The Ruling Sea

by Robert V. S. Redick

  They struck the waves with a smack. Pazel bolted upright, only to feel Drellarek’s stone-hard hand on his shoulder. Men were fighting the chains, fending them off the Chathrand with oars, while the twenty-foot skiff pitched like a rocking horse. Even in his delirium Pazel knew he must keep still.

  At last they were clear. The sail shot up. Elkstem held the wheel, Rose the gaff, and together they calmed the boat and took her out of the cove.

  Pazel ground his teeth. Chadfallow had a drug that could force his mind open to languages, force his Gift to start performing on command. That, Pazel thought, was the missing piece of the puzzle. The doctor had not brought Pazel along as some sort of favor. He did not mean to reunite him with his family at all, because Pazel’s family reunited was the last thing he wanted. No, he had brought Pazel along as a tool: one that could help him regain Suthinia, wherever she was; and one that could keep Chadfallow himself in the good graces of Rose and Sandor Ott. Whoever or whatever they met with on this voyage, Pazel would be there to offer his special services. You haven’t stopped the conspiracy, you’ve become a part of it.

  Bramian groped toward them, a giant on hands and knees. The sound of waves shattering against her cliffs grew to awesome proportions, as if Bakru’s lions were indeed prowling the breakers, hurling their wrath against the land. Pazel knelt in the cold bilgewater, nauseous and dizzy. He put his fingers in his ears, but there was another kind of roaring inside.

  The shorebirds found them, and began to wheel and shriek. There was no shore: just the stone cliffs, and a number of titanic rocks half submerged in the swell. Where were they to land? Elkstem kept them running straight for Bramian, while Ott stood watching at the bow. They’re all mad, Pazel thought, shutting his eyes, unless I am.

  When he looked again time seemed to have leaped forward. They were in the island’s shadow, right among the rocks. The sail was furled and the mast struck down, and straight ahead of them was a round black hole in the cliff.

  “Pathkendle!” roared Elkstem. “Take your blary oar!”

  He stumbled to an oar-seat. The cave mouth, which all but vanished with each swell, was the width of a minor temple’s doorway. On either side the waves exploded against the cliffs, vaulting skyward in spray and foam. But at the cave itself the sea raced into the dark, only to flow out again with a vast obscene slurp. “Row!” Elkstem was screaming. Everyone but he and the Shaggat’s son had taken up oars.

  Twenty feet: they rose and plunged, and the sea broke over the stern. The foam atop each wave nearly brushed the roof of the cavern. Pazel saw Drellarek make a hasty sign of the Tree.

  “Save me, Father!” wailed Erthalon Ness.

  “Ship oars!” Rose bellowed. “Heads down and hands inside!”

  Pazel wrenched his oar into the skiff. He threw himself down, the daylight vanished, the gunnels scraped the top of the cave mouth, and then like a grape sucked through greedy lips they were through, blasting down a straight stone tunnel on the force of the wave. Pazel crouched in two feet of water, Alyash on one side and Drellarek on the other. It was impossible to guess how far the wave had borne them.

  But just as it began to recede more shouts erupted—shouts from somewhere beyond the boat. A grinding noise echoed behind them, and instantly they slowed.

  Pazel raised his head. The cave had widened into a circular chamber some sixty feet across. Around the perimeter stone ledges had been cut at various heights, and bright fengas lamps hung from wooden posts. Pazel looked back the way they had come and saw men laboring on an iron platform, bolted to the rock near the tunnel mouth. They were turning a heavy wheel, connected by chains and pulleys to a half-submerged granite slab. The slab itself was mounted on rails, and it was sliding over the tunnel mouth. Even as Pazel watched it ground to a halt. The tunnel was sealed. “Welcome to Bramian, Master,” said someone ashore.

  The next thing Pazel remembered was climbing a stair. The way was steep and dark; far ahead someone carried a single bobbing lamp. “Where is my brother?” Erthalon Ness was whimpering. “You killed him, didn’t you? Are you going to kill me?”

  It was on the stair that Pazel noticed the sharpened hearing that sometimes accompanied his Gift. He could catch every whisper and echo: Alyash’s soft curse in Mzithrini, Rose’s wheeze as he lurched up each step.

  How is it going to end? When will the mind-fit come?

  At last they reached a broad wooden door. Ott stepped to the front and gave a sharp, four-note whistle. From the far side, startling everyone but Ott himself, came a woman’s laugh.

  Bolts slid free. The door swung outward, forcing them to shuffle back. A brighter lamplight flooded the stair. And in the doorway stood Syrarys Isiq.

  She put out her hand to the spymaster. Her beauty left the men abashed. She wore a white blouse embroidered with red coral beads and a necklace of cobalt-blue pearls. Her olive skin glowed in the lamplight, and her sumptuous lips curled with mirth, as if the men crowded below her on the steps were part of some great parlor-game whose rules she knew better than anyone. “We beat you by a full day, darling,” she said.

  Ott took her hand and kissed it. “I have been here four,” he said, “keeping watch by sea, until the Great Ship reached her hiding place.”

  Syrarys spread the fingers of the hand Ott had kissed. Along with rings of gold and silver, diamond and bloodstone, she wore a simple, tarnished ring of brass. “A little bird gave me that one,” she said.

  Ott laughed, then took the ring from her finger and slipped it on his own. “Come, Syrarys,” he said. “You know what this day holds.”

  He swept through the door and into a great stone chamber, and the woman who had raised Thasha from a child went with him. As he stepped into the chamber Pazel recalled the creaking bridges of his dreams. He felt as if he were upon one again. They told us she died in Ormael. They told us she leaped from a tower into the sea. We know nothing, we’re toys in their hands.

  They bound his wrists with metal cuffs and sat him in a corner, too far from the hearth to be warmed in that chilly underground. Unlike the chamber below this was not a natural cave; the room, and several others adjoining, were carved from the living rock. They gave him water and ship’s biscuit, later a handful of berries that resembled coffee beans and tasted like sweet smoked grubs.

  Syrarys came to look at him, with Ott beside her. Hatred shone in her eyes.

  “Thasha’s little friend,” she said. “Do you know what her father did to me, bastard? Something much worse than rape or beatings. He bought me, like a dog. He groomed and bathed me and took me out in society on a leash, so that the Etherhorde nobles could admire my tricks.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” said Pazel. “I heard Isiq never asked for a slave at all. That the Emperor sent you to him, and the old man didn’t think he could refuse.” He looked at Ott. “I wonder who gave His Supremacy that idea.”

  Syrarys slapped him, hard. Pazel raised his shackled hands to his face. “I believe the part about doing tricks, though,” he said.

  She would have struck him again if Ott hadn’t drawn her away. Pazel found himself wondering what Thasha would do if Syrarys returned to the Chathrand.

  The drug-delirium came and went. Several hours in that windowless chamber simply vanished. When his memory returned it moved in leaps, like a stone skipping on a lake. Men around a table. Captain Rose brooding over a chart. Elkstem waving his hands, shouting, I can’t blary say, Captain! You don’t get that close to the Vortex and live to tell! Drellarek sharpening a hatchet. The Shaggat’s son chained to the wall, asleep.

  At another moment he woke with Syrarys’ voice in his ears, and flinched, expecting pain. But she was nowhere near him. He raised his head and saw her with Ott on the far side of the chamber. They were kissing, and arguing between the kisses. Pazel’s strange hearing brought it all to his ears.

  Want to go with you.

  No, dearest. The job in Simja only you can accomplish.

  You said Isiq would be the last on
e!

  I said I hoped, Syrarys. But there was madness when the girl collapsed.

  You bastard. I’ll make you pay. I’ll sleep with your spies. The pretty ones, the youngest.

  Don’t try it. They fear me even more than they desire you.

  Care to bet?

  Pazel’s head swam. He fought to stay awake, to hear more of their argument, but the darkness closed over him again.

  Later they stood him up and walked him to the table. It was by now covered with books, scrolls, loose vellum sheets. Nearly everything was old; some of the books appeared positively ancient. Look, they said, and spread before him something that might have been a scrap of sailcloth with old gray stains. Look there. What is that?

  “Your finger?” he said.

  Rose seized his ear and twisted savagely, as if annoyed to find it so tightly fastened to his head.

  “There’s writing, Pathkendle. Lean closer.”

  Tears of pain in his eyes, Pazel leaned over the canvas. The faces around the table watched him, breathless. Rose was pointing at a symbol in pale blue ink. Was it a character, a word? The only thing Pazel was sure of was that he’d never seen its like before.

  His vision blurred; he shut his eyes, and when he opened them again he read the word as easily as though it were his own name:

  “Port of Stath Bálfyr.”

  The men exclaimed: some relieved, others in doubt. “I told you,” said Syrarys, her voice softly ardent. “I told you it came from a chart.”

  “What’s that language, then, cub?” asked Drellarek, pointing at the canvas.

  Pazel hesitated. “N-Nemmocian,” he said at last. It was the truth, but he only discovered it by speaking the word aloud.

  “Where is the tongue spoken, lad?” asked Sandor Ott.

  “How in the Pits should I know?”

  “The boy’s Gift does not extend so far,” said Dr. Chadfallow. “He learns nothing of the culture of the languages he … acquires. Nothing but what one may deduce from the words themselves.”

  “Then we’re no better off than before!” huffed Alyash. “Why, we could spend the rest of our lives looking for a place called Stath Bálfyr, where they may or may not speak something called Nemmocian. And begging your pardon, Lady Syrarys, but we can’t be certain this was torn from a chart.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Pazel.

  The men looked at him uncertainly. It was Sandor Ott, of all people, who broke the silence.

  “The world beyond the Ruling Sea,” he said, “is not entirely forgotten. What you see before you is all that the libraries, archives and private collections of the known world have yielded to my investigators, after a decade of searching.”

  He lifted an ancient book, cracked it open, blew. The page flaked and crumbled.

  “Not much to show for our labors, is it?” said Ott. “But there were a few helpful discoveries: that first canvas gives us some idea of the shape of the coastline we may reach. Another document seems to be a list of surnames—royal families, in all probability—and the lands they govern. But the jewel in this musty hoard is a page from a diary or logbook. I will not show it here, for it is so delicate that each time we remove it from its case a portion crumbles to dust. We have copied it out, however—word by word, number by number.”

  Pazel’s head was swimming; he was finding Ott’s words very difficult to follow. “What … does it tell you?” he managed to ask.

  “Headings,” said the spymaster. “Course headings, and distances, from Stath Bálfyr to lands on this side of the Ruling Sea. Lands we know, cities that yet exist, even though the names have changed. Eldanphul, the old name of Uturphe. Marseyl, that the Noonfirth Kings renamed for their founder, Lord Pól. And one island whose name has not changed: Gurishal. Do you see, Pathkendle? If we can but find this Stath Bálfyr, we will know the exact course to the Shaggat’s kingdom, and the multitude that awaits him.”

  “If we find it,” said Alyash, shaking his head.

  “Yes,” said Ott, “if. Unfortunately the collector of ancient manuscripts who owned this particular scrap of writing … died, trying to stop my men from seizing it. And his records contain no mention of the page.”

  Syrarys turned impatiently from the table. “You needn’t explain things to the tarboy,” she said.

  Ott looked Pazel up and down. “I am following my instincts with this one,” he said. “The ignorant make poor servants. For as long as he is with us, he must grasp the fundamentals. Of course, he will not be with us forever.”

  “What do you mean by that?” demanded Chadfallow, leaning forward.

  The spymaster ignored him. “Pathkendle,” he said softly, “do the words Stath Bálfyr mean something in themselves?”

  “No,” said Pazel.

  It came out too quickly, a blurted denial. Sergeant Drellarek sat back with a laugh.

  Ott turned to look at Chadfallow. “There’s an answer for you, Doctor. Your tarboy has just lied, very clumsily. My boys in the School of Imperial Security tell better falsehoods after thirty minutes of training. How long will Pathkendle be with us? A short time indeed, if he fails to answer my questions. But long enough to hear one or more of his friends beg for death: a death Ramachni’s spell, alas, will make it inconvenient to provide.”

  Pazel swallowed. He was only too aware how easily Ott could carry out his threats. Thasha, Neeps and Marila would be forced to leave the protection of the stateroom in short order if Rose let the spymaster cut off their food.

  “Look at him, he’s stalling,” said Syrarys.

  Fascination glimmered in Ott’s eyes. “No, he is considering his choices. He’s a thoughtful lad.”

  Diadrelu. Pazel closed his eyes. Forgive me.

  “Answer the question, Pathkendle,” said Rose.

  “‘Sanctuary,’” said Pazel. “Stath Bálfyr means ‘Sanctuary-Beyond-the-Sea.’”

  Broad daylight. Somehow Pazel had slept the night away, chained once more in his corner. He shook his head fiercely. He had no memory of waking at all.

  He was on horseback, clinging to the saddle horn, startled out of his trance. Birds were singing; the great black horse pranced in the mud; and around him a million leaves and fronds and flowers glittered from a recent downpour.

  It was already hot; Pazel felt as though some great animal were breathing on him. Yet the noise of the sea was close and loud, and off to his left he saw a place where the trees ended and blue sky began. He knew suddenly where he was: atop the cliffs, on the edge of Bramian’s great wilderness. It felt like trespassing, like putting a toe through some forbidden doorway just to see what would happen.

  Ott climbed into the saddle behind him. Pazel stiffened: it was frightful to be so close to the assassin, with his scarred and deadly hands gripping the reins on either side. Pazel had heard the phrase Stath Bálfyr whispered among the ixchel. Only once or twice, when they forgot his abilities; and they spoke it with reverence, like a holy name. He had given something sacred to the most profane man he’d ever known. Ott turned the horse in a half circle, and Pazel caught a glimpse of the cave mouth, low like a burrow and all but invisible with greenery.

  There were other horses: one bore Chadfallow, another Alyash. Swift and Saroo were mounted also; their horses carried large leather purses secured to chaps before the riders’ knees. The last and largest steed bore Drellarek and Erthalon Ness, the latter gazing in horror at the jungle about them.

  Ott waved his men back underground. Then he turned to the other riders and raised a cautioning hand.

  “The first part of this journey is likely to be the foulest,” he said softly. “Stay close to me, and do not stop unless I do. Trust your horse’s footing: these are the noblest animals His Supremacy could provide, and mountain-trained from birth. Away, now! Ride fast and silent, as you value your lives.”

  With that he spurred his horse into the bush. There seemed no path at first, and they crashed (far from silently) through great sprays of palm and ferns and creepers. B
ut very soon the underbrush thinned. Huge trees loomed over them, craggy black-barked monsters laden with vines and mosses and dangling epiphytes. The horses were indeed magnificent. They dodged roots and rocks, and somehow guarded their riders’ balance at the same time.

  They began a steep ascent, crisscrossing a gurgling stream. In patches of sunlight over the water Pazel saw butterflies of iridescent blue, rising in sapphire clouds at their approach.

  “Where are you taking us?” he asked.

  “Quiet!” said Ott. “Or you’ll find I’ve taken you only to your grave. We are ascending the mountain known in the Outer Isles as Droth’ulad. An evil corner of a vast, evil isle.”

  “Evil?” said Pazel. “But it’s beautiful. Look at it.”

  “I am most certainly looking,” said Ott, who was in fact peering deep into the trees ahead. “Yes, evil: the name means Skull of Droth, the Demon-Prince. But it is not Droth who threatens us now. I am looking for the Leopard People. This has been their part of Bramian for longer than anyone from the outer world has been coming here. Fortunately for us they fear to climb Droth’ulad, but they will slip around its base sometimes, to hunt monkeys or wild dogs. They are master archers, and will kill us if they can.”

  “Why do they fear the mountain?”

  “Because something lives at the summit that kills them. Not the demon himself, I think, but perhaps something not greatly to be preferred. We would do better to avoid that place ourselves. But the ridgetop is the only swift path to our destination, and Elkstem swears we must put to sea in a matter of days or be kept from all hope of safe passage by the Vortex.”

  “But what in the Nine Pits do you want on Bramian?”

  “Nothing whatsoever. It is our allies’ wants that concern me.”

  “Allies?”

  “Be silent, lad.”

  The way grew steeper yet, and they were forced to slow the horses to a walk. There was a path of sorts, now: a meandering mud track, full of roots and snags and fallen trees. Weird shocks of color met their eyes: a fleshy orange fungus that seemed to glow in the shadows, a scarlet hummingbird, a metallic-gold moth. Now and then the path left the cover of the forest to skirt clifftops, jutting like gray teeth from the blanketing green. At such moments Pazel looked down on steaming valleys, over lakes and serpentine rivers, and once he saw a ring of standing stones upon a treeless hilltop, and a thread of rising smoke.