The Ruling Sea

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “Yes,” he said, “I had begun to think so.”

  “That chart in Ott’s hand, that Pazel was made to read? We forged it. Do you see the sin of it now? You may have been pawns in Ott’s game, once. But he remains a pawn in ours. We’ve depended on his machinations and his madness. We needed him to succeed.”

  “Hush, Lady—hush, and go now. There will be other nights.”

  “No end to them,” she said, and breathed into his ear. Hercól closed his eyes, and for a moment the sound she made was enormous, larger than the envelope of wind about the Chathrand, stronger than the gales they had survived.

  Then she fled. Hercól caught a glimpse of her, a running shadow as she passed through the bars.

  “Dri!” he whispered.

  The shadow stopped, and turned. Dri stepped back inside the cell and looked at him.

  “I killed them,” he said. “The princes, Judahn and Saromir, Maisa’s boys. I didn’t refuse Ott’s command, I obeyed it. I murdered those children, for Arqual. It was me.”

  “I know,” she said quietly. “I have known for some time now. It is plain as a scar upon your face.”

  “My great change of heart, of which I boast to other children, like Thasha who reveres me: it came only after those two boys lay dead at my feet. I tried to tell the Empress, before she put Ildraquin in my hand. I could not do it. I have never told anyone but you.”

  Dri came forward and touched his ankle. “Thasha is not a child,” she said. “And she does not revere you, Hercól. She loves you. It is a love well earned.”

  Hercól looked away, as if regretting his confession.

  “Hear me,” she said, “There is a path out of the Ninth Pit, the Pit of self-torture, the bottommost. But you have only begun to seek it. This truth needs telling to other ears than mine. Will you stand before their mother, one day, and tell her all?”

  At first Hercól made no answer. Then, stiffly, he replied, “I will tell the Empress, if the chance should come.”

  “Pray it does. For I fear the lie will gnaw at your good heart—gnaw like a parasite, until you tear it away.”

  “Go now,” he said, “while the darkness protects you. Let us speak of this no more.”

  Still her hand remained on his ankle. “It is you who sit in darkness. I would take it from you, if I—”

  “Go!” he said, more sharply than he intended.

  And with a last flash of her copper eyes, she went. Hercól sat alone with his knees drawn to his chest. The air was motionless and heavy, as though he were entombed in wax. The light grew slowly. Magritte, the whaling captain, gave a low moan in his sleep.

  The ship’s bell rang in the morning, his thirty-seventh in the brig. It was time for his exercises, but for once he did not move. He had finally spoken of it. Dri would not love him long.

  A man’s laugh floated down from the orlop. Someone hacked and spat. In the corridor, a rat crawled out of the gloom. Hercól watched its approach, indifferent. The rat’s step was oddly slow.

  “You’re sick, aren’t you?” he mumbled.

  “Unquestionably,” said the rat.

  Hercól jumped to his feet. “It’s you! Felthrup! Felthrup! You’re alive!”

  Overjoyed, he rushed to the front of his cell. But Felthrup did not even turn his head. His step was very deliberate, and clearly caused him a great deal of pain. His stump-tail dragged listlessly behind him. His fur was matted with blood.

  “Come in!” said Hercól. “Come in here, I have water, I have bandages! Gods below, little brother, who hurt you? Master Mugstur, was it?”

  Felthrup made no reply. He walked past the front of Hercól’s cell. When he reached the next, he turned very slowly and peered inside.

  “Nobody?”

  “Nobody what, Felthrup? No one is in that cell, if that’s what you mean. Only Magritte and I are imprisoned here. Felthrup—do you know who I am?”

  Felthrup slipped through the bars of the empty cell. “The water,” he said, “if you can truly spare a mouthful, sir.”

  Hercól fetched his water bottle and food bowl. He filled the bowl and carried it to where the two cells met, then put it down and slid it through the bars.

  Instantly Felthrup blazed up, snarling. Hercól’s hand jerked back.

  “Never!” Felthrup hissed, lunging forward, then turning and dashing in a circle about the cell. “Never, never, never put your fingers through the bars! Don’t come near, and let no one unlock that door! No matter what I say! Do you hear me? Do you hear?”

  “I hear you, friend.”

  Felthrup’s strength deserted him as suddenly as it had come. He slumped immobile in the middle of the floor, and Hercól had the terrible feeling that he might have died. But a few minutes later the rat rose and hobbled with the same weird, mechanical stiffness to the water bowl, drank a few sips, and moved slowly to the back of the cell. He stood there, blinking out at the passage, for a very long time.

  “It’s starting, Hercól,” he said.

  35

  Unwelcome Discoveries

  9 Umbrin 941

  Of course they could not all march into the stateroom at dawn, while the guard at the door was taking notes. By prior arrangement, Marila and Thasha went to the galley and drank tea with the groggy sailors just off the night watch. Pazel and Neeps were to spend half an hour on the topdeck, where one could linger at any hour without raising undue suspicion. They staggered up the Holy Stair, into a morning of unexpected cold. The deck was slick; a brief rain in the night had coated everything with chilly droplets, which the cold wind stripped from the rigging and flung in their faces.

  The boys walked to the forecastle, where they sat down beside a sleepy Mr. Fegin, who had the dawn watch. No one spoke: man and boys simply gazed at the cyclonic motions of the clouds over the Vortex, in the east; and the Red Storm, burning across the southern sky, and fading slowly with the dawn. Both the storm and the whirlpool were distinctly closer.

  “Somethin’ irregular goin’ on,” muttered Fegin at last, in what struck Pazel as a triumph of understatement.

  When the half hour was up, the boys made their way down to their old place on the berth deck, under the copper nails. Dastu had slung their hammocks already, and Pazel fell at once into oblivion, despite the daylight and the milling hundreds of sailors and boys. He dreamed that a multitude of blacker-than-black dlömu, with shark’s skin and double-lidded eyes, were surrounding his old house in Ormael, raising black spears and chanting a single word, like a war cry; but the word was Sleep!

  Three hours later Mr. Fiffengurt turned them out of their hammocks again, with many a groan and recrimination, for he had obtained Rose’s leave for a short visit to Hercól. “The girls are waiting outside,” he said. “Come on, before these apes get too excited by their proximity.”

  The girls were puffy-eyed and bedraggled. The five of them stumbled toward the ladderway together, barely speaking, and began the descent into the depths they had left a few hours before. At the mercy deck someone was waiting with a lamp.

  “Step lively, there,” said Ignus Chadfallow.

  What an unpleasant surprise, thought Pazel numbly, but he knew the doctor’s presence was for the best. Chadfallow and Hercól had always been close, and there was no telling in what condition they’d find the swordsman.

  His condition, of course, was that of a man with mangled fingernails. Five Turachs in helmets and mail were on hand as well, to supervise the doctor’s access to his dangerous patient. Sergeant Haddismal, the new commander of the regiment, was among them. He was every bit as large as Drellarek, and had a belligerent, bug-eyed expression that Pazel found quite unsettling.

  “You didn’t mention the brats,” he accused Fiffengurt.

  Chadfallow caught sight of Hercól’s hands and shoved past the commandos with a florid curse. “Put your hands through the bars, Hercól, let me at those bandages. This is Ott’s doing; I’ve seen his work before. Criminal! By the verdant Tree, one day I’ll have his head!�
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  Captain Magritte was standing at the front of the adjacent cell. “Doctor, you must attend me next! Give me something for delirium! I’ve seen the ghost of some old skipper, dressed like a pirate’s woman. And fleas the size of kidney beans!”

  “That last is no illusion,” said Hercól. “The fleas are that big. And they bite like the very devil.”

  Pazel thought Hercól might be close to delirium himself. Too many emotions played over his face: guilt and ecstasy, pleasure and regret. “Hello, Thasha, boys!” he called out, beckoning with his bandages. The Tholjassan switched to his native tongue. “Pathkendle, come here. I must tell you something.”

  Pazel slipped around the watchful Turachs. “What is it?” he asked Hercól.

  “Don’t shout, lad, and don’t turn your head to look when I speak. The first thing I need you to know is that I can escape at any time, and come to your aid.”

  Dr. Chadfallow glanced up quickly. “Do nothing foolish, man, I pray you,” he said in the same language.

  “How could you get out?” said Pazel.

  “Never mind that now,” said Hercól. “Just remember: if you’re in danger, a shout down the secondary cargo hatch will bring me quickly. The other thing I must tell you is that the cell to my right is not quite empty. Our missing rat friend is crouched there at the back.”

  Pazel seized the bars. “No! Felth—”

  “That’s enough!” Haddismal broke in. “Speak Arquali, if you’re going to speak at all!”

  Hercól continued in Tholjassan. “He is not well at all. I’m afraid he may be rabid, or worse.”

  Pazel discreetly shifted his gaze. “I see him. Aya Rin, he looks dead!”

  “One more word in that tongue—” growled Haddismal.

  Hercól switched back to Arquali. “He is alive, I promise you.”

  “Who’s alive?” demanded the Turach.

  “And he told me something worrisome. He said, ‘It’s starting, Hercól.’ Those words, and no more.”

  Thasha (who did not speak Tholjassan either) squeezed in on Chadfallow’s right. “What friend?” she said. “And what is it that’s starting?”

  Hercól freed a hand from the doctor’s ministrations and gently touched her cheek. Pazel was astounded by the gesture, and the affection so suddenly visible on the warrior’s face. Clearly Thasha was startled as well; she gazed at her old tutor as if afraid to speak.

  “Something dreadful, I fear,” said Hercól. “Ignus, stay close to them—and Pazel, you must let him help you. No matter what has passed between us before, we must stand together or die.”

  “Die?” barked Haddismal, pushing Thasha aside. “What is all this, traitor? What are you telling them?”

  Hercól stood straight, looking into the Turach’s bulging eyes. “Just this,” he said quietly. “That the ship is in danger, imminent and terrible. I do not know from what quarter it comes, but if you do not find out soon, Haddismal, I fear you will be too late.”

  Bolutu was not in his cabin, nor on the topdeck, not eating breakfast. The four youths had scattered about the ship, looking for him everywhere, but it seemed no one had lain eyes on the man since early the previous evening, well before their council meeting. They tried sickbay, the wardroom, the lounge. Not a trace of him was to be found.

  But traces of Mr. Fegin’s “something irregular” were plentiful. When Marila poked her head into the first-class lounge (the luxuries of which were much reduced since Simja, along with the girths of those accustomed to them), she found Thyne and Uskins squatting in the corner, nibbling stale jelly biscuits as they examined a jagged hole in a corner of the wall. In the galley, Thasha stood where the little green door with the peeling paint had been, and saw only a wall where spoons and soup ladles dangled from hooks. Outside the forecastle, Mr. Fiffengurt heard the blacksmith complaining that his assistant, Big Skip, had gone missing as well.

  Neeps’ discovery was the ugliest. He had gone to the live animals compartment in search of Bolutu, and stumbled upon carnage. Something had broken into the cage where Latzlo housed his prize sapphire doves; there was nothing left but blue feathers and a great deal of blood. A number of the other animals had been terrorized as well. The two gold foxes from Ibithraéd were cowering at the back of their cage. The Red River hog was berserk, snorting and spinning in its wooden crate, which it had kicked half to pieces.

  At noon Thasha and Pazel went to Chadfallow and begged him to do what he could for Felthrup. The doctor turned gravely from his desk, regarding them over his reading-glasses.

  “I hold myself bound to aid a woken animal as I would a man,” he said. “But you must never forget that a woken animal is not a man. Felthrup is a tiny creature with a volatile heart. I may only be able to end his suffering.”

  “He’s a tiny creature with an enormous heart,” said Pazel, “and how can you say that, anyway, when you don’t know what’s wrong with him?”

  “I say it because I don’t know,” said Chadfallow.

  The single Turach left outside the brig would not let the youths enter a second time, and only admitted Chadfallow under his supervision. Pazel and Thasha stood outside the door, listening, but all they could hear was Magritte’s wails about his visions, and his fleas.

  Sighing, Thasha leaned back against the wall. Only then did Pazel notice the redness of her eyes. He could not tell if it was the result of exhaustion or tears.

  On an impulse, he said, “You were brilliant at the council.”

  She looked at him warily, as if he might be mocking her. “I made a hash of it,” she said. “I almost got us killed.”

  “Not your fault.”

  Thasha flushed. “I was so certain he would come when I called him. Ramachni, I mean. But I was dead wrong.”

  In the brig, the guard was bickering with Chadfallow. You want to what?

  “Thasha, you and Ramachni have some sort of … bond,” said Pazel. “And Bolutu says he’s a follower of Ramachni. You sensed him instead of his master. Anybody could have made that mistake.”

  Her eyes were unmoved; she didn’t believe he meant it. “You know I don’t blame you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Giving me the cold shoulder. I’d do the same thing if I were you.”

  “Would you?” The idea made him feel a little better.

  “I drank before the wedding ceremony,” she said. “I got myself trapped in the stateroom while you were being dragged off to Bramian. I’m afraid to read the Polylex, afraid of learning too much. And then last night, the clock … no, I don’t blame you one bit.”

  “What are you afraid of learning?”

  “That I’m not … who I’m supposed to be. Who Ramachni was counting on me to be, from the start.” Her voice quickened nervously. “That no matter what anyone says to make me feel better, I’m going to be the reason we fail, the reason Arunis gets the Stone and learns to use it and destroys everything, and it will happen because I’m broken inside. Which is to say crazy. I’m afraid I’m going crazy.”

  “Well, you’re not,” he said firmly. “You’re just rattled, like all of us.”

  Thasha shook her head. “You closed the clock, before it was too late. You cleaned up the mess I caused, again. Oh Pazel, the dreams, the noises. The things I keep seeing. Words painted on the anchors. Doors, where there aren’t any doors. And all those ghosts—nobody sees them but Rose and me. Do you think I’ve caught whatever he has?”

  “You’re not crazy,” he said again, taking hold of her shoulders. “You blary well ran the show down there in the liquor vault, even after things went so wrong. And Captain Magritte sees ghosts as well.”

  “I see a light in your chest, Pazel.”

  “What?”

  Tears were welling in her eyes. She was looking at the spot below his collarbone, where Klyst’s shell lay embedded beneath his skin. But it was not glowing; it had never glowed; there was nothing to see but flesh.

  “I am crazy,” she said, trembling. “I see
a little shell inside you.”

  “Listen,” he said, tugging down his shirt collar. “I don’t know why you can see it, but the shell is real. The murth-girl put it there.”

  “Oh come on.”

  “You’re not crazy. You can feel it with your hand.” Pazel took a deep breath. “Touch it. Go ahead.”

  She looked at him. He nodded, and guided her hand with his own. She moved slowly, fearfully—and stopped, her fingers not an inch from his skin.

  “It will hurt you,” she said, as if the knowledge had just come to her. “Rin’s teeth, Pazel, it will hurt like Pitfire. And you knew that, and you didn’t mind.”

  “No,” he said, breathless, “I don’t mind.”

  Thasha looked at him with a warmth he knew Oggosk would never forgive. “I mind,” she said, and dropped her hand.

  They stood, holding each other’s gaze for the first time in weeks. And Pazel knew it was over. The farce, the poor acting job he’d tried to make her believe in for the sake of the ixchel. He would hide what he could from Lady Oggosk, but there was no point in lying to Thasha anymore. Not when she could see right through his skin.

  “All right,” he whispered. “You’ve got to listen to me carefully. Will you do that?”

  Before Thasha could answer a noise erupted from the brig. It was an animal’s screech, bloodcurdling, over the shouting voices of the men. Hercól was urging someone to be careful; Magritte wanted something killed; the guard was swearing; Chadfallow was crying, “I’ll get him, stand back!”

  “He’s killing Felthrup!” cried Pazel. He tried the door, but the guard had locked it behind him. “Kill it!” Magritte was shouting. “Stick it with your spear!” Thasha tried to draw Pazel away, but he ignored her, pounding the door and shouting, “Ignus! Stop it! Leave him alone!”

  Felthrup’s cries ceased as suddenly as they had begun.

  The door opened at last, and there stood the outraged guard—and Chadfallow, wiping blood from his hands.

  “You mucking bastard!” cried Pazel, leaping at him. This time, however, Thasha caught him tightly around the chest. Chadfallow looked at him sadly. Then Pazel saw the hypodermic needle clutched in his hand.