The Ruling Sea

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “We’d have to win over hundreds of men,” said Thasha doubtfully.

  “Three hundred, I figure,” said Fiffengurt. “With that many we’ll have taken a big enough bite out of the crew to make handlin’ the mains impossible. The Great Ship won’t be going anywhere until we say so.”

  They had all leaned closer as Fiffengurt spoke. Pazel glanced from face to candlelit face, and sighed with relief. No one was backing out. The deadly moment had passed.

  “Thasha,” said Marila suddenly, “if you’re going to do it—”

  “Yes,” said Thasha, “it’s time.”

  With all eyes upon her, she passed Marila her candle and began to unbuckle the suitcase. What is this? the ixchel were muttering, what’s she doing, Mistress, what’s in the case? Pazel waited just as anxiously, and just as much at a loss.

  The buckles freed, Thasha looked up at the ring of faces. “Except for Big Skip, you were all aboard when Arunis attacked,” she said. “And except for Marila, who was still in hiding, you saw what happened.”

  “Gods below, lass, we’ll never forget it,” said Fiffengurt.

  “You saw Ramachni. You know he’s our leader, a mage as good as Arunis is evil. And maybe you’ve figured out that after that fight he … couldn’t stay.”

  “He was hurt,” Neeps interjected. “Exhausted, like. He had to go back where he came from, to rest.”

  “You mean he got off the boat in Simja?” said Druffle.

  “No, Mr. Druffle,” said Thasha. “He’s from farther away than that.”

  She raised the lid of the suitcase, and there, packed carefully between folded sweaters, was the mariner’s clock. The instrument was standing upright, the second hand sweeping noiselessly over the exquisite mother-of-pearl moon that was its face. Pazel started from his crate. Neeps and Marila looked at him and laughed, and Thasha’s smile said Serves you right, bastard. Pazel didn’t care. They could laugh at him for the rest of his life.

  “Thasha!” he gasped, euphoric.

  His self-discipline had vanished. She was looking into his eyes and knew everything—or knew at least what he felt for her, despite all the weeks he’d spent trying to deny it.

  Fiffengurt too appeared light-headed with joy. “Sweet Heaven’s Tree! Does this mean—”

  “Yes,” said Neeps, “it does.”

  “What they’re so happy about,” said Marila, “is that it’s time for Ramachni to come back.”

  “You knew!” said Pazel. “All three of you! How?”

  “I’ll only know when he jumps into my arms,” said Thasha, but her eyes were shining with confidence. “I’ve had this feeling for weeks. A feeling that someone was coming, someone different from any of us, and that everything would change when he got here. It’s just like the feeling I got when Ramachni sent me the message in the galley. But this time instead of needing an onion, I need to open that clock.”

  “What for?” said Dastu. “It doesn’t look broken to me.”

  Thasha grinned at him. “No,” she said, “I don’t think it is.”

  With that she bent down and opened the clock’s glass cover. Around and around she spun the minute hand, until the clock read precisely 7:09. “Now we wait three minutes,” she said.

  “What are we waiting for?” asked Big Skip.

  “Deliverance,” said Fiffengurt. “Just watch, and trust the lady!”

  They all watched the second hand. As it swept through its third revolution, Thasha bent even nearer to the clock face. And just as the hand reached twelve, she whispered, “Ramachni!”

  There was a sharp pop, and the clock face sprang open on its hinge. Thasha sat back, glowing. But no whirl of black fur emerged from the clock. Nor did Ramachni step out with royal dignity, as Thasha had sometimes described to Pazel, giggling. He did not emerge at all. The only thing that emerged was a breeze—a sudden, cold breeze that extinguished Pazel’s candle, and made the others quickly shield their own—and a little of the dark sand that always blew from the magic tunnel between the worlds. Thasha knelt down before the clock, and Pazel, on an impulse, dropped beside her. Thasha tugged the clock face wide.

  “Sorcery,” muttered Druffle.

  “Hush up, man!” snapped Fiffengurt.

  The breeze became a wind, frigid and gusting. It tugged at their ankles, and blew Thasha’s golden hair away from her face. “Ramachni!” she said again, as loud as she dared. “Ramachni, what’s the matter? Where are you?”

  She tried to look into the tunnel, but grains of the black sand stung her eyes. Another candle blew out. The wind began to moan from the clock face.

  This is madness! Diadrelu cried from above. Pazel, close that thing, before you wake the ship!

  Pazel moved to obey—but Thasha caught his hand tightly in her own.

  “Wait,” she said, “please.”

  The newcomers were backing against the walls, trying to get farther from the clock—all save Bolutu, who stared at it as though at some frightful revelation. Even Fiffengurt looked anxious. Thasha’s grip tightened; Pazel wondered if he would still be sitting there, holding her hand, when the Turachs kicked in the door.

  If this continues your fight is over, said Dri.

  Pazel turned to Thasha, but as if she guessed what he would say she shook her head fiercely. Please, she mouthed. The wind grew stronger, louder; the door of the vault began to shudder in its frame.

  Pazel pressed his lips to Thasha’s ear. “I’m sorry,” he said. He reached down and closed the clock.

  Perfect silence gripped the room. The wind had vanished; the watchers uncurled their bodies, listening. No pounding feet, no bellows or cries. The immensity of the ship, or the crew’s exhaustion after weeks of storm, had saved them. The Chathrand slept on.

  Thasha put her face in her hands.

  Pazel touched her shoulder, but Thasha only stiffened and leaned away. Neeps looked at him and nodded. Telling him he’d done what he had to. It didn’t make Pazel feel any better.

  Druffle looked at Marila, eyes blazing with accusation. “Why’d you bring me here?” he asked.

  33

  The World Grows Larger

  9 Umbrin 941

  179th day from Etherhorde

  If opening the clock had proved an ambiguous wonder, the fact that no one fled the room afterward was simply a miracle. Big Skip was still staring at the suitcase, into which Pazel had quickly packed away the clock. Druffle was nipping from a flask. Bolutu, for his part, gazed fixedly at a spot in the air, bending his notebook first one way, then the other.

  Thasha sat silent, face in her hands. Ramachni had not come; no help of any kind had come, and now the newcomers were terrified. Their rebellion was sinking into chaos before it had even begun. Pazel sat across from her, wishing that he could take her aside, calm her, beg her not to feel ashamed. But there was no chance of that.

  Neeps and Marila, to their credit, were trying to steer the meeting back on course.

  “What you’ve got to remember,” Neeps was saying, “is never to touch Arunis of your own free will. Pazel found out the hard way: it gives him the power to look into your mind, somehow. That’s why he could kill poor Peytr Bourjon. Once he knows you’re not the spell-keeper, you’re fair game.”

  “We’ve been wondering what Arunis could have promised him, to make him shake hands,” Marila added.

  “Safe passage off the IMS Chathrand,” suggested Big Skip, “that is, if we reach the South. If there is a South.”

  “That is the other great unknown,” said Khalmet, breaking his wary silence. “I mean the South itself. Drellarek always spoke of resupplying quickly, making west along the southern shores, taking our bearings at some known location, and then returning north to Gurishal, behind the Mzithrini defenses. But he knew nothing of the land or its people. Will we face a wilderness like Bramian, full of beasts and savages? If we fled the ship we might perish in a day, or wither slowly, while Rose and his loyalists sat at anchor, starving us out.

  “But we
might just as likely find a civilized country, with townships and industries, and force of arms. We must be ready to contact such people. It may be they have ships that could take on the Chathrand.”

  “Like the Jistrolloq did?” said Fiffengurt. “Don’t bet on it, mister. Rose fights above his weight.”

  “I’ll bet there’s nothing but a wasteland,” said Druffle. “Nothing but toads and spiders, rocks and desolation, and hills all sheathed in ice.”

  “Toads and ice?” said Marila.

  Pazel saw Bolutu shaking his head, as if he had heard nearly all he could stand.

  “Just a minute,” said Neeps. “The Chathrand and her sister-ships used to cross the Nelluroq all the time. There has to be civilization in the South. Otherwise, why bother?”

  “That was centuries ago, mate,” said Dastu.

  “Aye,” said Khalmet, “and civilizations come and go.”

  Bolutu uncurled his notebook—a warped, water-stained ruin after months of abuse—scrawled two words, and held them up:

  NOT THESE.

  They looked back at him, puzzled. “Whaddya mean?” said Big Skip.

  The veterinarian frowned, looking from face to face. He began to write again.

  “The wa … waking … phenomenon,” Druffle read over his shoulder. “As in waking animals? What’s that got to do with the queen’s tea?”

  Bolutu stopped writing and sighed. Then he dashed off a sentence and held it up.

  NOTHING WILL GET DONE AT THIS MEETING.

  “Well, you’re a right blary naysayer,” growled Fiffengurt. “Why don’t you help us get somethin’ done, then? Ain’t you an educated man?”

  Suddenly Bolutu rose to his feet. Everyone tensed: the black man’s lips were pressed tight together, and his eyes were almost closed. He raised the notebook, squeezing it as though demanding some last service from its tattered pages.

  “He wants something hard to write on,” said Big Skip.

  Bolutu closed his hand, crushing the notebook in his fist. “No, he doesn’t.” He tossed the notebook down with a smack. “Jathod! He doesn’t want to write another word.”

  There were gasps. Big Skip made the sign of the Tree. “You can talk!” said Fiffengurt.

  “And you can hear,” rasped Bolutu. His voice was dry, and his words distorted, as though he had almost forgotten how to speak. Then he opened his mouth wide, and showed them a pink and perfect tongue.

  “Black spellcraft!” hissed Druffle, edging away. “You’re a conjurer! A hoojee hexman from the Griib!”

  “That’s ugly, Mr. Druffle,” said Marila. But in fact they were all in shock. Bolutu had grown a new tongue.

  Say something, Pazel! cried Diadrelu. Khalmet has his hand on his sword!

  “Listen to me!” Pazel blurted. “Whoever he is, he risked his life to save me from Arunis.”

  “That’s right, that’s right,” babbled Fiffengurt. “And if you are a hexman, Bolutu—well, that’s just fine with us. So long as you’re our hexman, he he.”

  “I am neither hoojee nor hexman, whatever those may be,” said Bolutu quietly. “Nor am I a Slevran, as I was forced to claim.”

  “Told you!” said Neeps. “I told you he was a Noonfirther! Didn’t I?”

  Bolutu shook his head. “I am not.”

  A hint of panic entered the room. Neeps, trying gamely to contain the situation, forced out a laugh. “Fine then, I got it wrong. Let’s not get excited. We’re all human beings.”

  “I am not,” said Bolutu.

  Everyone leaped up; Khalmet’s sword was out in a flash; Druffle bared his cutlass, and even Fiffengurt whipped the blackjack from his pocket. Bolutu wisely raised his hands in surrender. For a moment they heard only their own breath and the slosh of the bilgewater. Then Pazel stepped in front of Bolutu, his heart pounding. Courage, courage! said Diadrelu from above.

  Trembling, Pazel extended his hand. “Elaya,” he said.

  “Elaya chol!” replied a delighted Bolutu, shaking his hand. “And where did you learn Nemmocian, Mr. Pathkendle?”

  “On Bramian,” said Pathkendle. “From a scrap of paper in Ott’s hand. I’ve never heard it spoken before this minute. And … it’s not your native tongue, is it?”

  Bolutu shook his head. “Indeed, I barely speak Nemmocian, though I read it well. Can you guess why?”

  “Not if my life depended on it,” said Pazel.

  “What in Rin’s name is happening, here?” demanded Khalmet. “Who is this lunatic, who says he is not human?”

  Suddenly Thasha gasped. “It was you!” she said. “It was you I was sensing, not Ramachni at all! But you’re with him, aren’t you? You’re his friend!”

  “Friend?” Bolutu smiled at her in turn. “Admirer might be a better word. I have the honor to know and revere him, but I have seen Ramachni only once in the past twenty years: at the Battle of the Straits of Simja, the day he put out the coal Arunis placed in my mouth.”

  He looked at the ring of startled faces. “Don’t fear me, please. I am your ally still, and will hide the truth from you no longer. My name is Belesar Bolutu Malineko Urstorch. I am a dlömu. And I must hasten to inform you that the battle we are engaged in is larger than you have ever suspected.”

  No one moved. Khalmet and Druffle kept their weapons raised. Pazel realized suddenly that he and Bolutu were still holding hands. Releasing the man, he stuttered, “A dluh. A dloh—”

  “Dlömu,” said Bolutu gently. “Just one of a million, and if you let me live a few more days you will see for yourself what we truly look like, for now I know that my disguise-enchantment is at last starting to break. My new tongue proves it. We dlömu can regrow parts of our bodies, over time. Fingers, hands, even whole limbs if we rest properly. This tongue started growing just days after the sorcerer maimed me.” He probed the tongue with his fingers. “Gagh. It is whole at last.”

  If Bolutu meant to allay their fears, he did not succeed. Intelligent beings other than humans were not unheard of in Alifros: nearly everyone had seen the squid-eyed nunekkam, cooking on the decks of their houseboats, or playing their flutes at nightfall in some field or garden, their hairless children tumbling at their feet. A smaller number had seen ixchel sprinting for their lives along an alley, or flikkermen haggling in the flesh markets, or augrongs or bristle-backed stoors lumbering over the hills. A rare few had met with murths. But Pazel had never heard of dlömu, and by their faces he saw that none of the others had either. Marila stared at Bolutu like a frightened animal. Thasha’s face glowed with a mix of rapture and fear. Big Skip Sunderling looked as though he had stepped into a madhouse and forgotten where the exit lay. Flinching, he wet his lips and whispered, “A million?”

  “Perhaps slightly more,” said Bolutu, “spread out across the Empire.”

  “The man’s raving,” said Druffle with a shaky laugh. “A million—things, running around the Empire, and no one claps eyes on you? What, do you all live buried in caves?”

  “I don’t think he’s talking about the Empire of Arqual,” said Pazel.

  “Right again,” said Bolutu. “Arqual is but a little realm compared with Bali Adro, our vast and glorious kingdom in the South. Almost half of us are dlömu, including our Emperor and his court. Slightly less than a third are human, but their numbers are growing quickly. The remainder are a hotchpotch of other races, mostly unknown in the North. Such wonders in Bali Adro! Had we a month of council meetings I could scarcely attempt their description. And great as it is, Bali Adro comprises but a third of the mighty southern lands.”

  Khalmet’s look was hard and suspicious. “You’re asking us to believe … that you come from beyond the Nelluroq?”

  “Exactly, Lieutenant. Now sheathe your sword, I pray you.”

  “What do you really look like?” asked Marila.

  Bolutu studied his hands, as if they might have changed in the last few minutes. “Nothing terrible,” he said. “We are blacker than the blackest humans. Our eyes have two lids, and shine in a wa
y yours never can, like the eyes of night creatures. Our skin is smooth and tight; it would crack before it wrinkled. Such are the visible differences.

  “As for this body, I am quite aware that I am too short and thick-chested to be a Noonfirther. That was to be the identity I assumed, and the metamorph-spell our wizards wrapped me in seemed perfect at first: when they finished I looked every bit the well-heeled gentleman from Pól. Scores of us agreed to such changes, trading our dlömic bodies for human ones.

  “But twenty years ago, as we came north across the Nelluroq, something happened. I still do not understand it. We passed through a kind of soundless storm, a storm not of wind but of light. It blinded us, and when our eyesight returned days later we found that we had changed again. Some of my comrades had reverted completely to their dlömic bodies, and could play no part in our mission. Others still appeared human, but had reverted in one respect or another to themselves. I had regained my old height and weight. No longer able to pass for a Noonfirther, I chose to be a Slevran—the only other possible explanation for my skin color.”

  “But what in Pitfire are you doing here?” said Thasha. “If you went to so much trouble to seem human and journey to the North, why are you on a boat heading south? Are you just trying to get home?”

  Startled, Bolutu turned to her. “You … want me to tell them?” he said

  “What are you talking about?” Thasha demanded. “I want you to tell me.”

  Bolutu’s eyes darted nervously from face to face. “Yes,” he said at last. “I see now that I must.”

  “Then be quick about it, for Rin’s sake,” said Fiffengurt.

  Still uneasy, Bolutu began: “I came north over the Ruling Sea as a youth. That was two decades ago, as I told you. Oh yes, there are ships as great as Chathrand in the South: not many, but enough. Ours was a mission of justice, m’lady—justice and retribution. We were forty hunters: thirty humans, and ten others, mostly dlömu like myself, in magical disguise. We had sworn to each other and our monarch that we would find and slay the criminal Arunis Wytterscorm, also known as the Blood Mage. This sorcerer’s meddling in the affairs of kings had left many a nation at war with its neighbors, and the whole of the South was the poorer for his ravages. When I left, twenty years ago, Bali Adro was still healing, and I doubt that she is finished yet. Catastrophe is the mage’s calling. And what he did to our realm, he has for the last sixty years been struggling to inflict on your own.”