Rose leaped away from him, aghast. Pazel fell writhing from the longboat, his voice an inhuman wail. The mind-fit was on him, and he was trapped in the center of a furious mob, and the noise tore at his brain like a thousand shrieking, stabbing birds. There were stomping feet, flying bottles, blood. Uskins and Drellarek closed in, bellowing in Pazel’s face. They seemed to think he was faking—or that faking or not, they could beat him into silence.
Suddenly a figure interposed itself between Pazel and Drellarek. It was Hercól, grave and terrible. Pazel saw him standing eyeball to eyeball with the Throatcutter, both of them poised to draw swords.
More Turachs fell in on either side of Drellarek, but Hercól stood his ground. Pazel rose to hands and knees—just in time for Uskins to kick him hard in the stomach. If the first mate had kept his balance a little better, the kick would have finished him. As it was Pazel fell gasping, and Uskins, spitting with hate, drew his foot back for another.
The blow never fell. Uskins spun sidelong, as though struck by a hammer. Mr. Fiffengurt was there, brandishing his fists at the first mate and clearly challenging him to come back for more.
Uskins took no persuading. Larger and younger than Fiffengurt, he picked himself up and lunged. Pazel groped to his feet as the two men collided. Hands at each other’s throats, they strained together. Then Uskins’ greater height prevailed, and he threw Fiffengurt down against the carronade. The quartermaster gasped as his head struck the potbellied cannon. Uskins raised his fist to strike again.
Without a thought Pazel dived at him. Uskins swung with all his might, but the force of Pazel’s collision brought his fist down just left of Fiffengurt’s cheek—where it struck the cannon dead-on.
Uskins howled with pain, and the sheer ugliness of his distorted voice snapped Pazel’s last vestige of control. As the first mate lurched away cradling his fist, Pazel ran, fingers in his ears, biting his lips against the scream inside him. The mob fell back, as if from a rabid dog. Pazel hurled himself down the ladderway to the main deck, where to his indescribable horror he found three real geese pursued by Frowsy the tarboy, all of whom ran before him down the length of the ship trailing noises so painful they seemed to leave red welts in the air, and then through an open hatch he saw Arunis and Jervik, huddled like two men at dice, gazing at him with crafty smiles from the deck below.
10
Thasha’s Choice
Q. How long have you worked for the Trading Family?
A. Thirty-six years, my lords.
Q. And in that time, how many inspections of the Chathrand have you conducted?
A. None, my lords. Inspections are the duty of the Yard Manager.
Q. The Yard Manager answers directly to the Fleet Superintendent, does he not?
A. Not directly, sir. The Superintendent’s office is located on Nickel Street.
Q. You are being evasive. How many reports have you reviewed in that time?
A. Nineteen or twenty.
Q. And in any of those reports was there mention of … irregularities, shall we say, in the lower decks?
A. Does my lord refer to something beyond regular damage and restoration—
Q. Of course he does. Answer the question.
A. There is a tradition of rumor and yarn spinning among the crew that no effort by the managers can extinguish.
Q. Did those rumors include mention of compartments that only certain members of the crew could find, or areas of the ship where men were wont to vanish, nevermore to be seen? [Extended pause.] Let the record note the witness’s disinclination to cooperate with this inquiry—
A. I answer, my lords, I answer. Yes, I have heard both rumors, and seen them in draft reports. But the Trading Family has never considered it fitting to place such rubbish before the Ametrine Throne.
Q. Drafts, you say? Do you mean that these rumors were later omitted?
A. They were struck from the final reports.
Q. Superintendent, have you any comment on the high incidence of madness in commanders of the Great Ship?
A. My lords, I think I shall not be accused of evasion if I declare myself unfit to speculate on matters medical.
Q. Agreed, agreed.
—Lord Admiral’s Inquest,
Fort Ghan, Etherhorde, 2 Nurn 953.
8 Teala 941
“Tea is served,” said Thasha. “Syrarys may have been a back-stabbing traitor, but she did squirrel away some fine Virabalm red. Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned: she brewed her own cups from this tin.”
It was an odd tea party. Pazel was sequestered in the reading room, moaning softly with his head between pillows. Neeps sat on the great, tawny bearskin rug, cross-legged and furious, sewing a patch on one of the ninety-two sailors’ shirts he had been ordered to repair as punishment for his interference on the topdeck. Jorl and Suzyt sprawled beside him, watching adoringly as Felthrup hobbled back and forth, shaking his head in ceaseless worry. At the table, Hercól sharpened a knife with a small black stone.
“This isn’t my job,” Neeps grumbled. “Pazel and I aren’t tarboys anymore.”
“You’re not anything, matter of fact,” said Fiffengurt, smiling. “Legally speaking Rose could cast you ashore without a coin or a crumb. If I were you I’d stitch those rags like my life depended on ’em.”
The quartermaster had a cut lip and a dark purple bruise on his forehead, but somehow his face was the brightest in the room: Thasha might even have said it was aglow with happiness.
The Third Sea War had not broken out quite yet: after a few minutes of bluster and bent bows, Admiral Kuminzat had abruptly called for silence. At once his crew stopped their riotous behavior and formed ranks along the gunwale. The Chathrand mob raged on, but the men of the Jistrolloq were oddly serene, and withstood the insults and flung garbage without blinking or uttering a sound.
Three or four minutes had passed. Then, in perfect unison, all five hundred men had raised their left hands and pointed at the Great Ship. Once again the Arqualis were startled into silence. Their enemies’ faces were set, and their eyes were cold. From the deck of the Jistrolloq a drum sounded: five sharp, well-spaced beats. On the last the Mzithrinis turned and walked to their stations, and in unnerving silence the Jistrolloq wore away, on a rendezvous course with her departing squadron.
“Eerie,” said Fiffengurt. “It was like they were marking us, if you know what I mean. I was glad to see the back of ’em.”
Indeed he seemed glad of almost everything, despite his account of the standoff. Felthrup, however, was squirming with unease. “A bad sign, an omen,” he said. “And the mad priest slain by devilry! We are not safe, friends. The dangers gather round us like beasts in a forest, and thus far we perceive only their eyes.”
Hercól drew his knife across his palm, testing the sharpness. “Thasha,” he said. “You cannot put off a decision much longer.”
Thasha’s hands trembled on the samovar. “This clerk, this Fulbreech,” she said. “He told you he would deliver the message personally?”
“To no one but your father.”
“When did Fulbreech promise this?”
Hercól sighed. “As I said before: after he delivered the Imperial mail. Drellarek did not let him stray five feet from the ladder, or stay longer than it took him to sign a receipt. And of course there was no question of Fulbreech taking mail off the ship. But Drellarek made one mistake. The ladder was deployed close to a porthole, looking into a cabin that has stood vacant since Ormael. I saw it and ran below, and caught Fulbreech on the descent. ‘If there’s good in your soul, boy, find Eberzam Isiq. Tell him his Morning Star was only dimmed, not extinguished. Tell Isiq alone, and by the one we serve, do not fail me.’ Fulbreech was stunned, of course. But he dared not speak: Drellarek was watching him from three decks above. The lad gave me a look, and a tiny nod. He could do no more.”
Thasha stared into her tea. Her father had called her “Morning Star” since her birth on a winter dawn sixteen years ago. He would understand t
he message, if he ever received it.
“I’m guessing the one we serve means that woman in the garden,” said Neeps. “The one you slipped away to meet, but won’t talk about.”
“When I am free to talk, you will understand,” said Hercól. “But I swore not to breathe her name within a hundred leagues of Simja, and I will keep that pledge. For now I can only promise you that she is good, and that I trust her as I do all of you: with my life and the cause I live for. Indeed she is that cause, as much as anyone in Alifros.”
“And the errand boy?” asked Thasha. “Do you trust him too?”
Hercól shook his head. “I know nothing of Greysan Fulbreech, and that is certainly not to my liking.”
“Then he could be an enemy!” cried Felthrup. “Perhaps he never even saw Admiral Isiq! How can we know anything for certain, trapped here three miles from shore?”
“Gently, my boy,” said Hercól. “Not long ago you stood at death’s door.”
“You’ve been crying out in your sleep,” said Thasha. “You’re having nightmares, aren’t you?”
The rat looked startled, and abruptly shy. “I—I don’t remember my dreams, Mistress; they shatter as I wake. But you mustn’t worry about me. What are we going to do about your father? What can we do?”
“Only one thing,” said Hercól. “We can swim ashore—or rather, I can. Three miles is no difficulty; I swam twenty in my youth, in the glacier-lakes of Itholoj. But you must understand: whoever goes ashore will remain there. I can dive from these windows, or a gunport, and swim deep enough to escape the arrows that will surely rain down on me. But I cannot reboard this vessel in secret.”
“Even if we wait for nightfall?”
“Perhaps, then. But nightfall may well be too late. The moment Rose finishes his recruiting we shall weigh anchor and depart.”
“Recruiting men, is he?” asked Thasha.
“That’s right, lass,” said Fiffengurt. “The fleshancs killed twenty sailors, along with eight Turachs, the surgeon’s mate—and old Swellows, the bosun.”
“Who’s on this recruiting job?” Neeps asked.
For the first time that hour Mr. Fiffengurt’s aspect darkened. “That would be Darius Plapp and Kruno Burnscove,” he said. “And their thugs, of course.”
Neeps all but choked on his tea. Felthrup rubbed his face with his paws. “Oh misery, misery,” he said.
“Should those names mean something to me?” Thasha asked.
Neeps looked at her in amazement. “Thasha! You’ve lived all your life in Etherhorde, and don’t know about Plapp’s Pier and the Burnscove Boys?”
“Why should she?” said Fiffengurt. “Nice girls don’t muck around with that sort.”
Thasha’s eyes flashed. Despite six years of thojmélé battle-training with Hercól, she had lived a sheltered life; and when at last she was old enough to slip out and explore the city, her father had locked her away in the Lorg Academy. With the other nice girls. She reddened. A foreign tarboy—and a rat, apparently—knew her city better than she did.
“They’re the gangs that run the waterfront,” said Neeps. “You want your ship loaded or unloaded quickly, you’ve got to bribe the Plapp’s Pier gang in the north end, or the Burnscove Boys in the south, where the Ool meets the sea.”
“The same goes if you’re looking for hands,” said Fiffengurt. “You can see them hawking sailors like regular flikkermen, in taverns all through the port district.”
“They compete for business?” she asked.
“Compete!” said Fiffengurt. “They blary well go to war over it, every few years. It’s no joke, Mistress: Plapps and Burnscovers hate each other with a consuming fire, and not a few of the murders in the back streets of Ormael have to do with that hate. I call it an absurdity that Rose brought any Plapps aboard. The Great Ship’s been Burnscove territory for generations. Until this voyage, that is.” He shook his head. “A full crew is six hundred strong, as you know—not counting Turachs, officers, passengers or tarboys. Well, of those six hundred, about two hundred are Burnscovers, and nearly two hundred more are with the Plapps. That leaves a final two hundred up for grabs. Why, I should like to know? What good’s a powder-keg crew like that?”
“Rose has a reason for everything—a vile reason, usually,” said Hercól. “But I cannot decipher the game he is playing now.”
Fiffengurt was shaking his head. “Those gang bosses will have to talk fast, and pour liquor faster, if they want men to sign with the ship that brought Thasha Isiq here to die.”
“Except that I didn’t,” said Thasha.
“Yes—no—the point is, Mistress, everyone believes in your death. A distinguished and a tragic death. And that makes Chathrand unlucky, don’t you see? Rarer than rooster eggs are the men who can laugh off that superstition.”
“We are all Ott’s fools,” said Hercól. “Not only have we failed to nullify his sham prophecy, but we have made it easier for men to believe in the Chathrand’s sinking, when the time comes.”
“Hark!” said Fiffengurt suddenly. “Do you hear that?”
“I hear Pazel making sick-cow noises,” said Neeps.
“No, no. Listen!”
They all fell silent. Over Pazel’s moans and the general hubbub of the ship, they heard a deep, rumbling roar, such as a bull elephant might make after a nap. It came from somewhere far below. Moments later a second roar blended with the first.
“They’ve woken the augrongs,” said Fiffengurt. “The captain’s ready to weigh anchor.” He rose and stepped to the window, nodding. “The tide’s not with us, so it may take a few hours. But make no mistake: we sail tonight.”
At once Hercól got to his feet.
“I will watch the docks,” he said. “Thasha, the choice is yours. If it is your wish I will quit this ship in search of Eberzam, though he will be the last to thank me for abandoning you.”
He sheathed his knife, and left the cabin without another word.
“You mustn’t send him away,” said the quartermaster. Felthrup squeaked his agreement.
“But she’s got to,” said Neeps.
“No, mate,” said a groggy voice from across the room. “They’re right.”
It was Pazel, leaning against the door frame. He looked like someone arising from a three-day whiskey binge. Neeps rose and went to steady him.
“Back to normal?”
Pazel nodded, shakily. “But I’d give my eyeteeth to know why I had two fits in one week. If this keeps up I’ll jump over the rail myself. Listen, Neeps, they’re right. I had two chances to get the truth out, and I botched ’em both. If old Isiq fails too, then we have to stop this ship ourselves.”
“And we shall need Master Hercól for that,” put in Felthrup. “Without his wisdom we should be lost.”
“Without his sword, too,” said Fiffengurt. “Make no mistake: we’re in deadly danger. And there will be no kings or nobles to witness what is done aboard Chathrand once we leave Simja behind.”
He reached into his pocket and took out an old, well-seasoned blackjack, its leather grip worn to the shape of his hand. “I’ve had to crack some skulls with this ugly thing,” he said. “And I’ll do so again if I must, by the Night Gods. But I’m not the brawler I used to be. We need some deadly, cold-blooded swordsmen beside us, and that right soon.”
“Arunis can’t kill us,” said Pazel hotly. “None of them can go around killing. Ramachni said it in front of them all: if they kill the spell-keeper, whoever he turns out to be, their precious Shaggat’s dead—forever dead, not just turned to stone.”
“You and I understand that, Pathkendle,” said Fiffengurt, “but we’ve got eight hundred men on this ship. And they’re in mortal terror of Arunis, and the Nilstone—to say nothing of the Ruling Sea. Terror begets desperation, and desperate men strike out blindly. That’s what frightens me.”
“Besides,” said Thasha. “Arunis may be afraid to start killing people, but that doesn’t mean he won’t cast a spell to turn our hand
s into stumps, or blind us, or something worse. And it won’t stop Captain Rose from locking us up in the brig.”
“We must do as Ramachni ordered,” said Felthrup. “We must find new friends.”
“Exactly right,” said Pazel. “He was insistent about that—he all but promised we’d fail, if we didn’t recruit some allies. That’s our top job, along with figuring out what in Pitfire it means to ‘put the Nilstone beyond the reach of evil.’”
“Allies,” said Neep somberly. “That’s a tall order on this boat. Where do we start?”
“Where indeed!” said Felthrup. “Who can we trust with our lives—with the fate of Alifros itself?”
The silence was unnerving. After a moment Thasha rose and went to her cabin. She returned with her notebook and a pencil. “What about it?” she said.
They debated the question for some minutes. Names were added, only to be scratched out again. “Too bad Marila left us,” said Neeps. “She was an odd girl, cold as a catfish. But you could trust her. Amazing diver, too.”
Thasha drew a sharp line across the page.
“Let’s try again,” she said. “Who do we hope we can trust? Who might turn into an ally, if we’re careful?”
This time the names came as fast as she could write them down. “Dastu,” said Pazel. “And Bolutu. I’ve always felt he was on our side, though he’s never said anything.”
Fiffengurt snapped his fingers. “Big Skip Sunderling! A hefty son-of-an-Arquali-brown-bear, is Skip, and fists like pile drivers. He’s just signed on—went up to Burnscove and volunteered, can you beat that? He had a Simjan sweetheart, but I guess that’s ended. And he knows the Chathrand too; he was my midshipman a few years back. Right, who else?”
The Ruling Sea Page 15
