The Red Wolf Conspiracy
Page 19
Then Rose moved. With one lurch he seized Aken by the lapels, wrenched him from the chair and clubbed him brutally across the face. The small man fell like a sack of grain at Drellarek's feet.
Thyne stumbled back from the table, his mouth agape. Rose waved Drellarek off.
“Don't harm him,” said the captain. “He will see reason yet. Aken here is the dangerous one, who would have betrayed us at the first chance. He sat quiet while that ninny prattled and whined. But I could hear the wheels turning in his head.”
Speechless, the others watched Rose drag the unconscious man to the gallery windows. “Shutter that lamp, Uskins,” he said.
Uskins closed the lamp's iron shade, plunging the cabin into darkness. The men at the table heard curtains rustle, and the squeak of a hinge. A cold finger of sea wind probed the room. Then, far away, so faint they could deny it to themselves, they heard a splash. “Leave my cabin, all of you,” said Rose in the darkness. “We shall talk again in Uturphe, weather permitting.”
Indiscretions
12 Vaqrin 941
Was he awake or dreaming? Had the fit marooned him somewhere in between?
Pazel lay on his back at the foot of a plump, lacy bed. Still aboard Chathrand, for his limbs knew her gentle rocking, and the bed's feet were nailed down. He smelled lavender and talcum powder, and thought suddenly of Neda's room, at home in Ormael. Under his head (which still hurt and spun badly) was the softest pillow he had ever touched. And on the edge of the bed, looking down at him, was a small, strange animal. It was rather like a weasel, but jet-black, with huge, dark eyes that froze him with their gaze.
“How's this?” it said cheerfully. “A tarboy on the floor!”
“What!” croaked Pazel (his mouth was very dry).
“They are all gone away and left you,” said the creature. “And I must leave you as well. Can you really understand my words?”
“How did you … I mean, yes! What?”
“You do understand. Remarkable! You'll make her a very fine tutor indeed. Tell me, was a black rat here a moment ago?”
“You're not a rat!”
“My dear boy, are you ill? Not everyone who seeks a rat must be one.”
The creature sprang lightly from the bed to the top of a dresser. Pazel arched his neck: upon the dresser stood a lovely mariner's clock, the kind rich captains kept screwed down tight on their desktops. Its round face was painted to resemble a gibbous moon. Even stranger, Pazel saw that the face—hands, numbers and all—was hinged on one side, and stood slightly ajar. Behind it, within the body of the clock, was a round darkness: somehow it felt cold and strange.
The animal nudged the clock face nearly shut, then glanced over its shoulder at Pazel.
“You won't touch this, will you?”
“W-wouldn't dream of it.”
“And if I were to ask you a favor, to help me with your Gift to do a very great and dangerous thing—to prevent a war, in fact—how would you answer me?”
“What?”
“We must talk again, Mr. Pathkendle. Goodbye!”
Pazel shook himself. He was in the same place, resting on the same satin pillow. The little animal was gone; the light through the portholes had dimmed. And directly above him, sticking over the end of the mattress, were a girl's bare feet.
He turned his head to one side, and found himself nose to nose with a blue dog of terrifying dimensions. It lay with head on paws, drooling gently. Try something, begged its eyes. Let me eat you.
Overall it was better looking at the feet. In another moment, astonished, Pazel realized whose they were.
“Lady Thasha?” he whispered.
The feet jerked back, the bed creaked and the face of the ambassador's daughter appeared. Her golden hair fell almost to his nose.
“You can talk!” cried Thasha. “Hercól! He can talk!”
She leaped to the floor and pushed the dog aside. Just as when she boarded the Chathrand, she was dressed in a man's breeches and shirt. He was startled anew by how pretty she was, and how clean. Under his new coat and cap he remained a grimy tarboy. It had never bothered him much, until now.
“Thank the Gods!” she said. “You made such awful sounds! What's the matter with you, anyway?”
“I'm fine now, Mistress,” said Pazel, blushing. He sat up, a little unsteadily, and tried to fasten his coat, then remembered the missing buttons and crossed his arms over his chest.
He struggled to his feet, and nearly stumbled. He put a hand on her bed, then pulled away quickly as if he'd touched something fragile. Thasha caught his arm: the strength of her grip was startling.
Don't stare, he thought. She had such pale skin. She wore a necklace beneath her shirt: ocean creatures in solid silver, astonishingly fine. The thought came to him unbidden: that necklace alone could pay off his bond debt, three or four times over.
“You were very kind to shelter me,” he said.
They stood there, eye to eye, and for a moment he thought she looked as uncertain and confused as he felt himself. Then she laughed aloud.
“You don't talk like any servant I've ever met,” she told him. “You don't even have an accent. You sound like my cousins from Maj District. Why, you could pass for an Arquali if I closed my eyes!”
“I could never do that,” said Pazel at once, freeing his arm from her hand. “Even if I wanted to. And I don't, Lady Thasha.”
“Don't be prickly,” she said. “I didn't say you should be an Arquali. And stop this Mistress-Lady nonsense. I'm the same age as you.”
Pazel just looked at her, irritated now. Age had nothing to do with it, of course. They were not equals. If she were a toddler and he a man of sixty, he would still be obliged to call her Lady.
“Hercól thinks you're under a curse,” said Thasha. “Is he right? How often does it happen?”
“Two or three times a year, Mistress.”
“You must be rather clever to survive. In the Lorg a girl with a curse like yours would be put in a barrel of icewater—to cool her evil thoughts, you know. I wonder what evil thoughts you have, Pazel Pathkendle?”
“That's not why it happens!” he said fiercely.
“Of course not. I was being ironic.” She smiled, but Pazel flushed again, because now he looked like a bumpkin who took everything seriously. He longed to show her that he knew what ironic meant, but no words came.
Then all at once his mind took in the significance of the objects around him: bed, heaped clothes, wardrobe and mirror, writing table with stationery and quill.
“This is your cabin,” he whispered. “I can't be here.”
“Oh, blow!” she said. “Don't you start as well.”
“You're the Treaty Bride,” said Pazel. “I've got to get out of here.”
“Don't call me that,” said Thasha in a warning tone.
Pazel bent to look out the porthole. “What time is it, m'lady?” he asked.
“Almost dinnertime. My father's having a drink with Captain Rose.”
“Who else knows I'm here? Who saw me come in?”
Impatiently she sketched the missing hours of his life. His encounter with Jervik had been loud. Thasha and her tutor Hercól had left the stateroom to investigate just as Pazel rushed into the corridor. Thasha did not seem surprised that Hercól had seized him at once, dragged him to her private room and put him to sleep with a gulp of liquor, all in a matter of seconds. Her tutor, she said, moved faster than anyone on earth.
“I saw your father,” said Pazel.
Thasha nodded. “He didn't see you, fortunately. Syrarys closed the washroom door, and Prahba's a little hard of hearing. Syrarys saw you, though, and nearly had you thrown out again.” Thasha put on a face of mock outrage, and a strident voice: “‘You put that boy in her bedroom, Hercól? What are you thinking? What will people say?’”
“She's right,” said Pazel. “You're noble-born. You can't do this sort of thing.”
“Rubbish,” she said. “I do exactly as I please.”
Thasha smiled and leaned forward, intrigued—not at all the reaction he wished for. “What will they say?” she asked.
He hesitated. If she really wanted to know—
“They'll say you like playing in the dirt.”
Thasha's look of enthusiasm died on her face. She was shocked, but clearly didn't want him to see it. She forced out a laugh. “Tar-boys,” she said.
Pazel bit his lips. As if you knew anything about us.
“Besides,” he went on, “you're supposed to be practicing to be a Mzithrini wife, and they're not allowed to do anything.”
“Rubbish!” said Thasha again. “And anyway I don't care. You're not one of those mush-dull boys who does only what he's supposed to, I hope? But of course you're not—I saw you with the augrongs. Wherever did you learn to speak Augrongi?”
“Augronga,” Pazel corrected her, before he could stop himself. Then he added quickly, “I don't really speak it, of course; nobody does. But sailing here and there, you know, you hear things. And there's this book called a Polylex, most ships carry one.”
“Not that thing,” said Thasha, with an odd look. “It's all mixed up and wrong.”
That was perfectly true, Pazel knew. It was even likely that Mr. Uskins had pieced together his disastrous Augronga from the “Tongues of All Alifros” chapter in the back of the book.
“Of course,” said Thasha, lowering her eyes, “some versions are better than others. I have an old Polylex of my own. It says that drinking buffalo milk makes one smarter but also prone to ‘wraths and paranoias.’ And it says that long ago there were whole fleets of ships like the Chathrand, and they really did cross the Ruling Sea, and visited strange lands we've forgotten all about. Most of those ships were destroyed so long ago that we can't even recall their names. They were built by the Amber Kings, and one of them brought the foundation stone for the city of Etherhorde from the Court of the Archangel in the east. But over the centuries they built fewer and fewer, and the old ships began to sink. Three were destroyed in the Worldstorm, and one in a great whirlpool called the Nelluroq Vortex.”
“Yes, the Vortex—”
“And do you know I've been having dreams about it, or something like it? Prahba was talking about war, and how one kind of destruction leads to another, and since then I've had this dream of a whirlpool, and a ship trapped inside it, spinning like a bit of wood, lower and lower—”
“Mistress—”
“Off the point, I know. What I mean to say is that the Vortex took Stallion in the year seven fifty-two, and Urstorch and Bali Adro never returned from missions across the Ruling Sea, and the last Great Ship but this one, the Maisa, was sunk by the Mzithrinis half a century ago. She was the sister-ship to the Chathrand: same size, same trim. But Maisa wasn't her original name. She was given that name just a few years before she sank, in honor of an Empress Maisa. My Polylex says she was our Emperor's stepmother.”
“Yes, I knew that—”
“Did you? How strange. There was no Empress Maisa in my schoolbooks. But do you know the strangest thing about the Great Ships? The Yeligs—the Chathrand's owners—are the whole reason we can't build any more! They started putting the shipwrights to death so that they couldn't sell their secrets to other Trading Families. I suppose they didn't mean to kill them all.”
“Mistress!” Pazel broke in at last. “The Lady Syrarys knows I'm in your cabin!”
“You worry too much,” said Thasha. “I can handle Syrarys. I told her I'd cut off my hair and spit sapwort at my wedding if she disturbed you. Not that there's going to be any wedding—but perhaps you'd better not tell anyone I said that. Anyway, I doubt she could have disturbed you after you swallowed all that Keppery gin. Do you know what's crawling around in this ship?”
“M-m-my Lady?”
“Rats!” said Thasha happily. “I saw a rat on the lower gun deck. And would you believe I heard one crawling under these very floorboards last night? It must have been a clever rat, for when I hushed my dogs it grew still, too. Are you afraid of rats?”
“No.”
“Do they bite you tarboys?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to your parents, then? Are they dead?”
It was most unusual for Pazel to be at a loss for words, and most uncomfortable. He had not been alone with any girl in his life save his sister, and he had rarely known anyone to talk as long and cheerfully as Thasha. He was also maddened by his own timidity before her. She was beautiful and important; did that mean she was smarter than he was? He swallowed. Then he folded his hands behind his back, schoolboy-fashion.
“Your questions, Lady Thasha,” he said, “are indiscreet.”
Folding his hands proved a mistake: he could have used them to protect himself. Instead he found himself flat on his back again with Thasha astride him, thumping his cheeks and pouring out a whirlwind of abuse. “Indiscreet! He runs in squawking like a … playing in the blary dirt … I'll show you who's practicing to be a wife!”
This was how Hercól found them: red-faced and tangled, with Jorl howling at the ceiling and Suzyt doing her best to swallow Pazel's right foot. When he had separated them, and persuaded Suzyt to unlock her jaws, the tall man laughed.
“So good to find you improved, lad! But save your wrestling for other tarboys: they are far less dangerous. Come, get up, we have some things to decide. Won't you introduce us, Thasha?”
“I'm not marrying anyone!”
“In fact,” said Hercól, as if no one had just bellowed at the top of her lungs, “I've heard of you already, Pathkendle. Dr. Chadfallow says you're a natural scholar. He has spoken of you for years, but I never imagined he would arrange for us all to sail on Chathrand together.”
“He's a friend of Dr. Chadfallow?” demanded Thasha incredulously.
“No,” said Pazel. “Not anymore.”
“Do not condemn Ignus Chadfallow for the nation he was born into,” said Hercól. “True friendship is not a thing given lightly, nor should it be lightly tossed away.”
“Tell that to him,” said Pazel.
“You have a sharp tongue,” said Hercól, “but I know a little of your reasons for it. Do me a favor, now that I've rescued you from both Thasha and your shipmates: tell me exactly what's wrong with you.”
Pazel looked up at the kindly but piercing gray eyes. If his evasions had not fooled Thasha, they had no chance with this man. So for the second time in ten days, he did what he had long sworn never to do: he told strangers about his Gift.
“Or curse, as you say,” he added. “I always imagined—from the stories in books, and Mother's stories, too—that magic would feel like a thunderclap. In fact it's more like catching a cold. You know when a fever starts, and it feels as if some army's come in through your ears and is burning up your insides, one room at a time? Well, in my case it's a good army, at first. If I need to speak Augronga, it gives me Augronga. If I look at the Chathrand's escutcheon, it tells me what I'm reading. And I never forget, even after the mind-fits.”
“How many languages have you learned this way?” asked Thasha, still glowering.
“Twenty.”
She gave him a skeptical smile—did she think he was joking?—and then asked him his age in Opaltik, which Lorg Daughters study as one more way to pass the years before marriage. When Pazel answered instantly, she tried something much more difficult: a nursery rhyme from the Ulluprid Isles, taught to her years ago by Syrarys. Even before it ended she knew he understood, for he looked still more flustered and uncomfortable. The rhyme was “My Darling Sailor.”
“If only we could show him to Ramachni,” said Thasha. She glanced at the clock on her dresser. Then her eyes grew wide. “Hercól! It's open!”
Hercól had not noticed the clock face either. “He is aboard, then
! Did you see him, Pathkendle?”
“He's a mink,” added Thasha helpfully.
Pazel started. “Then I wasn't dreaming. You mean he's a woken animal? A real one? And he belongs to you?”
“One does not own a woken beast,” said Hercól severely, “except as a slave-keeper.”
“He's not really a mink,” Thasha said. “In his own world he's a bald old man.”
“Ramachni is much more than that,” said Hercól, smiling a little now.
“Of course,” said Thasha. “He's a great mage, and he's been visiting me for years by crawling through my clock.”
Pazel looked from girl to man to clock, and back again.
“Have a look,” said Hercól. “But touch nothing, and make no sound.”
Gingerly, Thasha took hold of the clock's moon-face and opened it wide. And behind it was a tunnel.
At least, tunnel was the word that leaped to mind, although pipe might have been more accurate. Pazel looked, blinked and looked again, and found he could not tear his eyes away. He, who lived with magic in his blood, was seeing magic today for the first time.
And what a sight it was. Just inches wide, the tunnel ran straight through the clock and onward—forty feet onward—through wall and adjacent cabin, and the cabin beyond that. It should have ended, roughly, in the center of the first-class dining room. A cold draft flowed from its mouth, carrying a hint of cedar smoke and a few grains of dark sand that fell from the clock to scatter among Thasha's rings and bracelets.
But at the same time the tunnel was not there. He passed his hand behind the clock and felt nothing, looked and saw nothing but the plain cabin wall. The tunnel only existed within the clock.
And at its far end there glowed a room. It was just visible, sharp and tiny, like the view through the wrong end of a telescope: crackling firelight, a three-legged stool, a bookshelf. Just that, and the sound of a desolate wind that was not blowing around the Chathrand.
He straightened, gaping, and Thasha returned the clock face to its just-open position.