chambers.

“Well, of course we must help the Lady Aurian!” The voice belonged to the Nightrunner leader. “Surely after seeing what the Magefolk did to Vannor, you must want to help in their overthrow. And you folk who have stayed here, safe and protected in this stronghold, don’t know the half of what’s going on in the city and the lands around. Why, surely—”

“You’re right. I don’t know—and I don’t want to. The less we’re involved in this business, the better it’ll be for all of us.”

Zanna recognized the grating, whining voice as that of the old smuggler captain Idris.

“As you said, Yanis,” the captain went on, “the Nightrunners are protected here—this is our stronghold. As long as we stay hidden, we’re safe—but already our caverns are swarming with the lowest dregs of humanity from Nexis, and thanks to Vannor, there are half a hundred folk up in the Lady’s Vale who know our secrets. What do you think would have happened if the merchant’s little lass hadn’t managed to get him out of the Academy when she did? We’d have had the accursed Archmage down on us by now—that’s what. And now that little turd Parric has betrayed our whereabouts to some stinking foreign spy. If you were any kind of leader, you’d be putting the interests of your own folk first, for that’s how we Nightrunners have always prospered. You mark my words, if we get mixed up with the bloody Magefolk and their disputes, then nothing but trouble will come of it. I should know—I damn near lost my ship the last time I had a Mage on board.”

“Why, you bloody-minded, shortsighted old fool,” Remana began wrathfully, but her voice was drowned by a chorus of protests, presumably from the other Nightrunner captains, who seemed to agree with Idris’s tirade. Zanna recognized Gevan’s voice and, seething with rage, was just about to burst in and tell them what she thought of them, when the sound of Yanis’s voice made her pause with one hand on the door.

“Have you quite finished, Idris? Then it’s my turn to speak.” Though the smuggler leader did not shout, his tones were forceful enough to halt the general clamor. “Have the Nightrunners really turned into a bunch of whining cowards?” he demanded. “Have you all skulked here, safe in your burrows, for so long that you’ve forgotten the courage and daring for which we are renowned? I’m ashamed of the lot of you! Had my father still been alive, he’d have had you thrown into the sea for shark bait, for at least then you’d be some use in the world! What the Archmage is doing imperils us just the same as it threatens those who fled to us, or those still in Nexis, or the rebels in the Vale. If we just sit here on our backsides and do nothing, how long do you think it will be before he discovers us—and what chance will we have when he does? I tell you, if we don’t join with our allies now to make an end of him, then he’ll finish us, soon or late. Miathan has already taken our livelihood—next it’ll be our lives, and those of our children. Now, I don’t want to hear any more of this griping and coward’s talk. We’re going to help the Lady Aurian, and there’s an end to it. That’s the only way we can still hold our heads up and be proud to call ourselves Nightrunners!”

A stunned silence greeted his words; then, one by one, the captains began to call out their agreement—all save one.

“You damned young fool,” Idris roared. “You’ll get us all killed!” But save for Yanis’s mate Gevan, he no longer had any support within the chamber. Zanna drew back from the door into the shadows, lest the disgruntled captain should come storming out, but she was still close enough to hear him speak.

“Well, if that’s how you all feel about it there’s nothing more to be said. Let this idiot lead you to disaster if you will—but I’ll tell you one thing: I’m not carrying any bloody Magefolk or stinking foreigners on my ship!”

“That you won’t,” Yanis agreed heartily. “Because it’s no longer your ship, Idris—it never was. As well you know, all our vessels are Nightrunner property, and if you don’t have balls enough to join this venture, then it’s high time you retired and let a younger man step in. I’m giving your command to Tarnal—and that decision stands, whether you change your mind about the Magefolk or not.”

“Why, you—”

Zanna heard the sound of a scuffle and leapt forward, her heart in her mouth—but was forced back into her hiding place by the emergence of two men grasping the ranting old captain between them. They never saw her as they bore him away. She was forced to wait until the other captains had emerged behind them, some agreeing heartily with their leader’s actions, others, usually the older men, shaking their heads in doubt.

As soon as they had gone, Zanna rushed into the chamber. Yanis, looking very white, was seated near the fire, with Remana staunching the blood from a long shallow cut along his jaw. Tarnal, plainly shaken, stood nearby, turning a jagged knife over and over in his hands. “You know,” he said, “Idris certainly meant to kill you. It’s a sorry thing, but the old man’s mind has turned. You’ll have to keep him under lock and key from now on.” Then he looked up at the sound of Zanna’s footsteps, and his face brightened to see her.

“Tarnal, I heard,” she cried, running to embrace him. “Your own command! What wonderful news!”

Remana looked at her sternly. “Zanna, were you eavesdropping?”

“Yes, I was,” Zanna replied unrepentantly, “but only because you left the door open. I heard the voices as I was passing. How soon will the ships leave, Yanis? Will Tarnal be going?”

Yanis gave her a quelling look. “What’s it got to do with you?” he demanded. “This is Nightrunner business, girl, and—”

“Because I’m going too,” Zanna interrupted him firmly.

“That you are not!” The smuggler leader leapt to his feet. “I’m not taking you anywhere! Didn’t you get into enough trouble when you ran off to Nexis? You’ll stay right here, my girl, where you’re safe, and—”

“Zanna can go if she wants to.” Now it was Tarnal’s turn to interrupt. “Be sensible, Yanis—remember the courage she showed in Nexis, when she got Vannor out of the Academy.” He put an arm around Zanna’s shoulders and stared down his leader’s glare. “You can’t leave a dauntless lass like this at home, keeping house! She can go in my ship—with me.”

Seeing Remana nod her agreement, Yanis sighed in defeat. “Who’d be the Nightrunner leader?” he complained. “I tell you, anyone who wants the job can have it right now—except you, that is.” He pointed an accusing finger at Zanna. “The way you’re going, you’ll be running the place soon enough.” He shook his head ruefully. “Well, I had better go and see about getting the ships ready, for we sail on the morning’s tide—if that’s quite all right with you, madam.”

Zanna grinned. “Oh, it’s perfectly all right with me,” she told him happily.