The Red wolf conspiracy tcv-1

by Robert V. S. Redick

  Winds NW amp; freshened considerably: seven knots at the strike of the noon bell. Still bearing south.

  Sunday, 28 Ilqrin. This morning Rose gave the order to bear west-finally. At a minimum we have plunged eighty leagues out of our way. To what purpose? the men demand, amp; I have no answer.

  Here's another oddity-one I'd nearly forgotten. Back in Etherhorde, Rose spared me the quartermaster's usual task of drumming up sailors to complete our crew: I was glad, for it gave me some last precious hours with Annabel. Mr. Swellows handled the recruiting, amp; he is ever keen to follow Rose's orders to the letter. How, then, did he end up signing so many Plapp's Pier men? They are capable sailors, certainly. But any fool knows the Great Ship's been crewed for generations by the Burnscove Boys.*

  I took care to sort Plapps amp; Burnscovers into separate watches, amp; to mix 'em with those who don't belong to either gang. So far there have been no brawls-yet they will come, sure as I write these words. Thasha Isiq amp; her prince may wed, Arqual amp; the Mzithrin disarm, but the holy war of Plapp vs. Burnscove will rage on so long as there are crates of fish to fight over.

  Wednesday, I Modoli. Apparently we have a maniac aboard. Last night by the No. 3 hatch someone attacked Hercуl Stanapeth, Ambassador Isiq's valet, amp; nearly succeeded in killing the man. He was struck a fierce blow to the head that left him briefly senseless. Next he knew, this attacker was making to hurl him over the rail. At the last instant the would-be killer groaned amp; stumbled, amp; rather than tossing Hercуl far out into the waves, he managed only to roll him over the side, where the valet's ankle caught in the mizzen-chains. The maniac then drew a knife amp; stabbed Hercуl's leg three times. But the valet, in most extraordinary fashion, kicked the knife out of the man's hand with his free foot-this while dangling upsy-downsy, bleeding from head amp; leg, amp; knocking like a landed fish against the hull.

  The surprise hero of the evening is none other than Mr. Ket, Liripus Ket, the chubby merchant who has been with us since Sorrophran. This quiet seller of Opaltine soaps came out on deck while the knifing was under way, faced down the maniac with a capstan bar amp; so battered him that the lunatic dived back down the hatch to escape. Mr. Ket's shouts brought sailors running, but not fast enough to apprehend him. For the moment he is on the loose. Even more alarming, he was masked: neither Ket nor Hercуl saw his face.

  Ket is an odd bird (he clears his throat with a sound like breaking timbers amp; fiddles nonstop with a tattered scarf) but obviously a brave one. We made him promise not to breathe a word about this business. "I wouldn't-CHHRCK! — dream of it, sirs." He'd better not. The men have already begun to mutter that perhaps Aken was helped overboard, amp; there have been dark glances at Mr. Swellows. We deck officers have been all day coaxing amp; threatening them into silence. Terror among the passengers is the last thing we need.

  Sergeant Drellarek's soldiers are even now discreetly searching the ship. But how shall we recognize the villain? Ket describes a man "of regular size," which rules out only the augrongs amp; Mr. Neeps. A full search of the four hundred riders in third class will start a bonfire of rumors that will never go out. And in any case those ragged souls were all locked below for the night.

  Who would murder a servant? I despise Mr. Swellows but cannot believe the old toad has the courage to kill. Isiq says nothing about Hercуl except that he is a grand person, well loved by all amp; tutor to Lady Thasha. He is Tholjassan, amp; they are a warrior people, but this Tholjassan is a mere servant amp; dancer. He cannot be rich. Why him? If the villain is after Eberzam Isiq, why attack the servant alone amp; apart? The crime makes no sense, amp; troubles me at some deep level I do not yet understand.

  Mr. Hercуl lost much blood before we fished him from the chains. He has not stirred these 27 hours, amp; I fear he may die before we reach Uturphe. The young Lady weeps at his side, amp; even seems a bit out of her head, calling for a certain Rawmanchy (?) although there is no one by that name aboard.

  Myself, I do not pray. The Gods have better means of deciding this world's fate than by taking requests from an old quartermaster. But skies! May the man live! One senseless death on a voyage is tragic. Two could mark the beginning of a curse.

  Could that be why I spared the rat?

  I feel quite silly, but here is what happened: six or eight days out of Ulsprit I climbed down to the mercy deck, looking for bootblack. Just past the foremast I saw a bilge-pipe with an ill-fitting cap, amp; when I opened it to set it right I found myself looking into the eyes of a black rat. Of course I made to smash the creature with my crowbar. What stopped me was the sight of his little foot.

  It was crushed. The beast had jammed it between pipe amp; lid, no doubt at the exact moment one of us slammed the lid home. The foot will never be a foot again, but it let enough air into the pipe to keep this plucky fellow alive. He was skinny amp; trembling-in that pipe for days, I'm sure. We gazed at each other, ratty amp; me, amp; before I could get over my shock amp; kill him he skedaddled away on his three good legs. I still could have slain him with the crowbar, but instead I found myself wishing him luck. What a ridiculous old softy you've become, Fiffengurt! Luckily I was quite alone.

  * Plapp's Pier and Burnscove are two port districts of Etherhorde. The gangs Mr. Fiffengurt mentions control most of the dock work in the city and are bitter rivals.-EDITOR. Granted, quite a few of our Burnscovers deserted in Sorrophran, perhaps (as Mr. Frix thinks) because they recall the first captaincy of Nilus Rose amp; would rather starve than serve under him again. But well over a hundred remain aboard.

  Good Intentions

  4 Modoli 941

  52nd day from Etherhorde

  Hercуl lay still as death. Thasha stood in the cabin doorway, watching Dr. Rain poke and prod her tutor for the hundredth time. He looked terrible: gray blotchy skin, new wrinkles about the eyes, streaks of dark blood that had run from his leg to his chin while he dangled upside down in the chains. He had not moved since the attack four nights before.

  Thasha had insisted that they bring him here, to her own chamber: it was warmer than sickbay, and the bed was a real bed, not a padded board dangling from ropes. But Rain was still the ship's only doctor. Thasha's anxiety grew the more she watched him shuffling about. He seemed a little mad. Talking to his instruments. Wiping his chin with a corner of her bedspread.

  "There now, dear." Syrarys glided breezily to her side and touched her arm. "Let the doctor do his work. And lend me your necklace a moment. Your brave Mr. Ket has given me some exquisite silver polish."

  Without a glance at the consort, Thasha removed her necklace and handed it over. They were making fast to Uturphe, supposedly. But when Thasha and her father pored over his old nautical chart (with its penciled ghosts of old war fleets, battle maneuvers, lines of attack) he showed her how far out of the way Rose had taken them. Whole days wasted, or so it seemed. Why didn't he speak to Rose about the detour? Thasha wanted to know. The old admiral's reply was stern: "Because he is the captain."

  Yet her father also declared that the winds were less favorable by the hour, and that they would be lucky to reach the city by tomorrow sunrise. Would Hercуl live that long? Thasha couldn't bear to consider the question. Instead, she turned her mind to revenge.

  Taking her diary and fountain pen from her room, she dropped into a grand leather chair by the fengas lamp, crossed her legs and wrote:

  What I Know:

  1. Someone tried to kill my best friend in the world.

  2. A soap merchant named Ket prevented it.

  3. The enemy is still on this ship-at least, until we land.

  She paused, chewing the end of her fountain pen. Then she scribbled quickly:

  1. Hercуl knew there were enemies around us.

  2. Hercуl was afraid when Pazel Pathkendle mentioned a language-Nileskchet.

  3. Everyone is talking about peace, but Prahba is afraid of war.

  That meant he and Hercуl were on the same side-for even though Hercуl was a great warri
or and served in an admiral's home, he loathed wars. So did Ramachni, of course. Once, when certain her father was not in earshot, the old mage had said: As sure as disease grows where filth lies unburied, so every war in history sprang from someone's carelessness or neglect."

  Ramachni would know what to do. But there was no chance of speaking to him with that dolt doctor running in and out of her cabin. She was on her own.

  She slid down in her chair.

  What I Want to Know:

  1. Who did it.

  2. Why.

  3. What's going to happen to that stupid boy, Pazel Pathkendle.

  4. Where Syrarys goes after dinner-it is NOT to the first-class powder room.

  5. How Hercуl and Ramachni planned to get me out of this wedding.

  6. Whether P. P. hates all of us or just Prahba.

  7. If P. P. has ever been-

  "Polished!" said Syrarys, draping the necklace around Thasha's neck. "Doesn't it shine!"

  Thasha grunted.

  "Is that your Mzithrini lesson, dear?" asked the consort, peering over her shoulder.

  "Why, yes."

  Puzzled, Syrarys drifted back to her needlepoint. Despite all her fears and worries, Thasha felt a moment's pride. She was writing in code: her own mad code, invented to outwit the Lorg Sisters. Odd words she spelled backward. Every third, fifth and seventeenth letter was a decoy, as were all the spaces and half the vowels; and of course the whole thing was read from the bottom of the page to the top. It was not the code itself she was proud of, exactly: rather it was that she could both read and write it at almost normal speed. That was the skill that had taken years.

  Were codes a kind of language, too? Would Pazel be able to read her diary as plainly as she could?

  And why on earth did she keep thinking of him? Hercуl's attacker was the one to concentrate on. She would find him, she promised herself. And the first person to speak to was Ket. Thasha slipped into her cabin, locked her diary away in her desk, glanced once more at Hercуl (he had not moved an eyelash) and left the stateroom.

  The ship was chilly and dark. Sailors tipped their hats as she passed. Mr. Ket was not in the dining room, and the lounge was empty but for Latzlo the animal-seller and the veterinarian, Bolutu. They were locked in an argument about walrus-hunting. Bolutu seemed to think one could run out of walruses; Latzlo said the seas could never be emptied. The very notion appeared to irritate him.

  "I know animals," he said, stroking his pet sloth with such force that its fur shed in a cloud. "Animals are my business. Do you think I would put myself out of business?"

  "A grocer may run out of cabbages and not close his store," said Bolutu.

  "I have no interest in vegetables!"

  When Thasha finally got their attention, they told her Ket was enjoying Smoke Hour on the forecastle. Thasha set off at once, climbing to the topdeck and running in the open air. The waves were taller now, and the wind had a bite. Away to starboard the gray mountains of Uturphe looked no closer than at noon.

  Smoke Hour was an arrangement for the third-class passengers, who were never permitted in the smoking salon. At dusk these poorest travelers were allowed to rent the use of a pipe on the forecastle. The fee was outrageous and the tobacco stale, but there is little an addict trapped in a cold, crowded ship will not agree to. This evening thirty men were busily puffing away: Smoke Hour in fact lasted forty minutes.

  How odd to find Mr. Ket among them: he was certainly no third-class traveler. He wore a sea-cloak with blue silk at cuff and collar, and a gemstone on his finger flashed red in the setting sun. Instead of a blackened rental pipe he had his own, fine water pipe of burnished brass. He stood by a starboard carronade, as far from everyone else on the forecastle as he could get.

  "Lady Thasha!" he said, bowing at her approach. "A very good evening to you!"

  "I'm afraid it isn't," said Thasha. "My tutor's dying, and no one seems able to help."

  "Poor man!" said the soap merchant, lowering his voice. "And what an ill omen for us all! Has he not woken yet?"

  "No," said Thasha. "But I'm grateful to you for saving him. You're very brave, Mr. Ket."

  "I had no time to be brave," he said, dropping his eyes. "I merely found myself acting."

  There was, Thasha saw now, one flaw in Mr. Ket's wealthy profile: a careworn white scarf, knotted tight about his neck. Something held on to from childhood, Thasha supposed: rich men had their quirks.

  "Can you tell me what happened?" she asked.

  Ket shook his head. "I beg your pardon, I cannot. Mr. Fiffengurt demanded my promise not to tell anyone of this ugly event."

  "I promised, too," said Thasha. "But surely he meant for us not to spread the story? Since we both know it occurred, there's no harm if we talk, is there?"

  The merchant hesitated, fussing with his pipe, but it was clear Thasha would accept no refusal. After some furtive glances around the deck he spoke again, very softly.

  "I honor your concern for your friend, m'lady. But I fear you would put yourself in danger for his sake. The assassin is still aboard. Any one of these men behind me could be him."

  "Hercуl is more than a friend," said Thasha. "He's as dear to me as an older brother. Whatever becomes of him, I must know what happened."

  "Very well," Ket sighed, "but it will do you no good. For in the end, what did I see? A man I took for a sailor, crouching by an open hatch, swinging a hammer at something within. The next moment-it was very dark, you understand-I saw that man leap down onto the steps himself and return with something large and dark over his shoulder. It was Mr. Hercуl, of course, but I guessed no such evil thing. The man passed out of my sight for a moment, behind the barge davit, and then I heard him cry out. I rushed forward in time to see him stumble and drop his burden-now obviously a man! — half over the rail."

  "Was his voice high or low?" asked Thasha.

  "Neither, especially," said Ket. "But I scarce had time to notice, for the cretin was rolling your friend over the side. Hercуl was waking up from the hammer blow, but not fast enough-and it was the greatest luck that he struck the mizzen-chains. The man drew his knife, leaned over and cut your friend savagely. And then Mr. Hercуl made that… extraordinary kick."

  "Where did Hercуl kick him-in the arm, or the hand?"

  "The wrist," said Ket. "Why do you ask, m'lady?"

  "Go on, please!" said Thasha. "What happened next?"

  "The next instant-well, I seized that capstan bar and had at him."

  "What made him stumble?" asked Thasha.

  Ket's eyes widened. "I wish I knew," he said. "Another piece of good luck, is all I can fathom. The deck was clear enough. But without that stumble, Mr. Hercуl would certainly have died."

  "And he fought you, this man?"

  "Indeed he did."

  "Was he a trained fighter?"

  Ket looked startled. "What unexpected questions," he said. "He fought well enough, I suppose. But this was the first real fight of my life-may it also be the last! — and so I am a poor judge."

  "But you have answered me, you know," said Thasha. "You've told me you're not a fighter yourself, and yet you beat him."

  "My dear girl, I had the capstan bar."

  "But don't you see," said Thasha, struggling for patience. "A trained fighter would have run circles around you, trying to swing that heavy bar. Or just taken it away from you and broken it over your head. So he wasn't a soldier, or one of my father's guards."

  "Skies above, no! Just someone crazy enough to want to kill."

  "Or ordered to," said Thasha softly.

  "Ordered, m'lady?"

  "Never mind, Mr. Ket. Thank you again for your courage. By the way, what were you doing out on deck so late at night?"

  Ket looked away, then drew a hand across his forehead. After a deep breath he said, "Confinement disturbs me. Small rooms, tight spaces… these trouble my soul. I cannot breathe."

  "That's nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Ket," said Thasha, for once almost likin
g him. "I felt the same way at school."

  Dinner that evening was hosted by Mr. Uskins, whom Thasha detested, so she told her father she had no appetite, and when he and Syrarys had dressed and departed she promptly rang the bell for room service.

  She frowned. Ket was something of a fool. Nothing about the attacker had made an impression: not even the amazing fact that he, Ket, a baby-faced merchant with gray hair and a paunch, had trounced the man without a scratch. Thasha, however, had learned several things. She added these to her list:

  What I Know (Cont.)

  1. If I should ever marry, it will not be to a soap merchant.

  2. Hercуl's attacker was no trained fighter.

  3. That man's wrist is in agony, or broken.

  Thasha knew well the force of Hercуl's kicks, even on the practice floor. A kick to save his life would be simply explosive. She ought to explain this to the officers searching Chathrand. But how could she, without letting them know how much more than a servant Hercуl was?

  The tarboy who came from the galley was very short. Like most of the men aboard, he stared at her as if she were some odd and fascinating monster. "Dinner for one!" she snapped, grabbing her dogs before they could leap on him. "And no shrimp heads, please. Yesterday my dinner was like a little congregation, watching itself being eaten."

  "I'm very sorry, m'lady."

  "It's not your fault, idiot. Close the door. No, no-" She waved a hand. "Without leaving, yet. What's your name, anyway?"

  "N-Neeps," said the small boy, shaking with relief as the dogs collapsed on the bearskin.

  She cocked her head at him. "Well, N-Neeps, how many sailors are there aboard the Chathrand?"

  "About six hundred, common and rated, Lady. And twenty midshipmen."

  "And how many passengers?"