“Think, brother!” he squeaked. “Why fight now?”
“To hurt you more in death, Angel's foe!”
“No angel—ECH! PHHT!—would want such a thing!”
They were both half drowned, scrabbling up and down waves like collapsing hillsides, watching the Chathrand slip farther out of reach. The other rat was snapping at his toes. It's mad, utterly mad, Felthrup realized—but the thought gave him sudden hope.
Turning, he deliberately let the rat catch hold of the stump of his tail—a good, solid mouthful. Then he held his breath, and dived.
As he guessed, the other rat again kept its jaws locked. But it was not expecting to be pulled underwater. Nor could it fully close its mouth. It gurgled. Felthrup did not bother to strike at it—he merely writhed and shook. Instinctively the other rat bit harder. But air was bubbling through its lips, and the sea was leaking in. By the time the rat saw what was happening it had nothing to do but drown.
An eternity passed before it died. Felthrup struggled upward, still yards beneath the surface, kicking at the dead face. Then he saw his own mistake—and knew his life was over. The rat had died with locked jaws. Its lungs were flooded. It would sink like a stone, and he would go with it.
Why fight now} His own question mocked him. What was the point of it all? He could chew off the rest of his tail and bleed to death, watching the ship depart. What good was that sort of death, this sort of life, the torture of intelligence? Better to sleep, rest as he had not rested in years, let the thinking stop—
A dark shape rose beneath him. It was an animal, about the size of a hound, but blunt-faced and whiskered. A seal! A great black seal! In an instant the creature pushed him to the surface.
“Steady, Felthrup my lad! I won't let you drown.”
“PHLHHHHHPT!”
“You're quite welcome.”
A woken seal! Felthrup had been rescued by a being like himself!
“Don't claw me, lad. I've got to get that corpse off your tail.”
Some foul crunching noises, and the skull of the dead rat broke and fell away. Then the seal turned on its back and rose, and Felthrup was lifted from the water on its chest.
He was almost in tears. “Brother, savior! Bless you, all Gods and stars and angels and whatever there may be!”
The seal might have smiled slightly, but it said no word. Its eyes were trained on the Chathrand, now a good hundred yards away.
“How did you find me?” Felthrup asked.
“Your voice carried. Not far, but far enough.”
“Good luck! Oh great good luck, at last! Oh beloved master seal! How can I ever repay you?”
“By not calling me such nonsense. I have a name. You shall know it presently.”
Felthrup forced his mouth shut. The seal was obviously wise, and did not like his chatter. He looked himself over. He was not badly hurt, for both his wounded paw and stump-tail were rather leathery and tough. The salt in his wounds burned like fire, though, and at the same time he was quaking with cold. And the ship was still moving away.
“Good sir,” he said in what he hoped was a more dignified voice, “you have saved my life. It is yours, to do whatsoever you like with.”
“Don't need it—got my own.”
“Indisputably, sir. But I should beg the liberty of commenting on a difference between your splendid form and my own, so commonplace and ugly. Rats can swim, you see, but nowhere near so well as yourself.”
The seal scratched behind an ear with a flipper.
Felthrup went on. “I can assure you—ha ha, look, they've spread more sail!—that on the best of days I could not swim ashore from here. And perhaps even you would find it difficult to bear me so far.”
Silence. The Chathrand was now at least a quarter mile off.
“That is to say—please pardon my bluntness, sir, we rats are so ill mannered—I must board that ship, or drown.”
“Quite true,” said the seal.
Felthrup gave up. There was no misunderstanding. He was stranded on the chest of a taciturn seal, probably driven mad by thinking (like Mugstur, like himself), who might tire of this game at any moment, roll over and depart. But at least there was someone to talk to.
“Have you been woken long, brother?” he asked.
“All my life,” said the seal.
At this Felthrup forgot himself entirely. Nearly dancing on the stomach of the seal, he cried, “You were born awake! Like a human being! Oh glory, glory, wondrous world!”
The seal glanced briefly at Felthrup. Its dark eyes softened. “In my own world there is a children's tale,” it said, looking back at the ship, “about a man who woke in prison. He opened his eyes from a dream that seemed the length of his life to find himself in a pitch-black cage. It was so dark he could not see his hand before his face, so small he could not sit upright. He lay trapped in this prison for ages. He thought at times that he could hear sounds beyond the cage, but no one answered his calls. He was entirely alone.
“After a long, long time, the man found a tiny latch with one fingernail. Once he freed the latch, a door swung open and joyfully the man squeezed through. Beyond, what he found was another cage—but this one was a bit larger, and had a little light from gray windows the size of sugar cubes. In the shadows he found that he was not alone. A woman was moving about the cage, feeling the walls. They embraced, and she cried, ‘Welcome, brother! You can help me look for a door!’
“Together, in time, they found a second door, and beyond it, a still larger and brighter cage. In this cage some fair green moss grew in one corner, and four people were busy searching the walls.
“Do you understand, Felthrup? True waking is not like rising from your bed, or nest, or warren. It is emerging from one cage into a larger, brighter, less lonely cage. It is a task that is never done.”
The black rat's heart was pounding, but he could not speak.
“No animal, no man, no thousand-year-old mage is perfectly awake,” said the seal. “In fact, merely to think so is to fall a little asleep. Fear those who tell you otherwise—help them if you can. Ah! There she is!”
Felthrup followed his gaze: in one of the stern windows of the departing Chathrand, a tiny light had appeared. It winked out, gleamed anew, fell dark once more. This happened three times.
“Now for it, lad,” said the seal, and dived.
Once again Felthrup found himself swimming. “Help!” he cried. But the seal was gone, deep below, out of sight. “Help! Help!” There was no help. Felthrup paddled in a circle, aching everywhere, his nose barely clearing the waves. He would not last a minute.
But he did not have to. Some upwelling of water made him look down: the seal was rocketing toward him from the depths at astonishing speed. Before Felthrup could even cry out it broke the surface, catching him in its jaws as it leaped, and rose high above the water. Up and up they went. Stupefied, Felthrup watched the seal's teeth flatten and fuse into a long, sharp mass, its cheeks erupt with feathers, its small flippers stretch into wings.
It had become a bird—a great black pelican. In its ample throat, Felthrup was now riding like a rabbit in a hunter's sack. Below—dizzying sight!—he glimpsed sea and rocks and mainland, yellow lamps in Uturphe windows, a flash of lightning in the east. Then the bird croaked savagely and dived for the Chathrand.
They came in fast, right at the gallery windows. When they were but twenty feet away Felthrup saw that the bobbing light was a candle in a girl's upraised hand. Quickly she threw open the window and jumped aside. The pelican slowed at the last instant, fanning its wings. A final thump, and they were still.
Two dogs began to bark.
“Soaked!” the girl was shouting. “Look at this rug, will you? What on earth will I tell Syrarys?”
The pelican rose, wobbled and spat Felthrup onto the bearskin, along with a last gallon of seawater.
“Tell her you left a window open,” it said.
Felthrup found himself looking up through a curtain of gol
den hair. The Treaty Bride, Thasha Isiq herself, was kneeling beside him, stroking his soggy fur. Then she turned to his rescuer and smiled.
“I like you better as a mink, Ramachni.”
He was soon a mink again, but it was many minutes before Felthrup could be persuaded to stop squeaking his thanks. As Thasha hung the rug over the washbasin, he limped about the stateroom, praising everything—her kindness, Ramachni's magic, her mother's necklace, a shiny spoon. Jorl and Suzyt followed him about like twin elephants: they had taken an immediate liking to the rat.
When Thasha had mopped up as best she could, they all squeezed into her cabin. Thasha closed the door.
“Now,” said Ramachni, “tell me what I dread to know, Felthrup Stargraven. For I heard you one midnight, weeks ago, addressing your kind: I could tell you another story, brothers, about a monster of a man who soon will walk this ship. Niriviel the falcon spoke of him, proud as a prince. But you'd never believe me. If only they had let you talk! For I never heard your voice again, until tonight.”
“That is because the ixchel locked me in a pipe to die!” said Felthrup, his voice rising in pain again. “They would not listen; they assumed I was just a plain, nosy, execrable, humdrum rat. And when the fair Diadrelu rebuked her brother and took my side, what did I do? I led them to Mugstur, and for all I know he killed them.”
He burst into tears again, and the mastiffs whined in solidarity.
“Hush!” said Thasha. “Diadrelu's alive—at least Pazel thought so. But he also said her people would kill anyone who talked about them.”
“That is the code of the ixchel, Lady,” sniffed Felthrup. “You kill them whenever you find them, so they try to kill you before you can reveal their presence. Rats would do the same, if they could. Master Mugstur plans to try.”
“We will speak of Mugstur later,” said Ramachni. “But you should thank him when next you cross paths: it was the noise of his assault that led me back to you—just in time, as it proved. But speak! Who is this evil man you told your brethren of?”
Then Felthrup told them of the falcon's boasts: about the Shaggat Ness, and the hidden gold, and the Emperor's plan to drive the Mzithrinis to war.
“The Shaggat Ness!” whispered Thasha, paling. “I read about him in the Polylex! It was strange—the book fell open to that page when I first looked at it, as if someone had left it open there a long time. What a monster! He became one of the Five Kings by stabbing his own uncle, and strangling his cousin. The other Kings were terrified of what he'd do next. He was completely mad, Ramachni. He declared himself a God!”
“And like a God, he will seem to conquer death,” said Ramachni, shaking his head. “Ingenious.”
“It all hinges on your wedding, m'lady,” said Felthrup. “The prophecy of the Shaggat's return demands a union between one of their princes and a daughter of an enemy soldier.”
Thasha turned away from them. She felt a sudden, physical ache at Pazel's absence. This still-unfolding horror felt infinitely harder to bear, now that he was gone. She had fought for his pardon every way she could think of. But something had come over her father, something vicious and unyielding: the same ruthlessness that had made him send her to the Lorg. Only this time Pazel had been the victim, not her. She felt an urge to weep, and with a great effort turned the feeling back into rage.
Why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut?
“Pazel was right, then,” she said when she could speak again. “They do want a war. But this time Arqual will sit back and watch as the Mzithrinis kill each other.”
“That is exactly the plan Niriviel boasts of,” said Felthrup.
“But Ramachni,” said Thasha. “If the Shaggat wasn't killed at the end of the last war, maybe his sorcerer wasn't either! What if the sorcerer on this ship really is the one you feared?”
“Arunis himself?” said the mage. “If that is so, then we face a worse peril than even I have dared imagine. But Dr. Chadfallow told me that Arunis was hanged, forty years ago.”
“Hanged?” said Thasha. “Not drowned, like the Shaggat was supposed to be?”
“Hanged. Chadfallow was a young medical cadet, and present at the execution. You do not trust him, Thasha, and I will not advise you to ignore your suspicions. But it is difficult to lie to a mage, especially if that mage is Ramachni son of Ramadrac, Summoner of Dafvni, Ward of the Selk. Chadfallow knows better than to try.”
“Well, it's not hard to lie to the rest of us,” said Thasha. “These horrid people, these conspirators: who are they, besides Rose?”
“Loyal subjects of the crown,” said Felthrup. “Drellarek the Throatcutter, for one. And Uskins and Swellows, Rose's top men. And Lady Oggosk, his seer.”
“But none of these is the mastermind,” said Ramachni, thoughtfully. “Nor, I think, is Rose himself. Your Emperor has often found him useful, but never trustworthy. No, there must be another conspirator in our midst—to say nothing of the sorcerer.”
“And if all the ship's officers are involved?” asked Thasha.
“One at least is not,” said Ramachni. “Mr. Fiffengurt is pure of heart. Too pure, maybe, to see the wickedness around him.”
“Pazel liked him, too,” said Thasha. “And, come to think of it, Firecracker Frix seems too simple to be bad.”
“Do not trust appearances,” said Ramachni. “Some conspirators have fair looks indeed.”
“Syrarys!” said Thasha. “She's part of it, isn't she?”
“If she is, you will not easily find her out,” said Ramachni gravely. “Remember that she has your father's heart in her hand. And perhaps more than his heart: he is very ill, and might not survive the shock if she has indeed betrayed him.”
“Unless he's ill because she's betraying him,” said Thasha, clenching her fists.
“Such villains!” Felthrup squeaked. “They've prepared for years—and we have just days! How can we possibly fight them?”
“Not with swords,” said Ramachni. “At least not unless Hercól is returned to us.”
“With tactics, then,” said Thasha.
Rat, mink and mastiffs looked at her.
“You called it a conspiracy,” she said. “Well, we're going to prepare a little conspiracy of our own.” She rose and began to pace, frowning with concentration. “They're secretive. We'll be doubly so. They have hidden allies. We'll find our own. The ixchel, to start with.”
“The ixchel look at humans and see murderers, m'lady,” said Felthrup. “And they shall see the same in me after what happened in the tailor's nook.”
“Such lack of trust,” said Ramachni, “is more dangerous than all our enemies combined.”
“Maybe the ixchel will trust us when we tell them about Rose's prisoner. Meanwhile, who else can we enlist?”
“Someone your own age, perhaps?” asked Felthrup. “That young niece of the Chathrand's owner?”
“Pacu Lapadolma? Not likely! She's a fool, and mad for the glory of Arqual like her father the general. And she talks too much.”
“Other passengers?” the rat persisted. “The soap man, the one who saved Hercól?”
Thasha shook her head. “He's a bit strange, that Mr. Ket. I thought he was a fool at first, but now I wonder if it just suits him to appear that way. No, I don't trust him.”
“Commander Nagan, the head of the honor guard?” asked Ramachni.
“Yes!” said Thasha brightly. But then her face darkened. “No—not quite. I can't tell you why, Ramachni. I have more reasons to trust him than anyone aboard. He caught the man who attacked Hercól. He's guarded our family my whole life, and never asked for anything in return.”
“But he certainly wants something now. He wants your trust.”
“And I suppose he's earned it,” said Thasha. “But I'm still uneasy about him.”
“Then we must all be,” said Ramachni, shaking his head. “Our list of friends is short.”
“Short!” she said. “Why didn't I think of him first? Neeps! We can trust Neeps with our l
ives. Although he is a donkey.”
“Hooray!” cried Felthrup, for he thought she meant that yet another woken beast was aboard. His disappointment was plain when Thasha said that she had only meant Neeps could be an imbecile.
“And if he doesn't stop fighting he'll be no help at all,” she added, “because he'll be tossed off this ship.”
“Your noble father must be counted our friend, of course?” Felthrup asked, sulking.
“No, he mustn't,” said Thasha. “Not while Syrarys is with him. Even Hercól would have to agree, and he's been Prahba's friend almost as long as Dr. Chadfallow. That just leaves old Fiffengurt. But he's not fond of rich people. You can see it in the way he looks at first-class sons and daughters: he'd like to make them clean the pigsty. Why should he trust me?”
“Because you deserve trust,” said Ramachni. “Lies and false faces grow dull over time, no matter how they are painted. But truth, goodness, a loving heart—these things only shine brighter as the darkness around them spreads. Give him a chance to trust you. He still has one good eye.”
“I will speak to him,” said Felthrup.
“No, Felthrup,” said Thasha. “Most humans still don't want to believe in woken animals. I'm not sure I did until I heard you speak. Fiffengurt might just think he's losing his mind.”
“I will speak to him,” said the rat again, firmly. “He will remember my paw. But it may be long ere I catch him alone—Rose keeps him busier than any man aboard.”
“The three of us, Neeps and Fiffengurt, and Lady Diadrelu—if we can find her,” said Ramachni. “Six, against a whole shipful of murderers and rogues! Well, we must do what we can. For my part, I shall look for the ixchel.”
“Be careful, Master!” said Felthrup. “They are dangerous, and silent as smoke. Turn yourself into something they will not fear—a moth, a little spider—before you enter their domain of Night Village.”
The Red Wolf Conspiracy Page 30
