Unhewn Throne 01 - The Emperor's Blades(65)

As he shuddered to catch his breath, Valyn realized that someone was looming over him, blocking out the light. Fane. Part of him had thought it might be Annick. The enormous trainer was shouting.

“What in ’Shael’s sweet name is wrong with you, soldier? How long have you been on the Islands?”

Valyn struggled to respond, but only managed to retch more water out onto the deck.

“I’m sorry,” Fane said, cupping a hand to his ear. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“Couldn’t … couldn’t untie the knot, sir.”

Fane snorted. “I concluded that all on my own when you failed to rise to the surface. Couldn’t untie a basic double bowline? Looks like the Light of the Empire has grown somewhat dim.”

That earned an appreciative chuckle from Sami Yurl.

“It wasn’t … wasn’t a simple bowline, sir,” Valyn managed. He didn’t want to sound like he was making excuses, but didn’t want Fane to think he was inept, either. The memory of that extra twist, of Amie’s bound hands, blackened and clenched into claws, gouged at his mind. Had she struggled like him in her last moments, trying desperately to scrabble her way clear of her captivity, to rip apart the rope and escape?

“Oh, I’m sure it didn’t feel like a basic bowline down there, not with water filling your mouth and shit loading down the seat of your pants, but I assure you,” Fane said, holding up a severed section of dripping rope, the knot still in it, “that this looks just like any other bowline I’ve ever seen.”

“There was more.”

“Annick,” Fane said, turning to the sniper. “Is this the knot you tied?”

She nodded, eyes like stones.

“This is the entire knot?” Fane pressed. “You didn’t do anything fancy that might confuse His Most Radiant Highness? He is easily confused.”

She shook her head.

Valyn tried to read the emotion in those unreadable eyes. Annick was lying. It was as plain as that.

“Not a good start to the morning,” Fane concluded, dropping the knot to the deck in disgust. “Not a good start at all. Annick, you’re next. Sharpe, Ainhoa, toss our fearless leader over the side and let him swim back to the island.”





16





Kaden glanced out the narrow window of the pottery shed. Despite the damp chill inside the stone structure that his rough robe seemed powerless to defeat, the sun had climbed above Lion’s Head to the east, illuminating Ashk’lan’s paths and buildings. It would be a pleasant day outside, young buds vibrant green against the deep blue of the sky, a fresh spring breeze gusting down off the summits, the sharp scent of junipers mingling with the warm mud. Unfortunately, the slaughtered goats and strange tracks outside the monastery had led to a change in routine, and the upshot of Scial Nin’s interdiction against acolytes working outside the central square was that Tan had moved Kaden from his outdoor labors and into the shed.

“You can finish taking your castle apart later,” the older monk had said, dismissing with a wave the structure Kaden had labored senselessly to build. “For now, I want you to make pots, broad and deep.”

“How many?” he asked.

“As many as it takes.” Whatever that meant.

Kaden stifled a sigh as he looked around the shed, eyeing the silent rows of ewers, pots, mugs, bowls, urns, and cups set carefully on the wooden shelves. He would have preferred to be out with the monks who were trying to hunt down the mysterious creature, not cooped up making pots, but what he preferred didn’t figure into the matter.

Kaden knew his way around pottery, of course. The Shin traded their earthenware along with honey and jam in the spring and fall to the nomadic Urghul, a barbaric people who lacked the skill or the interest to make such things for themselves. He usually enjoyed time spent in the shed, kneading the cool clay between his palms, conjuring the graceful shape of a cup or jar between his fingers as he worked the treadle with his foot. Given the events taking place, however, an assignment to work in the clay shed from dawn to dusk felt a little like imprisonment, and he found his mind wandering in ways that would have earned him a beating if Tan had been around to see. He even had to scrap several pieces for novice mistakes he hadn’t made in half a dozen years.

He was just about to take a break to eat the heel of hard bread he had tucked into his robe at breakfast when something darkened the window above him. Before he could turn, his mind filled with the saama’an of the slaughtered goat, brain scooped from its skull, and he reached for his belt knife as he rose from his seat. It was a ridiculous weapon but … there was no need. Akiil perched in the window, black curls backlit by the sun, a smirk on his face.