The Red Wolf Conspiracy

by Robert V. S. Redick

  Rulf has your medicines, sealed by my hand. Drink from no flask you do not open yourself; dispose of what Syrarys has touched. And do not despair of love, Eberzam: it surrounds you yet.

  EVER THY SERVANT,

  IGNUS CHADFALLOW

  Syrarys dropped the letter to the floor. Then she threw back her head and laughed.

  “Rom Rulf! This good and simple man! What was his price, a new shop window? Some other chemist driven from town?”

  Reclined next to her, Sandor Ott shook his head. “Rulf does love Chadfallow. But there are those he loves more. His daughter, for one. We took the precaution of kidnapping her months ago. The good doctor has left messages with Rulf before, you see.”

  They lay together on a bed heaped with fine cushions and silks, sharing a little jug of wine. Through a broad window the sun was setting over the Quiet Sea. This was one of the simpler rooms of Tressek Fortress, carved out of the living rock above the city of Tressek Tarn. Centuries ago it had been a great keep; now it was a resort where rich Arqualis soaked in water piped from the boiling tarns beneath the hills. The whole place felt warm and wet.

  “As for the tarboy, Pathkendle,” said Ott, “the good doctor is lying. His concern stems from more than a promise to the lad's mother, even though he loved her. No, Chadfallow has some special use in mind for that one.”

  “Then you must get rid of him.”

  “The beauty of it, darling, is that your dear admiral will do it for us. They are racing toward a collision, haven't you noticed? And when they do collide, and Pathkendle is tossed ashore—well, I have arranged for his reception.”

  “You're a monster. Even I fear you at times.”

  Noises touched the room like whiffs of smoke: dogs, gulls, blacksmiths hammering steel. A closer sound—that of Eberzam Isiq, moaning strangely—came from the floor below.

  “You're certain he can't hear us?” she said.

  “That man hears nothing but his own sweet dreams,” said Ott. “Deathsmoke is bliss—until it kills you. In a hot bath such as his, the leaves of the deathsmoke vine make the body numb, the heart beat slower and slower. The steam, meanwhile, keeps the mind in a perfect trance, even to the moment of death. We cannot risk that, of course. Isiq can be left for one hour, no more.”

  “An hour isn't long enough with you,” she said.

  Ott kissed her, but his voice was stern. “One hour. Remember that he must live through his daughter's marriage.”

  “And not a day longer,” growled Syrarys. “How I wish I could tell the world! All those fat and fancy lords would think twice about buying young slave-brides if they knew what we were capable of.”

  “Tell the world you've been poisoning an admiral for years and even I won't be able to protect you,” said Ott calmly. “But I must be off soon, too. Niriviel must be sent ahead, to find out what Chad-fallow is up to.”

  She snuggled against him. “He's an insufferable pest! You should have killed him months ago.”

  Ott stroked her loose black hair. “In Etherhorde the man's death would have drawn too much attention. He was to be Chathrand's surgeon, after all. Besides, the Emperor adores him.”

  “But he saw me at the castle. In the pillow room!”

  “And so signed his own death warrant. Fear not: he will never speak to the admiral again. My men will be waiting for him in Utur-phe. As for our true mission, though—just look at his pitiful guesswork! The Nilstone! By Rin, it is to laugh!”

  “I've never heard of the Nilstone. What is it?”

  “A myth, or something as old as myth. A relic of the ancient world. Poor fool! He might as well have said we were looking for the rainbow's end.”

  “Chadfallow's a pest, Sandor, but he's never a fool. He cured your army of the talking fever.”

  “This time he's a fool,” said Ott. “He was the one man I thought might deduce that the Shaggat was still alive, and in our plans. Instead he's frightened of a little sphere that darkens the sun.”

  Syrarys raised her head, no longer smiling. “A black sphere? The size of a plum, but heavy as a cannonball?”

  “So the stories claim.”

  “The gummukra,” she said. “You're talking about the gummukra.”

  Ott smiled. “There's a name for it in your tongue as well?”

  “Of course. They say it's the eyeball of a murth-lord. It lets the one who holds it command the Black Bees.”

  “Black Bees, eh?”

  “Don't laugh, you brute! We were terrified of them.”

  “The Rinfaithful have a different story. They say the Nilstone is like the cork on that wine jug—give it here, my sweet—plugging a tiny hole through which the Swarm of Night entered this world to lay it waste, and escaped again when the Gods rose in fury. And the Mzithrinis say the Nilstone is pure ash—the ash of all the devils burned in their Black Casket, before the Great Devil broke it asunder. That is why I laugh: each country tells a different tale. And here is Dr. Chadfallow, the scientist, joining the game.”

  “I wonder how the idea entered his head.”

  “Who knows?” said Ott. “Let us just be glad it did. Now then, about Zirfet.”

  Syrarys laughed, and bit his ear playfully. “Zirfet. Your enormous, handsome disciple.”

  “A negligent disciple,” said Ott severely. “He was to have killed Hercól by now, without fail.”

  “But I told you, love, that was my fault. You know you ordered Zirfet to obey me in your absence.”

  “A kill order takes precedence, as Zirfet should have recalled.” He raised his head and looked at her. “I should think you would have welcomed the Tholjassan's death.”

  “Eventually, of course. But Hercól is a good valet—he ran errands for me in every port. Besides, you left without a word. I had no idea that Hercól was the reason for your absence—and the dear boy didn't dare speak to me of your plans.”

  “Zirfet is not a boy, Syrarys. He's a member of the Secret Fist. An assassin, like me. And until he proves it I shall be forced to move with great caution about the Chathrand. You must keep Hercól twice as busy, until Zirfet finishes the job.”

  Syrarys caressed the back of Ott's neck, tracing an old knife-scar with the tip of her finger.

  “He's never killed, then?” she asked softly.

  Ott shook his head. “No, Zirfet has not yet killed, though he came closer than he knew with me.” He rubbed two knuckles along his jaw. “Very well, I'm off.”

  “You think so, do you?”

  She pounced on him. The wine spilled down his side, soaking the bed as she kissed his neck, eyelids, ear. All at once he was returned to his youth—but not a youth of love and caresses. His memory was of battle. He was thirteen, the army's creature already, fighting Sizzies on a cold plateau thousands of miles from the sea. His sergeant dead, his squadron decimated. He himself about to die. A Sizzy boy on top of him, a knife in his ribs, his life gushing into the sawgrass. One arm broken, the other pinned beneath his foe. Bright blue sky, like today.

  Syrarys was laughing—so young, so perfectly lovely. Did she really love him? Could he ever allow himself to hope?

  Gently, he rolled her aside. He placed a finger on her pouting lips.

  “Go and pamper your Admiral,” he said. “Isiq must never suspect you. Not once.”

  Minutes later he was on the fortress roof, looking down at the Chathrand. A sailor high on the mainmast was lowering the Emperor's flag for the night. Gold fish, gold dagger: they had loomed over his life for six decades, given meaning to his scars and his conquests, to murders and betrayals, to sweet feminine lips. Arqual, thought the spymaster. My love is Arqual, till death do us part.

  He had torn that boy's throat out with his teeth. What choice did he have?

  Lessons Learned

  11 Ilqrin 941

  29th day from Etherhorde

  “Blar baffin mud-me,” said Thasha glumly.

  Pazel looked up from the grammar book, exasperated. “Blar avfam muteti—'My husband is my trusted gu
ide.℉ There's no d in the sentence, m'lady.”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  Pazel lowered his voice to a whisper. “You know I can't. They'll throw me out. Honestly, Thasha, you're not even trying.”

  “I'm not getting married,” she whispered, furious. “And how would you know if I was trying? All you have to do is wait for your blary Gift to translate for you.”

  “I told you, I learned four languages by studying, before Mother cast the spell. I was already good with them. If she'd cast it on you, I suppose it would have helped your fighting. Isn't that what you're best at?”

  “Fighting and tactics. That's what Hercól and Prahba say, anyway.”

  “The point is, you have to start out good at something for it to make you better at it.”

  They were seated in velvet chairs in a corner of the first-class lounge. A few yards to their left, Brother Bolutu sat reading a book from the ship's library: Venomous Pests of Alifros. At the far end of the room, Syrarys sipped wine and chattered gaily with a crowd of women, among them Pacu Lapadolma. In the shadows behind the women stood a bucktoothed tarboy known as Sorry Suds, holding a wine jug and pulling the cord that turned the ceiling-mounted fan. Now and then a woman thrust out her cup, and the boy leaped to fill it.

  Pazel's hair was so clean it felt like something he'd borrowed. Fiffengurt himself had dunked him in a tub of limewater. “You're going to tutor the Treaty Bride!” he said. “Your appearance will reflect on every boy on this ship. Imagine if a louse were to crawl from your hair onto Lady Thasha.”

  Jervik had called him a dandy—under his breath. He had not gotten over his terror at Pazel's unnatural fit of gibberish. But he still wouldn't return Pazel's father's knife or his mother's ivory whale—wouldn't admit to having them, in fact. “They was left on the Eniel, with a lot of my things,” he'd told Pazel—but he smirked as he said it, and winked at his hangers-on.

  “Your sister wasn't good at languages, I suppose,” said Thasha, “otherwise the spell would have given her the same Gift, right? But she must have been good at something.”

  “Lots of things,” said Pazel. “I used to think she was good at everything, in fact. Neda was strong, like you. She sang beautifully, and knew a thousand songs. And she understood people: that's what I remember most. I couldn't fool her, and neither could anyone else. Sometimes it made her sad. But if the spell did anything—besides nearly kill her—we didn't notice it before she ran away. I wonder sometimes if she ever forgave our mother, or if she thinks of me.”

  “Of course she does. Don't be daft.”

  “I don't even know if she's alive.”

  Thasha bit her lips. Pazel blinked at the page of Mzithrini script. Across the room, Pacu Lapadolma was chatting gaily about the Emperor's birthday, two weeks off but already the subject of lively anticipation. Pacu's great-aunt had presented the ship with a “party crate” to be opened on the night in question: it was certain to contain outlandish fun.

  “Sound out the words, m'lady,” said Pazel at last. “‘My husband shall never go hungry while I live.’”

  “Blur baffle—oh, I wish they'd pipe down!” Thasha glared at Pacu. “She has a voice like a tipsy rooster. We should go to my cabin.”

  “That's a brilliant idea,” said Pazel dryly.

  A month had passed since the day of his mind-fit. Ambassador Isiq had not spoken to Pazel again: when they passed on deck he pretended not to see the tarboy. Hercól had suggested Pazel write a letter of apology. But how could he apologize for speaking the truth? In any case, the ambassador had at last given his grudging assent to these lessons. He had even come to some terms with Rose concerning Pazel's bond debt. Isiq had very little choice. Without Dr. Chadfallow, there was no Mzithrini-speaker aboard except Pazel—and at the very least, Thasha had to learn her vows.

  The door opened and Hercól stepped into the lounge. He smiled at Thasha but went at once to Syrarys, bowed and handed her a small package wrapped in muslin cloth. Syrarys gave him a brief nod and hid the package away.

  Only then did Hercól approach Thasha and Pazel.

  “You found your buttons, Pathkendle,” he said. “I'm amazed they were not stolen, after all those hours.”

  “I got lucky,” said Pazel, raising a hand to his coat. In fact something far stranger than luck had come his way: the brass buttons had appeared in his pocket the morning after his mind-fit. He had thanked Neeps warmly, but the other tarboy had no idea what he was talking about. Neither did Reyast, in the hammock beneath him.

  Pazel had decided they were teasing him, and forgotten all about it. But now, in the first-class lounge, another possibility struck him suddenly: the ixchel. Who else could retrieve lost buttons from cracks and crevices about the deck, and slip them unseen into his pocket?

  Pazel looked with foreboding at the swordsman above him. Does he know? Hercól was giving him another of those raptor-like stares. But he asked no questions, and instead held out a small wooden box and flipped open the lid.

  Inside was what looked like clumps of glue and orange yarn. “Spider jellies,” said Hercól. “A specialty of Tressek Tarn.”

  Pazel thanked him, and nervously pressed one whole sticky wad into his mouth. But Thasha just sniffed at the candy.

  “What did Syrarys want this time?” she asked.

  Hercól's eyebrows rose. “Medicine. Drops for your father's tea. Very thoughtful of her: she wrote ahead for them, from Ether-horde.”

  “Every time we're in port she sends you running about.”

  “As valet, I am her servant as well. Thasha, has Commander Nagan been this way?”

  “Who?”

  “The captain of your family's honor guard, my dear. He took ill and left us in Ulsprit, but I gather he caught up with the Chathrand and boarded today. I wish to make his acquaintance.”

  “I've never seen the man. Listen to me, Hercól: you're my teacher. And there's not much time left to learn from you.”

  “That is so.” Hercól gave her a slight smile. “One must always keep an eye on the clock, don't you think?”

  With that he turned and left the room. Thasha looked at Pazel, suddenly breathless. “That's our code,” she whispered. “Ramachni's back. Pazel, you must come with me now.”

  She rose and half dragged Pazel from the lounge. They slipped through the empty dining room, passed the Money Gate and the officers' cabins. At her door Pazel stopped.

  “This is the last place I ought to be,” he said.

  “Don't worry, it's all arranged. Come in.”

  “Arranged?” he said. “By whom? Is your father in there?”

  “No, he's not, and neither is Syrarys. Pazel, can't you trust me?”

  He looked at her warily. But he followed her into the stateroom.

  The red light of sunset poured in through the stern windows, glittering on the brasswork and chandeliers. There was a five-foot samovar made of porcelain and jade, a wisp of steam still rising from its spout. There was a painting of a shipwreck in a great gilded frame, and the pair of crossed swords he had spotted before. But now across the center of the floor lay a huge, tawny bearskin rug, complete with head and claws.

  “Another trinket from the Tarn, I guess,” he said, toeing the yellow fangs.

  Thasha turned to look at him. “My grandfather killed that bear with a hunting knife, on his farm in the Westfirth. Syrarys uncrated it because her feet were cold.”

  Pazel pulled back his toe. Thasha gave him a wry smile as she crossed the stateroom.

  The money, Pazel thought. Feelings crashed together as he followed her: he was dirty, she was pampered, he was nothing, he was better than this girl.

  We had old things too, he thought, trying furiously to remember. But the few objects he could recall from his life in Ormael seemed shabby and humdrum beside this splendor. On a table by the samovar lay a piece of coffee cake no one had bothered to finish. Tarboys had fistfights over less. What am I doing here? he thought.

  Thasha opened the doo
r to her own cabin. With monstrous thumps, Jorl and Suzyt rolled off the bed to greet her. She glanced instantly at the clock on her dresser: as before, its hinged, moon-patterned face stood ajar. She tugged Pazel into the room.

  “Ramachni,” she said. “It's me. I've brought Pazel Pathkendle.”

  “Have you indeed?”

  The voice, high and velvet-soft and utterly inhuman, seemed to emanate from Thasha's pillows. Despite himself Pazel jumped: to his chagrin he saw an amused smile on Thasha's face.

  She closed the cabin door. The pillows shifted, and from among them emerged the black mink. For a moment it was almost comical, this tidy creature shaking free of the bedclothes. Then it looked at Pazel and grew still.

  Pazel did not move either: the black eyes were wide, and bottomless, and fortunately very kind. It knows me, he thought, and trembled a bit at the oddness of the notion. Then the little creature stretched luxuriously and sprang into Thasha's arms.

  She laughed as it rubbed, cat-like, against her chin. “I've missed you so much!” she said.

  “And I have missed those fingernails in my fur. This ship is infested with fleas of a most bloodthirsty order.”

  “Where have you been hiding, Ramachni?” asked Thasha. “Her-cól and I have worried ourselves sick! We only knew you'd come aboard because Pazel told us.”

  “I am sorry to have abandoned you,” said Ramachni. “I truly had no choice. There is a murderous power loose aboard the Chathrand: I sensed it with my first breath. It probes, and listens, and spies on our thoughts, and it thinks no more of killing than of wiping dust from a tabletop. I was caught off-guard. I could not tell who or what it was, for it keeps its face well hidden. The best I could do was to hide myself from it, so that it would not know that a power to match its own had come aboard—and not threaten those who befriend me. So I waited, just inside the clock, listening as best I could, until it seemed you had all left the cabin. But I was wrong—Mr. Pathkendle remained, and saw me, and I had to place a spell of protection on him to keep that Other from reading his thoughts.”