‘Undress me,’ said Thasha.
‘What?’
It was not the reaction she’d hoped for. Thasha waited; Pazel didn’t move. Something would happen if he surrendered; the task would grow harder, success further away. But in another moment he would not care about that. He let their fingers touch. He reached for the top button of her blouse. She was breathing like someone who had just run miles.
Voices in the outer stateroom: Hercól, Ramachni, Fiffengurt. Pazel began to kiss her wildly, nothing could prevent this, nothing, as long as he was left alive—
She stepped back, startled. ‘Gods,’ she said, ‘that silver thing, that rod. I know what it is.’
What was she talking about? Why was she talking at all? He pulled her close again, but her hand was already on the doorknob. ‘Let go,’ she whispered, and slipped out of the chamber.
He stood there, gasping. He was ashamed of his weakness. The broken bed leaned towards him, plush and ruined, a sensuous ramp ending at a wall.
Hercól had brought the Nilstone and the wine of Agaroth. Mr Fiffengurt for his part had a bottle of Westfirth brandy. ‘Compliments of Mr Teggatz, the devious lout. Where he hides his brandy is anyone’s guess. He also begs to be told what delicacies you long for – if it’s in the larder he’ll cook it up for the returning heroes. But for now, what shall we drink to?’
‘Too many choices,’ said Pazel. ‘Absent friends? Our own good luck? Thasha’s deed with the Nilstone?’
‘The Chathrand,’ put in Thasha.
‘Or the Promise, or Prince Olik.’
‘Or the selk.’
‘In Tholjassa, all toasts are silent,’ said Hercól. ‘Some things are better thought than said.’
The choice pleased everyone. They served the brandy in dented silver cups (none of the glassware survived) and drank it off without a word. Then Thasha asked Marila for the little rod from the stanchion. ‘Come with me, all of you – and bring the Nilstone, Hercól.’
They filed into her cabin, which Marila had not changed in the slightest. Thasha rounded the bed and reached up to press a spot in the wall just above eye height. Click went a hidden latch, and a door unseen a moment earlier sprang open. Within was a small cabinet, empty save for a book, bound in dark leather and exceptionally thick.
Thasha smiled. ‘Hello, old friend.’
She handed it to Marila: the Polylex, of course. But Thasha wasn’t interested in the forbidden lore-book. She was looking at an iron plate set in the wall at the back of the cabinet. It was a rusty, formidable slab of metal, with a thick handle and a small round hole.
‘Look close, you can see an outline of a drawer,’ said Thasha. And so there was: a drawer some five inches tall and twice as wide, almost hidden by the rust. Thasha placed the notched end of the silver rod into the hole: a perfect fit. She turned it experimentally. ‘Did you hear that?’ she said. ‘Something clicked.’
She gripped the handle and tugged, to no avail. She pressed the rod deeper into the hole and turned it again, pulling at the handle as she did so. She removed the rod and inserted it backwards. The drawer would not move.
‘Gods damn it!’ she said. ‘I was so blary certain.’
Hercól set the steel box with the Nilstone carefully on Thasha’s desk (which groaned a little at the weight). ‘Make room, Thasha, there’s a lass.’ He stood square before the cabinet and seized the handle of the drawer in both hands. He drew a deep breath. Then he threw himself backwards with all his strength. There was a shriek of metal on metal, and the drawer slid open with a decisive snap.
‘Locks were not your problem, Thasha – merely rust. Your key worked perfectly well.’
What had slid open was in fact no drawer at all, but a thick iron slab. It extended more than a foot into the room, and had but one feature: a cup-like hollow at the centre, about the size of a plum.
‘I knew it!’ cried Felthrup suddenly. ‘This is Erithusmé’s safe!’
Marila stared at him. ‘What safe?’
‘I told you, I told you! The safe they spoke of in the Orfuin Club!’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Felthrup,’ said Ramachni. ‘My mistress had various safes for the Nilstone in her dwellings ashore, though I never knew one had been installed on the Chathrand. They mask the power of the Stone, and make it harder – though not impossible – for enemies to detect. You won’t need that box any longer, Hercól. I daresay no one will be able to steal the Nilstone from this spot.’
Hercól donned the selk gauntlets while Pazel unlocked Big Skip’s box. With great care, Hercól tipped the Nilstone into his hand. ‘Glaya, it’s heavy!’ he wheezed. But the Stone fit snugly in the hollow of the slab.
Thasha gazed at the black orb, and it seemed to Pazel that she could not look away. Then Hercól pushed the drawer firmly shut, and Thasha blinked, as though starting from a dream.
They placed the wine of Agaroth in the outer cabinet, wrapped in scarves and braced by the Polylex. Thasha closed the outer door, and once again Pazel could see nothing but the wooden wall.
‘Ramachni,’ said Thasha, ‘there’s still wine in that bottle: two or three sips, anyway. I can use it. I can control the Nilstone.’
‘Let us speak of that another time,’ said Ramachni.
‘I know what you’re afraid of,’ said Thasha. ‘You think I’ll hold the Stone too long, and let myself get killed. But I wouldn’t risk that, I promise. I’ll be safe.’
‘Only my mistress could use the Nilstone safely,’ said Ramachni. ‘Keep striving to bring her back, and forget the wine for now. If we must turn to it, we will. But I would be happier if that bottle never again touched your lips.’
A faint hoot sounded from above: the bosun’s wooden whistle. ‘Ah, that’s our sign,’ said Mr Fiffengurt, rather sadly. ‘Come quickly, all of you. The Promise is ready to depart.’
Pazel felt a sudden ache: he had not prepared himself for goodbyes. But if Kirishgán only makes it back to that ship! Then at last Pazel could stop fearing for him every time they spoke, every time the selk drew near.
Up they hurried to the topdeck. By the Red Storm’s light they saw the Promise standing near, anchors up, sails loosed but not yet set. Her skiff was crossing the space between the vessels to collect any stragglers.
Hundreds of men had turned out on the Chathrand, but it was not hard to spot the few remaining selk and dlömu among them. Here were Kirishgán and Nólcindar, along with Bolutu, Prince Olik and a handful of the Masalym volunteers. The selk were talking with Neda and Corporal Mandric, while Myett and Ensyl looked down from the shrouds just a few feet above their heads. As the group from the stateroom drew near, Prince Olik turned to face them, and a hush fell over the crowd.
‘Well, here we stand,’ said the prince. ‘The hunters of Arunis, together a final time. Do you remember the day I came aboard hidden in a water-cask, and Captain Rose bled me with his knife? I thought my end had come, but now I shall count that day as blessed. How else could I have met you?’
‘You might have been better off if you hadn’t, Your Highness,’ said Pazel.
‘No, lad,’ said the prince. ‘I should have been poorer, sadder, and most certainly lost. You saved me from that doom. You reminded me that however desperate my struggle for the soul of Bali Adro, it is but one battle in the larger war for Alifros. You let me feel the curve and compass of the world, beyond my darkening Empire. Alas, the wider world too is darkening swiftly. But look what has come from the darkness.’ He spread his hands. ‘You, friends, have been my candles and my hope. Allies undreamed of, allies I know I shall never see again.’
‘A few of us may yet return to your country, Olik Ipandracon,’ said Ramachni, ‘if the darkness passes, and the world is renewed.’
‘We will still fight the darkness together, even though we part,’ said Kirishgán.
‘Yes, brother, we will,’ said Nólcindar. ‘For just as I led Macadra astray in the mountains, so will we seek her now, and fool her again. When she spies us,
we will seem to panic, and run downwind. She will never catch us, but she may well give chase.’
‘And now goodbye, and safe running,’ said the prince. ‘Whether we meet in this life or the next, you shall dwell for ever in my heart.’
They crowded near him, with words of praise, and not a few tears. Then the prince descended the folding ladder and was gone from sight. He was followed by most of the volunteers from Masalym, while the humans cheered them, and sang, and flint-hard old sailors stammered and wept. Some actually held the dlömu back by force, shaking their hands and plying them with brandy, trading hats, trading rings and trinkets. Secrets were told and pardons asked. Unsolicited confessions were heaped on the bewildered dlömu, and still the humans talked. They had never understood the dlömu, or quite ceased to fear them20; but the two races had fought and died together, and now it was finished, done.
Nólcindar took her leave next, and the survivors of the inland expedition struggled to find words for their gratitude. When his turn came before her, Pazel wished he could speak of Uláramyth, of the love that had filled him there and made him feel a foot taller and a century older and a match for any horrors from the Pits. He said none of it: the protective spell had sealed his tongue. Anguished, he gazed at this great woman of the selk, and something in Nólcindar’s smile told him that she knew.
As she descended the ladder, Pazel turned to Bolutu. ‘You’ve done so much for us,’ he said. ‘You saved my life on the bowsprit, that day Arunis left me to fall into the sea. More than that, you saved us from despair, by telling us the story of Bali Adro.’
Bolutu laughed. ‘Even though it proved out of date.’
‘Yes,’ said Thasha, ‘even though.’
Beside her, Neeps’ mouth was frozen in a belligerent expression. It took Pazel a moment to realise he was fighting back tears. ‘Pitfire, Mr Bolutu,’ said Neeps, ‘you’ve been fighting these bastards longer than any of us, except Ramachni. And you – you lost everyone, didn’t you?’
‘I lost my world, lad – my entire world.’ Bolutu closed his eyes a moment, then smiled and opened them. ‘I gained a new one, though. In time. It is only during this year away that I have come to understand how much it means to me. Human company, human food, the foul-smelling Etherhorde streets, Arquali music, the misfits of Empire who embraced me as one of their own. That world is mine, now, and I mean to keep it. That is why I shall remain on the Chathrand.’
His friends shouted with joy and surprise. ‘But you’ll be the only blary dlömu in Arqual!’ said Pazel. ‘They’ll think you’re a monster. Or will you try to become human again?’
‘Never that!’ said Bolutu. ‘No, I shall depend on you to attest to my non-monstrous character. Daily, if necessary.’
‘They’ll hound you,’ said Neeps. ‘Even the nice ones.’
Bolutu nodded. ‘Let us hope the world survives to inflict such minor miseries.’
Fegin blew two notes on his whistle. ‘Time, gentlemen!’ said Fiffengurt. ‘To the ship you mean to sail on, double quick.’
There was a great rush to the starboard rail. The last of the Masalym volunteers descended, to cries of Rin keep you! and Bakru waft you gently home! Then the Arquali sailors broke down in messy grief, cursing and hanging on one another and bawling like calves: ‘We won’t forget ’em! Never! Who says we’ll forget, damn the bastard? We love them old mucking fish-eyes!’ It was not long before a Plapp swung at a Burnscover, or perhaps vice versa, and soon a dozen men were throwing fists. Captain Fiffengurt raged, looking for the first time like his predecessor. Fegin blew his whistle ineffectually; the dogs howled, and Mr Bolutu sat down atop a five-gallon bucket and laughed. But Pazel stood still, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the night breeze. Kirishgán had not departed. He stood by the folding ladder, indifferent to the mayhem, watching the Promise as her ghostly sails bore her away.
Damn you, Kirishgán! Are you trying to get yourself killed?
Cooler heads dragged the fighters apart, and a kind of order returned to the topdeck. The Promise shrank away towards the southern horizon. Then Kirishgán turned his sapphire eyes on Pazel. Neither one of them had moved.
‘Why?’ said Pazel.
Kirishgán folded his hands upon the rail. ‘My path had become a mystery to me,’ he said. ‘I was without purpose, and that is a fearful thing for any creature, young or old. The mists only began to clear when you arrived in Vasparhaven. The stories you told me of the North, that night over tea – they echo yet in my mind. Arqual, the Mzithrin, the Crownless Lands: they have forgotten the selk altogether. A great part of Alifros no longer knows that we exist. I must change that. I must look for my brethren, and find a way for them to speak once more to the peoples of the North. Or if I cannot find them – if they are all dead or departed – I must do what I can alone. If nothing else, I can remind your people that the story of Alifros is longer than the story of humankind.’
‘Just by showing your face.’
‘By doing as you have done,’ said Kirishgán. ‘By telling stories.’
‘You’re cracked, you and Bolutu both,’ said Pazel. ‘Have you forgotten what we’re like? They’ll panic, or throw stones. They’ll lie to you, and take advantage of your honour. They won’t listen to your stories.’
‘They?’
‘We. Human beings. Oh credek, Kirishgán, I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m part of the we any more.’
Now the selk smiled. ‘There is your answer, Pazel. I am going with you to encourage such doubts.’
Hard about, and due north. It was Fiffengurt’s aim to sail as close to the Red Storm as they dared (some ten miles), and then tack west to meet Niriviel, keeping well clear of Stath Bálfyr and her shoals. Soon they were close enough to the Storm for Pazel to make out its texture: strands, snowflakes, rippling sheets of light. That storm had thrown his mother two hundred years forward in time. No wonder she’s so odd. She isn’t just a foreigner in the North. She’s a visitor from a world that no longer exists. And Bolutu’s another. How have they been able to stand it? How have they done so well?
He recalled what Erithusmé had said, how the Red Storm had stopped the plague from spreading north, how every human being in Arqual and the Mzithrin owed his life to that red ribbon of enchantment. Against all that, the time-exile of a few sailors counted for nothing. Unless you were one of them, of course. He looked again at the pulsing Storm. The world’s edge, that’s what it is. We’re ten miles from the end of everything we know.
But the Storm did not tame the ocean. The minute the Chathrand cleared the shoals, every person aboard felt the huge, unbridled swells, and knew that they had at last returned to the Ruling Sea. There was almost no transition: suddenly the waves were gigantic, moving hills that barrelled towards them, tireless, infinite. The Chathrand rode them easily; she could stand much worse. Still, the sensation left men thoughtful. Worse was something everyone remembered.
They tacked west into a headwind, which they battled for the next six hours. It was hard work for the night watch; but then there was no true night this close to the Red Storm. The strange light caused some headaches, and a sense of unreality as men fumbled about in its saturating glow. But the urge to flee was strong. They left Stath Bálfyr behind (Myett and Ensyl watched it vanish, two women seeing the death of a dream) and at sunrise caught a favourable wind, upon which Kirishgán said he could taste the scent of honey-orchids in Nemmoc, and the dust of the Ibon Plain. But the human crew smelled nothing, and they caught no further glimpse, then or ever, of the lands of the South.
The day passed without incident, though the ship creaked and complained from spots Mr Fiffengurt had hoped were sound. Rain struck, benevolent and cool; when it passed on into the Red Storm it blazed like falling fire. Another bright night began. A pod of whales surrounded the Chathrand, and swam along with her for hours. Felthrup sat alone in a gunport and listened to their clicks, chirrups, rumbles, their pipe-organ breaths.
Deep in that night without darkn
ess, someone screamed. It was not a sound anyone aboard had ever heard before. It was a selk’s cry of anguish; it was Kirishgán. They found him near the bowsprit, crouching down as though praying. His body shook. When he raised his head there were tears in his brilliant eyes, and he told them that he had felt the death of kinsmen.
How many? they asked.
‘Many,’ he said. ‘More than on any night since the Plazic generals began their exterminations.’ But he could not say which of his people had fallen, or at whose hand.
Some hours later a different sort of cry – Niriviel’s – woke Pazel for the second time that night. He tried to rouse Thasha, but she only groaned, so he left her sleeping and ran barefoot to the topdeck, pausing only to grab his coat. Hercól and Ramachni were there already, along with most of the dog watch. They were clustered around the ship’s bell, and atop the latter stood Niriviel, exhausted, his cream-yellow chest heaving. When he could speak he confirmed the worst.
‘I was far from both vessels, but I saw the Death’s Head giving chase, and the Promise leading her away to the southwest. The Promise was faster, and drawing away. Then a shot from Macadra’s vessel brought down her mainsail, and the Death’s Head closed very fast. When she was within a half-mile, she fired again. But it was not a cannon she fired, this time. It was a ball of red fire, spit out from some foul weapon on her quarterdeck. It struck the Promise square on her hull.’
Pazel felt as though he himself had been struck, very hard in the stomach. This, of course, was what Kirishgán had felt. Lunja. Prince Olik. Nólcindar. They had led Macadra astray, given Chathrand time to flee. And for their courage they’d been killed.
‘Macadra carries Plazic weapons, then,’ said Hercól.
‘Like the Behemoth’s,’ said Pazel, ‘but why in the Pits didn’t she use them before?’
‘Perhaps because she feared to sink the Nilstone to the seabed,’ said Ramachni, ‘and this time, drawing near enough to sense its absence on the Promise, she did not hesitate to strike a lethal blow.’
The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4) Page 69
