The Red Wolf Conspiracy

by Robert V. S. Redick

  Eventually she pulled out a red handkerchief, blew her nose and continued, “If Hercól dies I'll find a way out myself. I'll have Ramachni spirit me away or turn me into a skunk. Or I'll just run off. I have enough gold to sail twice around the world.”

  “They'll send a fleet after you,” said Pazel.

  “Two fleets,” Neeps put in. “One Sizzy, one Arquali. But who's this Ramachni?”

  “Then I'll jump ship before we're anywhere near Simja,” Thasha went on, ignoring Neeps. “Right here in Uturphe. With you, Pazel! And I'll buy us both passage to somewhere far away, in the Crown-less Lands or Outer Isles. That's what I want to hire you for, see? To be my guide.”

  In the silence that followed they heard cows munching placidly in their stalls.

  Neeps was the first one to speak. “I knew it, mate, she's cracked.”

  “Entirely,” said Pazel. “I've never even seen the Outer Isles. And what will your father say if you disappear?”

  “Whatever he likes,” said Thasha with sudden anger. “He sent me to the Lorg! I blamed Syrarys for years, but it was him. He needed a daughter fit to marry a prince, and that's what the Sisters were training me for. You're right, Neeps: I'm just cargo to these people.”

  “One of these people is the Emperor,” said Pazel. “Do you think he'll let you slip away?”

  “Not easily. That's why I need your help.”

  “His help!” laughed Neeps. “I like that! Not enough that you've ended his sailing career. You want him to be a fugitive. With His Supremacy's men and the Black Rags combing the seas for him.”

  “You make everything sound so rotten,” said Thasha.

  “Listen, half-wit, it's rotten whatever I say. When they catch you, they'll make you marry a Sizzy. But what do you think they'll do to Pazel? He talks back to your dad and gets whipped like a slave. If he helps you run away—”

  “They'll kill me,” said Pazel quietly.

  Thasha sat on a step. She covered her face with her hands, but this time she didn't cry. After a moment she looked up at them. “You're right,” she said. “I have to do this alone. They'd kill Hercól, too, if he tried to help me. I'm that important, somehow. Peace is coming, and this made-up marriage is the guarantee.”

  “But they don't want peace,” whispered Pazel. “They want war.” The others looked at him, stunned.

  “Who wants war?” blurted Neeps.

  “Be quiet, you donkey!” Pazel seized his arm. “I don't know who!”

  “Well where in the brimstone Pits did you get that idea?”

  “I can't tell you. But it's true, Thasha: all this peacemaking is a sham. Ramachni told us there was an evil mage hidden aboard.”

  “Who's Ramachni?” said Neeps, stamping his foot.

  “He didn't say the mage had anything to do with me,” said Thasha. “Or with this Treaty Bride business.”

  “What else could be so important about this voyage?” Pazel went on. “And don't you see, Thasha? If someone is trying to start a war, breaking off the marriage will play right into their hands.”

  “I don't see, and I don't care,” said Thasha. “Let them hand over someone else to the Sizzies!”

  “Right for once,” said Neeps. “I don't know the half of this—but Pazel, you're not making sense. If some fools wanted a new war with the Black Rags, they could find easier ways to start it.”

  No one spoke for a moment. Pazel was thinking of Chadfallow's words, ten years ago at his mother's table. Lies, Suthinia. We are adrjft without charts in a sea of lies. And what else? One lie can doom the world. One fearless soul can save it.

  “Thasha,” he said, “who else knows you plan to run off?”

  “Nobody else.”

  “Just think, then,” said Pazel. “There's never been a marriage between Sizzies and Arqualis. But there's also been no war for forty years.”

  “So?”

  “So what if the marriage itself is supposed to start the war?”

  “Oh, rubbish!” said Thasha. “This whole business has been planned for decades. First the fighting stopped, then the name-calling. Then a few important men on both sides, men like Dr. Chadfallow, met and talked. Now a Mzithrini prince takes a … a—”

  “A gift basket,” said Pazel. “Tied up in bows.”

  She gave him a look to curdle milk. “A daughter of an enemy soldier, that's all that matters. And when I've lived seven years in Babqri City, the Mzithrin priests are supposed to pronounce me acceptable, or noncontagious, or at the very least human, and that will mean Arqual itself is no longer the enemy of the Old Faith. And then we all become friends.”

  “Very pretty,” said Neeps.

  “Foolishness and rot,” said Thasha. “But it's supposed to prevent a war, not start one. Pazel, you're not being fair. I've told you my secrets, and you've told me nothing but your crazy guesses. If this wedding is really a sham, don't you think I have the right to know?”

  “She's got a point, mate,” said Neeps. “Trust and trust alike.”

  They waited, but Pazel just shook his head. “If I could explain,” he said, “you'd understand why I can't.”

  “That's the maddest thing yet,” said Neeps. “Rin help us if—oy! You there!”

  The others turned. Seated primly on the stairs above them was Sniraga, Lady Oggosk's cat. The red animal looked at them serenely, like someone enjoying a bit of light theater from a balcony.

  “Sniraga!” said Pazel. “Why's she always popping up?”

  “That cat gives me the chills,” said Thasha.

  “She stole a pickle from the galley this morning,” said Neeps.

  “She stole my leek fritter in Sorrophran,” Pazel growled. “Go on, thief, away with you!”

  The cat turned Pazel an indifferent look. Then she bent her head and lifted something coiled and shiny from the deck.

  “My necklace!” Thasha cried, aghast. “How did she get it? I must have left the door open!”

  With the silver chain in her teeth, Sniraga stood and stretched. Then, before anyone could move, she sprang up the stairs and vanished.

  “Oh, catch her, catch her!” Thasha shouted. “Prahba will murder me!”

  They raced after the cat, but Sniraga was already gone from sight. At the berth deck they divided: Thasha kept climbing, muttering oaths, and the boys rushed in among the sailors. The cat, the cat! they begged. Had anyone seen it? No one had. But when they reached the tarboys' quarters Reyast waved them down.

  “T-T-T-Teggatz is fit to k-k-kill you, Neeps!”

  “Blow me down!” said Neeps. “I've been gone half an hour!”

  “M-m-m-more.”

  “And I'm late for cow-and-pig duty,” said Pazel. “Thasha will have to manage alone.”

  “She'll manage,” said Neeps. “Stay out of trouble, mate.”

  Neeps rushed back to his post. Pazel returned to the manger and spent the next two hours mucking it out, and feeding the goats and cattle. Then the dairy cow needed milking, and a goat kicked over a five-gallon pail of fresh water, forcing Pazel to haul another from the deck below. When his labor was done at last, Pazel sat in the hay beside the cow and leaned into her warm flank.

  He had about ten minutes before Fiffengurt locked him up in the brig for the night. He stank of manure and piss. It was the smell as much as the thought of iron bars that reminded him: Steldak.

  His own troubles had made him forget Rose's prisoner for days. Now he felt selfish, ashamed. Someone had to help that man.

  Summoning all his courage, he whispered: “Are you listening?”

  The cow looked at him dreamily. Pazel waited, holding his breath. There was no sound but the slice of the ship through the waves, loud here at the waterline.

  Diadrelu had said they would speak again once the Chathrand left Etherhorde, but she had never come. And sometime tomorrow he would be tossed ashore. If he told Neeps or Thasha about the ixchel they might be murdered in their sleep. If he didn't, Steldak would rot away in that cage until he died. />
  “Can you hear me?” he whispered again. “Come soon, Diadrelu. Please.”

  “Kit—kit—kit! Kitty—cat! Come out, you sly, stinking cheat!”

  Around Thasha, sailors stifled laughs. None had seen the red cat, so sorry m'lady, and Thasha realized the chase was futile. Better to get back to the stateroom before things got any worse.

  She made a quick dash across the main deck. Her door was ajar. Slipping inside, she kicked off her shoes and coat and ran straight to her cabin.

  Hercól looked worse. Under Dr. Rain's tight bandages his leg was swollen like a fatty sausage. A low wheezing came from his throat.

  Thasha fought down panic. Hercól's dying. Ramachni's out of reach. Pazel's being thrown off the ship. She could not remember ever feeling so trapped. Who was she, to imagine she could escape the clutches of two empires? She couldn't even escape from the Lorg.

  Her misery was cut short by the sound of a key in the stateroom door. Thasha left her cabin just as her father opened the outer door.

  “How is he?” Isiq asked at once.

  “Not good.”

  Eberzam crossed the room, peered in at Hercól and shook his head. Thasha pulled her collar high around her neck, praying he wouldn't notice the missing necklace.

  “Prahba,” she said, “who's in charge of catching the attacker?”

  “That would be Commander Nagan,” said Isiq.

  “Good old Nagan,” she said, with less-than-perfect conviction. “Where's he been lately?”

  “He sailed ahead to be sure all was safe in our next port of call. But he is back aboard now. A fine soldier, that one. By the way, Syrarys has been asking for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “She has grown fond of the ladies' powder room. Women can actually talk there, she says, away from us menfolk.” He smiled. “You should join her one of these nights.”

  “I will,” said Thasha. “Come to think of it, Prahba, I think I'll join her now.”

  “Good girl,” he said.

  Of course Thasha's intentions were not “good” in the way her father meant. She had already poked her head into the first-class powder room on two previous nights and had not found Syrarys there at all. Once more, she thought, and I'll ask where she really goes after dinner—in front of Prahba, of course. And how will you squirm out of that one, you fancy louse?

  But tonight, outrageously, Syrarys was where she claimed she would be. “Dearest!” she cried when Thasha opened the door. “Have you come to soak with us awhile?”

  Soggy hands drew Thasha in. One of the first-class wives (nine were stuffed in the little room) had arranged for a tub of near-boiling water to be installed in the powder room, and they sat around it in ecstasy, soaking their ostrich legs. “Salt water, tut,” said the wife of the Virabalm wheat merchant. “Still, it's the very thing on a cold night!”

  Syrarys had wrapped her hair in a towel. “Our Thasha's been studying the enemy—oh dear, that's wrong—our former enemy, of course. She knows about their history, their strange and frightening ways. But we mustn't be frightened anymore, right, darling? From now on we shall live and let live. And all the more so after your marriage. Come, sit by me—and do teach us some Mzithrini.”

  Once again Thasha had walked right into Syrarys' trap. She could hardly accuse her of sneaking off somewhere now. “Mzithrini! Mzithrini!” the wives chirped in delight. And every minute brought them closer to Uturphe.

  Thasha spoke a phrase from the back of the Merchant's Polylex (“Don't touch any of my goods!”), which was all she ever intended to say to her fiancé if the wedding somehow occurred. She told them it was a polite greeting among nobles.

  Groping her way out of the steam at last, Thasha closed the door on their “Ta-ta!'s” and made for the topdeck. But she had not taken three steps when she saw an old soldier leaving the smoking salon, just ahead. He was short, lean, scarred, a survivor of many battles, and he wore the red beret of the honor guard.

  “Good evening, Commander Nagan,” she said. Sandor Ott turned with a smile. “At your service, Lady Thasha.” “Commander, my father says you're in charge of catching—” “Forgive the interruption,” said Ott, “but if you would have me succeed, please lower your voice.”

  What a fool she was! She had almost blurted catching Hercól's attacker loud enough to carry through several cabins. It was exactly the sort of recklessness her father worried about.

  “Thank you,” she said, more softly. “Commander Nagan, can I tell you something that may be of help?” “I pray you will,” said Ott.

  “Hercól has very strong legs, even for a dancer,” said Thasha, “and Mr. Ket saw him kick the attacker in the wrist, just after he was stabbed. Whoever the man is, he'll have one blary great bruise at the wrist.”

  Ott looked at her with something like admiration. He folded his smoking jacket over his arm. “You're quite right, Lady Thasha. In fact, that point had not escaped my notice. And relying on your perfect discretion, I will tell you this: we have found four men aboard with such injuries. Two are common sailors, who say they were injured aloft—struck by blocks or cable-ends. The other two are steerage passengers. All four are being held and questioned, but I already have a good idea of the guilty party. His name does not matter, but his own wife admits the man is a deathsmoker, and such addicts will kill for a few cockles to buy their next pipe. Oh yes, there's deathsmoke down in steerage, m'lady, and matches, too. Of course, fire is forbidden—but what are ship's rules to one who will stab an innocent man?” “But … don't third-class passengers get locked in at night?” “Indeed they do,” said Ott. “And no one recalls seeing this man return to steerage at nightfall.”

  “So he hid somewhere else in the ship, and waited?” “Exactly so. And the smell of the drug was everywhere about him.” Thasha took a deep breath. A deathsmoker! Pazel's fears, and her own, began to seem far-fetched. And yet Ramachni knew a conspiracy was under way, an evil mage awaiting his moment to strike. And then there were Hercól's own fears, the man killed in her garden, the Red Wolf …

  “Of course, we will take no chances,” said Ott. “None of the suspects will leave our sight for a moment, from here to the port of Uturphe.”

  “By Uturphe, Hercól may be dead.”

  Ott was silent a moment. “Perhaps,” he said. “But I have seen more wounds than anyone should in a single lifetime. I'm a fair judge of death's approach. Your Hercól has a warrior's toughness, m'lady. For what it's worth, I expect him to live.”

  Ott's words made something snap inside her. She found herself shaking. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I've been terrified for him. All along. I'm not used to fear, but now I'm sick with it for his sake.”

  “All along?” Ott asked gently, eyebrows knitting. “Before the attack as well?”

  Thasha nodded. A moment later it burst from her: “I don't trust Syrarys. I never have. I can't tell my father—he's too much in love with her to listen. I don't know what to do.”

  “Dear lady!” said Ott, taking her arm. “I think you know exactly what to do, for you have just done it. You have told me your fears.”

  “Should I have?” she asked softly. “I mean, I hardly know you.”

  “But I have known you all your life—from a distance. No favorite of His Supremacy is without a guardian officer like myself. When Admiral Isiq married your esteemed mother, I guarded the outer temple. When she died, I stood watch at the cemetery.”

  Thasha looked at him in astonishment. “You … were there?”

  “When you were born,” said Ott, “my guard company built the summerhouse that stands in your garden, as a token of the Emperor's affection. Your mother loved that garden. What a tragedy she enjoyed it so briefly.”

  A lump swelled in Thasha's throat. This old man had protected them her whole life, and never asked for a thank-you. “But why did you stop guarding us?” she said.

  “I received new orders,” he said. “When you get to be as old as I am, your Emperor must consider how he will r
eplace you. I was given the honor of training a new generation of the Imperial Guard. You were but five or six. Now that training is complete, and in his generosity the Emperor has allowed me to protect his favorite admiral—and new ambassador—one last time.”

  “Was it you who shot that man in my garden, then?”

  Ott shook his head, pursing his lips with regret. “Merely a man who works for me. The intruder should have been kept alive, and questioned. But my man feared for your safety.”

  How could he, Thasha wondered, with Jorl and Suzyt holding that ragged stranger in their teeth? But before she could ask, she noticed Ott glancing up and down the passage. Certain they were alone, he reached into his pocket and drew out—

  “My necklace!” Thasha cried. “Commander! How in the world did you get it?”

  “I'm old, Lady, but still quick.” Ott grinned and raised a sleeve: there was a fresh, deep scratch on his forearm. “That Sniraga is a hell-cat, but I caught her tail and spanked her till she howled, and made her let go of this pretty thing. I knew it from your mother's neck, you see. Won't you let me fasten it anew?”

  Thasha turned and lifted her hair. “I'll never let it out of my sight again,” she said as Ott sealed the clasp. “Oh, Commander, thank you! My father said you were a good man, but I had no idea.”

  “You flatter me, Lady. But I should prefer your trust. For your father's sake, tell me all that troubles you about the Lady Syrarys. Hold nothing back, I beseech you.”

  So Thasha did. Once she began to speak, she realized how little she actually knew for certain. Syrarys had pretended to love Thasha as a girl, and discarded her once her place in the household was secure. She had pretended to miss Thasha when she vanished into the Lorg, pretended to be worried about her father's health (why had no doctor besides Chadfallow ever come to see him?), pretended to want nothing from life but a place at his side.

  “But it's not true. She wants much more. And now she pretends to visit the powder room each night after dinner, but doesn't. She's going somewhere else.”