One of those sixty thousand coins would have suited him better, but he hid the soap in his pocket nonetheless. Then he looked at the tray and his heart sank. He had nothing left for Chadfallow but a small rind of ginger and a broken biscuit.
The doctor ignored these, but pointed at the tea flask. Carefully, Pazel filled a mug. The doctor wrapped his long fingers around it, raised it to his lips and inhaled the steam, as he had told Pazel one should in cold weather, to “vivify the nostrils.” He did not look at the boy, and Pazel did not know whether to stay or leave. At last, very softly, the doctor spoke.
“You're not ill?”
“No,” said Pazel.
“Your mind-fits?”
“They're cured,” said Pazel quickly, very glad they were alone. No one on the Eniel knew about his mind-fits.
“Cured?” said the doctor. “How did you manage that?”
Pazel shrugged. “I bought some medicine in Sorhn. Everyone goes to Sorhn for that kind of thing.”
“Everyone does not live under the influence of magic spells,” said Chadfallow. “And how much did they charge you for this … medicine?”
“They took … what I had,” admitted Pazel, frowning. “But it was worth every penny. I'd do it again tomorrow.”
Chadfallow sighed. “I dare say you would. Now what about your teeth?”
Pazel looked up, startled by the quick change of focus: his mind-fits were the doctor's favorite subject. “My teeth are just fine,” he said carefully.
“That's good. But this tea is not. Taste it.”
Chadfallow passed him the cup, and watched as he drank.
Pazel grimaced. “It's bitter,” he said.
“More bitter for you than me. Or so you may well imagine.”
“What do you mean by that?” Pazel's voice rose in confusion. “Why are you all so odd?”
But like the duchess and the soap man, Chadfallow merely turned to face the sea. And all through that night's crossing he showed no more interest in Pazel than in the common sailors who bustled around him.
Now, at midnight, battered and soaking and chilled to the bone, Pazel watched the Shipworks loom nearer. They were minutes from port, and still the moonlight held.
Pazel knew he'd been a fool to hope for better treatment from Chadfallow. The doctor was a changed man since the invasion of Ormael, which as the Emperor's Special Envoy he had witnessed firsthand. The violence had left him morose, and whatever spring of warmth he used to draw upon seemed to have dried up. At their last meeting, two years ago, he had pretended not to know Pazel at all.
But why was he here, on the eve of the Chathrand's launch? For the doctor never appeared but when some great change was about to explode into Pazel's life. Tonight would be no different, he thought, and so he lingered by the foremast to see what Chadfallow would do.
A voice ashore hailed them: “Bring to, Eniel! Bring to, there! Crowded port!”
Captain Nestef bellowed, “Aye, Sorrophran!” and tugged hard at the wheel. The bosun shouted, men leaped for ropes, the white sails of the Eniel furled. Coasting, she passed the Sorrophran dry docks, the long files of warships with their armored bows and gunwales bristling with spikes, the shrimping fleet, the porcelain-domed Nunekkam houseboats. Then a sigh of wonder passed over the deck, breathed by officer and sailor and tarboy alike. The Chathrand had swung into view.
No wonder the port was full! Chathrand alone nearly filled it. Now that Pazel saw her plainly by moonlight, the ship seemed a thing not of men but of giants. The tip of the Eniel's mainmast scarcely reached her quarterdeck, and a sailor high in her crosstrees looked no bigger than a gull. Her own masts made Pazel think of the towers of the Noonfirth Kings, soaring over the black cliffs at Pól. Beside her even the Emperor's warships seemed like toys.
“She is the last of her kind,” said a voice behind him. “Do not turn around, Pazel.”
Pazel froze, one hand on the mast. The voice was Chadfallow's.
“A living relic,” the doctor continued. “A five-masted Segral Wind-Palace, the largest ship ever built since the days of the Amber Kings before the Worldstorm. Even the trees of which she is made are passed into legend: m'xingu for keel, tritne pine for mast and yard, rock maple for deck and wales. Mages as well as shipwrights played their part in her creation, or so the old tales claim. Such arts are lost to us now—along with so much else.”
“Is it true, she crossed the Ruling Sea?”
“The Segrals braved those waters, yes: that is why they were built, in fact. But Chathrand is six hundred years old, boy. Her youth is a mystery. Only the elders of her Trading Family have seen the logs of her earliest journeys.”
“Captain Nestef says it makes no sense to outfit Chathrand here, when Etherhorde is just six days away,” said Pazel. “He says there are shipwrights in Etherhorde who train for years just to work on her.”
“They have been brought here from the capital.”
“But why? Captain Nestef says Etherhorde will be her first stop anyway.”
“Your curiosity is in perfect health,” said Chadfallow dryly.
“Thank you!” said Pazel. “And after Etherhorde? Where will they send her next?”
The doctor hesitated. “Pazel,” he said at last, “how much do you remember of our lessons, back in Ormael?”
“Everything. I can name all the bones in the body, and the six kinds of bile, and the eleven organs, and the tubes in your gut—”
“Not anatomy,” said Chadfallow. “Think back to what I told you of politics. You know about the Mzithrin, our great enemies in the west.”
“Your enemies,” Pazel couldn't resist saying.
The doctor's voice grew stern. “You may not be a citizen of Arqual yet, but your fortune rests in our hands. And Mzithrini tribes raided Ormael for centuries before we arrived.”
“Right,” said Pazel. “They tried to kill us for hundreds of years, and couldn't. You managed it in two days.”
“Don't speak in ignorance, boy! If the Mzithrin had wanted to take your little country, they could have done so faster than we did. Instead they chose to bleed her quietly and deny it to the world. Now prove that you paid attention to my teaching. What is the Mzithrin?”
“An empire of madmen,” said Pazel. “Honestly, that's how you made them sound. Crazy about sorcery and devils and ancient rites, and worshipping the pieces of a Black Casket. Dangerous, too, with their singing arrows, and dragon's-egg shot, and that guild of holy pirates, what's the word?”
“Sfvantskor,” said Chadfallow. “But that is not the point. The Mzithrin is a pentarchy: a land ruled by five kings. During the last war, four of those kings condemned Arqual as evil, the abode of heretics, servants of the Pits. But the fifth said no such thing. And he drowned at sea.”
A horn rang out across the bay. “We're nearly there,” said Pazel.
“Are you listening?” said Chadfallow. “The fifth king drowned because Arquali guns sank his ship. He never condemned us—yet him alone we killed. Doesn't that strike you as odd?”
“No,” said Pazel. “You kill who you like.”
“And you insist on obstinate stupidity, when in fact you are moderately wise.”
Pazel shot an angry glance over his shoulder. He could tolerate most any insult except to his intelligence: sometimes it felt like the one thing he had left to be proud of.
“I ask where the Chathrand is going,” he said, “and you talk about the Mzithrin. Were you listening to me?” He was getting sarcastic, but he didn't care. “Or maybe that's your answer. The ship's paying a visit to your ‘great enemies,’ the Mzithrin Kings.”
“Why not?” said Chadfallow.
“Because that's impossible,” Pazel declared.
“Is it?”
The doctor had to be teasing him. Arqual and the Mzithrin had battled for centuries, and the last war had been the bloodiest of all. It had ended forty years ago, but Arqualis still loathed and feared Mzithrinis. Some ended their morning prayers by turning
west to spit.
“Impossible,” mused Chadfallow, shaking his head. “There's a word we must try to forget.”
At that moment the bosun's voice rang out: “Port stations!”
Chatter ceased; men and boys scrambled to their tasks. Pazel made to go as well—orders were orders—but Chadfallow caught him tightly by the arm.
“Your sister lives,” he said.
“My sister!” cried Pazel. “You've seen Neda? Where is she? Is she safe?”
“Quietly! No, I have not seen her, but I plan to. And Suthinia as well.”
It was all Pazel could do not to shout again. Suthinia was his mother. He had feared both were dead in the invasion of Ormael.
“How long have you known they were alive?”
“You must ask no more questions. For the moment they are safe—if anyone is, and that is no certainty. If you would help them, listen well. Do not go to your station. Do not, under any circumstances, go belowdecks on the Eniel tonight.”
“But I'm to work the pumps!”
“You will not.”
“But, Ignus—ah!”
Chadfallow's hand had tightened convulsively on Pazel's arm. “Never use my name, tarboy!” he hissed, still not looking at Pazel but unmistakably furious. “Have I been a fool, then? For half a decade, a fool? Don't answer that! Just tell me: have you been ashore in Sorrophran?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then you know that if you set foot outside the port district you're fair game for the Flikkermen, who get three gold for every boy or girl they send to the Forgotten Colonies, twenty days' march across the Slevran Steppe?”
“I know about the Flikkers, and that terrible place! But it's nothing to do with me! They're keeping me aboard tonight, and we sail at sunrise!”
Chadfallow shook his head. “Just remember, the Flikkers cannot touch you in the port. Keep away from me now, Pazel Pathkendle, and above all stay on deck! We will not speak again.”
The doctor wrapped himself in his sea-cloak and headed aft. Pazel could sense his doom already. The first rule of survival as a tarboy is Be quick!—and Chadfallow was forcing him to break it. Captain Nestef hadn't noticed yet, but the common sailors, rushing about on tasks of their own, stared at him as if he were mad. What was the boy thinking? He didn't look sick, he hadn't fallen from the yardarms, he was just standing there.
Pazel knew what would happen next, and it did. The first mate, inspecting his topdeck men, reached Pazel and fixed him with a scandalized look.
“Muketch!” he bellowed. “Are ye afflicted? Get below or I'll skin yer Ormali hide!”
“Oppo, sir!”
Pazel sprinted for the main hatch, but at the top of the ladder, he stopped. He had never disobeyed Chadfallow. He looked around for another tarboy—perhaps he could trade tasks?—but they were all belowdecks, where he ought to be. Soon they would miss him, send someone looking, and he would be severely punished for breaking orders. How could he explain? He didn't understand himself.
Desperate for cover, Pazel spotted a neatly coiled hawser by the portside rail. Furtively he pushed the thick rope over, then began meticulously winding it anew. Now he would look busy at least. His mind reeled with Chadfallow's news. His mother and sister, alive! But where could they be? Hiding in ruined Ormael? Sold as slaves? Or had they made for the Crownless Lands, slipping free of the Empire altogether?
Then, very suddenly, Pazel felt ill. His head spun and his vision blurred. The taste of the bad tea rose in his throat. He stumbled and knocked the hawser over again.
Ignus, what did you do to me?
The next instant the feeling vanished. He was fine—but someone was snickering behind him. Pazel turned to see Jervik pointing at him triumphantly.
“I found him, sir! Skipped his station! And he's knocked over that coil on purpose, to stretch his holiday! Make him do it, Mr. Nicklen, sir!”
The bosun, Nicklen, slouched up behind Jervik, scowling. He was a heavy, red-faced man with eyes receded into soft pouches, like fingermarks in dough. Usually he treated Pazel well enough, taking his cue from Nestef—but the rope sprawled in an accusing heap, and when Nicklen asked if Jervik spoke the truth, Pazel clenched his teeth and nodded. Behind the officer, Jervik made a face like a grinning frog.
“Right,” said the bosun. “Be off, Jervik. As for you, Mr. Pathkendle, you're in luck. You should be whipped for cutting chores. Instead all you have to do is come with me.”
Forty minutes later Pazel did not feel very lucky. The rain had begun, and he stood in a half-flooded Sorrophran street with no hat (it lay in his box on the Eniel), listening to dim sounds of fiddle and accordion, and roars of laughter, through the stone wall of the tavern beside him. This was Nicklen's pointless punishment: to stand him here like a disgraced schoolboy while the bosun drank off his wages.
Not for the first time, Pazel cursed Jervik. He was still in the port district, and so safe from marauding Flikkermen. But if Pazel knew the older tarboy, he'd tell the first mate about the scene on deck and Pazel would still get a lashing.
Pazel had mentioned this suspicion to Nicklen as they marched through town. The bosun's reply was strange: he told Pazel to forget he'd ever known a fool named Jervik.
“Mr. Nicklen,” Pazel had continued (the bosun was tolerating his chatter tonight), “is the Chathrand fast?”
“Fast!” he said. “She blary well screams along on high winds! Trouble is finding that much. Small ships can do more with a light breeze, don't ye know? That's why His Supremacy loves his wee gunboats. Loves his big ones too, mind. And middle-sized. As for Chathrand, she dreams of a wind that would sink yer average boat. I dare say the Nelu Peren keeps her wings clipped.”
The Nelu Peren, or Quiet Sea, was the only ocean Pazel had ever sailed. It was far from quiet at times, but it was much tamer than the Nelu Rekere (or Narrow Sea) that enclosed it. Farthest of all, beyond the archipelagos of the south, lay the Nelluroq, or Ruling Sea. Legends told of great islands, perhaps whole continents, hidden in its vastness, full of strange animals, and people who had once traded and parleyed with the north. But centuries had passed, and the big ships had sunk one by one, leaving only Chathrand, and whatever lands there were had likewise drowned in seas of forgetting.
“Anyhow,” said Nicklen, “these days she don't need to fly like a murth on the wing. She's no warship anymore.”
At the mention of war, Pazel's thoughts had taken another leap.
“Were you in the last war, Mr. Nicklen?” he asked. “The big one, I mean?”
“The Second Maritime? Aye, but just as a powder-pup. I was younger than you when it ended.”
“Did we really kill one of the Mzithrin Kings?”
“Aye! The Shaggat! The Shaggat Ness, and his bastard sons, and his sorcerer, too. A famous night battle, that was. Their ship went down with all hands, not far from Ormael, as you must know. But not a trace of that ship was ever found. Shaggat, lad—that means ‘God-King’ to them mongrels.”
“But was he … a friend to Arqual?”
At that Nicklen had turned to look at Pazel with amazement. “Is that a funny, Mr. Pathkendle?”
“No, sir!” said Pazel. “I just thought … I mean, I was told—”
“The Shaggat Ness was a monster,” Nicklen interrupted. “A vicious, kill-crazy fiend. He weren't friend to no man alive in this world.”
Pazel had never heard the bosun speak more firmly. The effort seemed to drain him: he smiled awkwardly, patted Pazel's shoulder, and when they reached the bar he bought the tarboy a leek fritter and a mug of pumpkin ale—two Sorrophran delicacies. But he wagged a finger before going in to his revels.
“Skip this station and I'll drown you off Hansprit,” he said. “Keep your eyes peeled, eh? The captain don't approve of carousing.”
Pazel nodded, but he knew the bosun was hiding something. Tar-boys rarely tasted pumpkin ale. What was Nicklen up to? Not mutiny, or dealing in deathsmoke: he was too old and slow for such crimes. Nor did the customers
, joking about “the little sentry” and tussling his wet hair in an annoying way, seem much like criminals.
An hour later the bosun appeared with a second fritter and an old sheepskin to keep off the rain. He was bleary-eyed and frowning; his very clothes stank of ale. “Still awake!” he said. “You're a good lad, Pathkendle. Who says Ormalis can't be trusted?”
“Not me, sir,” mumbled Pazel, hiding the fritter away for breakfast.
“I never did hate 'em,” said Nicklen, with a look of distress. “I wouldn't be party to such a thing—hope you know, if it were my choice—”
His eyes rolled, and he lurched back into the bar.
Pazel sat down on the steps, bewildered. Nicklen couldn't honestly be worried about the captain. Nestef disliked carousing, true enough. But he had better uses for his time than chasing his old bosun about in the rain.
Hours passed, drunks came and went. Pazel was half dozing under the sheepskin when he felt something warm and velvety touch his bare foot. Instantly awake, he found himself looking into the eyes of the largest cat he had ever seen: a sleek red creature, its yellow eyes gazing directly into his own. One paw lay on Pazel's toe, as if the animal were tapping him to learn if he were alive.
“Hello, sir,” said Pazel.
The animal growled.
“Oh, ma'am, is it? Get along with you, whatever you are.” He shrugged off the sheepskin—and the cat pounced. Not on him, but on his second fritter. Before Pazel could do more than swear, the animal had it out of his hand and was bounding for the alley. Pazel rose and gave chase (he was hungry again and quite wanted that fritter) but the lamps were dark now, and the cat vanished from sight.
“You fleabit thief!”
Even as he yelled, the sickness came rushing back. It was worse than before: he stumbled against a rubbish bin, which fell with a crash. The bitter flavor again coated his tongue, and when a voice launched insults from a window above him the words seemed pure nonsense. Then, just as suddenly, the sickness vanished and the words rang clear:
“… out of my trash bin! Blary urchins, always up with the birds.”
The Red Wolf Conspiracy Page 2
