“Very sick!” she was saying. “No use to you at all. And now he's gone and hobbled off into the woods. To die, I suppose.”
“Didn't I tell you?” said a male Flikker, laughing.
“You told me, Pradjit. I'll never learn, old fool that I am.”
Pazel froze. They were back, his captors. Silently he put the buckets on the deck.
“We should take his bones,” said another Flikkerman.
“His bones are mine!” said Glindrik, almost shrieking. “I bought him from you, remember? In any case he ran off days ago. No, friends, he's gone, long gone!”
“Why do you shout, woman? Are you deaf?”
Pazel knew why. Heart pounding terribly, he stepped back onto the gangway. On tiptoe he crossed the plank. Once his feet were on firm ground, however, he found it impossible not to run. Up the hillside path he sprinted, then dashed through the garden, rounded the shrub—
—and collided head-on with a Flikkerman, who croaked, dropped his armful of apples, and stunned Pazel senseless with a touch.
When he woke it was quite dark. He was facedown in one of the narrow Flikker boats: it might have been the very one that brought him from Uturphe. His hands were tied behind his back.
“The lying hag,” a Flikker voice was saying. “This boy is perfectly healed; we'll get more for him tonight than we would have at last auction. Why does she lie, though? Why not sell them back to us?”
“She cheats,” said a second voice. “She must have another buyer. Why else would she fight so hard to save them?”
It was all Pazel could do not to beat his head against the hull. Idiot, flaming idiot! Glindrik was exactly what she seemed: a friend. She had wanted him back in bed to feign sickness once more, before Pradjit and his men turned up. Now Pazel was back where he started two weeks ago. How could he have been such a fool?
Groaning with rage, he twisted around and sat up. He could just see Glindrik's houseboat by the dwindling shore, and the old woman watching sadly from the deck.
His captors no longer called him Shplegmun. Already their boat was nearing an island: a great river island, its sandy shores glowing by moonlight. Low trees reared up beyond the dunes.
The boat struck sand; the Flikkers leaped out and pulled it ashore. There were other craft beached around them, and Flikker voices nearby. They pulled Pazel to his feet and nudged him onto the sand.
The voices came from a crowd at the edge of the trees: at least a dozen Flikkermen, with eight or ten captured boys. Pazel looked them over: most of these boys were tall and strong. They would sell fast enough. But one figure at the back of the crowd was very small. His captors were poking at him, grumbling: No profit, wait and see, we'll be stuck with him at night's end.
One yanked maliciously at the small boy's rope. The boy shouted back: “Leave off, you toad! That blary hurts!”
Pazel was thunderstruck. The high-pitched voice was unmistakable.
“Neeps!”
The small boy pushed forward through the crowd, and there he was, gaping.
“Pazel Pathkendle! I'll be blowed!”
“Neeps, you mad cat! How did they get hold of you?”
“Dismissed for fighting!” said Neeps.
“Not again!”
“It was that lout Jervik's fault! Him and that crook Swellows, I should have—”
“No talking!” snapped the lead Flikkerman, his body sparking with anger. “Form one line! We go to auction!”
Up the dune they marched the captive boys. Pazel felt a strange clash of emotions: joy at seeing his friend, astonishment that he should be here, dread at the thought of what lay in store for them both. Worst of all, he felt a nagging suspicion that Neeps' dismissal had something to do with him.
At the top of the dune Pazel turned and looked back the way they had come. A broad river delta spread below them in the moonlight, a fan of rippling silver and black shadow-islands. Beyond lay the open sea. Hidden among the islands, however, was a cluster of ocean ships: fifteen or sixteen little brigs and schooners bobbing at anchor.
Neeps saw them, too. “Something tells me we won't be here long,” he whispered. “Belching devils, mate, I've been such a blary fool.”
Pazel thought that Neeps couldn't possibly have outdone him in foolishness. “But how did you get here?” he demanded.
“Later,” said Neeps. “They're watching.”
After the dunes came a muddy slog through the island's brush forest, where every nightbird that ever lived whooped and whistled and trilled and honked. Now and then Pazel caught glimmers of firelight through the trees ahead. When the wind turned he caught a smell of woodsmoke and frying fish.
Harsh laughter reached his ears. The path opened suddenly into a great clearing where bonfires roared. A crowd of hundreds had gathered here—eating, wrestling, guzzling liquor, trading jibes and insults. Except for some twenty Flikkers they were all humans, but none inspired Pazel with hopes of rescue. There were many sailors—one could always spot them by their leathery skin—but when they looked at him they showed no brotherly warmth. All carried blades. Some had bones or other murth-charms knotted up in their beards. Quite a few were missing teeth or eyes or fingers. Rin save us, Pazel thought, they're pirates.
The head Flikkerman drew a line in the dirt with his boot-heel, and the others arranged the boys along it by size. Was this a slave-market? Pazel wondered. Certainly it resembled what he'd seen during the rape of Ormael—except that no ownership papers were involved here, and no branding iron. And of course, the Flikkers were in charge.
They worked in pairs. One stood with his hand on the head of a captive. The other jumped onto a crate, raised his long-fingered hands over his head and sang the prisoner's qualities in a weird, half-rhyming chant: “Strong-strong-boy, hop-a-long-boy! Clean-never-never-sick-head-thick-boy! See-how-tall-he'll-carry-all!”
And so on. When a customer shouted out a price, the lower Flikkerman pointed in his direction and began to glow softly. Then a higher bid would come, and the Flikkerman turned and pointed to the new customer, and glowed a little brighter, and his partner above would sing with more excitement and exaggeration: “A perfect child! So-good-mannered-mild! Tough as a lion, wilt thou not buy 'im?”
When someone did buy a boy, the two Flikkers cried, “Eeech!” in unison, and the glowing one went out like a snuffed candle. The whole display appeared to have a kind of hypnotic effect on the pirates, who were spending money rather freely for people who went to such lengths to obtain it.
As his captors waited their turn, however, Pazel saw that the cleverer pirates knew better than to listen to the song. They poked and prodded the boys, examined their teeth and eyes.
“Too many sellers,” grumbled one of their captors. “We'll make nothing on these runts.”
“These brutes don't want quality goods,” whined another Flikkerman. “Any boy will do, when he's sure to be drowned or stabbed or cannon-blasted in a few months.”
“So inefficient! I don't understand why humans kill one another.”
“Neither do they.”
Then the first speaker gave a chirp of surprise. “Ehiji, look! It's Druffle, Dollywilliams Druffle! What's he doing out here?”
The Mr. Druffle in question was a most unusual-looking man. He had greasy black hair that hung limply to his shoulders, a long nose and a filthy coat from which his bony hands emerged like implements for poking a fire. Over one shoulder hung something slick and rubbery. As he drew closer Pazel saw that it was an enormous eel.
Just behind Druffle came four huge men-at-arms. They had black beards trimmed to paintbrush points; their muscles bulged against iron bands around their forearms. Each carried a spear filed to razor sharpness and thick with dried gore where spearhead met shaft. As their eyes scanned the crowd, even the fiercest pirates stepped out of their way. “Volpeks,” men whispered. And so they were: Pazel knew them from drawings in his father's books. Now here they stood in the flesh: the dreaded mercenaries of the Narrow Sea,
who would fight and kill for anyone who paid.
Behind the Volpeks shuffled a line of eight boys, chained at the wrists. Their faces and skin spoke of many homelands. One trait they had in common, however: they were all rather small.
“… most certainly experienced!” Druffle was saying to the Flikkerman. “They won't have time to learn between here and Chereste!”
Pazel's heart skipped a beat. Chereste was home! It was the peninsula on whose tip stood Ormael City.
“But why dost thou another's bidding?” demanded the Flikkerman.
“Call it that if you will,” said Druffle. “I call it gold for easy service. And gold he has, a-plenty.”
“A merchant, sayest thou?”
“Aye, Froggy,” said Druffle. “A gentleman bound for Ormael himself. We're to meet there in a week's time. So you see I must depart with the dawn—absolutely no later. Two more divers, just two, and I'll chance it. You!” He stopped before a skinny boy on Pazel's left. “Ever dived for pearls?”
Flabbergasted, the boy sputtered: “Yes! Oh yes, sir! Lots of times!”
“Where?”
“Where … where them pearls is found, sir.”
“You lie. Bah, hold your breath anyway. Go ahead.”
A silver pocket watch appeared in Druffle's hand. The boy took a deep breath. Druffle put his ear close to the other's face, listening for any cheating breath. Soon the boy's face began to purple.
At the end of the row, Pazel saw Neeps lean forward to look at him. Quite out loud, but in Sollochi, he said: “Start breathing now, mate. Breathe as deep as you can—augh!”
A Flikker cuffed him into silence. But Pazel had understood. Neeps was a diver—a pearl diver, in fact. Druffle would certainly buy him. And if there was any chance of them staying together, Pazel would have to pass the test as well.
The skinny boy was looking ill. Druffle slid the huge eel off his shoulder. With a wink he brought the gray-green head close to the boy's face—and then suddenly clamped its jaws tight on his nose.
“You're underwater, lad! Don't breathe, don't breathe!”
“Taauugh!”
The boy breathed. Druffle gave a snort of disgust.
Following Neeps' instruction, Pazel started gulping huge breaths. Light-headed but determined, he watched Neeps easily pass the test, and Druffle counting gold into a Flikker's hand. The man looked up and down the row.
“One more,” he said.
Taking a risk, Pazel sang out in Ormali: “Try me, sir!”
The head Flikkerman raised a warning finger. Druffle, however, broke into a smile. “A Chereste boy!” he said. “Well, that makes two of us. Long since you've been home?”
“A very long time,” said Pazel.
“So you'll tell me anything to get back to Ormael. Just as Froggy here will tell me anything for gold. Where did you dive?”
“Off the side of a whaler. My captain made us look for salt-worms, every fortnight.”
Druffle sighed, turning away. “No long dives, then?”
“Well, sir!” said Pazel, catching his sleeve. “You wanted the truth, and the truth is I can dive like a blary seal! Pardon the adjective, sir. You'll find my lungs capacious, out of proportion to my size—”
“He he,” laughed Druffle.
“And the murths, Mr. Druffle! I nearly forgot the sea-murths! They love whales and hate whalers, that's what our captain said. He feared they wrote hexes on the bottom of the ship, and we had to dive and look for them, sir, and erase them thoroughly, which was quite a challenge when they didn't exist—”
“Shut up! If you can hold your breath after that jib'rishing you're a diver indeed! Go on, try.”
Pazel's outburst had indeed canceled out all his deep-breathing efforts, but what choice did he have? He took a last gulp of air and held it. Druffle looked at his watch. The Flikkers looked at Pazel. The Volpeks shook their massive heads.
Rather soon Pazel's own head began to feel as though it were being stepped on by a horse. “Don't breathe!” hissed Druffle, and, “Don't breathe! Don't breathe!” croaked all his captors, waving their hands and flashing like lightning bugs. The head Flikker pinched his nose.
When he had lasted twice as long as the first boy, purple spots rose before his eyes. Don't breathe! Don't breathe! He stamped his foot. Neeps' anxious face swam into view, but it was blotted out by Druffle's face, which seemed to be morphing into that of the eel. The purple spots became black. He was about to fall.
Goodbye, Neeps.
Suddenly Druffle lunged, knocking the Flikker's hand away. “Breathe, breathe, for the love of Rin!” he shouted. “You're mine!”
The Rescue of Steldak
25 Modoli 941
73rd day from Etherhorde
Sunset: dry wind, coppering skies. Captain Rose shut his account book (the official, laughable one, not the secret ledger of his personal gains) and set his quill on the desk. Ten feet away his steward bustled about the dining table, polishing plates, arranging the antique silver. Rose frowned. Guests at his dinner table were a formality he disliked.
At the back of the desk his crawly prisoner hunched in its filthy cage. Rose studied the creature from the corner of his eye. Something odd there: the crawly's face was too serene. It stank and shivered and attracted flies. Ghosts whirled about it, too, chattering when Rose's back was turned: he assumed that meant it was ill. But today his poison-taster was strangely calm. Rose had even caught it stretching and limbering, like an acrobat preparing for a stunt. It was suspicious behavior, and Rose decided to replace the crawly at the first opportunity. Swellows, always on the lookout for crawly skulls, would pay him something for this wretch.
“Twenty minutes, Captain,” said the steward. “Do you wish to be dressed?”
“See to the table, I'll dress myself.”
He put the cage in his desk-drawer and slammed it shut with a bang. The crawly didn't even look up as Rose slid him backward into darkness.
“You witchy little grub,” he said.
He stepped to the wardrobe, slid into his dinner jacket and began to comb out his beard. Mr. Teggatz came and went with little bobs and bows, carrying now the bread, now a fruit bowl, now a basin of aromatic sands into which Oggosk would spit her well-chewed sapwort. Rose's mood darkened further. She would bring the cat, naturally.
First to arrive was Sandor Ott. As Teggatz withdrew he came up behind the captain and murmured: “That's a fine guard you've placed on the Shaggat. I could not have done better myself.”
“The augrongs don't care a fig who's behind that door,” said Rose. “But no one else knows that.”
“And His Nastiness, for all that talk of being a God, is not keen on angering those beasts. His sons are scared witless, naturally. The better to keep them all quiet, eh?”
“Nothing will keep that madman quiet for long,” said Rose.
Ott smiled. “‘My wolf, my red iron wolf!’ Have you any idea what that means?”
“That he is mad.”
“Of course—but long of memory, too. Operatives of the Secret Fist brought word of a certain Red Wolf of the Mzithrin. It was a thing men feared, and fought over. Why he raves of it now I should very much like to know.” He shook his head. “In any case, Thasha Isiq will be married in ten days' time. And once we are on the empty sea the Shaggat can roar as he likes.”
“As can I,” said Rose. “Roar, and more than roar. That Bolutu will be the first to feel it.”
Ott raised a finger. “You shall not kill the veterinarian, sir. He is odd, but also the Empire's best, and he must see to the health of our pigs and cattle and hens. Who knows how long we shall dine on their good flesh? 'Tis more than a century since anyone crossed the Ruling Sea. But after Thasha's marriage we may place him in chains if you like.”
Rose grunted. “He can sleep where he works, among animals. And dine there. But what of the treasure, Ott? What do your men have to say?”
“What have they to say? Why, that none suspect our hiding place
, of course. Fear not, Captain: it will not be stolen, or embezzled, or spilled into the sea. It will all be there when His Nastiness is ready to use it. But that day is distant yet.”
The other guests began to arrive. Young Pacu Lapadolma, the musical niece, dragging a sour-faced Thasha Isiq. Bolutu himself, with his fine clothes and gentleman's smile. Thyne, the remaining Company man, who kept as far as possible from Ott and Rose. Syrarys, who made apologies for the ambassador (headaches again, poor dear).
Oggosk came last, with her cat in her arms. No sooner had the steward closed the door behind them than Sniraga gave an angry yowl and squirmed free, vanishing under the table. Pacu laughed, but Thasha Isiq scowled and put a hand on her necklace.
The dinner started badly, with Pacu reciting a bit of her great-aunt's patriotic poetry (“In Arqual we are happy bees / but don't forget our stingers, please!”) and Thasha choosing that moment to choke on her soup. Then Thyne made everyone stand up to toast the Great Lady back in Etherhorde, and Bolutu felt compelled to speak of Lady Lapadolma's kindness to a certain stray dog, and Pacu declared how her great-aunt had given her “everything, absolutely everything that makes me what I am today,” at which Thasha raised an eyebrow as if to say, And what would that be?
“Three days to Ormael!” Pacu went on. “Arqual's newest territory! What do you suppose five years in the Empire has done to her? I understand her wall has been rebuilt, and the city center tidied up, the riffraff expelled, proper Arquali families installed in the better homes. Let us drink to that!”
Oggosk (who had never budged from her chair) spat noisily into her basin. “This sapwort tastes like sludge,” she said.
It did not help when Ott tried to draw Lady Thasha into the conversation: hadn't she learned rather a lot of Mzithrini by now? Thasha shook her head firmly, but Syrarys cried, “Oh, she has, I've heard her! After all, her wedding is just ten days off! Say something, dear. The sound of that language is so primal!”
Thasha looked at her with loathing, then suddenly growled out a few words. She told them it meant “My enemy's enemy is my friend.” But Rose noted how Bolutu jumped, and shot her a quick glance of amazement.
The Red Wolf Conspiracy Page 33
