The Red Wolf Conspiracy

by Robert V. S. Redick

  Isiq demanded a demonstration. Thasha cleared her throat and said, “My husband is not always a pencil.”

  “Are you laughing, boy?”

  “No, sir.” Pazel gave a gagging cough. Isiq took a step closer, studying him.

  “Chadfallow might have adopted you,” said Isiq.

  Now it was Pazel's turned to be startled. “Yes, sir,” he stammered. “I owe the doctor a great deal.”

  “You're an educated boy. Why did you risk insulting me that day?”

  Pazel gripped the chair. “I have no excuse, Your Excellency.”

  “Just as well.” Isiq forced out a chuckle. “You learned Mzithrini from their envoy, didn't you? Chadfallow called him a barbarian in silks. Perhaps a little barbarism rubbed off on you? Not a bad thing, that. A little barbarism fortifies a man.”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  “Let us forget the past, shall we? You showed great valor with those augrongs. And when I learned that you were the son of Gregory Pathkendle I naturally wished to meet you. That coat is to your liking?”

  “Yes, Excellency; I thank you.”

  “We shall forget the past.” Isiq ruffled Pazel's hair. “A strange meeting for us both, eh? You're the first Ormali I've spoken to since the Rescue. And naturally I am the first soldier of that campaign to speak with you.”

  “No, Excellency. The first to speak with me was the corporal who kicked me unconscious because he wanted to rape my mother and sister, and could not find them.”

  After Hercól had clamped a hand over his mouth and dragged him from the stateroom (with a look that made it clear just how thoroughly Pazel had cooked his own goose), after Uskins appeared and stripped him to the waist and tied his wrists to a fife-rail, after men gathered by the score to gawk and mumble about Rose's wrath, after someone began to lash him with a knotted whip and a gleeful Uskins shouted, “Harder, wretch, or I'll demonstrate on you,” after Pazel heard a sob and realized Neeps had been made to deliver the punishment, after Pazel felt tears streaming down his cheeks and blood trickling to his breeches—only then did the worst result of his outburst occur to him.

  He would never see Thasha again.

  But that was the least of his troubles, wasn't it? He had never much bothered with girls: everyone knew they spelled disaster in a seafarer's life. Like coral isles, went the saying: pretty at a distance, ringed by reefs.

  He shouldn't care. He didn't even know her, and what he did know—that she was the daughter of the man who had burned Ormael, and pampered, and rather violent, and indiscreet—he did not much like. Did he?

  Fire and fumes, Pazel. You do.

  It was a final, unexpected lash. She might have been a friend—after all these years, a friend!—but he would never find out now. And Neeps, his other friend: he would vanish, too, and kind Mr. Fiffengurt, and—oh, sky!—the chance of finding his parents and Neda again! If Dr. Chadfallow had really been guiding him back to them, Pazel had just thrown the chance away.

  Suddenly he wished very humbly for the protection of the Imperial surgeon. What would happen to him? Who would care if he died?

  Dr. Rain cleaned his wounds with eucalyptus oil and sent him back to his hammock. He could not lie in it, so he lay on his stomach on the filthy floor, hardly daring to sleep for fear that boys would tread on him in the blackness. And yet he must have slept, for sometime in that miserable night he found himself suddenly awake, possessed of a terrible awareness.

  I've lost all my people.

  But even as the thought crossed his mind, Neeps returned from his night shift, felt his way to Pazel and gripped his arm. Pazel sat up, wincing, and Neeps handed him a pouch.

  “What's this?”

  Neeps did not make a sound. Pazel untied the pouch and felt inside. Coins, six or eight of them. By the weight Pazel knew they were gold.

  “Where'd you get these, mate?”

  Neeps said not a word. He pressed a second object into Pazel's hand. It was a folded knife.

  “Neeps! Is that my father's knife? It is, isn't it?”

  Neeps was still fumbling in his pockets. At last he produced a final gift: the ivory whale.

  “Did you have to fight Jervik?” Pazel whispered.

  Neeps sniffed. Only then did Pazel realize that he was sobbing with rage and shame.

  “By my grandmother's bones on Sollochstal,” he said in his squeaky voice, “I'll see them pay for what they made me do to you.”

  FROM THE SECRET JOURNAL OF

  G. STARLING FIFFENGURT, QUARTERMASTER

  Saturday, 13 Ilqrin. Quiet sailing on a nervous ship. Rose is tyrannical & Uskins cruel, but both have kept to themselves these two days since the flogging of Pazel Pathkendle, as if sated by that wicked business. For Mr. P. P. of course there is no future: he shall be put ashore in Uturphe with a purse of horsemeat & the mark of shame upon his papers. Uskins that great hog tried to brand his wrists—I for Insolent on one, R for Reckless the other. He had Pathkendle in the smithy & was heating a branding iron when I arrived & intervened. Not very gently, either: I told him that iron would find new & uncomfortable quarters if he tried to use it on one of my boys. Uskins sneered at me for defending the Muketch—the boys' strange nickname for Pathkendle. I gather it has something to do with crabs.

  Uskins did quite enough damage when he made the boy's best friend, Neeps Undrabust, dole out the lashes. Mr. Undrabust walks about looking as if he'd killed someone. He has also been fighting: Mr. Jervik Lank apparently remarked that Pathkendle was a “girly” because he'd cried under the lash—as if marines & mercenaries didn't as well!—& that Undrabust was worse, as he'd cried just because he had to whip a “daft Ormali.” Undrabust went for him like a wildcat. Fortunately Peytr & Dastu were on hand & tore him away before anyone was hurt.

  I looked the other way on this occasion, but I won't be able to do so again. Fighting is a plague that must be stamped out quickly, lest it escape all control.

  Sunday, 14 Ilqrin. Foul dreams: Anni sick, her father forced to beg a loan from the Mangel thugs to buy medicine, a swarm of black insects over Etherhorde, a baby crying in the hold. Such visions have plagued me for weeks—since that awful night, in fact, when Mr. Aken of the Chathrand Trading Family was lost overboard, just a few leagues out of Ellisoq Bay. Only Swellows saw him fall, & though we dropped sail & put out the lantern craft, no trace of his body was found. Swellows claims he was staggering drunk, but I said nothing of this in the letter I wrote to his wife. His cabin showed no trace of liquor, & the offending bottle, if bottle there was, went with him to the deep. Rose led us in a prayer for the man's good soul—so sincerely that I could at last imagine the captain ending his days as a monk.

  Currently Rose sits whole days at his desk, scribbling, leaving only for the sailmaster's report & his evening meal. Turwinnek Isle came & went, & the ruins of the ancient city of Nal-Burim on the southeast tip of Dremland. Commander Nagan's moon falcon was sent inland & returned with a fat grouse, which was served with mint at the captain's table tonight. Mr. Latzlo offered five hundred cockles for the bird, but the soldier loves his Niriviel & would not hear of it. One has to admire such gentle feelings in a fighting man.

  Wednesday, 17 Ilqrin. Confusion & delays. Strong SW winds had us tacking all but back toward home from Wednesday last to yesterday morning. Since then no wind to speak of: we are reduced to a crawling two knots.

  The confusion though concerns our heading. Nal-Burim is the usual signal to trim due west, for any ship bound for the Crown-less Lands. But to general amazement Rose has given no such command: we are holding a south-by-southwest course, & leaving the mainland behind. Mr. Elkstem inquired at the Capt.'s door & was told to steer as instructed & blast his curiosity.

  Last night Pazel Pathkendle was attacked by other boys in the darkness—tied into his hammock & pissed upon, told that he “should have been made a slave” & not “disgraced the best ship of the best people in Alifros.” His friends Undrabust and Reyast were elsewhere. No one will give me name
s.

  For his own safety I have moved Pathkendle's hammock to the brig, where he will sleep under lock and key until expelled in Uturphe. If we ever get there.

  Monday, 22 Ilqrin. Harpooned a reaper shark; Teggatz made a soup. In his gullet (the shark's) found the whole skeleton of a human hand, with a fine silver ring on one finger. Our cook presented it to me with much blinking & rubbing of hands, & minutes later managed to say: “Bad shark.” I shall give the ring to Annabel one day, without the tale of its provenance.

  Winds NW & freshened considerably: seven knots at the strike of the noon bell. Still bearing south.

  Sunday, 28 Ilqrin. This morning Rose gave the order to bear west—finally. At a minimum we have plunged eighty leagues out of our way. To what purpose? the men demand, & I have no answer.

  Here's another oddity—one I'd nearly forgotten. Back in Etherhorde, Rose spared me the quartermaster's usual task of drumming up sailors to complete our crew: I was glad, for it gave me some last precious hours with Annabel. Mr. Swellows handled the recruiting, & he is ever keen to follow Rose's orders to the letter. How, then, did he end up signing so many Plapp's Pier men? They are capable sailors, certainly. But any fool knows the Great Ship's been crewed for generations by the Burnscove Boys.*

  I took care to sort Plapps & Burnscovers into separate watches, & to mix 'em with those who don't belong to either gang. So far there have been no brawls—yet they will come, sure as I write these words. Thasha Isiq & her prince may wed, Arqual & the Mzithrin disarm, but the holy war of Plapp vs. Burnscove will rage on so long as there are crates of fish to fight over.

  Wednesday, I Modoli. Apparently we have a maniac aboard. Last night by the No. 3 hatch someone attacked Hercól Stanapeth, Ambassador Isiq's valet, & nearly succeeded in killing the man. He was struck a fierce blow to the head that left him briefly senseless. Next he knew, this attacker was making to hurl him over the rail. At the last instant the would-be killer groaned & stumbled, & rather than tossing Hercól far out into the waves, he managed only to roll him over the side, where the valet's ankle caught in the mizzen-chains. The maniac then drew a knife & stabbed Hercól's leg three times. But the valet, in most extraordinary fashion, kicked the knife out of the man's hand with his free foot—this while dangling upsy-downsy, bleeding from head & leg, & knocking like a landed fish against the hull.

  The surprise hero of the evening is none other than Mr. Ket, Liripus Ket, the chubby merchant who has been with us since Sorrophran. This quiet seller of Opaltine soaps came out on deck while the knifing was under way, faced down the maniac with a capstan bar & so battered him that the lunatic dived back down the hatch to escape. Mr. Ket's shouts brought sailors running, but not fast enough to apprehend him. For the moment he is on the loose. Even more alarming, he was masked: neither Ket nor Hercól saw his face.

  Ket is an odd bird (he clears his throat with a sound like breaking timbers & fiddles nonstop with a tattered scarf) but obviously a brave one. We made him promise not to breathe a word about this business. “I wouldn't—CHHRCK!—dream of it, sirs.” He'd better not. The men have already begun to mutter that perhaps Aken was helped overboard, & there have been dark glances at Mr. Swellows. We deck officers have been all day coaxing & threatening them into silence. Terror among the passengers is the last thing we need.

  Sergeant Drellarek's soldiers are even now discreetly searching the ship. But how shall we recognize the villain? Ket describes a man “of regular size,” which rules out only the augrongs & Mr. Neeps. A full search of the four hundred riders in third class will start a bonfire of rumors that will never go out. And in any case those ragged souls were all locked below for the night.

  Who would murder a servant? I despise Mr. Swellows but cannot believe the old toad has the courage to kill. Isiq says nothing about Hercól except that he is a grand person, well loved by all & tutor to Lady Thasha. He is Tholjassan, & they are a warrior people, but this Tholjassan is a mere servant & dancer. He cannot be rich. Why him? If the villain is after Eberzam Isiq, why attack the servant alone & apart? The crime makes no sense, & troubles me at some deep level I do not yet understand.

  Mr. Hercól lost much blood before we fished him from the chains. He has not stirred these 27 hours, & I fear he may die before we reach Uturphe. The young Lady weeps at his side, & even seems a bit out of her head, calling for a certain Rawmanchy (?) although there is no one by that name aboard.

  Myself, I do not pray. The Gods have better means of deciding this world's fate than by taking requests from an old quartermaster. But skies! May the man live! One senseless death on a voyage is tragic. Two could mark the beginning of a curse.

  Could that be why I spared the rat?

  I feel quite silly, but here is what happened: six or eight days out of Ulsprit I climbed down to the mercy deck, looking for bootblack. Just past the foremast I saw a bilge-pipe with an ill-fitting cap, & when I opened it to set it right I found myself looking into the eyes of a black rat. Of course I made to smash the creature with my crowbar. What stopped me was the sight of his little foot.

  It was crushed. The beast had jammed it between pipe & lid, no doubt at the exact moment one of us slammed the lid home. The foot will never be a foot again, but it let enough air into the pipe to keep this plucky fellow alive. He was skinny & trembling—in that pipe for days, I'm sure. We gazed at each other, ratty & me, & before I could get over my shock & kill him he skedaddled away on his three good legs. I still could have slain him with the crowbar, but instead I found myself wishing him luck. What a ridiculous old softy you've become, Fiffengurt! Luckily I was quite alone.

  * Plapp's Pier and Burnscove are two port districts of Etherhorde. The gangs Mr. Fiffengurt mentions control most of the dock work in the city and are bitter rivals.—EDITOR. Granted, quite a few of our Burnscovers deserted in Sorrophran, perhaps (as Mr. Frix thinks) because they recall the first captaincy of Nilus Rose & would rather starve than serve under him again. But well over a hundred remain aboard.

  Good Intentions

  4 Modoli 941

  52nd day from Etherhorde

  Hercól lay still as death. Thasha stood in the cabin doorway, watching Dr. Rain poke and prod her tutor for the hundredth time. He looked terrible: gray blotchy skin, new wrinkles about the eyes, streaks of dark blood that had run from his leg to his chin while he dangled upside down in the chains. He had not moved since the attack four nights before.

  Thasha had insisted that they bring him here, to her own chamber: it was warmer than sickbay, and the bed was a real bed, not a padded board dangling from ropes. But Rain was still the ship's only doctor. Thasha's anxiety grew the more she watched him shuffling about. He seemed a little mad. Talking to his instruments. Wiping his chin with a corner of her bedspread.

  “There now, dear.” Syrarys glided breezily to her side and touched her arm. “Let the doctor do his work. And lend me your necklace a moment. Your brave Mr. Ket has given me some exquisite silver polish.”

  Without a glance at the consort, Thasha removed her necklace and handed it over. They were making fast to Uturphe, supposedly. But when Thasha and her father pored over his old nautical chart (with its penciled ghosts of old war fleets, battle maneuvers, lines of attack) he showed her how far out of the way Rose had taken them. Whole days wasted, or so it seemed. Why didn't he speak to Rose about the detour? Thasha wanted to know. The old admiral's reply was stern: “Because he is the captain.”

  Yet her father also declared that the winds were less favorable by the hour, and that they would be lucky to reach the city by tomorrow sunrise. Would Hercól live that long? Thasha couldn't bear to consider the question. Instead, she turned her mind to revenge.

  Taking her diary and fountain pen from her room, she dropped into a grand leather chair by the fengas lamp, crossed her legs and wrote:

  What I Know:

  Someone tried to kill my best friend in the world.

  A soap merchant named Ket prevented it.

  The enemy is sti
ll on this ship—at least, until we land.

  She paused, chewing the end of her fountain pen. Then she scribbled quickly:

  Hercól knew there were enemies around us.

  Hercól was afraid when Pazel Pathkendle mentioned a language—Nileskchet.

  Everyone is talking about peace, but Prahba is afraid of war.

  That meant he and Hercól were on the same side—for even though Hercól was a great warrior and served in an admiral's home, he loathed wars. So did Ramachni, of course. Once, when certain her father was not in earshot, the old mage had said: As sure as disease grows where filth lies unburied, so every war in history sprang from someone's carelessness or neglect.”

  Ramachni would know what to do. But there was no chance of speaking to him with that dolt doctor running in and out of her cabin. She was on her own.

  She slid down in her chair.

  What I Want to Know:

  WHO DID IT.

  Why.

  What's going to happen to that stupid boy, Pazel Pathkendle.

  Where Syrarys goes after dinner—it is NOT to the first-class powder room.

  How Hercól and Ramachni planned to get me out of this wedding.

  Whether P. P. hates all of us or just Prahba.

  If P. P. has ever been—

  “Polished!” said Syrarys, draping the necklace around Thasha's neck. “Doesn't it shine!”

  Thasha grunted.

  “Is that your Mzithrini lesson, dear?” asked the consort, peering over her shoulder.

  “Why, yes.”

  Puzzled, Syrarys drifted back to her needlepoint. Despite all her fears and worries, Thasha felt a moment's pride. She was writing in code: her own mad code, invented to outwit the Lorg Sisters. Odd words she spelled backward. Every third, fifth and seventeenth letter was a decoy, as were all the spaces and half the vowels; and of course the whole thing was read from the bottom of the page to the top. It was not the code itself she was proud of, exactly: rather it was that she could both read and write it at almost normal speed. That was the skill that had taken years.