They were staring at me as if I’d grown three heads & a tail. And then Miss Thasha took my hand in both of hers & asked if the crew member had died. “Well the story ain’t that specific,” I said with a laugh. At that she turned right around and faced the wall.
No, I cannot kill them yet. Not those boys, & not dear Thasha, who has given me this new journal & a safe place to keep it here in her chambers, beyond the reach of Uskins, or Stukey, or whatever the fool’s real name is. There is some new hope in the faces of those three youths: I see it when they look at Hercól, as if at a man they had never before seen clearly. And the Tholjassan too has the look of one girding himself for battle. Imitate them, Fiffengurt. You may save your honor yet.
* Admiral Eberzam Isiq had the intention more than the habit of journal-keeping. Among the personal effects he left behind on the Chathrand was a fine calfskinned volume of unprinted pages. The first eight sheets are filled with writing in his own hand; thereafter the writing is exclusively that of Mr. Fiffengurt.—EDITOR.
* Etherhorde slang: a sutska is a speckled dove found in parks and gardens and empty lots. A favorite dinner of tramps and vagabonds, it is easily lured into snares with a handful of grain.—EDITOR.
19
On the Bowsprit
19 Freala 941
128th day from Etherhorde
Less than a week after the sinking of the Sanguine, her captain’s prediction came true. At first the only sign was a pea-green cast to the waves. “The mark of the true tropics,” Mr. Druffle informed a small audience of tarboys. “We’re crossing the warm belly of Alifros, my dears.”
Other signs followed: a pod of sea turtles, a lonely frigate bird, a sharp eastward bent to the current. Then, just as Fiffengurt completed the noon measurements of speed and compass heading, it appeared: a dark line on the southern horizon, stretching away east and west as far as the eye could see. Mainland, thought a few with wonder, but it was nothing of the kind.
Mr. Elkstem advised the captain, and received a quick reply: a scrap of paper on which was scrawled ESE.128°30’, tgs—w.w. Such were Rose’s abbreviated orders: a new east-by-southeast heading, and a spread of sail up to and including topgallants, “as weather warrants.”
Elkstem, concluding that the weather did warrant, promptly gave the signal for general quarters. The drums sounded, the lower decks roared to life, and four hundred men poured up through the hatches and took their positions at spar, brace and halyard. Frix and Alyash ran the rails, lieutenant to lieutenant. “Free that downhaul. Where’s the clearance, Bindhammer? Compose your team, sir, for the love of Rin!”
Elkstem put his weight on the wheel. “Heave!” went the simultaneous orders along the five masts, and hundreds of men complied, and the wheel spun, and the vast mainsails turned into the wind. The Chathrand swung east, degree by hard-won degree, until she ran parallel to the dark Bramian shore.
All day they kept their distance. Rose wanted them no closer until they rounded Bramian, knowing (better than most captains in Alifros) how her cliffs gave way here and there to tiny beaches, hidden footholds on her jungles, boundless and wet. An oreship, a pirate sloop, a slaver exchanging pots and trinkets for human lives: any one of these might be anchored off such a landing. Rose did not intend to be spotted again.
They beat a weary path around the giant. For three days they held the same course, until finally the lookout perceived the island’s southward curve. Even then Rose kept them east, all that day and night, as if making for Kushal or Pulduraj. Only on the fifth morning, with Bramian nearly out of sight behind them, did the order come. Ware away! West by southwest!—a hairpin turn, and such an agony of effort that the men recalled previous course changes almost fondly. The topgallants had to be furled, the mainsails double-reefed, the fore-and-aft sails braced to the fine work of running close-hauled to the wind, which now battered their faces and begrudged them every westward mile. No trim would serve for more than three hours; no sailor could long be spared for rest.
Dusk on 19 Freala found the crew limp with exhaustion. The wind had shifted in their favor, but by now they were too tired to rejoice. It was a strange, quiet evening: the sun was still above the horizon, but a sickle moon hung already in the east. The sky between them was convulsed with racing clouds.
Pazel stood on the footropes beneath the bowsprit, that great spear thrust out in front of Chathrand. He was in a dark mood, and had hoped being here might dispel it. Every few seconds the bow leaped skyward, then plummeted again toward the waves, whose cold spray just managed to graze Pazel’s feet as they shattered on the keel. In normal times Pazel was in his glory here. Only high on the masts could one be flung about as thrillingly by the motions of the ship.
Of course in a storm both mast and bowsprit were living nightmares. Pazel had never experienced those particular miseries. But his spider-monkey confidence on the ropes had been hard-won, and he didn’t mean to lose it just because he was no longer a tarboy. When Neeps suggested they crawl out and lend a hand with the jibsails, he had quickly agreed.
The sailors, however, had brushed them off: “No thank you, lads, we’ll manage somehow. Mind you, there’s always cable to scrape.” The men were afraid, of course: afraid of getting mixed up with “them two crazy monkeys.” But it had stung to have their offer of help thrown back at them, and Neeps had left in a huff.
Pazel gazed off to portside. The Nelluroq. He was seeing it at last. Even at this distance he thought he could detect a change in the waves: grander swells, a deeper and more somber blue. Maybe that was just his fancy. What was certain was that a ship could sail twice the width of Arqual in that direction and find no land.
Or rather, the Chathrand could.
Or rather, she could try.
The sailors had finished setting the jibs. Pazel climbed up beside the Goose-Girl’s figurehead to let them slip by. Some glanced at him with fear. The last, Mr. Coote, just looked embarrassed. He had known Pazel longer than any sailor aboard, having served on the IMS Swan, where Pazel’s life as a tarboy had begun.
“They mean no harm,” he muttered, pausing at Pazel’s side. “Just not sure of their footing, if you follow me.”
“I do, Mr. Coote.”
Coote pointed with his big East Arquali nose. “We’ll be headin’ in among the Black Shoulder Isles tonight. At least that’s my supprazichun.”
Dead ahead, six or eight miles off Bramian, ran a string of uninhabited islets: the Black Shoulders. They were small and jungle-clad, built of dark volcanic stone that still shook and grumbled, troubling the waves and dropping great shelves of rock into the depths on occasion. What slim fondness sailors had for them was due to the harbor they could give, in a pinch, from the battering ram of a northbound Nelluroq storm.
“Do you know why, Mr. Coote?” Pazel asked. “I mean, what have the Black Shoulders got that we need?”
Coote glanced up at him for the first time, and almost smiled. “Thought maybe you’d know, with all your tricks.”
“I don’t have many tricks, Mr. Coote. I wish I did, believe me.”
Coote shrugged. “Well, water, maybe—can’t never have too much sweet water in your casks. That one to our north is Sandplume—what some call the Isle of Birds. She might have a pond worth pumping. Come on in, Pathkendle; there’s no more work to be done out here.”
“Oppo, sir. I’m right behind you.”
Coote lumbered off, but Pazel didn’t leave the bowsprit. He faced the sea again, his arm draped over the Goose-Girl. She was a pretty lump of wood, although her grip on the necks of her two geese always struck him as savagely tight. He had stood here that first day on the Chathrand, when Fiffengurt told him to pry the limpets off her, and Dr. Chadfallow raced along Sorrophran Head on horseback, crying across the water to Pazel: Jump ship! Jump ship in Etherhorde!
He could have done it, probably. Where would he be now, who would he be, if he had obeyed?
The thought left Pazel strangely chilled. For more than five years his o
nly dream had been to find his parents and sister, rebuild his shattered family. Just how that miracle was supposed to happen he had never quite worked out. Not even Chadfallow, personal friend of the Emperor and one of the only men in Arqual with connections inside the Mzithrin, had been able to carry off a prisoner exchange—he wasn’t even sure Pazel’s mother and sister were prisoners, only that they had both been in Simja on Treaty Day. And his father—well, Captain Gregory had found him, all right, after the battle on the Haunted Coast. He simply hadn’t cared.
Pazel closed his eyes. There was a great black oak in Ormael, in a stand of such trees between the plum orchards and the path to the Highlands. It was not the tallest in the stand, but it was a mighty tree. Passing beneath it one day on a walk with his father, Pazel had declared with confidence that no one could climb it. Captain Gregory had laughed and shimmied up the oak like a topman scaling the shrouds. At eighty feet, he’d pulled out the knife Pazel carried today and begun to carve, slowly and carefully, at the joint of a limb.
When he had returned to the ground, Pazel had asked, “What did you carve there, Papa?”
Gregory had just ruffled his hair. “Go and have a look yourself,” he’d teased, making Pazel laugh aloud. It would be years before he could reach the lowest branch.
Gregory never told Pazel what he’d carved, and after his desertion Pazel had decided that he didn’t care. He could climb as well as his father, now. But even if he one day saw Ormael again, why should he go looking for that tree? For years he’d tried to convince himself that his father had some heroic reason for abandoning them. But the Haunted Coast had provided a simpler, uglier truth. Captain Gregory didn’t give a damn.
All at once Pazel realized that he was quite cold. He’d lingered too long, grown too still, and his pants were soaked with chilly spray. It was time to get out of the wind. Carefully reversing his grip on the Goose-Girl, Pazel negotiated an about-face. He looked down at the forecastle—and saw Arunis gliding toward him with a smile.
The mage had not harmed a soul since the day of Thasha’s wedding, but the few sailors in his path leaped away as if from a marauding tiger. Pazel suddenly realized how very vulnerable he was. Everyone but the lookouts had fled the forecastle, and even the latter two sailors stood uneasily by the ladder, as though weighing the danger of abandoning their posts against the threat of that figure in black.
Pazel scrambled down the bowsprit. But Arunis, with startling quickness for such a heavyset man, leaped up to the marines’ walk—that narrow platform that was the only way on or off the bowsprit. He raised an open hand, as if warning Pazel to remain where he was.
Pazel stopped. He was some eight feet from the sorcerer, and had no doubt that he could keep out of the mage’s grip long enough to shout for aid. But the marines’ walk had only two knotted ropes for rails. If he tried to squeeze by onto the deck Arunis could attack him, perhaps even push him into the sea.
“What do you want?” he said.
Arunis’ white scarf flapped in the wind. He placed a hand on each rope. “A little of your time,” he said. “You have more to spare than other boys on this ship, after all.”
“I don’t have anything to say to you. Murderer.”
Arunis gazed at him, unperturbed. “Even as enemies we have rather a lot to learn from each other,” he said, “or hasn’t Hercól taught you that first maxim of the fighting man? ‘In single combat, your foe is the only one who can help you defeat your foe.’ But that, I hope, shall prove beside the point. For there is no reason why we should remain enemies, Mr. Pathkendle.”
Pazel laughed. “No, none at all. Except that you fed me powdered glass, and nearly strangled Thasha. To say nothing of what you told the sibyl on Dhola’s Rib. Something about ‘scouring the world for its new dispensation,’ wasn’t it? Care to explain that one to me?”
“I would like nothing better,” said Arunis. “It is the horror of my life, being misunderstood. What you heard on Dhola’s Rib, for instance: of course it sounded vile. And so must all my actions, since we were introduced as enemies. But you do not truly know me yet—and you do not know the burden I carry.
“I am the greatest mage in Alifros. I am thrice the age of the Empire of Arqual. The Old Faith was but a collection of prayers and mumbles when I first walked the paths of Ullum, and the name of Rin had yet to be spoken by human lips. I have served this world as seer and counselor for thirty centuries, lad. Her destiny is my destiny; her life is what I live for.”
Pazel snorted. “Funny how much joy you take in ending lives, in that case.”
Arunis shook his head. “No more than the gardener who pinches cutworms between his fingers to save the crop. You have closed your mind for sentimental reasons, Pazel. Did not Ramachni himself warn you to seek allies in unlikely places?”
Pazel was shocked. How Arunis could have come by such knowledge he could not begin to imagine. He’s spying on us somehow. I’ve got to warn them.
“You are convinced you wish my defeat,” Arunis went on. “You are persuaded that the breaking of two corrupt empires—for that is what the Shaggat’s victory will mean, the end of both Arqual and the Mzithrin—will be a bad thing for this world.”
“I’m persuaded that a world ruled by you would be a thousand times worse.”
Arunis stepped toward him, impatience flashing in his eyes. “And why is that? What do you know of my true intentions? Nothing. But I know a great deal about yours. I know you dream of finding your mother and sister. Would you like my help? I could locate them within the hour, by my arts, and tell you how they fare.”
For a moment Pazel could not speak. The faces of his mother and sister, their smiles, their laughs—
“No,” he said. “I don’t want your help. You wouldn’t, anyway.”
Arunis drew closer still. “I know that you hate Arqual for its crimes. How could you not, when you’ve seen it destroy your family, your home, your very nation? When you know it is ruled by those who seduce their enemies with talk of peace, all the while hiding a knife called the Shaggat behind their backs? A knife with which they plan to reopen their enemies’ deepest wound?
“Think, Pazel, of what will happen if I step aside. Either Sandor Ott’s plan will succeed, and the Shaggat will rise and cripple the Mzithrin, and within a decade the Pentarchy will collapse, routed by the armies of Arqual. Or the plan will fail, and provide an immaculate excuse for a new global war—a war of equals, a war of blackest hatred, a war without end.
“In either case the innocent will die in countless numbers, and the survivors inherit a ruined world. If Ott triumphs, you may imagine the future as a bloody rag in the fist of the Magad dynasty, a fist that tightens forever, even when there is no blood left to wring out. And should he fail—two fists contending for the rag, Arquali and Mzithrini, tearing, pulling, shredding it ever finer.”
“And in your future?”
“In mine, quite simply, the Shaggat’s triumph will be so swift that Alifros will be spared the worst part of war. Fleets will burn, but not cities. Armies will be destroyed, but not the countries they hail from. There will be death, but how much less so than otherwise! My future is the least of the evils arrayed before us—surely you see that now?”
Pazel said nothing. Arunis rested a foot on the bowsprit.
“Listen to me, boy. Your morals are a good thing. But they are simple hand-tools, and the world, like this ship, is a vast machine. You cannot expect your notion of the good to serve all purposes, any more than you could cut new lumber for this ship with a pocketknife.”
Pazel averted his eyes. The late sun was blazing behind Arunis, yet he felt colder than ever—almost numb with cold, and his mind was dull and doubtful.
“I don’t believe you,” he said.
The mage smiled again. “But at least you hear me—that is enough. Pazel, there are moments in history when what appears to be an evil is the only path to the good. Humans are a flawed creation. Gather them in any numbers, and they kill. Dreamer
s like Hercól will never admit this truth—and in the end it is they who must be blamed when their pretty fantasies collapse. Arqual and the Mzithrin are the twin banes of Alifros. How would you choose, in your youthful clarity of heart? Destroy two wicked empires—or stand back and watch them destroy the world?”
Pazel clung there, six feet from Arunis, shaking his head. “Neither,” he managed at last.
“That too is a choice—to do nothing, shrug off the burdens fate gives us, pray that others will lead in our stead. But I do not think you are that kind of man. You’re a captain’s son, after all.”
Pazel looked up sharply. The mention of his father brought all his anger back in a flash.
“I’ll give you one more chance to tell me what you want,” he said, “before I shout for the guards.”
The mage looked at him steadily. “You are shivering,” he said. “Are you coming down with a cold?”
“I’ve been out here a long time.”
“Quite true,” said Arunis. “You have been alone in more ways than most men experience in a lifetime, and you have known no rest. Your life has been marked by one terrible change after another. And I can only offer you another—a frightful change, I know, but I promise it will be the last. For you are a Smythídor, a being changed by spellcraft forever, and because of that you will never belong with any but your own kind. You belong with me, boy, at my side as student and disciple, heir to my wisdom and arts. This is what I offer you. Will you not consider?”
Pazel found himself trapped by the mage’s eyes, which had taken on a cold, bright sheen. The heat of his rage was no match for that glow, that spider’s hunger. He could not look away.
“At … your side?”
“Yes, said Arunis, “forever. Shall I tell you something? You may be aware that I called a spirit to my cabin, before we left the Bay of Simja. It was the ghost of Sathek, a mage-king of the ancient world, and a wise and terrible king he was. Sathek told me that I should meet a child of Alifros aboard this ship who would grow into as mighty a spell-weaver as I am myself. Of course I knew at once that he meant you.”
The Ruling Sea Page 32
