Neeps was among those sent to retrieve the corpses. He had napped for forty minutes in the last twenty hours, and had dreamed of Uláramyth, the bamboo grove, long dark limbs entangled with his own. The woman loved him; she was saving his life. He threaded his fingers through hers and told himself he would never let go. Then he woke. The hand he held was all wrong. Not webbed, not black. Marila asked about his dream, but Uláramyth was a word that she could never hear.
‘I dreamed of home,’ he said. ‘Nonsense stuff. Can’t remember a thing.’
Marila looked at him, then laid her round cheek on his arm. ‘I am home,’ she said.
He ought to say something to that. Something grand and gentle. About how he’d felt the child kick, as he had, when Marila’s tight spherical belly pressed his own in the night, trying to nudge him off the bed. He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, saw Lunja in the galley of the Promise, back against the door, eyes in nuhzat, angry. Give me something, give me something back, boy. Quickly, quietly. Now.’
Marila raised her head. ‘Are you crying?’
‘Don’t be daft. Let’s get out of this bed.’
Lunja had arms like a wrestler’s. She had whispered the whole time, but the words melted into sounds, just sounds, urgent and then more urgent, and Neeps thought her voice had become like the sea’s voice for an old mariner, inescapable, behind and under everything for the rest of his life. But not that day. Three minutes and it was over, for the last time, and later she did not speak to him at all.
‘Nothing blary fits any more,’ said Marila, struggling into her pants.
They went out. The sun rose; the dead men were discovered. Coote’s crooked finger directed Neeps to the team scrambling out along the bowsprit. Marila stood and watched, making him clumsy, making him nick himself with the knife. The dead men were so cold and tangled. Their eyes wide open, astonished. Neeps couldn’t help himself: he followed the dead man’s gaze.
So it was that he, Neeps Undrabust, saw the light that flashed on the horizon. Blink … blink-blink…blink. A lantern, not a mirror-signal. In another minute it would have vanished in the brightening day.
For all the changes in his life and heart, Neeps was still a tarboy, and knew his Sailing Code. The light was a distress signal – from an Arquali ship. Neeps stood and shouted, and marked the light’s position relative to the sun, and by midday they were fishing survivors from the sea.
Their commander said his name was Captain Vancz, his boat an Urnsfich grain-hauler, its doom a sudden gale that carried her south into the Ruling Sea. ‘We were halfway to Pulduraj, Captain Fiffengurt. Sixth year in a row I’ve been hired as a barley-boat. Never saw a storm like that one, by all the Gods.’
He was a young captain with a sleek brown moustache and wary eyes, one of twenty men they’d found bobbing like corks on the waves. Now Vancz and a handful of his men had been brought to Rose’s cabin. They sat in a circle, wearing the last, precious dry clothes on the Chathrand, drinking hot grog. Except for one bewildered, grey-bearded senior they were all young and fit: the sort you would expect to find still fighting for life twenty hours after a shipwreck.
‘You’re an Urnsfich man yourself, sir?’ asked Pazel.
‘Born and raised, worse luck,’ said Vancz.
‘Your boat’s prow was still above the waves this morning, when you signalled us,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘How’d you manage to lose her slowly, way out here? You can’t have struck something?’
Vancz shook his head. ‘Not in these depths. She was just smack-battered by the storm and sprang a fatal leak. We never did find it. The end was slow, but not that slow.’
‘You look a mite familiar,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘Have we met?’
Vancz glanced quickly at his men before he answered. ‘I’d be surprised if we hadn’t,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it was in Ballytween, a few years back? At that public house, what’s it called now – the Merchant Prince?’
‘No doubt,’ said Fiffengurt.
No doubt at all, thought Pazel, because everything he’s saying is a lie.
The man did not speak a word of the Urnsfich tongue: Pazel had called him a dung-eating sow, and got a vague grin in return. Pazel glanced at his shipmates. Lady Oggosk was chewing her lips, furiously impatient: she knew. So did Neeps and Hercól and Felthrup. Sergeant Haddismal was less certain, but more threatening: he stood behind Vancz, sighing like a hippopotamus, his massive hands on the rescued man’s chair. Each time Vancz leaned back he met the Turach’s knuckles.
Pazel glanced at Thasha. For some reason she looked ready to laugh.
‘This truly is the Great Ship,’ said Vancz for the third time, ‘but how can it be? You struck a reef off Talturi. You went down with all hands. I saw the story in the Mariner. I’ll never forget it. That awful summer of Nine-Forty-One. Just before the start of the war.’
His listeners moved uneasily. The start of the war, thought Pazel. He’s already forgetting it. Rin’s eyes, but this is going to be hard.
‘Tell me, Vancz,’ said Fiffengurt, ‘do you have much trouble with our lads in uniform, out Urnsfich way? I mean the Imperial navy?’
‘What, Arqual’s navy? Why should we have any feud with them, Captain?’
No one answered. Vancz looked at his men again. ‘Why are you all staring at me?’ he blurted at last. ‘What kind of rescue is this? And what in Rin’s name was that creature on your topdeck – you called it a Bolutu – that black thing with fishy eyes?’
‘Smack him!’ said Lady Oggosk. ‘The man answers questions with questions! You should have left him squirming in the sea!’
‘Now Duchess, have a heart,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘Captain Vancz, when a man does you a good turn, you ought to be generous awhile. If he asks something small of you, for instance, you hand it over with a smile. Call it plain gratitude, if you like.’
‘The principle of reciprocity!’ squeaked Felthrup.
‘The principle of intelligence,’ said Haddismal.
Vancz looked at his hands. ‘Right you are, Captain Fiffengurt. And I do hope I can show you a little intelligence. The kind any skipper from Arqual has a right to expect.’
Pazel started: something in the man’s voice had thrown open a door. Arqual. He gets more nervous every time he speaks the word.
Fiffengurt pressed on. ‘Those bits of hull we found floating all around you – they weren’t from cannon-fire?’
Vancz looked shocked. ‘But of course not! We’ve seen no combat, sir. We’re neutral in the whole affair.’
‘What affair?’
Vancz started, closed his mouth.
‘Would you indulge us,’ said Hercól, ‘by naming the date?’
‘The date?’
‘Today’s date, you prevaricating worm!’ shrieked Oggosk. She exploded to her feet and hobbled towards him. Vancz looked rather more afraid of her than of Haddismal.
‘Modoli the twenty-sixth!’ he said. ‘Or the twenty-seventh; I can’t swear I didn’t lose a day in the storm! Rin’s blessings, lady, there’s no need to – Ouch!’
Lady Oggosk had poked him in the eye. ‘No need! If Captain Rose were still alive you’d be dangling from the main yard by your thumbs! We are on a mission of death, you bit of flotsam, and you’re spreading lies thick as kulberry jam! Fiffengurt, if you won’t get the truth out of this man let the tinshirts get it for you. Glaya Lorgus! I never thought I’d miss Sandor Ott!’
At the mention of the spymaster the man visibly paled. Then Thasha put a hand on Oggosk’s arm. She was laughing, now. ‘Duchess, stop,’ she said. ‘There’s no need for any of this. Commander, you’re a navy officer yourself. Don’t bother to deny it.’
‘But my dear lady—’
‘Not you,’ said Thasha. She pointed at the older, grey-bearded survivor of the wreck. ‘He’s the man you should be talking to, Captain Fiffengurt.’
The old fellow gaped at her, eyes wide with amazement.
‘The beard almost threw me,’ said Thasha, ‘but I know you now.
My father used to point you out in parades.’
‘P-parades?’ gasped the bearded man.
‘What’s going on here?’ barked Haddismal. ‘You’re saying he’s Vancz?’
‘There isn’t any Vancz,’ said Thasha. ‘This man’s name is Darabik, Purston Darabik. Why have you been lying to us, Commodore?’
‘Darabik?’ said Captain Fiffengurt.
‘Darabik?’ Haddismal straightened his back.
Another stunned pause. Then Lady Oggosk shrieked the name a third time, hobbled over to the old man and starting beating him about the face.
‘Stop, stop!’ cried the old man.
‘Darabik!’ cried Oggosk. ‘You chased Captain Rose across the seas for thirteen years! You made our lives a living hell!’
‘Of course I did!’ The man’s voice and bearing had utterly changed. ‘Rose was a common criminal! He swindled everyone from the Chathrand’s owners to the Boy Prince of Fulne!’
‘He saved our lives, over and over,’ said Pazel. I guess he was a criminal, but there was nothing common about him.’
The one they had called Vancz looked fearful. ‘Sir, I told ’em just what you said – they muddled me—’
‘Drink your grog and be quiet, you – Ouch! Gods damn it, Fiffengurt, can’t you get this pet vulture of yours under control?’
‘Is that an order, Commodore?’
‘It blary well is! Flaming devils, where did this mad ship come from?’
Then, for the first time, Ramachni spoke. ‘She came from across the Ruling Sea. Your Emperor Magad launched her, and Magad’s operatives held sway aboard her for many thousands of miles. But all is changed today. From Captain Rose to the youngest tarboy, from Brother Bolutu to the ixchel, we have all forged new alliances. Our loyalties evolved. That is one reason we are still alive.’
‘Sandor Ott’s loyalties evolved?’
Ramachni shook his head sadly. ‘No, not his.’
Darabik’s mouth twisted. ‘You see now why I did not announce myself. Lady Thasha, from you alone will I beg forgiveness for this act. We thought you dead. And even when the witch’s dreams told us other wise, we still thought you a prisoner of these people.’
Thasha stepped towards him, barely breathing. ‘We?’ she said.
Darabik nodded. ‘I speak of the leadership of our rebellion, Lady Thasha. Including its military commander, Prince Eberzam Isiq.’
Thasha cried out, laughing and sobbing at once. Her friends embraced her, and Felthrup gave a piercing squeal. Pazel had no idea what minor queen or princess Admiral Isiq had married, but who cared? Thasha’s father was alive.
‘Rebellion, is it?’ Haddismal moved to the cabin door and flung it open. ‘You there, marines! Draw and enter! All of you, move!’
Move the Turachs did. In seconds there were twenty or more shoving into Rose’s cabin with swords in hand.
‘Our loyalties haven’t evolved either,’ growled Haddismal. ‘We serve the Ametrine Throne, and will do so ’til our hands drop the swords. Be careful, mage.’
‘I have never been otherwise in your presence, Sergeant. But I think you will find the commodore’s visit an act of providence. At least, I hope you will.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Darabik stood abruptly. His eyes were hawklike in their ferocity: all pretence had dropped away. ‘It means,’ he said, ‘that for years I have placed myself before men like you, and called on them to keep their oaths, not break them. To prove their courage and the hard steel of their loyalty—’
‘Well, then—’
‘—by daring to fight for the only one who, by law and Rin’s favour, deserves to sit in the Chamber of Ametrine. I mean Her Majesty the Empress, Maisa daughter of Magad theThird. She lives, and many thousands of true Arqualis are fighting, bleeding, dying for her cause. We were not wrecked in a storm, Turach. We were fired upon by the warships of the Usurper, Magad the Fifth.’
Haddismal started forward, snarling. ‘Usurper! You’re speaking of His Supremacy, you traitorous son of a whore!’
‘His Supremacy’s own grandfather named Maisa to the throne,’ said Hercól quietly. ‘And your grandfathers, dare I remind you, swore an oath to that man.’
The Turach hesitated. He looked hard at Darabik again. ‘You weren’t making for Pulduraj,’ he said. ‘Where were you headed, and why?’
Darabik paused, studying the face of the huge marine before him. ‘We were bound for the island called Serpent’s Head, and a gathering of all Maisa’s forces.’
‘And Maisa?’ asked Haddismal. ‘Will she be there, rallying her turncoat troops?’
Darabik shook his head. ‘That I cannot say.’
The Turach’s eyes narrowed. ‘Beg to differ, Commodore: you can.’
Never taking his eyes from Haddismal, the old commodore unbuttoned his shirt. Pazel recoiled: the man’s chest was like a window cracked by a stone, but the cracks were raised red scars. They had very clearly been made with a knife.
‘The Secret Fist thought so too,’ he said. ‘I chose not to betray our country to the Secret Fist. Do you think I will betray them to you?’
Sergeant Haddismal was leaning forward, hands in fists. But he made no move against the commodore.
‘It has been a savage fight, but a proud one,’ said Darabik. ‘Generals and governors, princes and counts have joined our rebellion. Whole legions have broken with Etherhorde. And Magad faces other enemies, too: the Mzithrinis still bleed him to the west; Noonfirth has cut supplies from the east. The Crownless Lands support us with shelter and armaments and food.’
‘The Crownless Lands,’ scoffed Haddismal. ‘So you’re begging from waifs. Doesn’t sound like a winning hand to me.’
‘We are not winning, but we have not lost. This time last year our forces numbered ninety thousand.’
‘Ninety thousand!’ cried Hercól, his eyes flashing.
‘Ninety thousand my bleedin’ arse,’ growled a Turach. ‘Commander, this is all rot and betrayal.’
‘Aye, lad, it is betrayal,’ said Darabik sharply. ‘You marines were the first betrayed, when you were told all manner of lies about your Empress. You have given your lives and blood for a false king, a warped image of the Arqual you deserve. Oh, to the Pits with you all—’
Darabik spread his hands wide. ‘Kill me and be done with it. Or be as brave and true as you have sworn to be, and choose the harder fight.’
A terrible stillness followed. The Turachs stood like wolves before the pounce. But it was Hercól who moved. With a speed Pazel had only ever glimpsed in Sandor Ott, he struck the sword from the hand of the Turach nearest him, then twisted around Haddismal’s sudden thrust so that he stood behind the man. Hercól’s left arm slid over Haddismal’s shoulder; his elbow caught the marine under the chin.
Hercól gave a brutal backward heave. Both men crashed to the floor and were suddenly still: Haddismal flat on his back, Hercól beneath him, with Ildraquin across the sergeant’s throat.
‘Stay!’ wheezed Hercól. ‘Sergeant Haddismal, hear me: I did not wish to assault you. Indeed I fear what I have done.’
‘You should,’ said Haddismal.
‘We cannot go on divided,’ said Hercól. ‘If shipmate kills shipmate again, we shall all be lost. I feel this in my heart’s core, Sergeant Haddismal. I am not an Arquali, nor wish to be. Yet I have served the true Empress of Arqual in secret these many years. I trust this Darabik. And I shall trust you, now: with my life, and the life of Alifros itself.’
‘Hercól – no!’ cried Thasha. She tried to shove a path towards him, but the Turachs seized her arms.
‘Be still, Thasha!’ cried Hercól . ‘All of you, be still! Turachs, I disarmed your leader so that you might know that it was hope, not fear, that led me on. Now I say the same as Darabik: stand with us, or kill us. We will not kill you.’
He opened his hand, and Ildraquin fell to the floor. Instantly a Turach lowered the tip of his sword to Hercól’s neck. Haddismal rolled to his f
eet and took the weapon. He gaze was murderous.
‘You were a mucking fool to disarm,’ he said. After several gasping breaths, he added, ‘Or a saint. I don’t know. Corporal Mandric’s risked his own life since he returned, swearing you’re all in the right, that the Nilstone’s the enemy, that your quest is the only one that counts. He called Magad a fraud. I had to throw him in the brig or throw him to the fishes.’ Haddismal swallowed. ‘He ain’t with the fishes, yet.
‘As for you—’ the sergeant shot a glance at Darabik ‘—you sound like the kind of officer my old man was. The kind who could hold his head up, before the world and Rin’s judgement. Get up, Stanapeth, and take your weapon back. I’ll stand with you lot. I’m mucking tired of lies.’
33
Nightfall
28 Modoli 942
360th sailing day from Etherhorde21
Burned, battered, weary, leaking, lost. And for all this, a ship united. The other Turachs followed Sergeant Haddismal’s lead, and few appeared to regret it. Many even looked relieved to be siding with Pazel and his allies, and nodded to them when they passed, as though they’d been conferred some honorary rank. Corporal Mandric was let out of the brig.
Marila said that the ground had been shifting since Ott’s murder of Captain Rose. ‘For a while everyone pretended not to know. If you said out loud that Ott had killed him, the Turachs might kill you.’ Now even the Turachs began to speak of Ott with contempt. Something in Pazel felt healed. The Chathrand was one ship, and this time no one had died for her.
Thanks to Darabik, moreover, they were not lost for long. The commodore knew with some accuracy where his ship had gone down: just fifty or sixty miles south of the Baerrid Archipelago, and some eight days west of Bramian. Fiffengurt kept the Chathrand on her northern course, and by six bells land was in sight: two tiny islands, little nuggets of tree-crowned stone, the serpent’s vertebrae. Yes, these were the Baerrids. Fiffengurt had seen the island chain several times over the years – from the north side, of course.
‘You haven’t lied about our position, anyway,’ he told Darabik.
‘I rarely lie,’ said the commodore, ‘but perfect honesty – well, that is a luxury reserved for those who suffer neither want nor pain. I have suffered both. After Maisa launched her rebellion, we divided our naval forces into thirds. I said goodbye to Thasha’s father in Ormael, and sailed east across the Nelu Peren. On the third day, a huge force of warships from Etherhorde surprised us, and decimated my squadron. My own quarterdeck was blown out from under my feet. I fell into smoke and darkness, and when I awoke I was in the hands of the Secret Fist.
The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4) Page 75
