The Red wolf conspiracy tcv-1

by Robert V. S. Redick

  "Oh?"

  "She has grown fond of the ladies' powder room. Women can actually talk there, she says, away from us menfolk." He smiled. "You should join her one of these nights."

  "I will," said Thasha. "Come to think of it, Prahba, I think I'll join her now."

  "Good girl," he said.

  Of course Thasha's intentions were not "good" in the way her father meant. She had already poked her head into the first-class powder room on two previous nights and had not found Syrarys there at all. Once more, she thought, and I'll ask where she really goes after dinner-in front of Prahba, of course. And how will you squirm out of that one, you fancy louse?

  But tonight, outrageously, Syrarys was where she claimed she would be. "Dearest!" she cried when Thasha opened the door. "Have you come to soak with us awhile?"

  Soggy hands drew Thasha in. One of the first-class wives (nine were stuffed in the little room) had arranged for a tub of near-boiling water to be installed in the powder room, and they sat around it in ecstasy, soaking their ostrich legs. "Salt water, tut," said the wife of the Virabalm wheat merchant. "Still, it's the very thing on a cold night!"

  Syrarys had wrapped her hair in a towel. "Our Thasha's been studying the enemy-oh dear, that's wrong-our former enemy, of course. She knows about their history, their strange and frightening ways. But we mustn't be frightened anymore, right, darling? From now on we shall live and let live. And all the more so after your marriage. Come, sit by me-and do teach us some Mzithrini."

  Once again Thasha had walked right into Syrarys' trap. She could hardly accuse her of sneaking off somewhere now. "Mzithrini! Mzithrini!" the wives chirped in delight. And every minute brought them closer to Uturphe.

  Thasha spoke a phrase from the back of the Merchant's Polylex ("Don't touch any of my goods!"), which was all she ever intended to say to her fiancй if the wedding somehow occurred. She told them it was a polite greeting among nobles.

  Groping her way out of the steam at last, Thasha closed the door on their "Ta-ta!'s" and made for the topdeck. But she had not taken three steps when she saw an old soldier leaving the smoking salon, just ahead. He was short, lean, scarred, a survivor of many battles, and he wore the red beret of the honor guard.

  "Good evening, Commander Nagan," she said. Sandor Ott turned with a smile. "At your service, Lady Thasha." "Commander, my father says you're in charge of catching-" "Forgive the interruption," said Ott, "but if you would have me succeed, please lower your voice."

  What a fool she was! She had almost blurted catching Hercуl's attacker loud enough to carry through several cabins. It was exactly the sort of recklessness her father worried about.

  "Thank you," she said, more softly. "Commander Nagan, can I tell you something that may be of help?" "I pray you will," said Ott.

  "Hercуl has very strong legs, even for a dancer," said Thasha, "and Mr. Ket saw him kick the attacker in the wrist, just after he was stabbed. Whoever the man is, he'll have one blary great bruise at the wrist."

  Ott looked at her with something like admiration. He folded his smoking jacket over his arm. "You're quite right, Lady Thasha. In fact, that point had not escaped my notice. And relying on your perfect discretion, I will tell you this: we have found four men aboard with such injuries. Two are common sailors, who say they were injured aloft-struck by blocks or cable-ends. The other two are steerage passengers. All four are being held and questioned, but I already have a good idea of the guilty party. His name does not matter, but his own wife admits the man is a deathsmoker, and such addicts will kill for a few cockles to buy their next pipe. Oh yes, there's deathsmoke down in steerage, m'lady, and matches, too. Of course, fire is forbidden-but what are ship's rules to one who will stab an innocent man?" "But… don't third-class passengers get locked in at night?" "Indeed they do," said Ott. "And no one recalls seeing this man return to steerage at nightfall."

  "So he hid somewhere else in the ship, and waited?" "Exactly so. And the smell of the drug was everywhere about him." Thasha took a deep breath. A deathsmoker! Pazel's fears, and her own, began to seem far-fetched. And yet Ramachni knew a conspiracy was under way, an evil mage awaiting his moment to strike. And then there were Hercуl's own fears, the man killed in her garden, the Red Wolf…

  "Of course, we will take no chances," said Ott. "None of the suspects will leave our sight for a moment, from here to the port of Uturphe."

  "By Uturphe, Hercуl may be dead."

  Ott was silent a moment. "Perhaps," he said. "But I have seen more wounds than anyone should in a single lifetime. I'm a fair judge of death's approach. Your Hercуl has a warrior's toughness, m'lady. For what it's worth, I expect him to live."

  Ott's words made something snap inside her. She found herself shaking. "I'm sorry," she said. "I've been terrified for him. All along. I'm not used to fear, but now I'm sick with it for his sake."

  "All along?" Ott asked gently, eyebrows knitting. "Before the attack as well?"

  Thasha nodded. A moment later it burst from her: "I don't trust Syrarys. I never have. I can't tell my father-he's too much in love with her to listen. I don't know what to do."

  "Dear lady!" said Ott, taking her arm. "I think you know exactly what to do, for you have just done it. You have told me your fears."

  "Should I have?" she asked softly. "I mean, I hardly know you."

  "But I have known you all your life-from a distance. No favorite of His Supremacy is without a guardian officer like myself. When Admiral Isiq married your esteemed mother, I guarded the outer temple. When she died, I stood watch at the cemetery."

  Thasha looked at him in astonishment. "You… were there?"

  "When you were born," said Ott, "my guard company built the summerhouse that stands in your garden, as a token of the Emperor's affection. Your mother loved that garden. What a tragedy she enjoyed it so briefly."

  A lump swelled in Thasha's throat. This old man had protected them her whole life, and never asked for a thank-you. "But why did you stop guarding us?" she said.

  "I received new orders," he said. "When you get to be as old as I am, your Emperor must consider how he will replace you. I was given the honor of training a new generation of the Imperial Guard. You were but five or six. Now that training is complete, and in his generosity the Emperor has allowed me to protect his favorite admiral-and new ambassador-one last time."

  "Was it you who shot that man in my garden, then?"

  Ott shook his head, pursing his lips with regret. "Merely a man who works for me. The intruder should have been kept alive, and questioned. But my man feared for your safety."

  How could he, Thasha wondered, with Jorl and Suzyt holding that ragged stranger in their teeth? But before she could ask, she noticed Ott glancing up and down the passage. Certain they were alone, he reached into his pocket and drew out-

  "My necklace!" Thasha cried. "Commander! How in the world did you get it?"

  "I'm old, Lady, but still quick." Ott grinned and raised a sleeve: there was a fresh, deep scratch on his forearm. "That Sniraga is a hell-cat, but I caught her tail and spanked her till she howled, and made her let go of this pretty thing. I knew it from your mother's neck, you see. Won't you let me fasten it anew?"

  Thasha turned and lifted her hair. "I'll never let it out of my sight again," she said as Ott sealed the clasp. "Oh, Commander, thank you! My father said you were a good man, but I had no idea."

  "You flatter me, Lady. But I should prefer your trust. For your father's sake, tell me all that troubles you about the Lady Syrarys. Hold nothing back, I beseech you."

  So Thasha did. Once she began to speak, she realized how little she actually knew for certain. Syrarys had pretended to love Thasha as a girl, and discarded her once her place in the household was secure. She had pretended to miss Thasha when she vanished into the Lorg, pretended to be worried about her father's health (why had no doctor besides Chadfallow ever come to see him?), pretended to want nothing from life but a place at his side.

  "But it's
not true. She wants much more. And now she pretends to visit the powder room each night after dinner, but doesn't. She's going somewhere else."

  "Tonight, for instance?" said Ott.

  "Tonight she did go," admitted Thasha unhappily.

  "Ah," said Ott.

  "You think I'm a fool."

  Ott shook his head. "On the contrary. I am humbled by your insight."

  "Don't say that unless you mean it," she pleaded. "Commander Nagan, this isn't the babble of a jealous daughter. Promise me you'll take this seriously!"

  Sandor Ott took her hand. "Forty-eight years have I served the Ametrine Throne," he said. "I was just your age when I took the oath, at the feet of His Supremacy's grandfather. Mind and marrow, bone and blood, to strive till my hand drop the sword and my soul leave the flesh. For Arqual, her glory and gain. Believe me, Lady Thasha: I take nothing more seriously than that."

  The Miracle of Tears

  5 Modoli 941

  53rd day from Etherhorde

  A gray dawn came, and rain soon after. Thunderheads brooded on Cape Ultu; Firecracker Frix watched them nervously through a telescope. Beyond that cape lay Uturphe, but Mr. Elkstem took no chances and steered a wide course around its rocky point. A hundred sailors sighed at his orders, but no one cursed him. Elkstem's nose for safety was legendary.

  Once around the cape the rain grew stronger. Hatches were battened down; frantic tarboys swabbed rainwater off the deck. The town when it appeared was less than heartwarming: behind its green granite wall, iron towers and pointed rooftops stood like files of teeth. From his cabin window, Eberzam Isiq studied cold, closed Uturphe and thought, No place to look for doctors.

  The town lacked a deepwater channel, so at a distance of two miles the order came to furl sails and drop anchor. Around the mainmast a handful of men in oilskin coats roared their disapproval. These were whiskey and brass merchants, desperate to buy as much as they could for resale in the west. Before the anchor struck bottom they were clustered about Mr. Fiffengurt. When might the boats be launched? How bad would the storm be? How many men could he spare for rowers? How long would they stay?

  "Stand off, gentlemen!" he growled. "We've a life to save if we can."

  Hercуl was carried out by Isiq's honor guard. Rain battered his face, and Thasha held his cold hand, weeping: he looked dead already. For the first time, Fiffengurt thought he might like one of the noble-born youths. Most were ninnies who wailed if their soup wasn't salted or their jackets brushed. One day of tarboy labor and galley grub would teach them to appreciate good fortune. But Lady Thasha was a different sort. She was crying, yes, but silently, and she made no complaints. The quartermaster cocked his head sideways, to see her better.

  "You be brave now, Lady," he said. "Everything possible will be done for Mr. Hercуl."

  "That it will be," said Sandor Ott.

  The boat was lowered, with Ott and Fiffengurt side by side in the bow, and the men pulled for shore. Thasha felt suddenly that she would never lay eyes on Hercуl again, and not wanting her last memory of him to be that white, deathly face, she turned away. If she had not, she might have noticed that one of the honor guards did not row with his right arm, but only moved it stiffly, even painfully, in time with the oar.

  Merchants were crowding, jostling to be next into a boat. One cackled beside her: "No one will eat crayfish in Uturphe tonight-no one! I bought them all. I can sell them on Rukmast for four times what I pay these beggars. A few didn't want to sell, but the duke of Uturphe persuaded them-fishermen's huts are quite flammable, you know, and the duke only asked ten percent for his services."

  "Very reasonable," said another.

  "Very! Oh, when will that fool let us land? I tell you I bought them all."

  Disgusted, Thasha turned-and nearly collided with Pazel Pathkendle.

  He was being hustled aft by two enormous soldiers. He had a soggy bundle in his arms and wore an old coat with a red patch at the elbow. No hat, no shoes. His brown hair was plastered flat by the rain.

  He offered a weary smile. "You got your necklace back."

  The soldiers appeared ready to cuff him for his familiar tone, but one look at Thasha changed their minds.

  "I tried to make Prahba keep you," she said. "He just wouldn't listen."

  Pazel shrugged. "I didn't listen either, did I? Where's Neeps, do you know?"

  Thasha nodded. "He's working the pumps. Six hours-a punishment from Swellows. For fighting, I think."

  "Tell him I said to cut that out," said Pazel, shaking his head. Then he looked at her and switched to Opaltik. "Don't forget what Ramachni said. There's an evil mage aboard, and someone else coming soon-someone even worse. Be careful, Thasha. And try to remember me, will you?"

  Thasha could barely summon her school-taught Opaltik. What's wrong with me? she thought, blinking.

  "Someone worse, yes," she muttered.

  "I'm sorry about all this, Thasha," he said.

  "Sorry you?" She shook her head, furious with her clumsy tongue. "Why are you feeling it? I have no ideas."

  Shivering and drenched, Pazel laughed. "You have too many."

  The soldiers pushed him forward. Merchants and sailors were crowding into the second boat, but one bench was empty still.

  "I have to tell you something," said Pazel. "Get closer."

  "I have to tell you something," Thasha mimicked. But she could not say it in Opaltik, and when he looked her in the eye she found she could not say it at all.

  "Hold that man! I want to see him!"

  The voice was Uskins'. He emerged from the wheelhouse, his blond hair flattened by the rain, and shoved his way toward the boats. Thasha followed his gaze and saw another prisoner beside the rail: a scruffy, hungry-looking man from third class. His face was sallow and bruised, and his hands were chained behind his back.

  "Wrong man! Wrong man!" he shouted as Uskins neared. The first mate raised a hand for silence, then reached out and stretched one of the man's eyes wide open. He gave a satisfied nod.

  "A deathsmoker, to be sure."

  "Lies!" shrieked the man. "They put a gooney sack on my head! Filled it with deathsmoke!"

  "Who did?" said Uskins.

  "Don't know-they come at night, took me someplace dark, alone. Made me breathe that blary drug till I fainted. Now look how I shake! But I never used it before! I'm a tea picker is all!"

  Uskins laughed aloud. "You should have picked a milder tea."

  "I never touched that poor Mr. Hercуl! I swear on the Milk of the Tree!"

  Uskins slapped him. "Save your blasphemy for the court, you wretch! Load him in!"

  As the man screamed and struggled, Thasha found herself beginning to doubt Nagan's story all over again. But before she could work out a way to intervene, Pazel leaned close to her and spoke very quietly through his teeth.

  "There's another prisoner aboard."

  "What are you talking about?" Thasha whispered back.

  "You've got to find Diadrelu. Tell her Rose has him. In his right-hand desk-drawer."

  "What, a key?"

  "The prisoner!"

  "Pazel," said Thasha, "have you lost your mind?"

  "They'll kill you if you talk," he whispered. "They're ixchel, Thasha."

  "Ay! Ormali dog! How dare you touch the Lady?"

  He hadn't, in fact, although his lips had nearly brushed her ear. But touch or no touch, Pazel's guards were embarrassed at their oversight and struck him so hard he fell to the deck. Almost blind with pain, Pazel felt someone lifting him again. Uskins' leering face swam into view.

  "Allow me," said the first mate. "Some ballast is a pleasure to drop."

  He tossed Pazel into the waiting boat with a crash. Thasha shouted, "No! No! No!" and Uskins turned to her and said not to worry, the filthy boy would never bother her again.

  Pazel found his seat beside the presumed murderer, who was still shouting, "Wrong man!" Pazel looked for Thasha, wondering what she had wanted to tell him, but the rail was crowded, a
nd then his boat was lowered to the sea.

  "You saw it," said Talag Tammaruk ap Ixhxchr.

  "Saw what?" asked Diadrelu.

  "Do not fence with me, sister," said Talag. "The boy whispered in the bridal girl's ear. And shocked her. Now do you see why we must never take chances? What good are your threats, once he is safe ashore? Taliktrum was right. You should have killed him."

  The two ixchel were wedged in the solid oak of the quarterdeck, half choked with fresh sawdust, peering through drill holes no human eye could locate. Their spying ledge was scarcely big enough for them to lie side by side. It had taken their people four days' labor, burrowing like termites through the ancient wood, pausing with every lull in the wind lest their chisels and hammers be overheard. But it was worth it: they now had a splendid view of the mizzen topdeck, where boats disembarked and officers clustered, the very crossroads of the ship.

  Dri pulled back from her spy-hole and looked at Talag. "Thasha was scared, true enough. But what did Pathkendle whisper? That is something we cannot presume."

  "Can't we?" said Talag. "Do you mean to say the freak tarboy might possess another secret as awful as the fact that we're aboard?"

  "There are such secrets," said Dri. "Last night we saw the ambassador's own guard torment an innocent man with deathsmoke and demand that he confess to the murder we prevented."

  "You take the lot of them for innocent men," said Talag derisively. "And you prevented that murder, not the clan. You fired the quill into the murderer's leg and made him stumble, even though that fat soap merchant might have seen you-"

  "He saw nothing," said Diadrelu.

  "— and the killer himself may find your quill later and expose us all."

  "He will not find my quill, Talag. It is deep in his skin. And should he dig it out, he will find a splinter, half dissolved, and never know it for ixchel work."

  "Who is presuming now?" Talag asked.

  "What would you have done?" she demanded. "Let the valet die?" She knew Talag was goading her (who but a brother could do it so well?), but knowing did not make his taunts any more bearable. "I am not a fool, Talag! I presume no goodness among giants. But neither do I presume that they are all identical, mere strands in a single rope destined to be the hangman's noose for the innocent race of ixchel. The world is full of wickedness, yes. But none of it is simple."