The Seascape Tattoo by Larry Niven Page A

he said.
    â€œThis will only take a moment.”
    He nodded agreement.
    â€œNow,” Tahlia whispered.
    No one could have moved fast enough to stop what happened next. Drasilljah’s hair comb was fashioned as a carved shell, but actually of painted steel, its edge as hard as metal and as sharp as broken glass. She whipped it across Chastain’s throat so fast he hadn’t even a chance to blink. His eyes opened wide, and he fell, gagging and clutching at the wound.
    Tahlia held her breath. The next moment would tell the tale.
    The leader watched Chastain die on the deck, his heels drumming against the wet.
    He turned to Drasilljah and plucked the comb from her hand. “Nicely done,” he said. “I loathe traitors.”

 
    SIX
    Bad News
    Even before the guard arrived at his door, summoning him to the palace, Neoloth-Pteor knew that there was something terribly wrong. All night his sleep had been restless, filled with images of shadow creatures with bloody teeth.
    His had been a shallow repose, a transparent state partway between ordinary sleep and wakefulness. “Wizard’s Sleep” it was called, more efficient and effective than ordinary sleep, and one of the secrets of his power.
    The knock at his door roused him in waves, thinning the line between sleep and wakefulness. “Sorcerer! You are needed!”
    He rolled up, planted his feet on the floor, and stared at the wall. Neoloth could feel disaster looming, like a storm cloud crouching below the horizon, invisible but oppressive. It pressed against his head like a squeezing fist. The guards barely waited for him to dress himself, and they took him along the more direct corridor aboveground.
    Climbing the hill gave them sufficient elevation to hear and see for miles. Lights twinkled down there. A dog barked sharply. Voices drifted on the wind. Something was wrong, and word of it was spreading.
    The guards ushered him into the crown chamber. It seemed that the entire castle was awake. The queen sat rigidly upon her throne. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she had already been crying for hours. The smaller throne to her right, her daughter’s throne, had never looked so empty.
    Neoloth bowed deeply. “My queen,” he said. “How may I serve you?”
    â€œConceal yourself in the private chamber,” she said, voice urgent and strained. “Watch what occurs in the next hour. Advise me.”
    For the first time since he had been employed in Quillia, he reached out and took her hand. It was cool, and dry, and too thin, as if the substance between skin and bone were wasting away. She did not seem to consider his action a transgression and did not pull away from him.
    â€œGo,” she said, indicating a heavy red curtain behind the throne. He stepped quickly to conceal himself behind it, and found himself in a chamber just large enough for a single chair. A section of the curtain at face level was thinned enough for a man who pressed his face against it to see the throne room while remaining unseen to supplicants approaching the queen.
    Neoloth waited.
    The door at the far end of the outer chamber opened. Three men were ushered in. They were tall and sun-darkened. They had spent time in the desert.
    Mercenary sorcerers who would sell their arts to the highest bidder. One of them glanced directly at Neoloth’s hiding place, as if he could see through the curtain. Then he looked away.
    â€œOh Great Queen. We bear greetings from the ruler of Shrike.”
    Yes. The kingdom north of Nandia, Princess Tahlia’s destination. A closed kingdom ruled by a despot. They traded goods, of course, but only with the most stringent of oversight, and their citizens traveled abroad less frequently than those of any of the Eight Kingdoms.
    Further, rumor had it that families never traveled together, wives and children acting as hostages against betrayal.
    This was very, very bad indeed.
    â€œWelcome to my kingdom, great