The Cipher Read online

  Praise for the Novels of

  Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Path of Blood

  “Excellent characterizations, intriguing political maneuvering, and some fascinating battle scenes, both mundane and magical, make this sword and sorcery tale a must-read for fans of Katherine Kurtz’s Deryni Chronicles.”

  —Midwest Book Reivew

  “A glorious conclusion…many surprises and plot twists…some so delightfully shocking and incredible that they will stun the reader as they are cleverly worked into the book…. This is just part of the charm of Path of Blood, an entertaining and magical tale written by great world-builder Diana Pharaoh Francis.”

  —SFRevu

  Path of Honor

  “A stubborn, likable heroine.”

  —Kristen Britain, bestselling author of First Rider’s Call

  “Well plotted and exhibiting superior characterization, [Path of Honor is definitely a worthy sequel.”

  —Booklist

  Path of Fate

  “Plausible, engrossing characters, a well-designed world, and a well-realized plot.”

  —Booklist

  “I thoroughly enjoyed Path of Fate by the talented Diana Pharaoh Francis and look forward to more of the adventures of Reisil and her goshawk, Saljane.”

  —Kristen Britain

  “This is an entertaining book—at times compelling—from one of fantasy’s promising new voices.”

  —David B. Coe, award-winning author of Seeds of Betrayal

  “In this delightful debut, Diana Pharaoh Francis caught me with a compelling story, intrigued me with the magic of her ahalad-kaaslane, and swept me away with her masterful feel for the natural world.”

  —Carol Berg, author of Flesh and Spirit

  Other Novels

  by Diana Pharaoh Francis

  Path of Blood

  Path of Honor

  Path of Fate

  THE CIPHER

  A NOVEL OF CROSSPOINTE

  Diana Pharaoh Francis

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:

  80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN: 1-4295-5596-3

  Copyright © Diana Pharaoh Francis, 2007

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For Tony, always and forever

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  I’ve had some of the best fun in my life writing this book, and there were a lot of people who helped me. In particular, Alex Zecha, James Fraylor, the crew of the Lady Washington, Megan Glasscock, my friends at the Roundtable, and Lucienne Diver. And at Roc, my amazing editor, Liz Scheier, and copy editor extraordinaire, Michele Alpern, and all of those whom I’ve not met, but helped me make this a book and get it out to readers.

  Additionally, there are places in life you cannot go and things you cannot do without the support of others. I couldn’t be a writer—I couldn’t be sane—if it weren’t for Tony, Quentin, Sydney, my parents and the rest of my (lunatic) family, Megan, Kenna, Christy, and many friends who I know in person and in cyberspace. And most importantly, I couldn’t do this if readers like you didn’t pick up my books and pass them around.

  I know readers will want maps, glossaries, and other fun information about the ongoing tales of Crosspointe. Come visit my Web site at www.dianapfrancis.com for all that and more.

  Thank you to all, and I hope you enjoy.

  Chapter 1

  There were some days that deserved to be drowned at birth and everyone sent back to bed with a hot brandy, a box of chocolates, and a warm, energetic companion. Today was without question one of those days.

  The cutter lurched over the chop, shimmying from side to side in a stomach-twisting quadrille. Rain pebbled the deck and sails. Water sheeted across the bow and swirled around Lucy’s feet, too great a flood for the scuppers to handle. Her socks were soaked and she could hardly feel her toes. She ought to have had her boots majicked against the weather like her cloak. But it was a bit more majick than she could take.

  Cold eeled deep inside Lucy. Her insides quaked with the penetrating chill and her muscles clenched against it. She tightened her arms around her stomach, wishing she’d eaten a better breakfast and thinking longingly of her forgotten flask of tea.

  A few minutes later she heard a shouted “Heave to!” Sailors scrambled up the shrouds to reef the handful of bellied sails. The men at the poles dug sharply into the churning water as the cutter heeled to starboard.

  “Sorry, ma’am! Weather’s too heavy. Can’t take you all the way in to shore. We’d be swamped or bilged. Gotta put you ashore on the arm.”

  The mate didn’t wait for her response, which was just as well. She ground out a string of epithets. She ha
d plenty in store. She’d grown up on the docks among people who lived too close to the edge of life to be bothered with hoity-toity manners. Or any manners at all. She rubbed her cold fingers over her cheeks and pressed them against her mouth to stop the torrent. She was on duty. She had the reputation of the customs office to think about. Not to mention her own. She didn’t need witnesses to her fears. Which were entirely irrational. But knowing that did not settle her stomach or loosen the tension that shook her hands.

  The deck dropped and the cutter yawed sickeningly to the side. Lucy gasped and grappled a bench for balance, her feet sliding. The sailors shouted and clung desperately to the rigging. The boat rolled to the other side. She sucked in a harsh breath, bracing against the wall, her legs spread wide. The wash of black waves sounded hungry and loud above the rush of the wind. Clamping down on the whimpers crowding her throat, she bit her lips together so that she tasted blood. She jeered silently at herself, hoping everybody was too busy to notice.

  She straightened with an effort, clinging to the back of the bench. The cutter righted itself again and continued its lurching way. Lucy’s gaze flicked to the strand of wards glimmering like green pearls beyond the mouth of the harbor. The Pale. Their glow didn’t quiet her nausea. Just because in four hundred years the fence of tide and storm wards had never failed to keep sylveth out of the harbor, it didn’t mean that today couldn’t be different. And Lucy didn’t want to be in the water when it happened. Not that the cutter offered safety against sylveth. Nothing did.

  She shivered and her throat jerked as she swallowed. She’d seen for herself what raw sylveth could do. She closed her eyes against the memory. But she couldn’t halt it any more than she could stop the storm.

  The day had been fine, the black sands sparkling in the sunlight, the air redolent with spring. Ten-year-old Lucy and her family were on a picnic during one of their few summer retreats. Robert had been teasing her again. She stalked off, leaving all three of her brothers in peals of laughter. She didn’t know how far she walked. She only remembered coming around a jut and stumbling over something soft and sticky.

  She had stared at it for long moments, unable to decipher what it was she was looking at. Then a hollow sound slowly filled her ears. Grains trickled past as she stood, unable to tear herself away, recognition creeping over her with insect feet.

  It was sylveth spawn, born of majick. Whether it had originally been human or animal or something else entirely, there was no way to tell.

  Its skin was cratered and spongy, its gray expanse dotted with weeping protuberances. A ten-foot tentacle with orange suckers all along its length erupted from one side of its jellied mass. On top was a turgid frill, fanning across the surface like tree fungus. It smelled like rotting potatoes, burnt fish, and hot butter. The entire length of the creature jerked and twitched as if something inside were trying to escape. More ghastly than anything Lucy could have dreamed of—it was breathing. It might once have been a piece of ship debris, a horse, or even something as prosaic as a laundry tub. Or a sailor who’d fallen prey to a sylveth tide.

  In its raw, unaltered form, sylveth wormed through the Inland Sea in silvery skeins of destructive majick. Whatever it touched it changed, and rarely for the good. The Pale was the only thing that kept Crosspointe safe from its warping. But the sylveth sent regular reminders to wash up on the beaches so that no one ever forgot the danger lurking in the sea.

  When she could convince her legs to respond, Lucy had run. Ever since that day, she hated sylveth, even worked sylveth that the majicars promised was safe enough to handle. If it wasn’t, they said, the Pale would never let it through. But there were centuries of gossip and rumor that argued otherwise. About babies turning into giant insects and tearing apart a herd of cows, about houses walking off with the families inside, about rugs transforming into rabid flying creatures and hunting farmers in their fields. Fireside tales to frighten children. Everybody knew it. Almost everybody. Lucy’s gut refused to believe it. Not that what she thought made any difference. Worked sylveth was the most valuable commodity Crosspointe had to export; it was one entire leg of the three-legged stool making up Crosspointe’s economy. Being in customs guaranteed she not only had to be near it; she had to handle it.

  Lucy fingered the pendant hidden under her clothing. Even if she hadn’t been a customs inspector, she was a Rampling—and loyal down to the toenails. Before she was three minutes old, the crown majicars had put a sylveth cipher around her neck. Every Rampling got one, made of the strongest protective majick available. A shield, a badge, a brand, a collar—it couldn’t be removed, not by anyone, not even her. The only thing worse than the pendant against her skin was letting anyone else see it.

  Her hand dropped to her side. In Crosspointe, it wasn’t the sylveth you had to be afraid of; it was the spells that were attached to them. She eyed the frothing waves. She hated sylveth. But somehow, unbelievably, stupidly, she still craved…

  She didn’t dare finish the thought.

  The crew rowed closer to the quay, singing a rhythmic chantey in time to their strokes. The cutter bucked and pitched. She watched as a seaman climbed nimbly up on the rail. He stood swaying, a line caught in his fist. The prow swung toward the quay and he tipped forward in a headlong fall. Lucy caught her breath. But the fall turned into a graceful leap. He landed easily, spinning about to snub the mooring line around a waiting bollard. As the rowers heaved against the waves, the seaman hauled in the slack.

  At last the cutter jolted against the tarred hawser bumpers. The gate rail was lifted away and a plank tossed down over the last few feet. Seamen lashed it into place, though it bounced and slid loosely on the quay-side. The tide was going out, making it an uphill climb from the deck. Waves broke over the gangplank and the cutter heaved away from the quay. Lucy considered the narrow bridge skeptically. It might hold a half-grown child, but she was bigger than that—more like a well-grown horse.

  “Hurry! Can’t hold here long!”

  Lucy grimaced. She should have stayed in bed. The wind and rain slapped her face as she hesitated. Beneath the slender bridge, the water churned like black ink. On the other side, the seaman waited, holding out a blunt, rough hand. Two quick steps was all.

  She took a firm hold on her satchel, refusing to look down. She cautiously slid her foot out on the slick wood. As she did, the cutter yawed wide. She slipped, falling hard to one knee. The captain caught her under the arm, helping her up.

  “We’ll get you a safety line!” he shouted.

  “Never mind!” Lucy hollered over the wind, shrugging him off. She lifted the strap of her satchel over her shoulder and thrust herself onto the gangplank. It shimmied and drooped. Her bruised knee buckled as fire flared up her thigh. She flung herself upward at the seaman, snatching at his outstretched hand. He caught her fingers, his callused grip powerful. For a moment Lucy’s feet dangled over the water and then he swung her easily up onto the quay. Unmindful of her dignity, she stumbled and grappled a piling, her body quivering.

  He didn’t wait for thanks, but released the mooring line and sprang back aboard. The gangplank was hauled in and the cutter shoved off.

  Lucy pushed herself upright, hunching into the wind and shuffling toward the harbor terminal. Her cloak fluttered up and spume fountained across the walkway, soaking her uniform surcoat and trousers. She swore again, thinking longingly of her bed.

  She passed a host of vessels filling the slips lining the quay. They were mostly cutters, tugs, and lighters in the employ of the harbor or customs. They pitched from side to side, the lanterns hanging from the riggings winking like frenzied fireflies. A group of sailors trudged past Lucy, laughing and jostling one another. They moved in that rolling gait so typical of seamen, hardly seeming aware of the storm.

  Inside the anonymity of her hood, Lucy snarled at them for their calm indifference. But then, sailors spent most of their lives beyond the Pale. Lucy stumbled, her throat closing. Fools.

  She worked her wa
y up the quay to the harbormaster’s terminal. Stern-faced Hornets in charcoal uniforms trimmed in saffron and emerald guarded the entry. Lucy paused long enough to show her customs badge. They nodded and waved her on.

  She hesitated, turning to gaze out through the mouth of the harbor. Merstone Island rose mistily out of the ebony water like a sleepy ghost. Beyond were the vast black waters of the Inland Sea. She had a lot of friends out there. Her chest tightened. She did her best to avoid thinking about them. Else she’d chew her fingers to bits with constant worry. But in a gale like this…

  Unwillingly, she thought of Jordan. His ship ought to be coming in soon—she’d expected him more than a sennight ago. She frowned, her jaw jutting out in defiance against her sudden fear. He was an excellent captain. Few were better. He’d been sailing since he was a boy. He was too careful, too cunning to be caught by sylveth or any of the other dangers the Inland Sea had to throw at the ships that dared its depths.

  She tried to make herself believe it. But even the most brilliant captain didn’t have a chance when the sea unleashed its fury. Braken’s fury. Lightning flashed, sending jagged spears of white light across the entire sky. Her eyes closed against the knife-bright glare. Hard on its heels, thunder cracked. The air shook with the angry concussion. Lucy swallowed hard. And the sea god was pissed.

  Abruptly she spun about and headed for the doors. Once she was submerged in work, she wouldn’t be able to stew about Jordan or anything else. Besides, he was too arrogant, stubborn, and obnoxious to allow himself to be changed by sylveth. She allowed herself to take comfort in the thought, but promised herself she would strangle him if he let himself be hurt. He was, after all, her best friend. She had a right to beat him up for letting himself get into trouble.