The Night of the Swarm

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “I too am dead,” said the voice. “Dead to this world, that is. But when the Swarm has lain it waste I shall inherit the universe. Then I shall need no more puppets. I will never stoop so low again.”

  I popped the third bolt. The door fell open—on a thoroughly empty crawl space. I winced, expecting to feel him cuff me again. But instead I heard the sorcerer lurch violently away. I whirled. He was writhing, both hands at his neck. Behind him, holding tight to a garroting wire, stood Sandor Ott.

  “Don’t do it!” I howled. “He’ll kill Marila!”

  “Unluckily for him, I could not care less,” said Ott. “Keep still, monster! I can drop your head on these boards with a twitch of the wrist.”

  A ghastly wheeze escaped Arunuskins’ throat. His eyes were locked on me. “But Ott!” I pleaded. “He’s put some vile thing on Marila’s forehead, he’s torturing her—”

  “Shut up. And stand clear, unless you want to be soaked.”

  The mage’s cheeks had hollowed out; his eyes were bulging like grapes. The wire had already drawn a little blood. A thin sound, like steam from a kettle, escaped Arunuskins’ throat.

  Ott grinned. “You have some comment on the proceedings? In fact, I think we’ve heard quite enough from you. But if you care to bargain for this stolen body, you may try. Let me spare you some effort: we know already that Macadra has taken the Nilstone.”

  Arunuskins twitched violently. The wire bit deeper into his flesh.

  “Careful!” said Ott. “Yes, we have that on good authority. Your old sparring partner learned it, dream-walking. I’m speaking of Felthrup, of course. Macadra has taken the Nilstone, and slain Pathkendle’s gang. And she is halfway here.”

  Once again Arunuskins jumped. His face contorted with pain.

  “Beyond that, have you anything of consequence to say?” demanded Ott. “If so, just raise a finger.”

  Arunuskins hesitated, beady eyes swiveling. Ott clicked his tongue. “I thought not,” he said.

  His arm jerked fiercely. The wire slashed, the flesh parted. I slipped in the blood as I shoved past Ott & the gushing corpse, blinded by my tears. Ott called after me casually, as if to say Don’t bother. I flew to the upper decks, smashed into sailors, incoherent with grief—

  Marila was standing on the lower gun deck, unharmed. “What is it?” she cried. “Why are you bloody? Mr. Fiffengurt, are you all right?”

  I fell on my knees, hugged her, weeping like a child. All lies. They were so good at it, these spies & sorcerers. And I am hopeless & always will be. I couldn’t seem to release her. I felt her heartbeat, & I felt that wee babe kick.

  Wednesday, 4 Fuinar 942

  We found Dr. Chadfallow in Uskins’ cabin, under a shroud of flies. I have no heart to write of my friend just yet. Not a word more, or I shall be unable to continue.

  Let me write instead of the scarf. Captain Rose soaked it in lamp oil, applied a torch, and held it out over the sea on the end of a boathook. A crowd gathered for the grim little ceremony: the ones who had outlived the sorcerer. No one said much. It felt good just to stand there. As the cloth burned, Thasha’s dogs whined and pricked up their ears, and Felthrup asked if we didn’t hear someone moaning, very far, very faint?

  Now in bed I am thinking of Sandor Ott. Did he have a spy watching Uskins—or watching me? It hardly matters anymore. What does matter is this: that whore’s bastard didn’t know that Arunis was lying. About Marila, that is. He simply didn’t care. He’d lost a few hands of poker against the mage before, & wasn’t going to lose this one. Come what may.

  Later, in Rose’s cabin, he all but crowed. “I enjoyed spilling that blood. There was no reason to question Arunis further. He was dead, and you can’t threaten the dead: there’s a lesson every prince ought to learn. Nor can you bribe a man who wants nothing you possess. All we could hope for was to learn what the mage didn’t know.”

  “You lied to him,” I said.

  “Of course. Felthrup does not know if Macadra has the Nilstone, or that she is chasing us. But now we know that Arunis hated both ideas. The two mages were not in league; or if they were, Arunis was only pretending, and planning to betray Macadra. In either case he is unlikely to have been guiding her toward the Chathrand.”

  “But why did he try to sink us?” growled Sergeant Haddismal, enraged. “We’ve got the Shaggat Ness on board! Didn’t he want that fiend delivered to his worshippers? Ain’t that the whole mucking idea?”

  “Fool!” snapped Lady Oggosk. “It was your idea. Which is to say Arqual’s. Which is to say Ott’s.”

  “It was the sorcerer’s wish as well, for a time,” said Rose. “But we all know better now. The Shaggat was a tool. So was the war between Arqual and the Mzithrin. Even the Nilstone, ultimately, was a tool. The end was something blacker and more immense.”

  “And maybe Arunis found another means to that end,” I said. “Maybe the Shaggat just ain’t necessary no longer. But sinking the Chathrand is.”

  “Or prudent, at the least,” said Ott. “But why prudent, I ask you? What can we do with this ship that worries him? Nothing that a thousand other ships cannot do—except cross the Ruling Sea. In the North that makes Chathrand unique. And even here such ships are exceedingly few.”

  “That is so,” said the captain. “The Behemoth that chased us was vast, but any tarboy could tell you it wasn’t seaworthy. The waves on the Nelluroq would have sunk it in a matter of hours. Macadra’s ship is rumored to be a Segral like the Chathrand, but the prince made it clear that she was just one of a handful of such vessels left afloat.”

  “And only one of them is making for the North,” added Ott. “That is what distinguished us, gentlemen. There was certainly a time when Arunis wished us to take the Nilstone to Gurishal. But now, in death, he has learned something that makes him fear what once he craved.”

  All this was in the wee hours of that horrid night. Despite our exhaustion we were all on our feet save Lady Oggosk, who was slumped at the dining-table, chewing cow-like on a lump of mül. But at Ott’s words she grew still, & her milk-blue eyes gazed up at us with wonder.

  “A tool,” she said. “By the Night Gods, Nilus, the loathsome spy may be right. We know that Arunis made tools of everyone he touched. But in another’s hands he himself may have been a tool. And for what?”

  She straightened up in her chair. “Not for the death of the world. He wanted that himself, needed it, worked like a lunatic to achieve it. No, Arunis feared nothing but the world’s salvation. And after death, he’s learned that this very mission stands a chance of bringing it about.”

  The room fell silent. On Rose’s desk, Sniraga watched us, purring. Finally the captain spoke: “Arunis, a tool of the Gods?”

  Lady Oggosk shook her head firmly. But Sandor Ott began a slow, loud clap. At first I thought him jesting, but then I looked at his face. He had never looked so blissful, so moved. He squeezed the witch’s hands (Oggosk recoiled with a scowl), & even gazed fondly at the rest of us. His eyes, I swear to Rin, were moist.

  “So,” he said, “the truth appears at last. Despite ourselves, we are on the same side.”

  We waited. No one had any idea what he meant.

  “Your duchess is most wise,” he continued. “And let no one doubt it further: we shall be this world’s deliverance. The return of the Shaggat will be the Mzithrin’s death-knell, and the dawn of the Arquali age. In my darkest hours I have asked myself: why? Why did we ever cross that horrid sea? Why so vast a journey, into such unknowns? Now I understand: it was that we might learn of Arqual’s greater task.”

  “Greater?” rumbled the captain.

  The spymaster nodded, enraptured. “The Black Rags will fall. The Crownless Lands we will harvest like grapes on the vine. And when the banner of His Supremacy waves over all lands north of the Nelluroq, then it will be time to plan a reckoning with the South. Don’t you see? Bali Adro is imploding, ruining itself. Their sun is setting; ours has just begun to rise. Arqual is the best hope for this
poor, bludgeoned world. You know that. Everyone does, in his heart. And now at last we see the guiding hand. This bay will not hold us. Nothing can hold us, nothing ever stops this boat for long. Storms, thirst, whirlpools, crawly infestations, magical armies, mutant rats. We pass through them, straight and certain as the mind of Rin. And behold, this final proof: a devil risen from the Pits to try and thwart us. But he could not. The Emperor’s cause has the mandate of heaven.”

  “I didn’t say that!” shrieked Oggosk. But the spymaster was already making for the door.

  Thursday, 5 Fuinar 942

  Fegin is our first mate, now; old Coote has replaced him as bosun. Jervik Lank, Chadfallow’s last assistant, is caring for twenty-four men in the sickbay, with help (of a sort) from Dr. Rain, who is indefatigable, but cannot be left alone with the patients. I am told he recently brought them soup in a bedpan.

  This morning Lank showed me a note he discovered in Chadfallow’s desk. It is written in the late doctor’s hand:

  Let it be known that it is my wish to be buried in the heart of the Ruling Sea, not in waters claimed by any power in Alifros, for it was only when I cast off belief in nations that I perceived something of my soul.

  However, if circumstances allow, I should like my son, Pazel Pathkendle, to light a candle for me in the Physicians’ Temple at 17 Reka Street, Etherhorde. This is an amendment to my Last Testament of 5 Vaqrin 941, which in all other particulars remains in force.

  Five Vaqrin! It appears that just days before the Chathrand sailed from Etherhorde, old Chadfallow made a will. I have asked Lank to search for that Testament, even if he had to dig through every one of Chadfallow’s 22 crates of documents & scrolls. Lank was more than willing when he understood that by finding it he might be doing Pazel a good turn.

  Felthrup, too, has taken an interest in Chadfallow’s papers, or at least one set of them: his log of the times & places where the Green Door appeared. Fascination with the door has passed like a germ from the doctor’s mind to the rat’s. Marila says that he read the logbook straight through six times, and then began to beg her to race about the decks with him to see if Chadfallow really had found a pattern. I gather they believe he has.

  As for the doctor himself, we have embalmed him after the mariner’s fashion until we somehow escape this bay.17 And how long do we have for that little job? Today at five bells the swallows returned (along with Lord Talag & his frowning escorts) & carried off more ixchel, and at seven bells they did the same. At least a hundred have fled the Chathrand already. Most did not spare her a backward glance, but a few did, their copper eyes softening with affection. The worst of boats still tries to save us from the sea.

  At eight bells, Felthrup made an odd request—an audience with poor Captain Magritte, the whaler we picked up in the Nelu Rekere, & his Quezan spearmen. Of course Magritte is blind—was blinded, rather, during the carnage at Masalym. An ixchel dropped on his head from above, and that was that. Two knives, tok-tok. Chadfallow told us he was lucky to have lived through it. I often wonder if Magritte concurs.

  “What d’ye want to go bothering him about?” I asked Felthrup.

  “The world’s salvation!” he squeaked. I had to bite my lips to keep from shouting Not you as well! I tried to put him off until evening, but to my surprise he grew quite fierce with me.

  “What favors have I ever asked of you, you white-whiskery man? Or have I not earned even one? You think me talkative, excitable, custodian of a vacillating mind. You think my worries are dander in the wind.”

  “Now, Ratty—”

  “Our doom is near, Mr. Fiffengurt! The Swarm of Night is growing, growing. He did not lie about that!”

  “Who didn’t?”

  “Who! Who! That is my question exactly! His name is not Tulor, he lies! But if I guess his true name I shall have him!”

  A man can face but so much jibberish. I roused Magritte & led him & Ratty to the compartment on the main deck where the Quezans sleep. For whalers & reformed cannibals they are an amazingly pacific bunch. All four stand over six feet & have long horizontal scars on their chests for every harpoon kill. But they fear sorcery more than death itself, & have never truly recovered from the battle with the monster rats. At the sight of Felthrup (who rushed at them, babbling) they exploded to their feet & fled by the opposite door. We had to hobble after them, across the deck & down the No. 4 to the berth deck. It took a great deal of soothing before they’d consent to listen to a talking rodent.

  I was most irritated with Felthrup; I dare say Chadfallow’s murder oppressed us both more than we knew. Luckily he wanted just one thing from the whalers. It was the meaning of a word, Kazizarag, which I gather he found in his blessed Polylex. He’d somehow deduced that it had its roots in the native Quezan tongue, & that Magritte was the only ones aboard who might effect a translation.

  In fact he was right on all counts. Kazizarag means “greed” or “gluttony.” But the word sparked nervous laughter among the Quezans, & after some hesitation they told Magritte that it was also a word attached to many a devil or villainous God in their stories: Uchudidu Kazizarag is “the Greedy Pig-Devil” who steals from the poor man’s hut while he’s out fishing the reefs.

  “Of course he is!” shrilled Felthrup, hopping with delight. Then he turned & looked up at me. “I must have gold, Mr. Fiffengurt! A great deal, and quickly!”

  I took him from the chamber & lowered my voice. “Come now, Ratty; why do you say such silly things?”

  “Oh, am I silly now?” he shot back. “You have done no research. You have enjoyed fresh air and pleasant company while I sat alone on Thasha’s bed, turning pages with my teeth. And all the while he is screaming, screaming behind those iron bars.”

  “Iron bars? Are you talkin’ about someone in the brig?”

  Felthrup shook his head. “Tell me quickly: do you know where the hoard is? The great hoard from the Emperor’s coffers?”

  I was startled. “It ain’t in one place. They broke it up into smaller caches. I’ve a pretty good guess where one of ’em is, though.”

  “You must raid it. You must bring me gleaming treasure.”

  “But why?”

  “Why!” shouted Felthrup. “Why, why, why, why! Of all puerile words in the Arquali tongue! Of all vacant, gnawed-off, insipid animal-mews—”

  “Never mind yer commentaries!” I barked.

  “So you refuse.”

  “No, I don’t mucking refuse! I’d walk barefoot in a bed of razor clams for you, if you care to know. But Rin’s gizzard, just tell me what it’s about!”

  “I would rather face him alone. He is vile and tricky.”

  “Black Pits of Damnation, Felthrup! Are you sayin’ Arunis has his claws in another man?”

  “Not Arunis. The Glutton. The Glutton is far more dangerous now.”

  “You can’t mean the Shaggat Ness?”

  “Of course not!” He ran six times around my feet. Then he stopped, rubbed his face with terrible anxiety, & told me of the demon in the cage.

  Friday, 6 Fuinar 942

  It was a suspicious box. No latches, no screws, and its lid glued down fast & forever. It was mounted on the underside of the floor planks of the portside afterhold, about ten feet above the noxious, sloshing bilge well.18 You could easily miss it, even if you had cause to creep down inside that watery space, as few men did. I had noticed the box during the removal of the rat carcasses in Masalym. But I’d never breathed a word, for it could only be one of the treasure chests brought aboard in secret back in Arqual, and would only bring evil and infighting down upon us if its existence became known to the crew.

  I’d put it quite out of my mind until my talk with Ratty yesterday. And when I arrived and stuck my head through the little bilge-hatch, I cursed.

  “What’s the matter?” whispered Marila. I’d brought her with me to hold the hurricane lamp, which we’d only just dared to light. It had taken us the better part of an hour to find this spot, feeling our way down lightless pas
sages. I’d made Felthrup stay behind in the stateroom: if the ixchel found him here there’d be no protection we could give.

  But it was all in vain: someone had beaten us to the gold. I reached in and felt the hatcheted remains of the box, still dangling from the boards. I cursed again: Felthrup would be apoplectic. Then Marila lowered her face to the hatch and she cursed.

  “Well, ain’t that the devil’s pancake,” I said. “And that gold ain’t no use to anybody while we’re on this ship. Including Felthrup’s own greedy devil, if it exists.”

  “Demon,” she said, “and Felthrup’s only going by—”

  She broke off, squinting at the darkness. Then she lowered the lamp into the bilge well on its chain. “Look down there,” she said, “at the very bottom. Aren’t those coins?”

  Sure as Rin makes rain, there were gold cockles winking up at us, under twenty feet of frigid, ship-filthy water. The raiders had been sloppy. They’d spilled a part of their takings into the bilge.

  “How much does Felthrup need?” Marila asked.

  I shrugged. “As much as we can lay our hands on. But it doesn’t matter, does it? We ain’t collecting those.”

  “Of course we are. Go on, empty the pouch.”

  “See here,” I said firmly, “if you think I’m about to go diving into that slime just because Ratty’s been dream-debating some potbellied spook—”

  “I don’t think anything of the kind.”

  Before I quite knew what was happening, Marila had stripped down to her dainties and was getting set to leap into the bilge. She was a pearl-diver, as I’d nearly forgotten. I told her no, no—get away from there—we’ll find a tarboy, we’ll scoop ’em up somehow—sit down, you’re too fat, you’re a motherin-the-making—

  She jumped. I was so frightened I nearly dropped the lamp chain. Marila struck the bilious water, gasped once, then turned head-down and kicked for the bottom. I must record here that she was lovely, graceful as a murth-girl, for all that her belly was round as a harvest moon. After a few strokes she’d churned up so much flotsam that I could barely see her. But when she surfaced (two long minutes later) there was gold in her purse.