Grimschaw scowled, cleaning the blood from her weapon on the fallen creature’s striped fur. “Very likely. They have thousands of gods. I can’t be expected to know all their ridiculous beliefs.”

  Some scholar and devotee of secret knowledge she’d turned out to be. Rodrick felt around until he found the necklace’s clasp, then unhooked the chain, removed the medallion, and put it in his pack. Maybe it was valuable, or even magical, though it obviously wasn’t a medallion of protection against ice. Or machetes. He patted down the creature, but it didn’t have any weapons or coins or keys or maps or letters explaining its exact relationship with Nagesh. Did weretigers ally themselves with rakshasas, or let rakshasas dominate them? Or did Nagesh and this hunter have some other relationship, like membership in a shared cult? The weretiger had said “we,” which suggested it wasn’t a lone agent.

  To distract himself, Rodrick said, “I don’t suppose you’re religious. You Arclords have only one god, don’t you? The wizard Nex.”

  “Nex was better than a god, he was—” She stopped abruptly. “I’m not an Arclord.”

  “No, no, I misspoke. An Arclord wouldn’t have needed a knife to kill this poor creature. She would have opened her third eye and projected a blast of mystic mind-energy, or something. You’re a devoted servant, though, aren’t you? If Nex were a god, you’d be a priest—not a high priest, but one of the lower levels who gets the work done and keeps the shrines polished—but since Nex was a wizard, and not a god, you’ve got no one to pray to. You aren’t a magic-user yourself, though? No mastery of the arcane? You didn’t spend time studying in—oh, what’s it called, the magical college in Absalom? The Obfuscatorium?”

  “The Arcanamirium. And, no. My interest in the arcane extends only to ancient texts. I’ve told you, I’m a collector. There are many who come from Nex who have nothing to do with the Arclords. They’re not even the leading faction in the country anymore.”

  Rodrick snorted. “A collector. You spirited me out of the city in a smuggler’s wagon, which I noticed was not stuffed with rare volumes of forgotten lore, then abandoned said wagon without regard for its contents. You have mysterious ‘friends’ elsewhere on the island, apparently with a ship. Am I to believe you’re a group of devoted lovers of ancient manuscripts, then? With the resources to field a secret expedition to Jalmeray for the purpose of stealing what looks remarkably like a treasure map, marked with the same symbol I saw flapping on an Arclord ship during my journey to the island?” He’d finally remembered where he’d seen the eye inside a triangle before, and it only served to cement his suspicions. “Forgive me if I’m skeptical, Grimschaw. I tell lies for a living. You clearly do not, or you’d be better at it.”

  She rounded on him, glaring. “Who I am and what my purpose might be don’t matter. We have an agreement, don’t we?”

  “Get me on a ship and safely back to Absalom, or some other friendly port, and the map is yours.”

  She narrowed her eyes and touched her weapon. “I’ll take you to the ship, and send you on your way, but you’ll give me the map before you depart.”

  Rodrick shook his head. “You have no strength in your negotiating position, I’m afraid, so stop posturing. I’m not going to trust you or your people. A lot of bad things can happen on the open water. Get me to a foreign port, ideally Absalom or points north, and the map will be yours, and not before—that will be an incentive for you to make sure I have a pleasant and uneventful journey.” He looked at the corpse of the weretiger. “But in case you’re thinking you can sneak up on me unawares, as this beast did, just remember—I’m going to be keeping my eye on you, and on those occasions when I need to sleep, Hrym will be ever watchful.”

  “Hmm?” Hrym said. “Oh. Right. Be good or I’ll shoot icicles through your face.”

  Grimschaw took her hand from her blade, turned her back, and began marching through the trees again.

  “Do you have to antagonize her?” Hrym said, almost quietly. “Usually you try to charm women. You were even nice to that sorcerer with the parasitic twin growing out of her back last year.”

  “Ah, Zaqen. She was a lively conversationalist. A shame she turned on us. I actually quite liked her, aberrant blood and all. But Grimschaw … Some people are immune to charm. Trying to flirt with them is like pouring water onto desert sand—they just soak it up and give you nothing back and don’t change a bit themselves in the process. She’s a woman on a mission, and keeping us alive is a necessary step. Keeping us happy isn’t.”

  They walked for hours in silence, and weren’t attacked again, though a few times they paused and waited for large things moving nearby to leave the vicinity. At one point, Grimschaw stopped, turned toward them stiffly, and said, “You did save my life from the weretiger. I realize that. I am … grateful.”

  “The pleasure was mine,” Rodrick said.

  She nodded brusquely, turned, and continued on, slashing with her machete.

  Rodrick pondered whether the thanks were sincere. Expressing gratitude had certainly seemed to pain her, which pointed toward its authenticity, but maybe she was trying to lull him, and make him relax around her. But why? A woman armed with a spear and a knife, even a very big one, was no match for Hrym, and Hrym would be watching over him even if he did let his guard down. Rodrick decided vigilance was still the safest bet, even though being on alert all the time was exhausting. Especially as the day faded toward evening, and the jungle filled with flickering shadows the mind could use to conjure any imaginable danger.

  Rodrick was no tracker—he could get around in a city, but forests and jungles were not his milieus—but even he could discern that they were finally following a path of sorts, instead of just hacking their way through, and Grimschaw seemed to know where she was going. He tried to take comfort in someone else’s certainty, but he vastly preferred his own, which wasn’t available at the moment. Eventually they emerged into a small clearing, where a wooden cabin was halfway through being devoured by the forest—its roof was drifted with leaves, and one wall looked to be held up entirely by a net of tangled vines.

  “I’ve camped here before,” Grimschaw said. “We should be safe for the night.” She went into the structure, and after a moment, Rodrick followed. It was in little better repair inside, but the floors had been swept clear of debris and there was a lantern resting on an overturned half-barrel.

  He propped Hrym in the corner, then put his back against the most solid-looking wall and sat down, legs aching from the long walk. His trousers were stained green with sap—plant’s blood. Ah, well. Better than human blood. Or tiger blood, for that matter.

  Grimschaw opened her pack and removed a few edible odds and ends—round rolls of bread, dried fish and meat, a block of waxy orangeish cheese. Rodrick sighed as she grudgingly passed him a meager portion. “I ate much better in the thakur’s palace,” he said around a mouthful of terribly dry bread.

  “Then you shouldn’t have tried to murder the man.”

  “That’s vile slander. I didn’t try to kill anyone. What happened was … halfway between an accident and an escape attempt.” Grimschaw had thanked him for saving her life, so he thought he might as well extend the hand of camaraderie to her as well. “The thakur’s advisor, Nagesh, tried to force us to commit a killing for him, to murder some rajah who’s visiting the palace soon. He wanted Hrym to ice the man, so he could blame it on foreign agents, that sort of thing. Nagesh promised us rewards and freedom after the job was done, but he was certainly lying, and anyway, we might not be honest, but we’re not murderers. We were pretending to go along with the plan, biding our time until we could escape, but we, ah … made a mess of things, and left in greater haste than I’d intended. And with more pursuit.”

  Grimschaw cut a slice of cheese and chewed it thoughtfully. “Vudrani politics are complex, but the thakur doesn’t have a reputation for cutting throats to advance his ends. Manipulating people into cutting each other’s throats, possibly, but hiring a foreign killer is a new direction for him.”

  “The assassination probably wasn’t the thakur’s idea,” Hrym chimed in. “Most likely it was all Nagesh’s idea. He’s a rakshasa, you know.”

  Grimschaw let out a low whistle. “One of the thakur’s chief advisors is a rakshasa? Are you sure? Information like that could be very valuable to the right people.”

  “Sell it to whomever you like,” Rodrick said. “Consider it a gift. Though feel free to pass along a finder’s fee if you discover a buyer.”

  “I don’t know much about the creatures,” she said. “Just that they’re fiends, exiles or invaders from another plane of existence, and their very natures embody treachery. Are you sure it was a rakshasa and not something more mundane? Another weretiger?”

  “When Nagesh was hurt, and let his illusion drop, I saw he has a snake’s head,” Rodrick said. “Are there were-snakes? There are those stories of an ancient empire of serpentfolk—but Nagesh has backward hands, just like the rakshasas in storybooks.”

  “Hmm. Interesting. But evidence of rot in the thakur’s court is no concern of mine.”

  “I’m sure it will delight your masters the Arclords, though.”

  Grimschaw rolled her eyes. “You sing the same song over and over, don’t you, Rodrick? Learn a new one.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a deck of cards? Dice? Any interest in carnal—no, no, never mind, I can’t imagine either one of us would have much fun doing that. Well, in the absence of ways to pass the time, I think I’m going to sleep.” The light was nearly gone anyway, purple deepening to black. “Hrym, keep an eye on her, in case she tries to murder me.”

  “I suppose you’ll expect me to stop her, too,” Hrym said. “Honestly, the demands you make.”

  Rodrick wrapped himself in the cloak of the devilfish, tried not to think about insects burrowing into his brain and laying eggs, and drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  Rodrick was having a lovely dream, making love to the captain from the voyage to Jalmeray, except this time she had four arms like a Vudrani deity, and she knew how to use every one, caressing his chest with one while the others—

  He opened his eyes to blackness, and there was still a hand reaching into his shirt. He grabbed the wrist, and something struck him in the cheek hard enough to make him loosen his grip. “Hrym!” he croaked.

  “Your sword can’t help you.” Grimschaw’s voice was low and, for once, amused. “Look.” Light bloomed, blinding him, but he blinked until they adjusted, revealing a globe of light bobbing over Grimschaw’s head. She had the map clutched in one hand, and the machete in the other, blade angled perfectly to chop down onto his neck. The two of them were covered by a glittering dome of bluish light. Hrym was still propped in the corner of the shack, outside the dome, and by all appearances doing his very best to rescue Rodrick, with his spears of ice striking the dome and shattering soundlessly.

  Grimschaw smirked. “We’re surrounded by layers of force that should hold off Hrym’s attacks long enough for me to finish my business. Oops—I actually am a wizard. Though not an Arclord—I wouldn’t have put up with your nonsense even this long if I had the powers of my masters. But I’ll be among their ranks someday, especially when I deliver this.” She rattled the map at him.

  “You had me entirely fooled.” Rodrick wished his voice weren’t still such a croak. He preferred to wake up slowly, with lots of languid stretching and then a nice breakfast before he was expected to talk himself out of certain death. “I suppose we’ll be going our separate ways, now. It’s a shame. I’m sure if we’d met under better circumstances we would have been bosom friends.”

  “I’m going to chop off your head,” she said. “You can’t be allowed to live, Rodrick. You’ve seen the map—you could find the Scepter of the Arclords now, or try, and I don’t intend to let that happen. Hrym can cover your corpse in a coffin of ice, if he likes, until he rusts away to nothing in this vile land.” She raised the machete.

  17

  Friendless

  Before Grimschaw could behead him, Rodrick activated the cloak of the devilfish.

  Seeing through the creature’s eyes wasn’t like seeing through his own, but he was still gratified by her expression of alarm when a lashing tentacle struck her across the face and sent her flying into her own magical barrier.

  Sharing an enclosed space with a ten-foot-long creature that weighed a quarter of a ton was unpleasant even if it wasn’t trying to smash you with hook-lined tentacles, so he was unsurprised when Grimschaw dispelled the barrier as she scrambled to her feet. She looked at him in horror, and then spears of ice shattered against the walls around her, Hrym’s bellowing battle cries—more like very emphatic complaints, really—suddenly audible.

  Grimschaw clearly decided escape was a better option than a magical duel with Hrym, and disappeared through a hole in the wall into the night. Rodrick transformed back into himself, not even gasping. Devilfish could apparently survive just fine without water to breathe, at least for a little while. That was good to know.

  “Rodrick!” Hrym said. “Are you all right?”

  “I am. Slightly poorer than I was a few minutes ago, but intact.” He got to his feet, looking into the darkness, and sighed. He doubted she’d attack him again—at least not immediately—but it would be safer to stay awake. He sat down beside Hrym. “She got the treasure map.”

  “Mmm,” he said. “Inconvenient.”

  “Let’s review,” Rodrick said. “We’re being pursued by weretigers sent by Nagesh, possibly members of some cult. We’re probably also being pursued by legitimate agents of the thakur, though I doubt Nagesh wants any of them to find us. We’ve lost our guide, and our way off the island. Said guide is an agent of the Arclords. Oh, and she wants me dead, too—she said she has to kill me because I’ve seen the treasure map, and I might be able to find something called the Scepter of the Arclords, whatever that is. She was chattier than usual, I suppose because she thought I’d be dead in a moment.”

  “Scepter of the Arclords,” Hrym said. “Have I heard of that before?”

  “You’d know that better than I would.” Sometimes Hrym knew strange things, information picked up over his centuries of existence, but his memory was a patchwork at the best of times. “I’m sure it’s something important. Worth killing for, anyway.”

  “People will kill for a piece of bread,” Hrym said.

  “True, but they won’t usually voyage in secret to an island controlled by a hostile empire to hire a thief to steal a map that leads to a piece of bread.”

  “That does seem like a lot of work for bread,” Hrym conceded. “So, now that you’ve outlined our current circumstances, friendless and alone in a foreign land, what do we do?”

  “Try not to die?” Rodrick said.

  “Yes. That’s always step one. Do we need to discuss our goals again? Do you want to get revenge on Grimschaw, or try to steal this Scepter of the Arclords?”

  “By all ten thousand gods of Vudra, no, I don’t. Then I’d have the Arclords after me, too. I want to get off this stupid island and forget I ever came here.”

  “Good boy. Then get some rest, and we’ll keep heading south. If all else fails, I’ll make a boat of ice and you can paddle us back to familiar shores. With a paddle made of ice, I’m assuming.”

  “That’s a terrible plan.”

  “Of course it is. I’m not the planner, I’m the muscle. But maybe the prospect of sitting in a freezing boat for days on the open sea will stimulate your planning glands.”

  “There’s no such thing as planning glands.”

  “How would I know that?” Hrym said. “The inner workings of fleshlings are mysterious to me.”

  * * *

  Apparently walking doesn’t stimulate the planning glands, Rodrick thought as they trudged through the jungle. They’d started walking at first light, and several hours later, they hadn’t been attacked or eaten, but they also hadn’t found anything to eat themselves. Grimschaw had gotten away with her pack, and though Rodrick still had his own, he’d come to the unpleasant realization that while gold was pretty, it wasn’t particularly edible. Perhaps some of the things in this jungle were. He saw what looked like fruit, sometimes, and berries, but they might well be poisonous. The only animals that came close enough for him to possibly spear with an icicle were small lizards the size of his palm, and he wasn’t hungry enough to risk eating one of those. Yet.

  “What’s the new plan?” Hrym asked, as Rodrick slashed a dangling vine out of the way with the blade. “Pfagh!” Hrym was still bitter about every drop of sap, even though, as a magical blade, he wouldn’t be marred permanently. He could just freeze the stuff, and it would crack and flake right off. Rodrick’s sympathy had been small to begin with and had shrunk steadily all morning.

  “The new plan is: Keep going south, like you said. Hope we stumble upon one of those hunting lodges Grimschaw mentioned. We’ve got a bit of gold, still, and we might be able to buy ourselves out of this mess.” Assuming the guides were honest folk, and wouldn’t try to leave Rodrick in a shallow grave—or feed him to giant lizards—while keeping his purse for themselves. “Failing that, we walk until we hit water and then head down the coast in whichever direction seems easiest. There must be fishing villages or something down there. A coastline means boats.”

  “I’m glad you’ve seen a map of this place,” Hrym said. “I’d hate to think we were wandering blindly.”

  Rodrick grunted. He’d seen maps on the voyage over, but he hadn’t paid attention to anything so trivial as scale, and the treasure map had hardly bothered with such niceties. Whether this jungle was a dozen miles across or a hundred, he couldn’t say. Moreover, he was only somewhat sure they were heading south. He’d been fairly certain in the morning—the light was clearly brighter in that direction, so that must be east, and he’d set their course accordingly—but he could hardly proceed in a rigorous straight line in this overgrown nightmare of a place. “If we get lost I suppose we can climb a tree—or better, you can conjure me a staircase of ice—and we’ll get above the tree line and look for the twinkle of water.”