The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4)

by Robert V. S. Redick

  Still Rose’s gaze was implacable. ‘Do I look like them? Do I look as though I have time to waste?’

  The maukslar blinked, conceding the point.

  ‘I will free you, Avarice,’ said Rose. ‘The world is rife with demons, chained and unchained. The mischief you add will not be decisive.’

  He waited. The maukslar gazed at him with the focus of a tiger watching its prey.

  ‘Give me the bauble.’

  ‘I will not accept a poor imitation,’ said Rose. ‘Do not forget that I have seen the Nilstone close at hand.’

  ‘My arts will not disappoint you. Give it here.’

  Rose held the eye closer, but not close enough. He asked several further, pointed questions, and the maukslar, hungry in an entirely new way, spat out the answers like seeds. Then he made the demon recite his oath, and his name, just as Felthrup had done. Kurlstaff was still here, death’s witness: the bond would presumably hold. Rose tossed the glass eye through the bars—

  The maukslar leaped like a dog, caught the glass eye in its teeth, and swallowed it.

  ‘You stinking fiend!’ cried Rose.

  The maukslar threw its head back and moaned. Gnarled hands clawed at its stomach. Its body twisted like toffee; its head spun around upon its neck. Then the neck unwound with a snap, the belly heaved, and the monster vomited something onto the floor of the cell.

  Rose hissed. Even Kurlstaff shielded his ghostly eyes. It was the Nilstone. Perfect in its blackness, horrible in the waves of power it flung out in all directions. It lay there, silently throbbing, an exact duplicate of that shard of death on which the fate of Alifros so strangely hung.

  The maukslar nudged it with a taloned foot. ‘It will not fool her, or any mage, if they summon the courage to touch it. Nor will it do anyone grievous harm. You may lift it and take it away.’

  ‘But from a distance?’

  ‘It would fool its very maker. And when Macadra draws near – within a few miles, say – it will call to her.’

  ‘A few miles! Is that all?’

  The demon shrugged. ‘You did not ask me to improve on the Nilstone.’

  Rose ran his fingers through his beard. ‘No, I did not. And it is better this way. For perhaps she knows the true stone well.’

  ‘She saw it wielded by Erithusmé,’ said the maukslar, ‘and since that day it has haunted her dreams.’ Then the creature gripped the bars of the cell, and its voice grew soft and deadly.

  ‘Rose … .’

  The captain felt an unfamiliar kick inside his ribcage. His own heart. His tongue, too: all wrong, the way it cowered against the roof of his mouth. He looked for Kurlstaff. The ghost was fleeing down the passage with a swish of tattered skirt. The maukslar’s teeth were showing. Rose pulled open the door.

  Not everyone heard it, and most who did thought that they dreamed. A strange dream, a dream that was pure sound. A whoop, a wild cry that made eyes snap open all over the ship. Was it man, dog, steam whistle? No one could be sure, for in the very act of opening their eyes the sound had gone. No one was moved to investigate. A few men whispered prayers, curled in their hammocks like babes in the womb.

  In the secret brig, Rose climbed painfully to his feet. The maukslar was gone. It had become a whirlwind, knocked him flat on his back. The cell stood open. The false Nilstone lay in the centre of the floor.

  Bastard. You might have kicked the mucking thing out of the cell.

  Captain Kurlstaff had warned him about the cell doors, and Rose believed every word: the man had died here, after all. Rose walked to the cluttered passage, and combed through the detritus on hands and knees until he found a battered pike. He carried the weapon back into the brig, carefully avoiding the door, and teased the false Nilstone out through the bars, never letting so much as a finger cross the threshold.

  So black! he thought. You told the truth, creature: I am not disappointed. The leopard’s eye had become a well into which one could pour all the light in the world. It hurt to look at it: he struggled to focus on a thing that was all absence, a thing that was not there.

  And this is just an imitation.

  He picked it up. No, it did not kill at a touch. But it dizzied him, throbbing with enchantment, and it weighed a great deal. Once in his pocket, however, both weight and dizziness abated. He kicked the empty sea chest towards the cell, then finished the job with the pike, nudging it inside as far as he dared.

  Outside the Green Door, he replaced the chains and padlocks. All was quiet: at least the maukslar had not roused the ship. He crossed the deck in darkness. Who needed a lamp? The Chathrand’s lines were etched for ever on his soul.

  On the topdeck, a warm rain was starting, and a wind that gusted and died. He asked the duty officer for the status book, and scanned the entries as he had done four times a day for most of his life. When he was done he turned and saw that Fiffengurt had crept up behind him.

  ‘You again,’ he snapped. ‘What is it? Have you something to report?’

  ‘No, Captain,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘I … couldn’t sleep, sir. Just taking some air.’

  Rose dismissed the duty officer, then turned and glared at Fiffengurt. In a low growl, he said, ‘Your previous assignment: abandon it. That matter is closed.’

  ‘Closed?’

  ‘Thasha Isiq is alive. She is very near to the Nilstone, and they are both moving quickly.’

  ‘Captain! Captain!’

  ‘Do not shout, Fiffengurt. The creature knew no more than that.’

  ‘You went to see that thing? Alone?’

  ‘Listen to me,’ said Rose. ‘This is not a warship – not a proper warship – and the crew will never be as sharp as it was. They are weak in body and in spirit, and some of the best men with a cannon are dead.’

  Fiffengurt began to mouth some reply, but Rose cut him off. ‘A man is lost in the forest.’

  ‘Who, sir?’

  ‘It’s a fable, you dullard. He is lost, and a tiger has his scent. He may be days, even weeks from the forest’s edge. He has only a little knife; the tiger has claws and strength and cunning. It is circling him. It knows the forest better and can see in the dark. How does he escape the tiger?’

  ‘I know!’ said a voice from inside Fiffengurt’s coat.

  It was the rodent. Fiffengurt blushed, and squeezed the animal a little against his side. He had evidently told it to keep quiet.

  ‘I’d say you take to a stream, sir. Hide your scent, and wait for the beasty to move off on his own.’

  Rose shook his head. ‘You’re on the right track. But you cannot stay submerged for long in a chilly stream.’

  ‘Carve a spear with that knife, then.’

  ‘And trust your life to one jab with a crooked stick? This is a master killer, Fiffengurt. It will come at you out of the dark like a living cannonball. It will tear you to shreds.’

  Fiffengurt closed his mouth and waited. Rose gave a snort of dismay. ‘It is a wonder that you’re still among the living,’ he said. ‘Well, that is your new assignment: save the man from the tiger. Now go to sleep. There is fighting ahead.’

  With that Rose made for his cabin. Fiffengurt watched him go, bewildered as ever. Felthrup’s head emerged from the fold of his coat.

  ‘He should have asked me,’ said Felthrup. ‘I’d have told him: climb a tree.’

  Rose slipped into his cabin, closed the door, leaned on it heavily – a gesture of fatigue he had not allowed himself in forty years. He was ready for that brandy now. Ready for this hellish night to end.

  He had left the window open. The rain was gusting in from starboard. Rose stripped off his own coat and hung it by the door. The papers waited on his desk; the untouched dinner setting waited on the table. He closed the windows. From this one, here, he’d thrown a man to his death. A company tattle-tale, not one of his crew. Still, just another lost simpleton, another pawn. It was no good being the pawn of any man, king or commoner, living or dead.

  He whirled.

  The papers,
yes: they were still there. But the glass of brandy was not.

  Across the large room, in the corner reserved for informal visits, Sandor Ott was tipped back in a chair with his feet upon a small round table. His left hand cupped Rose’s drink. His long white knife lay on the table, unsheathed.

  ‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘that you had better give an account of yourself.’

  Rose moved to the dining table, breath short, mind churning. Do not hurry. Ott was always ready for violence, never for superior calm. This was how you fought him: by making sure he needed you, and by drowning him in calm. Rose struck a match and held it to the fengas lamp, but the fuel was nearly gone, and the weak flame barely lit the room. He found the brandy and poured a half shot. His favourite, this one. But tonight it was foul, bile and bathwater. What had become of his will to drink?

  When he faced Ott again the spy had risen, and was moving towards the door. Rose was shamed by his own relief, the cold sweat he was drenched in, the smack of his heart. Then he glanced at the little table and heard himself say, ‘You’ve forgotten your knife.’

  ‘Have I?’ said Ott. ‘Well, then, I suppose I’d better not leave, just yet.’

  He hesitated, fiddling with the doorknob it appeared. Then he turned and put his hands in his coat pockets and walked to Rose. For a moment, despite his scars, he looked like an old homebody, some frail Arquali blue-blood about to whistle up a dog. Rose waited for the inevitable grin to break out across his face. But Ott was not grinning. He was waiting for Rose to speak.

  ‘Did you pick the lock?’

  ‘No need. You’d left the windows open. An easy climb from the wardroom below. Why did you open them, in the rain?’

  ‘It wasn’t raining when I left.’

  ‘Then you’ve been a long time wandering your ship.’

  ‘That is my prerogative. Now get out.’

  ‘But Rose, I have suggested something better. Something decidedly better for you. If only you will heed me.’

  Ott was staring up at him, and standing too close. Rose gazed at the white knife still lying on the table. He had his own, of course. Right there on his belt, just inches from his hand.

  ‘I will receive you on the morrow,’ he said. ‘Come back then if you would speak.’

  ‘The morrow is here, Captain Rose.’

  As if to prove his point, the duty officer gave the bell seven strokes. A dark, wet dawn was breaking somewhere. Rose scowled and brushed past the spymaster, forcing himself to make contact with the man. Ott let himself be moved. Rose lumbered towards his bedchamber.

  ‘Did the crawlies threaten you, or pay a bribe?’

  Rose missed a step, and glanced back sharply. There, he’d botched it. He might as well have written a confession in scarlet ink.

  ‘You let them reboard,’ said Ott. ‘You aided them. The creatures who poisoned our water supply, who took us both hostage. Who have imprisoned us all in this bay.’

  ‘The crawlies are no longer our problem, Ott.’

  ‘Indeed. They do not control Stath Bálfyr?’

  ‘Not our crawlies, no.’

  A knock at the door. Rose started, but Sandor Ott called without turning: ‘Enter.’

  The steward crept in, with Rose’s morning papers and tea service. Ott turned and walked past the man and nudged the door shut with his toe. Then he slid the dead bolt. The steward glanced up, startled. Ott shrugged and smiled, as though he were improvising a game. The steward placed the tray on the dining table.

  ‘Shall I fetch another cup, Captain Rose?’

  Rose made no answer. Ott walked back to the table and poured himself tea in Rose’s cup and sipped it. He drained the cup and set it back on the saucer. Then he grabbed the steward by the hair. In a blur of movement he hauled the man down, hooked his left arm around the steward’s neck, moved his right hand to the man’s chin, and pushed once, ferociously. The steward’s head turned backwards, much too far. His gaze less shocked than saddened. The crack was audible. The man fell dead.

  ‘What were we saying?’ asked Ott. ‘Something about “our crawlies”, I believe?’

  Rose found himself backed against the wall. Sandor Ott took a napkin and dried his lips. Less than six feet separated the men.

  ‘You were seen on the mercy deck. Is that where you released them?’

  ‘The mercy deck,’ said Rose. ‘Yes, it was there, forward of the tonnage shaft.’

  ‘And they fled through this strange Green Door? The door that you have, oddly enough, both padlocked and wedged slightly open?’

  Rose nodded.‘Perhaps they did at that.’

  ‘Or perhaps not. Perhaps they are here under your mattress, or under the floorboards, or stuffed into speaking-tubes. How I wish there was trust between us, Captain. Our relations have been all wrong.’

  What if he shouted? Just screamed for aid like a child? No, no: some things were forbidden him, forbidden any son of Theimat Rose.

  He stepped away from the wall.

  ‘Take your knife, and your insinuations, and your killing glee from my sight,’ he growled. ‘Prepare a defence for this murder. At nine bells I will send the Turachs to place you in chains.’

  Ott finally allowed himself a smile. He walked to Rose’s desk, tapped the papers there significantly.

  ‘Mr Elkstem tells me you borrowed our charts. Our crucial charts. That you brought them to your chambers. But they are not on your desk, or in your cabinets there. Would you care to save me the trouble of ripping the place apart?’

  Rose felt his heart quicken. His mind had never worked faster in all his years. His eyes flicked right and back again.

  Ott raised an eyebrow. ‘The washroom, Captain? What a curious hiding place. I do hope you’ve kept them dry.’

  He stepped quickly to the door, passing very close to Rose again. Mocking him, daring him even to gesture at drawing that knife.

  Ott pushed open the washroom door. He frowned: there were no charts in sight. He leaned in further to look behind the door.

  A red whirlwind struck him full in the face. Sniraga had pounced from a shelf. Ott reeled backwards, tearing at the cat, and in that instant Rose drew his knife and stabbed.

  The blade passed through Ott’s upper arm. Roaring, the cat still affixed to his face, Ott spun on his heel and kicked Rose squarely in the groin. The pain like an explosion. Like pressing one’s ear to the cannon as it fires. Rose staggered, swinging the knife before him, meeting only air.

  Fall and die, fall and die. Rose slashed again, missed again. Ott tore the cat away and flung it with both hands at the wall. His face a ruin, his eyes blind with blood.

  Blind. Rose charged the smaller man. He struck Ott like a bull, lifted him off the ground and crushed him against the wall. The spymaster’s head struck the solid wood. His hands clawed; he was groaning, red bubbles on his lips. Rose grappled tighter, slamming Ott again.

  Ott’s teeth sank into his neck, tearing through flesh and muscle. Rose bellowed and lurched enormously. Then he slipped in the blood, and both men went down. Another crack. Ott’s head striking the table.

  They were on the floor, entwined like lovers, bleeding to death. Ott’s torn mouth twitched, and he clawed feebly at Rose. The captain struck with his fists: two punishing blows, and Ott was still. Beyond the cabin men were shouting. He rolled away from Ott and groped for the desk. Haddismal and his men were out there, pounding. Somehow Rose gained his feet.

  Perhaps Ott was dead. Never mind: he would hang if he lived. Rose dragged himself to the door and freed the deadbolt, but there was still something amiss. The doorknob would not turn. And then a new agony reached him, shouting to be heard above the rest. It came from his palm. He released the knob and looked at it. The flesh looked oddly burned.

  Poison.

  With his next breath it struck him. Like standing naked in a blast of sleet. He was paralysed, his limbs still as boards. The speed of it. Even his eyes were affected. Even the filling of his lungs.

  The pounding
went on. Somewhere behind him, he heard Ott begin to move.

  Fiffengurt was out there too. ‘Get the rigging axe!’ he was screaming. ‘Those are siege-doors! You won’t just kick ’em in!’

  Ott was crawling nearer. Then climbing to his feet. When he moved into Rose’s fixed angle of view he looked like a walking corpse. In one hand he held the shattered teacup by the handle, extending his little finger, ladylike. There it was, the grin. He turned the cup in his quivering hand, then drew the sharp edge once, swiftly, over the captain’s jugular. Blood burst out in a torrent, but Rose himself stayed rigid as he died. After a moment, professionally curious, Ott nudged him slightly, and the captain fell like a tree.

  Now Sandor Ott had very little time. He seized the linen tablecloth and tore it into strips. The first he tied, mercilessly tight, above the wound on his arm. The second he doused with gin from Rose’s cabinet. Strong, antiseptic gin. He wiped his face with it, hissing with pain. He splashed more gin on his wound.

  Crack. They were axing the doors. Ott cursed, and hurried back to Rose. He found the padlock key quickly enough, but what was that round thing in his vest pocket? He drew it out, and gasped at the weight in his hand. Then he saw what he held – and for the first time since childhood, experienced a moment of undeniable fear.

  The Nilstone.

  The Nilstone?

  The black thing lay there in his hand, a pulsing orb, a tiny black sun. How was this possible? What had Arunis made off with, if not the Stone? Had the mage spirited it back aboard, somehow, through his control of Uskins? And why wasn’t it killing him?

  Crack!

  No time. Leave it or take it. Decide.

  Ott took it. Then he turned and staggered to the door.

  ‘Leave off with that axe!’ He wiped the knob with great care, then slid the bolt. Men poured into the room, Turachs, common sailors, Fiffengurt the traitor, Haddismal the loyal fool. All screaming like children. As if blood were something beyond their experience. As if murder were the exception, not the rule.