“There’s still time for him to get here,” said Pazel.
Her face made Pazel wish he hadn’t spoken. Thasha wanted to believe her father was coming back: she must have thought of little else since waking from the blanë-sleep. But Pazel knew she didn’t believe it. His letter was on the table, his intentions plain. And even if Fulbreech spoke to him in time, did they really know that Eberzam Isiq would discard all those grand duties and maneuvers for her?
“Maybe it’s for the best,” he heard himself say. “He’s an important man. People will listen to him, and we have to get the truth out somehow. Maybe he’s right to stay.”
Thasha rose and walked into her cabin. Felthrup watched her go, then looked back at the tarboys and shook his head.
Pazel felt vile. He thought of his own father, Captain Gregory, sailing away when he was six, with never a word or letter sent back to Ormael. Nothing at all, until the previous week. Then Gregory and his freebooter friends had suddenly joined the battle against Arunis: for the sorcerer had raided their territory on the Haunted Coast. Pazel had nearly drowned in that battle; his mind-fit had struck at its peak. Thasha had met his father, spoken to him. But she had failed to convince him to scribble so much as a note to Pazel, let alone wait for him to recover. Urgent smuggling duties, no doubt.
Get used to it, girl, he thought with sudden bitterness. Fathers don’t give us time to grow up and leave. They leave us. Some of them can hardly wait.
The main anchors weighed eighteen tons apiece. Legend held that Chathrand’s first launch, six centuries ago, was delayed because no horses could be found strong enough to haul the iron monsters from the foundry to the docks. Tonight, after a four-hour struggle, one was lashed up on the cathead. The second was rising like a black leviathan from the bay.
Mr. Uskins felt he was making it happen. Every two seconds precisely, standing before the mighty capstan, he bellowed, “Heave!” Fifty men answered, “On!” and threw their bodies at the capstan bars, making the device turn a reluctant few inches. One deck below another thirty men heaved in synchrony, and with them labored the augrongs, Refeg and Rer. They were survivors of an ancient race: hunched-over giants with yellowish hide, enormous chipped fangs, eyes like bloodshot goose eggs, and limbs heaped with muscle almost to deformity. They mumbled words in their own strange tongue, a noise like grinding stones.
The new recruits had almost wept with fear when Uskins placed them beside the creatures (the first mate himself kept a safe distance). But long before the miserable work ended they were thanking the gods for Refeg and Rer. Tarboys mopped the sweat from their faces and threw sawdust at their feet, but the augrongs did the work of a hundred men. By the time Uskins at last yelled “Stand down!” they loved the beasts like brothers, dropped beside them on the deck, gasping, moaning, dizzy, united in exhaustion.
The Chathrand floated free. It was nearing midnight: a cool, cloudless night of many stars: the great Tree looming west, the Wild Dogs chasing Paldreth the Nomad, and in the distant south the Lost Mariner shining blue and forlorn. Beneath the stars another net of light was spread: the farewell lamps on the docks and temples and towers of Simjalla, and the red and green running-lamps of the departing ships.
A stiff west wind, nearly perfect for getting under way. Mr. Elkstem, the Chathrand’s austere sailmaster, pulled hard on the wheel, and beneath his feet great chains and counterweights rattled in their shafts. Lieutenants shouted, watch-captains roared, men swarmed like ants up the rigging. The vast ship turned; the huge triangular staysails filled; the prayer to Bakru the Wind-God flowed through the decks in hundreds of earnest whispers. Rose watched the winking lighthouse on Nautilus Point and moved the carving of the woman’s head back and forth in his mouth.
“Fore and aft topsails, Mr. Frix,” he said softly.
The second mate howled out the order, and the lieutenants flung it forward like a ball. When the cry reached Hercól it snapped him out of his fixation on the shore. Thasha had told him to remain aboard, and he thought her decision wise. Still the urge to leap was powerful: Eberzam Isiq was dear to him, although the old man served an Emperor whom Hercól was sworn to depose. For hours he had stared at the wharf, hoping more than believing that Isiq might yet appear. Now at last that hope was gone.
Behind him a man cleared his throat. He turned. There by the hatch combing stood Arunis, his little white dog beside him. The sorcerer grinned and made a mocking bow, spreading his arms as if to say, Look, we depart, the wheels are turning and you cannot stop them.
He brushed past the mage and descended. In the stateroom he found no lamps burning: Thasha had asked the boys to blow them out. She was seated by the gallery windows with Felthrup beside her on the bench. Hercól touched her chin; she glanced up, eyes bright, but said not a word. They sat a long time in the dark, listening to the wind grow into the first true squall of autumn and thinking of her father, his imperious moods and strange choices, until the lights of Simja could no longer be seen.
11
Perils of a Perambulator
RATS. One of creation’s great failures. The term encompasses a variety of deplorable rodents, unwelcome colonizers of the basements and back alleys of mankind, ranging in size from the four-ounce abalour “pocket-rat” to the hulking twenty-pound ghastlies of GRIIB. Science tasks us to suspend our instinctive judgments, but on this point the merchant traveler may take our word: the creatures have nothing to recommend them. Rats are vectors of disease; the WAX-EYE BLINDNESS itself is now known to have spread with the aid of these unclean detritivores (Chadfallow, Annals of Imperial Physic 2: 936). Rats kill infants and newborn animals, destroy food stocks, rampage in the henhouse, foul the common well.
But it is the rat’s mind, not his habits, that reveals nature’s condemnation. Alone of beasts, the rat lives trapped in a state of pseudo-intelligence: too smart to be excused of his wrongdoing, too dull to resist the filthy orders of his gut. If (as the best minds in Arqual assure us) the WAKING PHENOMENON is an expression of the gods’ great scheme for Alifros, what must we make of the fact that not one of the teeming millions of rats has ever woken? Only one conclusion may rationally be drawn …
… Dr. Belesar Bolutu has championed an odd alternative, namely that rats (and human beings, for good measure!) are in fact transplants from another world, grafted like exotic fruits onto Alifros’ tree of life. This alone, he argues, can explain why the minds of both are so unlike those of any other creatures of our world. We hardly need add that the good doctor has this conviction all to himself.
—The Merchant’s Polylex, 18th Edition (959),
page 4186.
9 Teala 941
88th day from Etherhorde
The man with the gold spectacles touched the eyelids of Thasha Isiq. The girl’s sleep was restless, busy. He could feel the eyes dart this way and that under his fingertips, mice beneath muslin. Her bed resembled something tossed about in a cyclone. She slept curled on her side in a jumble of sheets, shawls, blankets, pillows, notebooks, discarded clothes. A nest, as it were. The man with the spectacles couldn’t have been more pleased.
Thasha’s brow furrowed; her lips made sudden twists and contractions. She is reading, he mused: reading a dream text, one that requires all her attention.
In the outer stateroom he found the lamps extinguished. On the bearskin rug, beside the cobalt mastiffs, Pazel slept in a pose quite similar to Thasha’s. For that matter, so did the dogs themselves: spines curved, limbs folded, heads drawn down to their chests. And below us, thought the man, rats by the hundred are curled up almost the same. How our differences diminish, once we are still.
As he watched, Pazel’s hand rose and gently pinched the skin at his collarbone. A curious, barely audible sigh escaped his lips. Neeps lay under the gallery windows, snoring.
The boy made an unusually feral grunt and woke Suzyt, the female mastiff. She raised her groggy head and looked around. Her eyes settled uncertainly on the man in spectacles.
“Go b
ack to sleep, friend,” he said aloud. “It’s only your Felthrup. Going out for a midnight stroll, a meandering, is that the word I’m looking for?”
The dog made no response whatsoever. Felthrup’s voice grew anxious.
“Don’t look at me with those accusing eyes. A dozen lashes! Men stroll about when the mood takes them. They perambulate. Go to sleep!”
Suzyt growled low. Felthrup turned quickly and slipped out of the stateroom.
He felt a faint electric shock as he stepped through the invisible spell-wall. The mage will notice that. He will not be long in coming.
On these dream-excursions, Felthrup sometimes inhabited a Chathrand as gritty and material as the waking ship. On other nights he turned corners and found himself transported, felt himself rise suddenly on a gust of wind into the high rigging (ghastly, wonderful) or felt the boards melt beneath his feet so that he sank abruptly to the deck below.
This was one of the latter nights. He should have been on the upper gun deck after passing through the spell-wall. Instead he was back in his old netherworld, the hold. He felt an immediate desire to flee, to wriggle into the shadows, out of sight. But that was his rat-self thinking.
I am a man. All things fear me here. I am six feet tall.
He was on a catwalk, a narrow path of planks that jutted from the sloping hull. Beneath him yawned a canyon of shelving and stanchions, wooden crates, grain sacks, lead ballast, sand ballast, tar drums, timbers, barrels of potted meat. He should not have been able to see the hand before his face, but somehow on his dream-walks the dim shapes of things were always visible.
In that time of terror and loneliness before Ramachni (bless him now and forever) brought him half drowned to Thasha’s cabin, Felthrup had feared the hold most of all. The darkness was often total, and never fully dispelled. Enemies lurked in even more hiding places than on the mercy deck above, where the ixchel had nearly murdered him—and where prisoners in the brig were sometimes given rats to eat, out of malice or pity. Most of these rats were caught in the hold, in razor-toothed iron traps. Others, succumbing to temptation, nibbled at the plates of savory mush that Old Gangrüne the purser set out, telling themselves that perhaps this one, just this plate, would fail to be poisoned …
Felthrup stepped out onto a flying catwalk, one of the flimsy bridges that spanned the depths of the hold. Traps and poison were no use, of course: day by day the rats multiplied, and any fool could see why. Chathrand was provisioned for a voyage across the Ruling Sea. She lacked vegetables, maybe, and certainly limes and pap-root against the scurvy. But she was literally bursting with dry foods, and the rats took their share. More important, they were led by a woken rat. Not a cowering, emotional creature like Felthrup: Master Mugstur was fearless and obscenely strong, and ruled his warren in the forward hold with savage efficiency. Mugstur was also a true believer. He claimed to take orders directly from the Angel of Rin, but Felthrup had difficulty believing that the “Benevolent Bright Spirit” really wanted him to slaughter humans and eat the captain’s tongue. I should like to find Mugstur tonight, he thought. To dig him from his nest and fling him to Jorl and Suzyt, if only in my dreams.
Where was he going? He never knew until he arrived. The marvelous thing, though, was that the more he walked, the longer it took Arunis to find him. But I must never run. If he thinks I’m avoiding him his wrath will be hideous. Everything in balance, Felthrup my dear.
“Fall back! Fall back! Mission aborted! Kalyn, Sada, Ludunte!”
The voices were sweet and faint, like the piping of swallows from somewhere deep in a barn. But they were not birds, they were ixchel, and suddenly they were flowing past him, sprinting for their lives, more than he had ever seen in one place. There were archers and swordsmen, spear-carriers, and some with tool cases lashed to their backs. They ran in diamond formation, over and around his calfskin shoes, oblivious to his presence. Some were bleeding; one young woman ran with a groaning man slung over her shoulders.
Where was Diadrelu? It would have been a comfort to see her, even though they could not speak. But of the dozens of ixchel Felthrup saw just one face he recognized—that of her nephew Taliktrum, who paused at the bridge’s center and urged his people to greater speed.
The others shouted as they passed him. “Ambushed, m’lord! They knew we were coming! What shall we do?”
“Kill them, but not today,” said Taliktrum. “Get to safety, run!”
Soon all the little people were gone into the shadows—all save Taliktrum. He stood foursquare in the center of the bridge, sword in hand, looking through Felthrup, waiting for something. It was not normal ixchel behavior, to stand still in the open. Nor did Taliktrum look certain that he should be there, although he had struck a courageous pose for his kinsmen. Felthrup bent down: the young man’s bright-penny eyes were full of rage, and some fear, but most of all agonizing doubt. He gritted his teeth, cut the air before him with his sword. What had led him to this pass? Felthrup wondered. And where in Alifros was Diadrelu?
Rat! Where are you?
Arunis’ voice burst like a thunderclap in his skull. Felthrup shot to his feet—too quickly. His head spun. He fell, his flailing hand missed the rail, and he only just managed to seize the catwalk itself as he tumbled. And dangling there over the depths, two feet from the grim-eyed Taliktrum, Felthrup realized that he was about to betray the little people to the sorcerer. The ixchel were geniuses at avoiding detection—but how could you hide from a dream-figure you couldn’t see? And while Arunis prevented Felthrup’s waking self from remembering any of what occurred in the dream-time, the sorcerer had made it clear that he remembered everything.
Rat! Answer me!
The mage would be here in seconds. And in the morning he would tell Rose of the “infestation.” They would seal the lower decks, smoke the ixchel out. And murder them all.
A scraping noise made Taliktrum raise his head. And then the last thing Felthrup ever thought he would see took place. Master Mugstur himself slouched from the darkness and onto the bridge.
“Ay! Help! Help!” squealed Felthrup, utterly forgetting himself.
Stay where you are! boomed Arunis’ voice in his head.
The great bone-white rat dragged his thick belly along the catwalk, his purple eyes locked on the young ixchel lord. His hairless head and chest gave him a strange resemblance to a shaved monk.
“The One who planted the Tree of Heaven frowns on you, Talag’s son,” said Mugstur, his voice rasping and low. “Do you pray for your soul’s deliverance, or make haste for the Pits?”
Taliktrum fingered his sword hilt, but made no answer. Mugstur waddled closer. A rust-colored stain surrounded his mouth.
“I am the instrument of Rin’s Angel,” he said. “You will know this to be true, if you but look into your soul.”
Felthrup tried to swing a leg onto the bridge, and failed. A rat would have pulled himself up in half a heartbeat. But he was no longer a rat.
Mugstur took a step closer, and Taliktrum raised his sword. “You live in doubt,” said the white rat. “Your life is an endless torment. But if you call to Rin He will answer you. He will make you whole again. You have but to ask.”
“If he were to alter one drop of my blood to resemble yours, I should slit my own throat,” said Taliktrum, breaking his silence at last. “But instead I have a mind to slit yours. I possess the skill. Has your Angel promised to keep me from doing so, this very moment?”
“Yes,” said Mugstur, his confidence absolute. “For she has given unto me the one thing you cherish above yourself, little lord. Steldak has seen the proof—he will tell you. But you blaspheme when you talk of suicide. To harm the body is a sin.”
He belched, and spat some chewed and bloody flesh onto the planks.
Felthrup squirmed and struggled, fearing his arms were about to break. I must go, I must flee, I will doom them.
“What do you want from us, you foul sack of grease?” demanded Taliktrum.
“Peppermint o
il,” said Master Mugstur.
“What?”
“Or brysorwood oil, or red lilac. We are tortured by fleas. They have always been vicious on Chathrand. But lately they have become unspeakable.”
“It’s true!” croaked Felthrup.
What is true, rodent? The sorcerer was in the hold, his footfalls ringing on the catwalk, seconds away.
“They gnaw us like termites,” said Mugstur. “They will drive us mad. Do this, and with the Angel’s consent I shall give you what is in my keeping. Fail and my people shall devour it.”
“But where in the black Pits am I to get peppermint oil?” demanded Taliktrum.
Felthrup saw Arunis across the hold, a few steps from the bridge. With a wrenching final effort he shot out a hand and grabbed Taliktrum about the waist. The ixchel’s eyes went wild, Mugstur leaped snarling into the air, Arunis shouted, “There you are!” And Felthrup dropped like a stone into the darkness.
He was flat on his back, his hand empty. No longer in the hold—the dream had moved him again. He blinked. A crystal chandelier. Scent of leather and ladies’ perfume. He was in the first-class lounge.
He sat up, straightening his glasses. Taliktrum and Mugstur were gone. He had done it; he had saved the ixchel for another day.
“Witless oaf,” said Arunis.
Felthrup jumped violently. The mage was seated in an elegant chair, eyes fixed on him. His pale hands issued from the black sleeves of his jacket like two cave creatures, unused to the light. His tattered white scarf was knotted at the throat. A second chair stood near him, and between the two was a little table supporting a round silver box.
“How did you manage to fall like that?” Arunis demanded.
Felthrup scrambled to his feet. “I saw—a rat! A number of rats! They startled me.”
“So naturally you leaped into the hold.”
“I—”
“What did you mean by shouting It’s true?”
The Ruling Sea Page 17
