Why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut?
"Pazel was right, then," she said when she could speak again. "They do want a war. But this time Arqual will sit back and watch as the Mzithrinis kill each other."
"That is exactly the plan Niriviel boasts of," said Felthrup.
"But Ramachni," said Thasha. "If the Shaggat wasn't killed at the end of the last war, maybe his sorcerer wasn't either! What if the sorcerer on this ship really is the one you feared?"
"Arunis himself?" said the mage. "If that is so, then we face a worse peril than even I have dared imagine. But Dr. Chadfallow told me that Arunis was hanged, forty years ago."
"Hanged?" said Thasha. "Not drowned, like the Shaggat was supposed to be?"
"Hanged. Chadfallow was a young medical cadet, and present at the execution. You do not trust him, Thasha, and I will not advise you to ignore your suspicions. But it is difficult to lie to a mage, especially if that mage is Ramachni son of Ramadrac, Summoner of Dafvni, Ward of the Selk. Chadfallow knows better than to try."
"Well, it's not hard to lie to the rest of us," said Thasha. "These horrid people, these conspirators: who are they, besides Rose?"
"Loyal subjects of the crown," said Felthrup. "Drellarek the Throatcutter, for one. And Uskins and Swellows, Rose's top men. And Lady Oggosk, his seer."
"But none of these is the mastermind," said Ramachni, thoughtfully. "Nor, I think, is Rose himself. Your Emperor has often found him useful, but never trustworthy. No, there must be another conspirator in our midst-to say nothing of the sorcerer."
"And if all the ship's officers are involved?" asked Thasha.
"One at least is not," said Ramachni. "Mr. Fiffengurt is pure of heart. Too pure, maybe, to see the wickedness around him."
"Pazel liked him, too," said Thasha. "And, come to think of it, Firecracker Frix seems too simple to be bad."
"Do not trust appearances," said Ramachni. "Some conspirators have fair looks indeed."
"Syrarys!" said Thasha. "She's part of it, isn't she?"
"If she is, you will not easily find her out," said Ramachni gravely. "Remember that she has your father's heart in her hand. And perhaps more than his heart: he is very ill, and might not survive the shock if she has indeed betrayed him."
"Unless he's ill because she's betraying him," said Thasha, clenching her fists.
"Such villains!" Felthrup squeaked. "They've prepared for years-and we have just days! How can we possibly fight them?"
"Not with swords," said Ramachni. "At least not unless Hercуl is returned to us."
"With tactics, then," said Thasha.
Rat, mink and mastiffs looked at her.
"You called it a conspiracy," she said. "Well, we're going to prepare a little conspiracy of our own." She rose and began to pace, frowning with concentration. "They're secretive. We'll be doubly so. They have hidden allies. We'll find our own. The ixchel, to start with."
"The ixchel look at humans and see murderers, m'lady," said Felthrup. "And they shall see the same in me after what happened in the tailor's nook."
"Such lack of trust," said Ramachni, "is more dangerous than all our enemies combined."
"Maybe the ixchel will trust us when we tell them about Rose's prisoner. Meanwhile, who else can we enlist?"
"Someone your own age, perhaps?" asked Felthrup. "That young niece of the Chathrand's owner?"
"Pacu Lapadolma? Not likely! She's a fool, and mad for the glory of Arqual like her father the general. And she talks too much."
"Other passengers?" the rat persisted. "The soap man, the one who saved Hercуl?"
Thasha shook her head. "He's a bit strange, that Mr. Ket. I thought he was a fool at first, but now I wonder if it just suits him to appear that way. No, I don't trust him."
"Commander Nagan, the head of the honor guard?" asked Ramachni.
"Yes!" said Thasha brightly. But then her face darkened. "No-not quite. I can't tell you why, Ramachni. I have more reasons to trust him than anyone aboard. He caught the man who attacked Hercуl. He's guarded our family my whole life, and never asked for anything in return."
"But he certainly wants something now. He wants your trust."
"And I suppose he's earned it," said Thasha. "But I'm still uneasy about him."
"Then we must all be," said Ramachni, shaking his head. "Our list of friends is short."
"Short!" she said. "Why didn't I think of him first? Neeps! We can trust Neeps with our lives. Although he is a donkey."
"Hooray!" cried Felthrup, for he thought she meant that yet another woken beast was aboard. His disappointment was plain when Thasha said that she had only meant Neeps could be an imbecile.
"And if he doesn't stop fighting he'll be no help at all," she added, "because he'll be tossed off this ship."
"Your noble father must be counted our friend, of course?" Felthrup asked, sulking.
"No, he mustn't," said Thasha. "Not while Syrarys is with him. Even Hercуl would have to agree, and he's been Prahba's friend almost as long as Dr. Chadfallow. That just leaves old Fiffengurt. But he's not fond of rich people. You can see it in the way he looks at first-class sons and daughters: he'd like to make them clean the pigsty. Why should he trust me?"
"Because you deserve trust," said Ramachni. "Lies and false faces grow dull over time, no matter how they are painted. But truth, goodness, a loving heart-these things only shine brighter as the darkness around them spreads. Give him a chance to trust you. He still has one good eye."
"I will speak to him," said Felthrup.
"No, Felthrup," said Thasha. "Most humans still don't want to believe in woken animals. I'm not sure I did until I heard you speak. Fiffengurt might just think he's losing his mind."
"I will speak to him," said the rat again, firmly. "He will remember my paw. But it may be long ere I catch him alone-Rose keeps him busier than any man aboard."
"The three of us, Neeps and Fiffengurt, and Lady Diadrelu-if we can find her," said Ramachni. "Six, against a whole shipful of murderers and rogues! Well, we must do what we can. For my part, I shall look for the ixchel."
"Be careful, Master!" said Felthrup. "They are dangerous, and silent as smoke. Turn yourself into something they will not fear-a moth, a little spider-before you enter their domain of Night Village."
"I cannot do that," said Ramachni.
They turned to him in surprise. Ramachni shook his head. "Indeed I can do no magic at all just now, save the small continuing spell I use to conceal what we say in these rooms. My world lies far beyond the sun and moon of Alifros. I brought power with me, but most I gave to Pazel in the form of Master-Words, and the rest went in lifting Felthrup from the sea."
"Do you mean you can't do magic until you return to your world?" said Thasha, aghast.
"None," said Ramachni, shaking his head. "Which is why I must retreat to it for a little while now. Alas, I fear you will need me again before I have half recovered. But if I am to fight at your side at all I must go, and regain what strength I can."
"When will that fight be?" asked Thasha.
"Soon," said Ramachni. "You must work quickly. And now listen well, Thasha: normally when I leave this world I cast a holding spell upon your clock. It has one purpose: to recognize me when I return, be it in one day or ten years, and to open the clock at that moment. Tonight I must depart without casting even that simple spell. Without it I shall be powerless to open the clock from within. Therefore you must open it for me. I believe you know how?"
"Of course," said Thasha. "I've watched Hercуl do it a dozen times."
Ramachni nodded. "Wait as long as you dare. And one last request, Thasha my champion: keep thinking about trust. We are in a nest of vipers-but even a viper may wake."
Thasha looked deep into his black eyes. Then she nodded and turned to Felthrup.
"Well, rat," she said, "you and I have a conspiracy to build."
The Mad King
N. R. Rose, Captain
27 Modoli 941
&
nbsp; The Honorable Captain Theimat Rose
Northbeck Abbey, Mereldin Isle, South Quezans
Dear Sir,
My thanks, dearest Father, for the gift of your counsel. You know I hold your wisdom above all others in matters of the sea. I shall take us south by the route you indicate. Your orders shall be my own.
We are now three days from Ormael City, where I shall post this letter. After that we leave Imperial waters, and I dare say this vessel will never see them again. Once His Nastiness 1*
is delivered and the treasure discharged, and the hornet's nest is slapped and rattled into rage, my orders are to reverse course, and return to Etherhorde across the Ruling Sea-or if we are prevented, to start a fire in Chathrand's hold, just beneath the powder room, and abandon ship. That will destroy all evidence of the ship's presence in enemy waters. It will also leave us just ten minutes ere she blows like a Fifthmoon fireball.
Of course we will not be able to return the way we came, for by that season the Nelluroq Vortex will have spread its jaws, and not even Chathrand has a prayer against that ruinous whirlpool. Nor can we sail home by the regular, crowded trade route: that would be the same as shouting what the Empire has done from every street corner in Alifros. So frightened of this possibility is old Magad that he has promised to sink Chathrand, and crucify any survivors, if we dare return by the northern route. No, we must destroy her when the job is done-a waste of this masterpiece of a ship, and some sailors, too.
The Emperor did well in choosing Sandor Ott. He is ugly and does not properly chew his food, but as a spymaster he is without equal. One of his under-assassins botched the murder of Hercуl, a servant who might have known Ott by sight and revealed his true identity. When Ott found that his man had failed he took him to an empty courtyard in Uturphe and killed him with a single blow. Of course, that was his right. The lad's mistake means Hercуl was never killed, for by then nosy Fiffengurt had decided to accompany him to the hospital. So Ott found another way: he paid the hospital's corrupt nurses to whisk Hercуl away through the back door and off to the city poorhouse, where he will lie in filth, and surely die as his wound turns gangrenous.
Ott has solved another tricky problem for me: Eberzam Isiq. The Emperor thought him perfect: a war hero and an old fool. But he has not proved quite stupid enough. He is a true mariner and would never challenge a serving captain, but I saw him questioning the gunner and the midshipman. Later I sent for them and made them repeat his questions. To the gunner Isiq had said that the old cannon looked very clean and usable, and were they really just for show? And he asked the other why I had plotted such a long course to Uturphe.
Of course, the midshipman did not know it was because I wished Hercуl to die. Such questions lead to trouble, however, and I told Ott as much. "Leave him to me," replied the spymaster. The next day Isiq's headaches were back, and he has not left his cabin since. Headaches are perfect: they do not threaten Isiq's life, but they turn him into the helpless doll we need.
There are other dangers. Fiffengurt is not one of us, and must be dealt with sooner or later. And certain passengers are nosy (Isiq's daughter, and that fancy savage Bolutu), or merely unsettled, as if noticing some dangerous smell. Do they detect the ghosts that clutter Chathrand? I do not think so. One tarboy seemed to possess the gift of hearing spirits, but he insulted Isiq and was tossed ashore. Now I wish I had contrived to keep him. The spirits flit ever about me, pecking at my arms like gulls. If the boy were here they might flock to him instead and let me rest.
But from this day forward the greatest danger is His Nastiness. What a creature, sir! He has scars on his face as if mauled by a jungle cat. He is ancient, but muscled like Drellarek the Throatcutter, and his voice belongs to a crocodile. Now I will tell you how he came aboard.
His Nastiness has lain these forty years on the prison isle of Licherog, halfway from Uturphe to the Quezans. Imperial law bars any ship from nearing the isle unless in danger of sinking outright, so I was forced to invent such a condition. Swellows did it, with Uskins standing guard-sawed the portside tiller-shaft down to a nub. To make things sweeter I let the blame fall on Fiffengurt. The old pest had the wheel at two bells past midnight, when the wind turned of a sudden. He gave her a sharp spin, the shaft broke and Chathrand heeled over like a cart kicked by a mule. Twelve hundred men, women and brats went sprawling. The men's breakfast fell off the stove. Now Fiffengurt is less well loved than before.
For two days we limped north. The men feared we were lost, drifting, and cheered when the lookout cried, "Land! Two points off the starboard!" But they shuddered and made the sign of the Tree when that great black rock loomed out of the waves.
A cruel wall encircles Licherog, pierced only by gunnery and a solid iron gate like the door of a furnace. Birds in the thousands wheeled overhead. Miles out, the men saw sharks, big monsters gliding in our wake. Hundreds swarm those waters, and never starve: on Licherog there is no graveyard but the sea.
A skjff came out and led us through the reefs. We passed the wreck of a four-masted Blodmel, sunk half a century ago in the harbor mouth. The day was so clear I glimpsed skeletons on her deck: Sizzy men, drowned in their armor, shreds of calcified rigging in their hands.
I left Fiffengurt in charge of repairs and went ashore with Ott and Drellarek. The warden of Licherog, a gaunt old spook in a robe fashionable thirty years ago in Etherhorde, greeted us at landfall. The man is a duke from an ancient family, exiled there after selling his own niece to the Flikkermen. He knew the real purpose of our visit: I could see that in the way he sweated and squirmed. He was terribly excited at the prospect of getting rid of His Nastiness.
"Come, sirs!" he said. "You've traveled far, you'll want food and wine and a place to sit down! This port is a foul sty, but the wind is fresh up in the citadel. Follow me!"
He marched us up the bird-filthy stairs from the water. The furnace door swung open, and we entered Licherog.
We all hear ghastly tales of that prison, Father, but the reality is worse. Most of the condemned live underground, in meandering catacombs untouched by sun or rain. They have nothing. They drink from their hands, eat off the stone floor or from plates beaten together from the mud tracked in by the guards. I saw a man who had fashioned a bed from his own hair, so long had he lain in one room. The halls go on forever. Whole floors have been abandoned to anarchy: food is piled up at a master door, and bodies removed there, but no guards enter and no prisoner even dreams of escape. One level the warden calls the Faceless Floor, comprised of those whose identities are lost or cast into doubt, or whom the Empire wishes the world to forget.
We were a long time in reaching that fresh wind, but finally another door was unchained and we stumbled out on the top of the island itself. East to west it is perhaps six miles long, all dust and naked rock. We saw quarries where men labored under the withering sun, the gallows where some fresh troublemaker dangled like a rag. And at the far end of the island, upon a rise, stood a fortress with an ornate little tower.
"That is your residence?" asked Drellarek.
"Oh no!" The warden laughed nervously. "That is the… Forbidden Place. It was built as the warden's home, but since the war-since the sinking of the Lythra-you understand that I rarely speak of the place, or its special purpose? But soon enough I shall take you there. Come, friends, the meal is served."
"Take us now," said Ott. "We will dine better if we know that we have not sailed all this way in vain."
"I can assure you-"
"Do no such thing," Ott interrupted. "Show us the S-. 2*
A little carriage was brought round. We thumped along wordlessly, guards on horseback ahead and behind. An army of near-naked prisoners gaped all around us.
The fortress was embellished with stone vultures and murths and skulls and cobras, every symbol of death one could think of. The warden pointed to a dead man sprawled on the ground and bristling with arrows. "The guards would even shoot one another, if one strayed too close without permission," he
said proudly. "We leave the bodies in plain view until the birds tire of them. Here we are, gentlemen."
The guards here were Turachs like Drellarek (he had trained some of them in Etherhorde) with crossbows primed, and slavering hounds at their feet. When they had searched us thoroughly and taken all our weapons, the carriage was ushered in through the gate.
Inside that fortress-paradise. A green yard led to a stand of lemon trees in pungent bloom. Beyond that, frangipani and cedars, a spice garden, peacocks strutting at liberty. There was a slate terrace and a cobalt pool, where a slave girl sat bathing her feet. She fled like a doe at the sight of us, and we trailed in past a bowling court with silver pins, a glass table heaped with pomegranates, a statue of the Babqri Child. Somewhere a fiddle played. Across the yard I saw two cooks roasting a hog.
"All this… is for him?" I asked, disbelieving.
"Certainly not!" replied the warden. "You forget he has two sons."
We came to the tower stair, but before we could climb them the door flew open and a man of about twenty, wearing a dirty yellow robe, burst out, pointing at the warden.
"Rabbits!" he shrieked, in a voice like an old woman. "You promised, Warden!"
The warden cringed. "Your Majesty, I promised to try. My men are hunting rabbits across Licherog even now. But I fear we have eaten them all."
The man looked at us for support. "Always lying, this one! Variety! That's all I ask! How are we to put up with the same five cuts of meat, year after year? And any fool can see the island is full of rabbit holes!"
"The island is a rock, Your Majesty And now I must change the subject. We have important guests. Would you be so very obliging as to tell your royal father-"
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