But humans are not rats, Taliktrum, she thought, with a pleading quality she would never allow herself to voice. She could almost hear his laughing reply: True enough, Aunt. They're worse.
"… be still, Ormali boy, wake and be still. You hear me, do you not? Wake; and as you value your life, be still."
In the darkness, Pazel opened his eyes. He lay in his hammock among fifty other tarboys, slung about the stuffy berth deck like hams in a smokehouse. Reyast was sleeping two feet beneath him, and Neeps two feet above. Snores and wheezes drifted about the lightless deck.
But the voice was no dream.
It came from somewhere just behind his head. It was a woman's voice, but it had the same weird, thin sound as the voices from the hatch. The crawlies. They had found him already. Even if he had wished to disobey, Pazel was too frightened to move.
"Good," said the voice. "Now listen well, boy. I hold a sword at your throat. If necessary I will slash your great vein and put your own knife in your hand, and in the morning the crew will bury you at sea without a death-prayer, as a suicide. Your life hangs by a thread. At any moment we choose, anywhere on this ship, we can snap that thread. And snap it we shall, instantly, if you give us the slightest cause."
Then Pazel felt it: a hand, smaller than a squirrel's paw, taking a grip on his sleep-tussled hair.
"Nod if you understand," said the woman.
Shaking with horror, Pazel nodded. The hammock ropes creaked, and he stifled a gasp. They were all over him. Legs, arms, stomach, twenty or more crawlies, tense as cats. Some infinitely pale glow from the hatches let him see their sleek movements, their limbs bristling with strength. They held swords, daggers, spears. The tip of an unseen blade scratched just below his ear-impatiently, he thought.
A tiny bare foot slapped his forehead, then another his cheek, and suddenly Pazel found an eight-inch-tall woman facing him from the center of his chest.
He could barely see her, but he knew she was their queen. Some natural dignity informed the way she stood, legs slightly apart, facing him squarely and calmly above his hammering heart.
"You will not lie," she declared, sheathing her tiny sword. "We ixchel can smell it, the change that comes over a giant when he lies. I have no wish to kill you-indeed far from it. But the path I walk allows for no turning, no mistakes. Therefore I must kill you if you lie. Tell me: have you spoken to anyone of the voices you heard on the topdeck?"
Pazel shook his head no.
"See that you do not: they will be the last words you ever speak. Now explain how it is that you can hear us, our natural voices that no human ever could, as clearly as if we were bending our speech for human ears. And tell us how you come to know our language. Speak softly, and be brief."
Nothing was more difficult for Pazel, especially when he was nervous. He opened his mouth and shut it several times.
"Speak!" the woman hissed.
"A spell!" blurted Pazel. "But it goes all wrong!"
"Are you a mage, then?"
Again Pazel shook his head. "My mother," he whispered. "It was supposed to make you better at-whatever you're good at. I'm good at languages, so the spell made me perfect. But it's awful. It works, and I can speak anything-"
"Any tongue of Alifros?"
"Anything! Then it stops, and there's terrible noises, evil bird noises, I can't-"
"We warned you not to lie, Ormali!"
It was another voice, a man's. Pazel froze. The woman looked up sharply. The voice seemed to belong to whoever was drawing the blade up and down beneath his ear.
"Any tongue in Alifros," sneered the man. "The brat thinks we're simple. And he'll be right if we go on using our tongues in place of swords."
"Peace, Taliktrum!" said the woman angrily. But all the ixchel were muttering and shifting now.
The man's voice went on: "You saw how they singled him out in the Plaza. They're using him like a terrier, to root us out. They taught him Ix, all right-from prisoners in their jails. They're moving him from ship to ship. Wasn't he tossed off a boat two days ago? And then this brainless fib! Very well, witch-child, answer me: Art thou my bloodkin, lost to storm these sundering years? Shall I name thee brother?"
Some of the crawlies sniggered. The woman whirled in a rage to face them, raising her fist in some gesture of command. But Pazel spoke first.
"Name me what you like," he said. "Brat, or bloodkin, or brother. Just don't tell me you can smell lies. My mate Neeps can do that, but clearly you can't."
The laughter had stopped at his first word. Even the woman looked stunned. "And clearly your Gift is real," she said. "Unless any here believe this lad was taught Nileskchet, dead language of our ancient bards."
She paused: no one spoke.
"I thought not," she said, and there was cold fury in her voice. "Be gone, all of you. S'an order!"
They went, silent and abashed, nearly invisible still. Pazel was left with the tiny woman standing four-square on his chest. When they were alone, she startled him by folding her hands before her face as though praying. Her voice, when next she spoke, no longer rang with power. It sounded tired and uncertain.
"My name is Dri, Pazel Pathkendle. In full, Diadrelu Tammariken ap Ixhxchr. I am the leader of my people aboard Chathrand until my brother and co-commander joins us in Etherhorde. Trust me when I say that I regret these threats and suspicions."
"I do not trust you," said Pazel.
"Wise boy," she said, and laughed. "You're quite right. Don't trust. But what I say is true nonetheless. If they catch you during your mind-fit, you'll go to an asylum. Do you know what happens if they lay hold of us?"
"I know," he said, wincing at the thought. "But I'm not one of them. Arqual destroyed my home. I'm here to find my family, if they're still alive, and once I do I'll get us all out of this blary Empire forever, if I can. Honestly, I'm not like these people. I don't hate crawlies."
"Ixchel!" she said sharply. "Never use that other word. But hear me quickly, ere dawn comes. Evil is afoot, Pazel. This ship is bound for the west-to conclude a treaty of peace, they say. But in the capital some will board her with other goals, unspeakable goals, in mind. We are not even sure who they are. But they must not succeed."
Far above on the main deck, the ship's bell tolled. Diadrelu started. "I must go," she said. "We will meet again, when the ship's business in Etherhorde is done. Until then our own business is survival. Pazel, do not prove me a fool before my own people. Speak to no one of us. I do not threaten you. I beg."
Above him, Neeps muttered, half waking. As if aware that she had stayed too long, the ixchel woman leaped suddenly past his head, and Pazel felt her climbing the hammock rope.
"Are you going to drown us?" he whispered, suddenly frightened of her leaving. "Will you sink the ship at night, like the stories tell?"
The woman paused. "Nonsense," she whispered. "How could a few ixchel sink the mightiest ship in Alifros?"
"And those evil goals, ma'am? What are they?"
Her voice came from farther away; she was climbing again. "We have but guesses."
"Then tell me your guesses, won't you?"
He heard no answer at first, and thought she had gone. Then her voice came once more, from somewhere across the berth deck, and faint as it was there was no mistaking the word, or her dread as she spoke it.
"War."
From the secret journal of G. Starling Fiffengurt, Quartermaster
Imperial Mercantile Ship Extraordinaire CHATHRAND
[Reg. 4.0279/Ethrhrd]
under NILUS ROSE, by Order of His Supremacy Captain
and Final Offshore Authority
In this the year 941
Being the 28th of the reign of His Supremacy Magad V
Tuesday, 4 Vaqrin. We made good speed all the first night under a jeweler's moon, amp; the next day had merciful clear skies. Even with the headwinds tonight I will be surprised if we are six days in reaching the capital.
The old boat has never been more fit. I so state
d to the captain amp; 1st mate Uskins, amp; Capt. Rose said it was not for the quartermaster to offer casual opinions about the state of the vessel. At that the grackle-mouthed Uskins smirked amp; nodded. Rose spotted him amp; fairly blew his powder, ordering the "fatuous great fop" about his duties. I took care that my own face betrayed no satisfaction.
Of course, bad temper is no new affliction in Rose: when he commanded the Chathrand 12 years ago he flogged a man for hiccups. Yet something ails him, I think, amp; it is more than his combustible spirit. 'Tis only two days I've spent in his company, but already I sense his unease. When he came aboard with trumpets blaring, he walked up to me in front of the assembled officers amp; said the following, more or less:
"Mr. Fiffengurt. I know you wanted this captaincy, as you've served a good span of years on the Great Ship. But I have my commission in hand, double-signed by the ship's owners amp; the Emperor himself. I'm captain, and like as not you never shall be, now, for you're no spring chicken. This was probably your last chance. I advise you to chew on that unhappy fact as we cross Ellisoq Bay, and make your peace with it. And if you're not ready to serve me like any other man aboard, ship off in Etherhorde amp; seek another boat! Don't cross me, amp; don't try to curry favor with any man against me. Now give me your inventory."
With that he snatched my logbook, opened it amp; frowned. He said my penmanship was fussy amp; womanish, amp; gave Uskins the task of log-keeper for the voyage. I tried to look unhappy, but inside I rejoiced. Thirteen years I've kept those logs: thirteen years scribbling every cough of wind amp; blush of weather amp; blotch of ringworm in the crew. Never was I free to do as I shall henceforth: record my private thoughts. Here's to you, Uskins, you sow.
Of course, private notebooks are forbidden. Every word becomes the property of the Chathrand Trading Family as soon as you commit it to paper. That is why I write only in bed, like a naughty schoolboy, amp; hide this journal in a secret place.
How surprised Rose would be to know I never wanted his post! Indeed that I should have left the sea for good last year, amp; married one sweet Annabel, amp; joined her father's little brewery on Hoopi Street, if criminals from the thrice-damned Mangel Beerworks had not burned it to the ground. Now to help that good family recover I shall be three more years at sea. By Rin, there's no evil like profit-lust. Anni's dad brewed good ales: that was his crime. On the best of days he could not have sold a tenth as much as those scheming barons of beer.
At least I can be glad of this mission-proud of it, indeed. Bless the Emperor! Bless whatever wise men there be among the Black Rags our enemies (though Rin amp; his Angel are unknown to them)! This great work of peace will outlast us all, amp; if I have children amp; grandchildren with dear Anni (it is not impossible yet; not in three years, even), they shall brag a little about their daddy's part. Bless Rose, too: the Emperor named him to this task, amp; I must trust his reasons.
Capt. Rose still frowns when he sees me. But I do not take his abuse to heart. In every task he seems twitchy amp; distracted, as if thinking of some immense amp; immediate problem, a sea full of icebergs, plague among the crew. How strange, all this worry amp; anger, when only yesterday he spoke of joining the Brotherhood of Serenity.
I do hope that man Bolutu can help him; otherwise our captain will have hard sailing toward his goal. For they say monks of the Brotherhood purge themselves of all low emotions: they do not fear, or lust, or even weep at a parent's death. Above all they do not hate. In truth I cannot think of a less probable personality than Brother Nilus Rose.
Until yesterday I might at least have called him fearless. But this morning a thing happened that I should not have believed if any man aboard swore it by the milk of the One Tree. I had just finished the survey of our new sailors amp; brought the results to the wardroom for Mr. Elkstem's inspection. When I arrived Elkstem was away, but Capt. Rose stood alone at the back of the chamber, against the bulkhead, with a clutch of maps under his arm amp; the oddest look on his face I ever saw in a ship's commander.
"Fiffengurt," he said in a trembly voice, "come in here."
I did so. In the center of the wardroom table, the Lady Oggosk's pet, Sniraga, crouched on another map, looking sleepy amp; pleased with herself. She is a rascal of a cat amp; will bite you if you stroke her, but at that moment she was all sweet cream amp; purrs. Rose, however, looked at her as if at a black ship closing fast with a deck full of buccaneers. He raised his hand amp; pointed at the animal.
"That devil!" he said. "I didn't see it come in!"
"Yes, Captain," says I. "Cats are a race of sneaky-boots, all right. Quiet as you please."
"It's blary well not quiet now! What's it saying, Fiffengurt?"
I own I gaped at my own captain. "Saying, sir? That's purring, that is. Cats do that when they're glad to see you, sir."
"That damn bloodthirsty snaggle-fanged feline has no cause on earth to be glad to see me!" he roared. "Or to presume to use that tone, to threaten…"
His eyes had not moved from the red cat, who looked set to roll on her back amp; have her belly rubbed. I stood there like a mute. I knew that when the Capt. came to his senses he'd likely punish me just for witnessing him in this silly state. By Rin, it was weird! I didn't know what to say.
"Cats are curious, sir" was all I came up with.
"Get it out of here, Fiffengurt," said Rose, who still had not moved an inch.
"Oppo, sir. Shall I ask Lady Oggosk to confine the pet to her cabin?"
"Just remove it-chase it-get it out of my sight!"
I poked the animal in the ribs. She hissed at me, but shot right out of the wardroom. Then Capt. Nilus Rose shook himself amp; looked around as if waking from a dream, amp; asked what the blazes I'd come for.
Thursday, 6 Vaqrin. Not much time for you tonight, good journal! Four of the new tarboys will have to be jettisoned in Etherhorde: two brawling already over somebody's candy, one green with seasickness, the last wetting himself in his sleep like a babe, which cannot be tolerated where hammocks are slung one above the next.
So many errands in Etherhorde. We need new keys for the gate between the first-class compartments amp; the rest of the ship-the Money Gate, as my boys are already calling it. And we shall need a piano-mender: the daft steward in the first-class lounge unbolted the fixtures to wax the floor amp; did not think to secure them as we left port. Naturally the first big swell launched the old upright- amp; various tables, chairs amp; spittoons-across the boards like logs in a chute. The piano fetched over with a noise like Doomsday chimes. Hours I would have spent with Annabel will be lost to this foolishness, but first-class children must be free to scamper behind their gate without fear of riffraff, and first-class gents must have their dinner music.
Saturday, 8 Vagrin. Glad I am to write these words. Etherhorde is in sight.
Battles with Smoke
9 Vaqrin 941
Pazel and Neeps raced headlong across the berth deck, leaping sea chests, dodging among hammocks, crates, scores of weary sailors. They had two hours' freedom this morning, after twelve in the dark and stinking hold, and they didn't intend to waste a second. The ship had docked at midday in Etherhorde, if the word from above could be trusted. Now confused rumors were passing from sailor to sailor, deck to deck. All Pazel could glean from their shouts was that something was happening aloft.
"They'll be bringing on that ambassador, I'll bet you," huffed Neeps as they reached the midship ladderway. "That's why we finally got scrubbed-deverminated, I mean. That's why we're in our new clothes."
They climbed, looking much alike now that their heads were shaven, and Neeps' turban confiscated. "Have you seen the ambassador's stateroom?" Pazel asked. "Dastu says it's really four rooms in one!"
"Five!" said Neeps. "I never told you, did I? Peytr snuck us in last night. There's the main room for sitting and eating and whatnot, with big paintings in gold frames, and a windup organ that plays three hundred songs, and leather padding on the walls to keep it warm. You can barely hear
the sea, mate! Then there's a cabin for Isiq and his Lady, and another for the girl-they say she's pretty, you know-and a washroom big enough for a bull, and a last tiny room made of glass, hanging right over the waves in the stern galleries, with a bed tucked under the window for your afternoon nap."
"Five rooms," said Pazel, shaking his head. "What on earth could he do with so much space?"
Neeps said he had an idea what the ambassador might do, but he had no chance to elaborate, for at that moment a tremendous noise rent the air. It was not the trumpet-blast they had expected; in fact it was like nothing they had ever heard: a gigantic screech, such as a tormented child might make if it were the size of an elephant. For a moment every other voice on the Chathrand fell silent. Pazel and Neeps gaped at each other. Then they began to climb even faster.
As they neared the topdeck the shouting of the men resumed, louder and more alarmed than before. Finally Pazel thrust his head through the No. 4 hatch into dazzling afternoon sun.
What he saw took his breath away. The ship floated just a few yards from shore, berthed in a clearing between two forests of masts that curved away endlessly north and south. This was the Royal Esplanade, the astounding deepwater channel cut right to the foot of the Emperor's Plaza of the Palmeries, from which hundreds of docks spread in long seaward-stretching fingers. Crowded tight about each of these bobbed every conceivable sort of ship: fighters, fishing-rigs, port gunners, signal-ships, lead-bellied oreships, sleek Noonfirth Javelans with their gryphon's-head bows, Opaltine merchantmen like floating teakettles, grizzled lunkets, porcelain-domed Nunekkamers, whalers, kelp-cutters, sloops. Farthest of all, on a blue slice of Etherhorde Bay, Pazel saw Imperial warships at anchor, served by the steady, ant-like crawling of transports.
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