David Weber - The Road to Hell

“We have to find Empress Varena,” Alazon said, dragging Relatha to her feet. “We can’t tell the Emperor yet, not till his life’s out of danger, but we have to tell the Empress and Razial and Anbessa. We have to tell all of Sharona. The Crown Princess is alive!”

They were the sweetest words ever spoken.

April 22

The Seneschal of Othmaliz lowered his field glasses with a wide, satisfied smile and the flames blazing out in the harbor shrank once more to a patch no larger than the palm of a man’s hand. The blaze consuming the Imperial Grand Salon was much nearer to hand, though not so near as to pose a threat to him, and far brighter. The Grand Palace’s gas mains had contributed so nicely to the unfortunate disaster.

The flames were really quite lovely, he thought smugly. It was a pity there’d been no opportunity to stretch out Zindel’s suffering, but one couldn’t have everything, and what he had was quite good enough, really.

The Uromathian Emperor had been most helpful, even if he was a crass, boorish man without a proper sense of retribution. And Faroayn Raynarg fully intended to repay him. At the moment, of course, the entire Order of Bergahl was as horrified, shocked, and surprised as anyone else in Tajvana! They had no idea how this could have happened, how an attack could have slipped past the Calirath’s highly trained armsmen and security staffs! But, equally of course, they would be eager to aid in determining how this heinous crime could have been committed. So would the highly trained Imperial Uromathian Police. And in the course of their investigation, they would produce a dead “Arcanan agent” with secret orders written in the Arcanan language on his body, orders instructing him to murder the Imperial family of Sharona.

The yammering pack of fools who were even now doubtless sobbing in anguish would be so grateful to the Uromathian for “saving” them, he’d end up ruling in his own right. Whereupon the Seneschal would have restored to him what was rightfully his. Chava Busar’s sons wouldn’t get to bed the imperial heiress or produce an imposter, but that didn’t concern the Seneschal in the least.

He’d hated that nasty hulking cow. She and that damned bird. She’d thought it was funny, watching him sweat in fear of that vicious predator on her arm. Ternathian Imperial falcons were big, mean birds that could tear a man’s face off. There’d been no way to feed it to the sharks alive like its owner, but he could always hope it had at least been crisped in the explosion.

He poured a celebratory glass of wine and sipped in genuine delight, visualizing the crown princess’ brief horror-but not, one could always hope, too brief horror-when she discovered what Chava’s shark Caller had summoned to meet her. He chuckled aloud at that thought and dipped up a spoonful of the prized Ylani caviar. He spread it on a crisp cracker, biting into the delicacy with gusto and sipping more wine. Ah, such simple joys were finally sweet, once more, without the bitterness of rancor and hatred on his tongue.

He was mentally planning the move back into his quarters in the Grand Palace when the door crashed open. He jerked around and snarled at Acolyte Raka, who was stumbling into the room, white-faced and shaking. Water dripped from his clothes onto the thick carpets.

“Your Eminence-”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed!”

Before he could snatch up something to throw at the intruder, the Acolyte gasped out, “I tried to stop them. I swear by Bergahl I did! They just tossed me into the ocean. I barely survived!”

“What are you babbling about?”

Before the shaking fool could answer, the door flew open again. Soundlessly.

Other acolytes sauntered into the room. But, no, they weren’t acolytes. They wore the garb of his own Order, and they were strong, obviously capable men…yet he didn’t recognize a single face.

Wineglass and caviar crashed to the floor as he whirled towards one of the chamber’s other doors, but he wasn’t fast enough. The men spread around the room blocking all exits-even the windows. He turned, tried to lunge for a weapon-

— and froze in place.

A blade protruded from his belly. A strange symbol was embossed on the pommel. Ever so slowly the Seneschal recognized it as a piece from the Arcanan replica weapon set he’d supplied. A rough twist tore it out of his gut and spilled more than wine on his fine rugs.

* * *

Drindel wanted more than anything in his life to run. The men with him were indubitably in Service to Uromathia, and they were worse than sharks. The Acolyte Raka, older in death than he’d seemed while alive, had at least stopped that awful neck bubbling.

Remarkably, few others had even noticed their entry. Drindel began to suspect the team he was with of boredom. Their Masker had covered their initial approach, but not even a Masker could pass a dozen men through the halls of the Seneschal’s residence without being seen. Their acolyte robes had gotten them through unchallenged, though, and the Masker could easily cover them once again if they left through the chamber’s windows and simply filtered through the ornate garden down to the shore of the strait. Drindel didn’t quite understand why Raka hadn’t raised the alarm or warned his fellow acolytes he might be pursued. Apparently it hadn’t occurred to him that they might be right on his heels. Perhaps he could be excused for not thinking that bit through, though. He hadn’t realized he was a dead man from the moment he’d stayed on the pleasure boat instead of joining the Talent-masked assault team who’d climbed the ropes up the side of the Peregrine and proceeded beyond the range of the Masker’s focused Talent, but he’d probably caught on pretty quickly when one of the other Uromathians kicked him over the side for the sharks.

Who had somehow missed devouring him…among others.

Drindel had been distracted in the slow transit back to dock. Monsters he didn’t know were devouring his sharks, and it had taken every bit of his ill-used Talent to conceal the failure from the Masker. Many, many sharks were fighting for their lives even now in that teaming deep-water channel of the Ylani Strait. He took up the field glasses from the dead Seneschal’s table and examined the surface of the water more closely. The flickering bits of charred boat debris didn’t interest him. Only the fins mattered. Drindel desperately wanted to know what was eating his sharks.

The glasses weren’t good enough and the night was too dark. He couldn’t make out enough in the waves-not beyond the reach of the fires which were finally dying, at least-to guess at the fight under the surface. But the search effort was all wrong. In fact, one of the two destroyers had obviously abandoned the search entirely. It was headed back into port-at a speed which was dangerously high in such crowded waters-and Drindel’s heart skipped. He could only think of one reason an Imperial Ternathian destroyer wouldn’t still be scouring the water for survivors.

We missed the princess . That was his first thought. They’re going to kill me, was the second.

“Boy!”

A gruff voice called him away from the ocean disaster. It was the Masker, and Drindel made himself set the glasses down as steadily as he could. They didn’t know the sharks hadn’t finished off all the Peregrine ’s survivors-not yet, at least. They couldn’t know yet, and Drindel did his very best to calm his panic.

“Sir,” he replied as respectfully as he knew how. He still didn’t know any names, and they’d refused the offer of his own. He regretted very much now that offer of his own name.