The Night of the Swarm

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “Hopeless,” she said.

  The captain grinned. “We figured that out a long time ago, didn’t we?”

  “Not us, Gregory. Just you.”

  “Now that is unfair. From a woman in your position.”

  “There’s only one position you care about.”

  She leaned nearer, eyes half closed; she placed a hand on his chest. “Brush your teeth, next time, darling,” said Gregory. Suthinia turned away, furious, groping for the ladder with her heel.

  They sat like cargo in the bottom of the canoe, the witch and the admiral, enemies and allies. Suthinia, in front, gazed fixedly at the Talturin in the bow. Isiq’s knee ached. He wondered if he could ask her to soothe it with a touch, as she had done the night they met.

  Then he heard her spitting oaths, soft and venomous. Perhaps later, he mused. Perhaps in a week.

  The young men paddled in silence. They did not aim for shore but zigzagged in the growing darkness, as though pursuing a wayward thought. The Gulf was still remarkably flat. It was very weird, to be gliding soundless among the fog-blanketed shipwrecks, the coral knobs and giant fist-like rocks. The men showed no fear of the shipwrecks, and threaded a course so close among them that Isiq could have leaned out and touched the rotting hulls.

  “We’re no closer to shore than when we started,” said Suthinia, breaking her silence at last. “Are you lost, or is this a tour of the Haunted Coast?”

  The young men glanced at each other, suddenly uneasy. “We’re not lost,” said the Simjan, who sat aft. “Just waitin’ on the signal.”

  “Whose signal?”

  The men shuffled uneasily. “I imagine they have more secrets to guard than the one Gregory asked for, Lady Suthinia,” offered Isiq.

  “How piercingly clever you are.”

  She had a knack for asphyxiating conversation. They glided on. A crescent moon began to wink at them between the clouds. Isiq put a hand to his vest pocket, felt the trembling of the tailor bird. The distant cannon had stopped booming at last.

  They were passing between a reef and the black shell of an Arquali frigate when Suthinia asked suddenly, “Will you start again with the deathsmoke?”

  At the bow, the Talturin fumbled his paddle. Furious, Isiq gripped the sides of the canoe. How dare she. In front of strangers. If she knew what the fight had been like! The months of terror, the racking pain, the mind squeezed in a tourniquet, squeezed like bread in a fist … And to think that this poisonous witch had inspired fancies in him. Longings. That he had imagined them together, someday, when the fighting was done. He should tell her to go rot in the Pits.

  “No deathsmoker ever intends to start again,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “That’s right, Uncle!” said the Simjan. “But to answer your question, Lady Suthinia: I don’t know. I look for the Tree of Heaven every night, and send my prayers up to Rin. Two good months I’ve had, but you know I’ve kept off the drug this long before.”

  Isiq stared into the darkness, abashed. The witch had not even been speaking to him.

  “You must stay strong for your little ones,” said Suthinia to the addict. “Come see me at the Hermitage, as you did last year.”

  “Oh, Lady—”

  “Don’t thank me yet; the charm may not help. And it will not, unless you fight on.” She twisted about now, pulling the headscarf back to let her see the Simjan. “You will fight on, I’m certain. You’ll make us all proud, and what’s more you’ll win your own pride back—with interest, as Gregory would say.”

  Isiq wished someone would strike him in the face. He had nearly exploded at this beautiful witch. Even now she had the courtesy not to notice, not to mock his error; why had he imagined her cruel? She had not been cruel, she had been honest. As bluntly honest as any warrior, any man.

  “Oppo, m’lady,” said the Simjan, his voice close to breaking.

  By the Gods, thought the admiral, I want this woman in my life.

  Then he saw the child on the reef.

  It was a boy, and it was sitting on the just-submerged coral, staring at them. When the next swell came it rose to its feet. It stood no taller than a man’s knee. It had arms and legs and eyes and fingers, yet nothing could have been less human. In the moonlight its flesh was the color of old pewter. Its face, so much like an infant’s, sported a mouth full of pointed teeth. The boy-creature’s limbs flexed in ways no human limbs could, as though they were not jointed but ribbed like snakes.

  Suthinia made a small sound of fright.

  “Don’t worry, m’lady,” said the Simjan, “that’s what we were waiting for.”

  “It’s a murth!” she said.

  “Of course. A sea-murth. They’re in charge here, you know.”

  The little creature made a clicking sound in its throat. Isiq thought it looked angry, and then thought that he was a fool even to speculate on its emotions. Suddenly the murth bent at the spine and flipped backward, otter-like, into the waves.

  The bowman pointed. Fifty yards away, two figures sat crouched on the wave-washed deck of the frigate, serpentine arms hugging knees. They were elders, a man and a woman. Just beyond them, Isiq saw delicate hands rise to grasp the timbers. A young murth-girl pulled herself up beside the other two. A strange beauty, Isiq thought, as she stared at the humans with wide green eyes.

  “Put one hand in the water,” said the Simjan.

  Isiq and Suthinia gaped at him. “Are you quite cracked?” said the admiral.

  “No, Uncle, it’s the way,” said the other, plunging in his hand. “Do it quickly, or they won’t let us ashore.”

  Suthinia leaned away, terrified. “This is what Gregory was teasing me about. Jathod, I hate that man! No wonder he’s not here.”

  The two elder murths slipped back into the water and vanished, but the young girl remained, watching them sorrowfully. Isiq muttered a curse, then put his hand in the water. “Come, Suthinia,” he said.

  “You don’t know these creatures,” she said. “You’ve never crossed the Ruling Sea. They’re a race of orphaned spirits. They’re the stepchildren of the Gods.”

  “They’re fussy, too,” said the Talturin. “Put your hand in, Lady. We’ve got nowhere else to go, unless we paddle out to sea.”

  Isiq leaned forward and touched her shoulder with his free hand. She stiffened but did not pull away. She put her hand in the Gulf.

  The four of them sat there, awkwardly balanced, and the canoe bobbed like a cork. Suthinia was trembling. Isiq felt like a fool. What did Emperor Magad have to fear from them, exactly?

  Nothing happened for a time: the lone murth-girl stared across the water. Then it came: a touch, cold and otherworldly and electric. Small hands were gripping his own, turning it, feeling his swollen knuckles through the flesh. Suthinia jumped; they had touched her too. She started to shake, and Isiq tightened his grip on her shoulder. What in Pitfire happened to her on the Nelluroq?

  The murth-hands withdrew. “Done!” said the Simjan, and Suthinia jerked her hand from the water and cringed. “No fear, Lady S, that’s all that’s required of us. A bit like signin’ for your pay, says Captain Gregory, or askin’ permission to board a boat. And the beauty of it is that the murths don’t let no one cross their territory but us freebooters. Captain Gregory struck a bargain, the wily old— Uch!”

  A murth-man breached like a seal, right beside Suthinia. The witch did not cry out but flung herself away, and came close to overturning the canoe. The murth showed its teeth. It had a snow-white beard and solemn eyes, and shells adorned the raiment on its shoulders.

  Suthinia was still flailing. Isiq threw his arms about her. “Be still! He’s not attacking!” But even the smugglers were aghast; this was no part of the routine. The murth placed a glistening hand upon the gunwale, and spoke.

  Everyone winced. The voice was part wooden ratchet, part shrieking albatross. The murth watched Suthinia expectantly, but the terrified witch just shook her head. Frowning now, the murth raised a finger to point at th
e sky.

  “Baaa …” The creature’s mouth and neck strained with effort. Now vaguely human, the sounds it produced came from deep in its stomach. “… b-baaaaaa—”

  “Back?” whispered the Simjan.

  “Baaaaaad. Baaaaaaad reeepestreeeeee.” The murth raised his finger higher, still looking at Suthinia.

  “Bad what?” asked the Talturin.

  “Yoooo … helllp … weeee … helllp … or alllll … m-m-muhh—”

  “Muh—?”

  “Muh-murrrrrrrrrr.”

  “Murth? Sea-murth?”

  “Murrrrrrd! MUUUR​RRRRR​RRRRR​RRRRD!”

  “Murdered,” said Isiq.

  The sea-murth pointed at him. Then he turned the pointing finger on himself, the others in the canoe, and finally swept his hand in a wide, encompassing arc.

  “Everyone,” said Suthinia. “Everyone murdered together, by something from the sky.”

  The creature nodded. “Yoooo helllllp,” it repeated, and this time the words sounded like a plea. It submerged, and they saw no more of it. But as they paddled off the young murth-girl still sat watching them upon the wreck, and now Isiq thought her green eyes were sad.

  Isiq smacked his forehead, and bloodied his fingers by the deed. The Crab Fens. A mystery hell-hole, unexplored by Arqual’s navy, hidden behind the death-trap of the Haunted Coast. Isiq had imagined a short journey up a tidal stream, then a hidden deepwater vessel with the Empress in the stateroom, surrounded by Tholjassan guards. But as they rode the swell in among the bulrushes and black trees the Simjan remarked casually that he hoped they’d arrive in time for dinner. “No one dines this late, surely?” said Isiq. The man looked back at him, confused. Then he smiled. “I meant dinner tomorrow night, Uncle. And that’s if we hurry, and there’s not a squall.”

  Isiq feared it would be a torturous trip. His knee was on fire and he could not straighten it, and the night was frigid, and he had nothing to do with his hands. But things turned out much better than he had feared. The canoe had impressed him already among the corals and shipwrecks; here in the Fens it proved a revelation. It cut water like a knife, turned like a damselfish, skimmed through shallows where a rowboat would have run aground. And when the stream narrowed and the insects found them, the two men sprang into action, rearranging their cargo and urging the passengers to lie flat. Blessed relief! His leg was straight at last! He passed the tailor bird to the Simjan; the creature was fond of any man who, like “friend Isiq,” had done battle with deathsmoke. Then the young men stretched a kind of cheesecloth over the top of the canoe and secured it at both ends, leaving themselves exposed but protecting Isiq and Suthinia from the insects, or the bulk of them.

  To call it undignified was an understatement: Isiq had to rest his face on the canoe’s damp and grimy floor. Suthinia’s back was to him. When he turned over and brushed her foot by accident, she kicked.

  “Stay clear of me, you old mucking lizard!”

  “Madam Suthinia!”

  “Go to sleep! This night’s going to be rotten enough without any of that!”

  Isiq almost laughed. Sleep was out of the question. His mind was galloping, intoxicated. They had probably gone ten miles already, and would cover fifty or sixty more at this rate. Sixty miles into the fens! That meant the Empress wasn’t underestimating the threat posed by Sandor Ott. It meant she had some grasp of what it took to stay alive.

  “He visits whores,” said Suthinia, apropos of nothing.

  Isiq made a sound of polite surprise.

  “These days he scarcely bothers to hide it. Maybe that’s better than expecting me to say nothing, to pretend not to notice what he does. Still, I hate him. I’ve hated him since the day we married.”

  Isiq’s heart was hammering. He said, “What I saw did not look like hate.”

  “He’s a lecher and a pig,” said Suthinia. “But it’s something, you have to admit—making peace with the sea-murths, enjoying their protection, winning free movement through this land.”

  “He made the peace? Gregory, personally?”

  “On behalf of his beloved freebooters, of course. Little by little, year after year. He went about it like a child, but somehow it worked. He would toss sacks of gold among the shipwrecks, and glass jewelry, and beads. He’d put his face close to the water and shout, ‘Presents for the man-eaters! Go ahead, play dress-up! None of us will laugh. And we’re not thieves, or colonists, or even fishermen. We’re just orphans like you.’ And he’d walk, Eberzam—walk from Cape Córistel, thirteen days up the beach, and then just sit in the shallows and call out to the murths, sing to them.”

  “Sing?”

  “Love songs and praise songs, drinking songs, and he’d say how much more he respected them than human beings. He didn’t even see one for the first four years. And if they heard him they surely didn’t understand. They didn’t speak a mucking word of any human tongue.”

  “But they do now?”

  “Gregory taught them. He taught Arquali to the mucking sea-murths, that man.”

  She fell briefly silent, then added, “I never believed him, until tonight. I thought this sea-murth business was another lie, one he invented because he knows I fear them. It kept me out of his hair, kept me away from his real family here in the fens.”

  “But why such extraordinary fear?” asked Isiq. “Courage blazes from you like heat from a bonfire.”

  “Very pretty. I’ll tell you why. It was during our crossing of the Nelluroq, twenty years ago. One freezing night we lay becalmed, and they surrounded us and swept aboard, and all our lamps went out together. They moved among us silently, inspecting us, touching our clothes and faces, and no one on deck breathed a word. And there was a lord among them, a very ancient murth. When the moon sailed out from behind the clouds I found him staring at me. He hobbled near and touched my hand, and it burned. Then all of them slipped back into the sea.”

  “A bad burn, was it?”

  “Not at all,” said Suthinia. “But when we had the lamps burning again I saw that there were faint lines on my palm. Symbols. They were already fading, so I copied them out on paper before they disappeared. And years later Gregory showed them to these murths, here at the Haunted Coast.”

  To Isiq’s almost unbearable joy, Suthinia reached back and took his hand tight in her own. “I’d garbled the words a bit,” she said, “but the murths took a guess at their meaning. It seems they meant, ‘This one will descend among us and remain.’ ”

  “Oh, rubbish,” said Isiq.

  “Yes, well. That’s what most everyone says about their blary existence. And Gregory, he grinned when he brought me the translation. Like I said, I thought he was lying, just trying to scare me. He loves my weaknesses, the cur.”

  “Do you truly hate him?”

  “I hate most men, most of the time. When I dream of a better world it has no room for you. The horrid mess you make of everything, the wars.”

  “I was born into war,” said Isiq. “I could have walked away from the service, pretended that Arqual was not threatened with annihilation. But that would not have made the threat disappear.”

  For the first time he heard amusement in her voice. “Walked away like me? Gregory told you, didn’t he? How he charmed me right into his bedroom? How I quit magecraft to be with him?”

  “He hinted,” said Isiq.

  “Well, it’s true: you can have magic, or a life and family. Not both, never both. But it’s also true that if I hadn’t walked away from magecraft, Arunis would have found me, and killed me, as he did almost all of us. So I burned my spell-scrolls, poured my potions into the sea. And I managed to be a mother and a wife. Until a certain doctor came to Ormael, that is.”

  Isiq had wondered if she would ever mention the doctor. “Chadfallow reveres you above all women in Alifros,” he heard himself say.

  “We were lovers for years,” she said. “Pazel always talks about the day Gregory introduced us. But that only happened because Ignus had finally struck u
p a friendship with Gregory, down on the waterfront. By then, credek, I’d been with him almost seven years. I was trying to leave him, not for the first time. I could have killed him for approaching Gregory like that.”

  “Why did he?”

  “Why do you think? So that he could cross my threshold. I’d never brought Ignus around the Orch’dury. I didn’t want the children to know about him, although Neda suspected I had someone. A lot of sailors’ wives do, you know.”

  “You can’t mean it.”

  “Go ahead and laugh, but Neda was furious; she wanted me dead.” Suthinia paused. “And then there was Pazel. He idolized Gregory, the man who tossed him in the air when he came home, who tossed gold around like a sultan; the man who captained a ship. Of course Gregory forgot about him as soon as he walked out the door, but I couldn’t tell Pazel that. Any more than I could tell him who his real father was.”

  “Chadfallow.”

  “What if he’d known?” asked Suthinia defiantly. “He’d only have begun to doubt Gregory’s love for him, and Rin knows there was reason to doubt. He’d have learned that Neda was only his half sister. And Ignus—he could have been recalled to Etherhorde at any time. He threatened to go often enough. To wash his hands of the whole ‘sordid Ormali chapter in my life,’ as he put it. To go back to something familiar and safe.”

  Suthinia drew a long breath. “I was fighting for a normal life, too. For Pazel, Neda, myself. I should have known it would come apart in my hands.”

  “Because of me,” said Isiq gruffly. Then, correcting himself: “Because of the invasion.”

  “And because the choice was never truly before me. I was still a mage in my heart.”

  “And now?”

  “Now it’s not just my heart. It’s everything. I’ll never be much of a mage, probably. But while this fight continues I can’t be anything else. I was saying goodbye to Gregory, tonight on the Dancer. It was the first time I had touched him in years. And the last.”