But where? The cabin was small and preposterously cluttered. The boys’ shoulders bumped together as they took in the shelves, footstools, scroll cases, stoppered flasks, ancient sun parasols, bead boxes, cigar boxes, dangling bunches of dried herbs, weird animal statuettes. It was not clear where Oggosk slept: the furniture was buried under shawls and sea-cloaks and massive age-darkened books.
There was literally no space free of clutter except for the thin path between Oggosk’s chair and the door. So when Oggosk indicated with an impatient gesture that she really did mean for them to sit, that is where they did so.
“Did you hear that messenger bird on Simja?” she asked without preamble.
“The woken bird?” asked Pazel.
“Of course.”
“I did,” said Neeps, “what of it?”
“Do you know the story of the Garden of Happiness?”
Pazel sighed. “You can’t grow up in Arqual, or anywhere near it, without hearing that stupid tale.”*
But the children of the minor lords had heard their fathers curse Axmal night after night, and were jealous of the gifts lavished on his son, which were finer than what they received on their own birthdays. When the adults went in to table, they stripped and gagged the boy, tied him to his birthday pony, set the beast’s tail on fire and whipped him around the courtyard. Two days later the domains were at war.
“There was a peacock too,” said Oggosk, “in the governor’s palace at Ormael, who fawned on his brainless wife. ‘O saintly lady,’ it called her. And one of Mr. Latzlo’s beasts, a climbing anteater, has the look in its eye right now: the look of terror that comes before a waking. The animal should have been given to the Simjans—where is it to find ants, on the Ruling Sea?—but Sandor Ott’s order that no one be allowed off the ship extends even to animals, it seems. And perhaps he was right, at that.”
The boys exchanged a look of impatience.
“That odious man spoke of selling his anteater,” she went on, “with no more concern for its well-being than if it were a piece of taxidermy—bloodless, soulless, stuffed.”
“Like Arqualis do with slaves,” Pazel couldn’t resist adding.
“Just so,” agreed Oggosk. “Though the ban on slavery that has taken root in Etherhorde may be extended to the outer territories, soon enough.”
“‘Soon enough’?” Neeps said, laughing under his breath.
Suddenly the old woman’s glance was sharp. “We were discussing the waking phenomenon,” she said. “Consider, boys: it has been going on for some eleven centuries. But in the first ten, only a few hundred animals awoke. There have been that many in the last forty years alone, and the rate is still increasing.”
“We can see that,” said Pazel. “But what does it have to do with us?”
“Try thinking before you ask,” she said. “What happened forty years ago?”
“The great war ended,” said Neeps at once.
“And?”
“The Mzithrin drove the Shaggat’s followers back to Gurishal,” said Pazel, “and Arqual took the Shaggat prisoner, in secret.”
“Yes, yes, and?”
“The Red Wolf,” said Pazel. “The Red Wolf fell into the sea.”
“With the Nilstone inside it,” said Oggosk. “Precisely. The Shaggat Ness, with Arunis goading him on, squandered the last of his military strength on a suicidal raid on Babqri City. He took the Wolf from the Citadel of Hing, though the Mzithrinis blasted most of his ships to matchwood as he did so. But the Shaggat escaped with the Wolf and made it as far as the Haunted Coast before we sank his ship. And from that day the Nilstone itself began to wake.
“The Citadel, you see, was a containment vessel for the Stone—a protection against its evil, like the Red Wolf itself. Half our protection, then, was stripped away forty years ago when the Shaggat raided the Citadel. The rest melted away with the Wolf.”
“So the Nilstone is behind all these wakings!” said Neeps.
“The Nilstone’s power, yes,” said Oggosk, “but the spell was cast by a living person.”
Her lips formed a tight line, and she studied them as though reluctant to share anything more. But after a moment she continued: “Beyond this world and its heavens, in the Court of Rin if you like, there is a debate about the worth of consciousness. What good is intelligence? What’s it for? Shouldn’t Alifros be better off without it? And if not, which creatures should possess the sort of minds we call woken? It is an ancient debate, and a hard one, even for eternal beings. It is not settled yet.
“But centuries ago, an upstart mage decided to take matters into her own hands. Every other wizard and seer in Alifros opposed her—but she held the Nilstone, and did not listen. Ramachni may have told you about this mage; I am certain he told Thasha. Her name was Erithusmé.”
“He told us,” said Pazel. “He said she was the greatest mage since the Worldstorm.”
“Undeniably,” said Oggosk. “She healed many a country devastated by the Storm, and drove the Nelluroq Vortex away from land, and put the demon lords in chains. But Erithusmé labored under a curse, for her power had been sparked by the Nilstone. She was the first being in twelve hundred years capable of using it, and no one has succeeded since. Courage made it possible: Erithusmé was born with an almost total lack of fear, and as you know it is through fear that the Nilstone kills. Without the Stone, her magical powers would have been unremarkable. With it, she changed the course of the world—and not for the better, mind.”
“Are you saying she was evil?” Pazel asked.
“I am merely saying that she relied on the Stone,” said Oggosk, “and the Stone is evil perfected: a coagulate lump of infernal malice, spat into Alifros from the world of the dead. She never let it master her, as the Fell Princes did of old. She was that strong. But no mage is strong enough to stop the side effects of using the Stone. Every miracle she worked came with a cost. She chained the demon lords, only to learn that it was in their nature when free to devour lesser demons, who began to flourish like weeds. She banished the Vortex to the depths of the Ruling Sea, but the spell-energy that pushed it there also doubled its size.”
“And the wakings—”
“The wakings, yes. They were Erithusmé’s last great effort. She looked at the world’s suffering, its violence and greed, its long history of self-inflicted harm, and decided that it all began with thoughtlessness. And so she decided that the cure must be more thought, and more thinkers. She prepared a long time in secret, for what would be the mightiest deed of her life. And when she was ready she took the Stone in hand and cast the Waking Spell.
“It swept over Alifros like a flame. Everywhere, animals began erupting into consciousness. Soon they were learning languages, demanding rights, fighting for their lives and territories. But the spell did not stop with animals. There were stirrings even among the lowest things, a hum of thought in certain mountains, awareness in the flow of rivers, contemplation in boulders and ancient oaks. Her idea was to let all the world talk back to man, to help him see his mistakes, end his plunder, live at last in balance with the rest of Alifros. Paradise would be achieved, she thought, when all creation found a voice.
“The Nilstone, of course, had other ideas. Rather than create a Garden of Happiness, the Waking Spell plunged Alifros into a nightmare. The side effects! The monsters unleashed into Alifros, the diseases! The talking fever is but one example, and far from the worst. What does a mountain think, when a wizard shakes it from peaceful slumber? Not thoughts of gratitude, I can assure you.”
Pazel fidgeted; Oggosk’s gaze always seemed to unsettle him. “Couldn’t Erithusmé just cancel the spell?”
“Obviously not,” snapped Oggosk. “Her mastery of the Stone was not total—otherwise she would hardly have devoted the rest of her life to getting rid of it, would she? No, she is gone, but the Waking Spell continues. And will continue, in all its glory and perversion, so long as the Nilstone remains to give it power. With the Red Wolf destroyed, that spell is re
turned to its full force, and we are all in danger.”
Her cat hissed suddenly from just behind Pazel’s back. Neeps cried out, clutching his arm. There was a bright red scratch on his elbow. “Damn that beast!” Neeps shouted. “Why’d she attack me? I didn’t even look at her!”
“You were not paying sufficient attention,” said Oggosk. “But my tale is finished now—and here, for your easier digestion, is the moral. The universe has a texture, a weave. It cannot be improved by meddling, by tugging at one thread or another, especially when the hand that tugs is an ignorant one. Disaster alone follows from such interference.”
Blood oozed through Neeps’ fingers. Pazel was enraged. “Is this why you brought us here?” he demanded. “So you could lecture us about interfering, and attack us with your blary pet?”
Oggosk studied them with the disdain of a jeweler handed some trinket of rhinestone and glass. “Neither of you is a fool,” she said. “Not a hopeless and abandoned dullard, I mean.”
“Thanks very much,” said Pazel.
“Unfortunately your antics make it hard to remember.”
“Antics?” said Neeps. “What would those be, I wonder?”
Pazel saw that the witch’s eyes had come to rest on his hand—his left hand, the one burned with the medallion-hard mark of the Red Wolf. At once he closed his hand around the scar. Her eyes moved to Neeps, with keen interest. The smaller boy carried the same wolf-shaped scar at the wrist.
Pazel felt his anger deepen. “Antics, Neeps,” he said. “You know, like getting burned with hot iron. And stopping Syrarys from poisoning Thasha’s father.”
“Ah, right,” said Neeps. “I was forgetting. And getting Hercól out of that poorhouse before his leg rotted off. And exposing Sandor Ott.”
“And keeping Arunis and his Shaggat from using the Nilstone.”
“And harboring ixchel,” said Lady Oggosk.
Pazel knew in a split-second that his face had betrayed him. He had given a guilty jump, and that was all Oggosk needed. She cackled, but the laugh had none of her usual acid glee: it was a savage, embittered sound. She raised a claw like finger and pointed at the boys.
“All your high-minded dreams of stopping Arunis, stopping this final war between Arqual and the Mzithrin abomination, taking the Nilstone beyond reach of evil forever—where will they be when the crawlies do as they have always done, for centuries without a single exception? What will you say when your Diadrelu turns and spits in your face, and laughs as the sea claims the Great Ship through a thousand secret bore-holes?”
Now Pazel was frightened as well as angry. How the blazes did she learn Dri’s name?
“I don’t know what you’re—” he began, but Oggosk cut him off angrily.
“My time is precious, in a way almost impossible to understand at sixteen. Don’t waste it. I know about Ixphir House and the crawly fortress on the mercy deck. I know about Diadrelu and her jealous nephew Taliktrum, son of the late Lord Talag. Stop shaking your heads! Look at this, you fibbing urchins.”
Twisting, she reached back over her shoulder to a little shelf. From the clutter of vials and bent spoons and bangles she extracted a tiny wooden box. She tossed it to Pazel with a flick of her wrist.
Inside the box something rattled softly. Pazel glanced warily at Oggosk, then freed the clasp and opened the lid. Inside lay two shoes, well worn, soft-soled, each less than an inch in length.
“Those are Talag’s,” said the old woman. “Sniraga brought him to me, slain by her own fangs, I think. Another crawly came to me later, to plead for the body. I gave it to him, but in exchange I made him talk.”
“Why didn’t you tell the captain, if you’re so afraid of ixchel?” Pazel asked.
Oggosk looked at him severely. “I reveal what I choose, at the time of my choosing.”
“That’s right,” said Neeps, sounding even angrier than Pazel felt. “We take the chances. You just croak and complain about how badly we’re doing, and pile up your stories, and shoes, and things to chuckle over. Your cat goes out stealing and murdering, and you sit there like a plum duff—”
“Have a care,” said Oggosk. “I’ve killed smaller fry than you.”
“We risk our lives fighting Arunis and Ott and your mad old butcher of a captain—”
“Silence!” snapped Oggosk. For the first time she looked truly furious. “Insult Nilus Rose again and you’ll learn just how much these old bones are capable of!”
Pazel laid a restraining hand on his arm, but Neeps shrugged it off. He got to his feet, a move that scarcely made him more imposing.
“I’m not afraid, you blathering old hag.”
Pazel leaped up, throwing himself in front of Neeps. Oggosk rose stiffly from her chair. Her milk-blue eyes were pitiless and bright. “You should fear me, Neeparvasi Undrabust,” she said. “What I may do, and even more, what I may choose to neglect.”
“Get out of here, Neeps,” Pazel pleaded, shoving his friend toward the door. “I’ll handle this, go on!” Neeps protested, but Pazel was unyielding. At last Neeps stormed out, slamming the door behind him with a noise that set all the chickens squawking.
“It’s a wonder that boy has made it through sixteen years,” said Oggosk, settling back into her chair. “You choose odd friends, Mr. Pathkendle.”
“Neeps is my best friend,” said Pazel coldly.
“Odd is not a term of disparagement, boy,” said the old woman. “I rather like him, if you care to know. We Lorg Sisters admire purity among other virtues, and your Neeps has a glimmer of purity about him—at least where pride is concerned. That doesn’t mean he won’t get himself killed, of course. The Lorg also teaches respect for the sebrothin, the self-doomed. He certainly qualifies.”
She bent down and picked up Sniraga, groaning a little as she straightened. The cat quite filled her arms.
“He isn’t doomed,” said Pazel, thinking that he would soon be as angry as Neeps if she kept on in this vein. “He loses his head sometimes, but that’s what friends are for—to step in and catch you. Isn’t that what you’re always doing for the captain?”
Oggosk stroked her cat, watching him steadily. “Arunis has a Polylex,” she said at last.
“So what?” said Pazel. “Everyone has a Polylex.”
“Arunis,” said the witch with growing irritation, “has a thirteenth edition Polylex.”
Pazel started. The forbidden book! The same magic volume Thasha kept hidden in her cabin. “How—how did he get it?” he whispered.
“Like any merchant, he bought it,” said Oggosk. “Between the things that are bought and sold and the things that cannot be had for any price, there is a third category: things that appear to be beyond anyone’s reach, but which may sometimes be acquired for a phenomenal price. The thirteenth Polylex is one of those. Arunis must have hired someone to search for it on his behalf—search the world over, for only a handful survived the bonfires of Magad the Third. It’s a pity you take so little stock of your surroundings. Whoever found the book for Arunis must have passed it to him right there in Simja, under your noses.”
Pazel felt his anger rise again, and tried to suppress it. “What is he doing with the thing?”
“What Thasha should be,” said Oggosk with a little sneer. “He’s reading it—night after night, at a fever pitch. Do I really need to tell you what he’s searching for?”
Pazel was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “The Nilstone,” he said. “He wants to learn how to use the Nilstone.”
“Of course. And the knowledge is there, Mr. Pathkendle. Hidden in that sea of printed flotsam, and—we may hope—by evasion and metaphor and double meaning, but there nonetheless. The book’s mad editor, your namesake Pazel Doldur, considered no field of knowledge too dangerous to include. And when Arunis learns the truth, he will have no more need of us. He will go to the Shaggat and touch the Stone, and in that instant we shall be overwhelmed. Ramachni will hold no terror for him, and the wall about your stateroom will pop like
a bubble of foam. The Shaggat will breathe again, and Arunis will take his king home to Gurishal by wind-steed or murth-chariot. There, thanks to Sandor Ott, he will find his worshippers in a fever of expectation, ready for vengeance. And with the Nilstone for a servant they will be all but unstoppable. The Mzithrin will fall, and so, in time, will Arqual and the East. Twenty years from now, boys your age in Ormael and Etherhorde could be praying to little statues of that lunatic, and marching in his battalions.”
“We’ll get the book,” said Pazel, his voice low and earnest. “We’ll take it from him, before he finds out how to use the Stone.”
Oggosk’s eyes widened, amusement and contempt struggling for control of her features. “You’ll get the book? The mighty Ormali and his suicidal friend? That’s a capital idea. Knock on his door and ask to borrow it for the evening. No, monkey, I didn’t call you here for that. I want something altogether simpler.”
“And what might that be?”
“I want you to stop caring for Thasha Isiq.”
This time Pazel gave the old woman just the right sort of look: baffled and offended, but with nothing to hide.
“I am not being spiteful,” said Oggosk. “This is a grave matter, as important in every way as Arunis and his Polylex. Indeed the two issues are one and the same.”
“We’re not handing over her body, if that’s what you—”
“Thasha is alive and restless in her stateroom,” said the witch with finality. “And you’ll do exactly as I say. Dine with her, conspire with her, let her and the Tholjassan teach you to handle a sword. Flirt with her, if you like. I know better than to expect young men to do otherwise, even when to do so is to risk everything. Glah, that’s a permanent flaw in humanity, and there’s no cure under Heaven’s Tree.
“But let your kisses be cold ones, boy. Do not love her. Do not let her love you. Enjoy yourself, but if she looks at you with tenderness you must laugh in her face, or walk away, or show her some other form of contempt. Do you understand me?”
“I understand you to be out of your nasty mind.”
The Ruling Sea Page 20
