The Ruling Sea

by Robert V. S. Redick

  Was that Cazencian blubber he had boiling in his try-pots? Latzlo asked, his face aglow with excitement. No, no, said Magritte: they had spotted marblebacks just yesterday, and caught one with ease. But one Cazencian was worth fifty common marblebacks, he reminded us, “for you just don’t meet with ’em no more.” The Sanguine had chased the pod from Rukmast without taking a single animal, & Magritte was overjoyed to hear that we had spotted them again.

  “I’ll catch ’em yet!” he declared with a twinkle. “Lost two of my lads to those tricky fish. My best harpooner sank his shaft in the largest, and the creature dived, and the line played out half a league or more—and then a snag! Tragedy, gents! Don’t know if it was someone’s leg wrapped in the line, a shorn timber, an oarlock—but away that little boat flew, east toward Perdition-knows-where, and by the time the other boats were shipped and we tacked to chase ’em the fog was on us. We’ve been hunting for ’em ever since.”

  I kept on munching cakes. When he hailed us this morning, were his first words, Have ye seen our lost boys? No: he asked after the whales, even though that harpoon crew must have cut themselves free in the first half hour. And didn’t they stop to skewer that marbleback? It’s profits he was dreaming of, not the rescue of his men.

  He had news of his own, this whaler. Volpeks to our east in great numbers. Nine warships at a glance, he claims to have seen, & suspects a raid on the Ulluprids is in the works. Captain Rose thanked him for the warning & poured more beer.

  “I am glad the fog lifted, and allowed this happy rendezvous,” he said. But his voice was as cold as a judge preparing to send a man to the gallows.

  “And shall I tell you a preposterous rumor?” said Magritte. “They say the isle of the lunatics is up in arms. I mean Gurishal. That’s right, sirs, the stronghold of that murdering madman, the one our fathers killed for the Sizzies. His cult isn’t dead; and the strangest part is that those crazies think their old Shaggat’s coming back from the dead. That’s why they’re all stirred up.”

  “How does a rumor like that make it out of the Mzithrin?” asked Latzlo incautiously.

  For once the whaler stopped eating. “That’s a blary fine question,” he said. “You’d think they’d hush that sort of thing up. Not a bit of it. Everyone’s talking about Gurishal, and how the crazies there are all on the lookout for their God-King. Hmph! Give it two weeks, says I. When he don’t come rising up ghostly from the Ninth Pit, they’ll all be talking about something else.”

  “Everyone but the Nessarim,” said Rose. “They have waited forty years, and can wait a little longer.”

  “Your health, sirs!” said Magritte, oblivious. “Gentlemen, you are blessed to inhabit a ship that does not reek of whale blood, and whose ovens produced these golden cakes, not slabs of blubber-lard. But tell me: why have you painted over your gilding? I heard tell how the Chathrand was decked out in fresh gold from bow to stern for the peace ceremonies.”

  “The ceremonies lie far behind us now,” said Rose, “and one rarely encounters a friendly ship this far from the Nelu Peren.”

  “That’s the gods’ truth, Captain!” laughed Magritte. “We were frightened, I’ll confess here and now, when we spotted you the first time.”

  Rose’s hands grew sudden still. The first time. You could almost hear the glances we shot at each other. Uskins’ mouth worked, as if he were trying to swallow a sponge. Mr. Thyne steepled his fingers.

  “You, ah, spotted us before, sir?” he said lightly. “Days ago, was it?”

  “More than a week,” Magritte told him, “coming on dusk, it was, though, and you were much farther away—and stern-on, too, so we couldn’t see your colors. But it could only have been your Chathrand, boys, great blary ship that it was.”

  “You could not count our masts, then,” said Rose, “or see our spread of sail?”

  “Neither, neither, sir. But do fill us up, Captain! You’ve no idea the venomous grog my steward serves.”

  Rose took hold of Magritte’s tankard & poured it half full.

  “I hope you will indulge my curiosity,” he rumbled. “I have been unsure of our heading for some time.”

  “I knew that,” said Magritte with a twinkle. “‘The Great Ship don’t mean to be heading that way,’ I told my men, ‘unless she’s been seized by rogues. Look where her bow’s aimed, my ducks! Not the way home to Etherhorde, is it, now?’ What’s your trouble, Rose? Binnacle out of true?”

  “Perhaps,” said Rose.

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with ours,” said Magritte. “We’re making west-by-ten-southwest, and from the look of it your heading’s some forty or forty-five degrees more southerly. You’ll sight Bramian on that tack, sir. Just a matter of time.”

  “Time is what I wish to ask you about,” said Rose. “The day you spotted us—the first time, near dusk—was that before or after you put out boats for the Cazencians?”

  Magritte blinked at him. “It was—before,” he said slowly. “Two days before, as I recall.”

  “Then the crew of your lost boat would have known as well.”

  “That we’d spotted you?” asked Magritte, his voice increasingly confused. “Aye, Captain, all the men were aware. Sanguine’s not a big ship.”

  With an abruptness that turned every head, Rose sat back in his chair. Magritte started, gaping at him. Rose drew a deep breath. Then he raised his own tankard & drained it at a gulp. He pressed an embroidered napkin to his lips.

  “Very well, Mr. Uskins,” he said.

  Uskins shot out of his chair like a bulldog unleashed. He bolted straight for the cabin door, shouting already: “Mr. Byrd! Mr. Tanner! Your ports! Matches, matches!”

  “Great gods!” cried Magritte, spilling beer on his trousers. “What is he doing? Who are those men he’s screeching for?”

  “Our gun captains,” said Rose. Then he swung the tankard with the full strength of his arm, shattering it just above Magritte’s left eye.

  The first volley was Byrd’s, ten shots from the portside forty-pounders, & they all but ripped the Sanguine’s rudder-stem from her hull. The force of the blow drove her ruined stern away from us & brought her prow about, so that Tanner’s men had an almost dead-on shot at her cutwater, which they promptly blew to pieces. It was evident that Rose meant to kill the ship rather than the men, but he didn’t manage a clean distinction. One ball shattered against her starboard anchor, catted up snug on her bow. Iron shards screamed past our heads like bats from the Pits; a Burnscove lad took one in the throat & dropped dead on the forecastle. Men on Sanguine’s topdeck were screaming in agony. At her stern, the ship belched whale oil from a holding tank. The oozing yellow stuff on the surface made her resemble some maimed creature herself, bleeding to death in a trap.

  Uskins was on the quarterdeck, now, with a voice-trumpet in his hand. He raised it & bellowed at the whaler: “Sanguine! Your vessel is destroyed! You will surrender or go down with her! Assemble on the topdeck with your hands empty and your minds resolved to obey your new sovereign commander, Nilus R—Ro—”

  He gagged on the cannon-smoke, rising from beneath him. But the poor terrified sutskas* didn’t need to be told a second time. “Cease fire! Cease fire!” they wept, rushing about with raised hands. We were five times her length, & Uskins had every portside gun aimed at the whaler: enough firepower to blast her into kindling thrice over.

  Aboard the Chathrand men looked on in perfect horror. At the wheel, Mr. Elkstem’s mouth hung open like a sack. Frix stood by the mainmast, quivering & shaking his head. On my left, Bolutu the veterinarian stood like a statue, clutching his notebook to his chest. His face was composed; he did not even seem particularly surprised, but tears ran down his cheeks.

  I myself felt as though I’d just watched my brother murder a child. Nor was I alone: there was rage, a truly dangerous look, in the eyes of some of the men about me. More honor to them, I thought. But that was recklessness: Sgt. Drellarek had clearly been apprised of the attack, & his men stood by with wea
pons drawn.

  All this time Rose stood in his cabin doorway, wordless, leaning on that gnarled cane. From time to time Uskins shot him a nervous glance, rather like a dog seeking to reassure himself of his master’s intentions. Rose did not give him so much as a nod.

  They brought themselves across the sixty feet of sea, aboard their own whale-boats, & we hoisted them on our lifts. All told they were just thirty-two men: sixteen whale-hunters, including a number of deadly-looking Quezan tribals, & an equal number of crew. Five men, they informed us hatefully, lay dead on the Sanguine.

  For a butchering crime it went very smoothly. I must hand it to Uskins: he has a flair for managing violence. He kept one hand on the speaking-tubes running down to the gun deck & lieutenants along the topdeck & Turachs on the fighting top with their arrows trained at the boats. I almost wish Rose had given him some word of approval: it might have spared us the disaster that followed.

  Here is what happened. One of the Sanguine’s topmen, a crooked old guttersnipe with three teeth & a face etched with scurvy, was standing passive as a mule while the Turachs bound his wrists. Uskins had come down from the quarterdeck, & was marching swiftly by, hurrying the soldiers along. The whaler had a good look at him, & made a pleased kind of hoot.

  “Stukey!”

  Uskins jumped three feet in the air. “What’s that? What’s that?” he shouted.

  “Stukey—tha’s whad! Pidetor Stukey, ain’t ye? Of course ye are! Don’d ye know me? I’m old Frunc, old Frunc from the Brillbox, Stukey! Yer pappy’s mate!”

  Uskins stared at the down-and-out figure before him. The Brillbox (as I learned through the gossip-gale that swept the Chathrand within the hour) is a speck of a village east of Ul-sprit, nestled down beneath tall sea-cliffs that block the sun. A wet, frigid place that survives by scooping guano off the rocks—a gift from the half million gulls & terns & razorbills who nest overhead—& selling the muck for fertilizer. Not the kind of settlement that had spawned many officers in the Merchant Service.

  For an moment Uskins looked like a man stripped naked. Then he screamed at the Turachs to get “that demented slagman” off the topdeck. Frunc went on shouting even as the marines thumped him down the ladderway: “Stukey! Ouch! Stukey!” His voice floated up to the shocked & silent topdeck longer than you’d expect, & each cry brought a wince from Uskins. It also brought certain men who hated Uskins closer to helpless mirth. Uskins had made a career of mocking the so-called lowborn.

  “Who’s laughing? Who’s blary laughing?” Uskins was now racing this way & that, charging at one stone-faced sailor after another, making things infinitely worse for himself. Even some of the prisoners looked morbidly amused. Then Rose’s crashing voice silenced everyone:

  “DOWN!”

  The word was scarce out of his mouth when the cannon boomed. We threw ourselves flat as a ball screamed from the Sanguine, bashed a hole in the midship rail, carried off part of the mainmast shrouds & continued right over the deck, to drop into the waves on our starboard flank. There were men on the whaler yet! Uskins snapped out of his madness & yelled for Byrd & Tanner, who let loose with the most cacophonous broadside I have ever heard or hope to, & from my place by the mizzen I saw the little Opaltine craft slashed open, like a fish by a gutting knife, right along her middle deck. And still Uskins was shouting: “Reload! Haul in and reload! Tanner, are ye blary deaf?”

  We were all half deaf, of course—& then our own smoke billowed up & draped the topdeck like a shroud. Rose sent his clerk running into it, & I followed on the man’s heels. Gasping & retching I saw the man at Uskins’ elbow, making cease-and-desist gestures. The first mate understood & somehow croaked out a Stand down.

  The smoke lifted & I turned to the rail. All over: there was no deck on the Sanguine from which to fire at us, no man in one piece to attempt it. She was toppling our way, bubbling, sinking; inside of five minutes her mainmast lowered at us like an accusing finger; in another five she was no more than trash & splinters & a smell of burning whale.

  I set about getting the gawkers off the deck. Drellarek watched me with a hand on his sword-hilt. As if he expected some trouble from me, broken old coward that I am. Captain Magritte had regained consciousness & stood weeping between his guards. Chadfallow & Fulbreech stanched wounds. Pazel Pathkendle looked at me & said simply, “Why?”

  “Clear off, lads, clear off.” I made my way along the rail, now & then persuading a Turach to put his blade away. Ahead of me Bolutu was scribbling in his notebook. When I drew near he looked up suddenly & held it out for my inspection. I read: Every outrage plays into his hands.

  Our eyes met. “Rose’s hands, you mean? Or Arunis’?”

  Bolutu shook his head. A quick scrawl. Sandor Ott’s.

  “The spymaster? He’s still hiding in the gutters of Ormael, ain’t he?”

  Bolutu just looked at me.

  “Anyway,” I went on uneasily, “how does a crime like this work to his favor? Weren’t you paying attention? Our men were fit to mutiny!”

  More scribbling. But they didn’t.

  “Well, that’s just fear,” I said. “But it can’t last forever. We’ll see how things stand when they’re more afraid of the Nelluroq than they are of Rose or Arunis.”

  Bolutu considered me a moment, his eyes perplexed. Then he tore out a page, wrote until his pencil snapped, whipped out another & finished the message off. He gave the page to me.

  They should fear Ott. First he made them lie. Then he made them seem to perish. Today he makes them murderers. Tomorrow he will make them believe. And they will do so. They will have no other purpose in living but the cause.

  Rose is Ott’s tool, sir. And Arunis you must leave to us. We will fight him when the time comes. To fight him now would be to fight with shadows merely.

  “‘Us?’” I said.

  Before I could answer Mr. Latzlo blundered up & pawed at my elbow. He looked deeply affronted. “The oil!” he cried. “All that precious oil! It’s a humiliation! Why didn’t we pump her dry first, Quartermaster?”

  I barked him off the deck in a voice I hardly knew was in me. Then I came back to Bolutu, still wanting an answer to my question. But the black man was finished with me. The horror of what we had done was back in his eyes, which looked skyward & past me. I turned around & saw the great plume of our cannon-smoke, rising higher & higher as the wind swept it south. The cloud’s heart was ink-thick, & seemed like it would go on rising forever, a dark balloon bearing word of our crime to the heavens. But the tail of the cloud was stretching, paling, dwindling to near invisibility. Even as I watched it was gone, & with it a dozen-odd living souls, hope & memory & will & love & struggle, all ended in a moment, so that the heedlessly alive might forget them & rage on.

  Need it be so? I ask myself (it is late, I am wretched, the day’s blood stains these final thoughts). Need I wait for the next such outrage? I’m the quartermaster. Rose doesn’t trust me, but he’s not yet stripped me of rank & privileges. They’ll admit me to the powder room with no questions asked. Should I bring the era of the Chathrand to an end?

  Saturday, 14 Freala 941.

  Well into the Rekere Current. Orange heat lightning all night: the Bramian Beacon, as it’s known. Thursday dawn picked up the autumn westerlies & doubled our speed.

  Midmorning today (warm, mild, cloudless yet) I let Miss Thasha and her tarboy friends persuade me to inspect a part of the orlop deck, just astern of the live animal compartment. “Bring a bright lamp, Mr. Fiffengurt,” they pleaded, & I did so. Lady Thasha in particular was spooked by the darkness: strange, that, for she is as far from cowardly as any soul on this vessel. I should like to know what they were after. We found very little of note: just a deep axe-mark on a stanchion, a souvenir from the ancient days. The mark fascinated Lady Thasha, somehow. Could I explain it? she asked.

  I could, in fact. I knew what legend made of that mark. It came from a dark time in Chathrand’s history, when the Yeligs leased her out to Jenetran slave traders
. They were in the Nelu Vebre in the far northeast, & it was winter, & the slaves were dying of cold. Well, one girl grew so thin she slipped her irons, & hid away for weeks. And when they found her she ran, cursing them & crying out for help. And just as they seized her another girl appeared, her mirror image, pale where the slave-girl was dark. A spirit-girl, if you please. She fought like a devil, though, & cut one man’s gut wide open, & set fire to the deck. When the men quelled the fire they searched high & low, but they never saw that girl or her protector again. They’d vanished as if they never were.

  “And this mark was made by one of those Jenetrans, who took a swing at the devil-girl with his axe. That’s the story. And there’s hundreds more, if you like that sort of thing.”