Disconcerted, Marila went back and sat beside Neeps. They were talking about Thasha, speculating on her fate. Pazel moved past Bolutu and Prince Olik, who nodded at him distantly. When he crouched in front of Felthrup, the mastiffs growled.
‘Hush, you boisterous brutes!’ said Felthrup. ‘Never mind them, sir. They’re a bit uneasy around strangers, but they will do you no harm.’
‘Look what I found in my pocket,’ said Hercól. On his palm lay the ivory whale Pazel’s mother had given him so long ago. ‘Rin knows where it came from,’ said Hercól, ‘or why it especially caught my eye. You want it, Neda Phoenix-Flame?’
Pazel climbed a little higher and sat on a rock. They had their arms around each other. They were tending the wounded, wiping away tears, wondering aloud how soon the Nighthawk would come for them, and what would happen next. Even laughing, just a little. They were starting to allow themselves to imagine their lives going on. It was a conversation in which he played no part.
An hour passed, and the survivors of the voyage began a careful descent. ‘You there, lad!’ Hercól called to him. ‘I don’t know your story, or how you came to be aboard. But never mind that. You’re alive, and the world is new. Get up, come along with us. This is still a dangerous island. You don’t want to stay here alone.’
‘I’ll be right behind you,’ Pazel heard himself say.
It was a lie, of course. He wasn’t going to move. As for being alone, that was something he’d be getting used to.
A slight sound: he turned and saw Ramachni seated beside him, gazing as he was at the canyon, the water still draining backwards into the sea.
‘Not all forms of blindness endure, my lad,’ he said.
‘You know me?’
‘I know you, curiously enough. Perhaps because I was the one who gave you the Master-Words to begin with, or perhaps because I am a mage. But there is a certain flavour to permanent transformation, and another to the temporary sort. This is the latter. They will remember you, in time.’
‘How long? Days?’
‘Longer, I think.’
‘Months? Years?’
Ramachni gazed at him quietly. ‘I don’t know, Pazel. But I can tell you this: Erithusmé, and Thasha within her, left the world aboard the Chathrand. My mistress called out to me in the mind-speech as she passed. And her last words were these: Tell him my promise stands.’
Pazel caught his breath. ‘What does that mean? Her promise to return Thasha’s body, to let her live?’
‘Unless she made you some other.’
‘But how can she keep that promise now?’
Ramachni turned and looked towards the abyss. ‘By passing through death’s kingdom, and out the other side. Erithusmé has the strength to attempt such a journey, but it will not be an easy one, or short. Thasha’s soul will be protected, in that back chamber of the mind where Erithusmé dwelt so long. She will not age, or suffer any harm.’
Deep in Pazel’s chest a spark flared up. It had almost been extinguished, but he thought he might just keep it burning now.
‘You must temper your hopes,’ said Ramachni. ‘Like other portals you have passed through—the River of Shadows, the Red Storm – any return from the land of the dead runs the risk of metamorphosis. If you find her again, she may have taken a different shape, a different name. She may be older than you, or have stayed frozen in time while you yourself have aged.’
‘I don’t care. I don’t care at all.’
Ramachni leaped up into his lap, and rested his chin on Pazel’s knee. ‘But you do care, Pazel Pathkendle, and that has made all the difference, in the end.’
37
The Editor Pauses For a Drink
My time has come; my inkwell runs dry. This hand is a paw once more. When I gnaw through the string that holds the quill in place, I will not be able to tie it again. The voyage of the Chathrand ends, and with it my voyage in human form.
I have shrunk, too: no longer can I reach the tower window. But the sounds from the courtyard reach me better than ever: the roar of the students (they have rallied to the Fulbreech Society), the shouts of the Academy Police, the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, the murmur of the swelling mob. The Academy’s donors are here for their conference, and are witnessing the scene. I have caused a scandal. I have spent their money on something other than the greater glory of the Academy.
Here at last is the final sound: a battle on the staircase, harsh cries from the flikkermen, steel against steel. There are eight stone floors between us, yet. I cannot tell who is storming the tower: my allies, or the chancellor’s thugs? Are they coming to carry off my manuscript or consign it to the fire? Will history be rescued or erased this day?
Allies or enemies, they will find no mad professor here. Only his clothes, and his gold spectacles, and a black rat named Felthrup Stargraven. I see him now, his face reflected in the dish of water from which I drink. He has been swimming a long time. He has spent their gold on truth, to which no glory attaches, now or ever. He has tried to rescue the past as a gift to the future, and he only hopes the gift will suffice. Take it, Alifros. Call it my parting prayer.
Ah, but the battle is still raging, and the words still come. Let us play a game, shall we? Let us see how far I can get.
Epilogue
The Nighthawk could not enter the sound, now that the Arrowhead lay barely submerged across its mouth. But the following morning the rest of Maisa’s ragtag fleet caught up with her, and the smaller boats shuttled the survivors offshore. Admiral Isiq divided them according to his boats’ capacities, but he kept all those who had been closest to Thasha at his side. Thus what remained of the circle of friends stayed together, for a time.
Ramachni put two requests to the admiral. The first was that he extend his personal protection to the whole of Ixphir House, until their new leader, Lady Ensyl, decided where the most travelled clan in history might start anew. This Isiq granted gladly. ‘If they wish it, they may dwell in the vessels I command until we take back the Throne of Arqual, and beyond,’ he said.
The mage’s second request was that the mystery boy, who called himself Pazel Chadfallow, be kept aboard the Nighthawk as well.
‘Done,’ said Isiq. ‘What else?’ He would have given Ramachni the moon, in a saucer with caramel and cream. The mage had sworn to him that his daughter, though missing, was still very much alive.
‘But I am curious about your tarboy,’ he added. ‘Is he quite sane? He makes no serious claim to kinship with the late doctor, I hope?’
Not in my hearing,’ said Ramachni, with a voice that made it plain the matter was closed.
After a crossing of twenty days they touched ground on tiny Jitril. There they learned that the Defender of the Crownless Lands, King Oshiram of Simja, now commanded the largest surviving fleet in Northwest Alifros, for the simple reason that no large part of it had engaged hi battle after the Swarm spread its cloak. They learned too that the black cloud had swept some twelve battlefields clean, though none half so great as the ocean of slaughter at Serpent’s Head. It had also frozen much of the Northern harvest in the ground, and a hungry winter was expected. Above all, the people of Alifros had been frightened out of their minds.
The pious declared it heaven’s final warning. Practical men knew it was a chance to change the world. In twenty days, peace had replaced war as the fascination of princes, merchants, even generals, even priests. For some, this new passion was to become a sturdy faith. But others felt war’s charms returning even before the spring.
Maisa’s forces were made to wait at Jitril for a fortnight, until Oshiram himself gave leave for their passage through the Crownless Lands. Then the first separations occurred, with part of the little fleet heading east to Opalt, where rumours of a great new insurrection against Etherhorde had arisen, and others making south to Urnsfich, where the Mzithrinis were to be collected by their countrymen. The Nighthawk, however, headed north to Simja. There Oshiram heard their story and professed to believe it
. He called them the saviours of Alifros, and promised that every refugee from the Chathrand would be granted sanctuary in Simja for as long as they needed it, and citizenship if they desired to stay.
But the king was a busy man, and his ministers took him at his word. Only recognised members of the Chathrand’s crew were extended this welcome. Others would have to apply like any normal refugee, and inhabit the barges set aside for them in the Bay of Simja until their appeals could be heard. Pazel took one look at those floating houses of misery and asked Ramachni to help him get across the Straits of Simja to Ormael.
‘I will do it, Pazel,’ said the mage, ‘but have you not heard what they are saying? Ormael may be free, but it is poor and ravaged; it changed hands five times during the war. And there is still fighting in all the lands surrounding the city. It could be a hard place, even for a native son. But how much simpler if you would tell your friends the truth! I would gladly help you explain.’
But Pazel could not bear the thought. He had spoken the truth to one of their number already: to Corporal Mandric, as it happened, just before the Turach left to join the Opalt campaign. Mandric had laughed at first, then grown cross, trying to find a flaw in Pazel’s story. At last he had become strangely meek and quiet, nodding at Pazel’s every word.
‘Do you believe me, then?’ Pazel asked.
‘Oh I do, lad, sure enough! You were with us, right? On that whole Rinforsaken expedition, ’course you were. I remember.’
‘You remember?’
‘Yes. No, I mean – no. I believe you, that’s it. Well, er, shipmate, goodbye.’
They shook hands awkwardly, and Mandric hurried off to take his leave of the others. Pazel saw then that he would never know if his friends believed or merely pitied him, if they were speaking from affection or fear.
So he refused. Ramachni sighed, and spoke again to the admiral, and in four days his passage was arranged. It was Neeps who brought the news, late one night as Pazel was stringing up his hammock on the Nighthawk.
‘Mystery boy. Roll up your things in that hammock and step lively. There’s a boat waiting for you.’
‘A boat? Whose boat?’
‘Just hurry, if you want to catch it. These louts are kind of impatient.’
It had never crossed his mind that he would leave this way, another mad scramble in the darkness, with his friends asleep in scattered beds across the city, and no chance to say goodbye. Not to his sister and Hercól, who were inseparable now. Not to Felthrup. Not to Fiffengurt. Not to Olik or Nólcindar or Bolutu, or the old admiral, father of the woman he loved. Not even to Ramachni, who would have known who stood before him, saying goodbye.
Neeps led him up the ladderway, with that half-awake stumble Pazel knew so well.
‘Hey, stop.’
Startled, Neeps looked back over his shoulder.
‘I need to ask you a question. About Marila. How did you … come to be sure?’
‘Sure of what? That I loved her? That’s kind of a personal question, mate.’
‘Right,’ said Pazel, furious with himself. ‘Just forget it. I’m sorry.’
Neeps came back down the ladderway. ‘No, I’m sorry. You’re not much of a talker, and I reckon you wouldn’t ask unless it mattered a lot. You have a woman, then?’
Pazel just looked at him. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said at last.
‘Well that’s common enough.’ Neeps took a deep breath. ‘I was forced to dive once, into a shipwreck. We got into some trouble with sea-murths. The girls touch you, and suddenly you can breathe water. But the same spell makes you fall in love with the one you touched. And that one lures you away from the others and kills you. They got half a dozen of us that way.’ He looked at Pazel for a moment, then plunged on. ‘It happened to me again, you see, with another sort of woman. Just one touch. Only she didn’t want to kill me. She was saving my life. And the love was real. I mean, Pitfire, I don’t know that there’s any other sort of love.’
‘What about the murth-girl? Do you still think about her?’
‘Oh, not at all. That was just a charm, just a little confusion. Magic can’t change the heart, Pazel. They told me that in – well, in a place where they know about such things. And I found it out myself, the hard way. Trust me: if it lasts more than an hour, it’s real.’
He looked over his shoulder, then leaned close to Pazel and said, ‘You remember Thasha, don’t you? Thasha Isiq? The one who stayed on the ship?’
Pazel spoke very carefully. ‘I remember her just fine.’
‘They say she’ll come back one day. From the land of the dead.’ Neeps’ eyes were moist. ‘Lunja, my woman Lunja, won’t be coming back. But if she did—’
He broke off Pazel wanted to embrace him. They looked away from each other, suddenly abashed. ‘I have no idea why I’m talking to you,’ said Neeps.
‘Because you’re a good bloke, that’s why.’
‘Lunja made me a better one. She made me larger, you see. She made room in my heart. And that’s better for everyone, I guess.’
Marila stood wrapped in a blanket under the starlight, bedraggled and enormously pregnant. ‘Hello, tarboys,’ she said sleepily, as Neeps pulled her close. ‘What took you so long? They got tired of waiting. They’re running a loop out there somewhere, and coming back for you, Pazel.’ She yawned. ‘I don’t know why they’re crossing in the middle of the night.’
‘You didn’t have to get up,’ Pazel said.
‘I wanted to,’ she said simply. ‘Oh, and Ramachni sent you a package; it’s already aboard.’ She looked at him, thoughtful. ‘He cares a lot about you. Why is that, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘We have friends in common.’
It was too vague an answer for Marila, but this time she merely shrugged. ‘Be careful out there, will you? The world is stranger than you think.’
‘That’s hardly possible,’ he said. ‘All right, then. Good luck with that school.’
They smiled. Long ago Marila had admitted that she wanted to start a school for the deaf. The dream was still with her, and Neeps, it appeared, had begun to see the possibilities as well.
Pazel looked at Marila’s round belly. ‘What about a name?’ he asked. ‘Have you chosen one yet?’
They hesitated, glancing sidelong at each other. ‘It’s strange, really,’ said Neeps. ‘We’re agreed that if it’s a girl we’ll call her Diadrelu, after a friend who died. But if it’s a boy – well, that’s the odd part. We chose one. We both remember making a decision, and being very sure. But we can’t for the life of us remember what it was.’
‘It was such a good name,’ said Marila, looking at him earnestly. ‘So good we don’t want to talk about any others, just yet. We’re still hoping we remember.’
Pazel looked at her with wonder. ‘I hope so too,’ he said at last.
‘Well, here’s your boat,’ said Neeps, a bit relieved, as a sleek little clipper drew alongside. ‘Goodbye, Pazel. If you ever make it out Sollochstol way, you’ve got friends.’
‘I’ll remember,’ he said. Then he took their hands and held them a long while, until he knew he had made them uncomfortable. On the clipper, a man was shouting. All aboard who’s coming aboard.
‘Thank you for everything,’ said Pazel, and let them go.
He spoke as little as possible to the men on the clipper. He did not look back to see if Neeps and Marila were still standing by the rail. They were bound for the Outer Isles, and it seemed likely that he would never see them again. At the moment the thought was more than he could bear.
The package was heavy. Inside, he found a purse of gold: fine gold cockles from the wreck of the Chathrand, a bit of the fortune that Sergeant Haddismal had saved. The purse did not a fortune make, but it was enough to live on, frugally, for a few years at least. There was also a sharp knife, and some clothing. At the bottom of the crate, wrapped carefully in oilskin, lay Thasha’s copy of the thirteenth Merchant’s Polylex.
When he did begin to speak to
the men, he learned at once why they were crossing by night. They were freebooters, smugglers, dodging the new tariff collectors of the Crownless Lands. ‘These upstarts have got nothin’ on the old Arquali Inspectorate,’ said one of the men, cheerfully. ‘We’ll have some good years here, before they learn our tricks.’
‘And there must be scarcity, too?’ said Pazel.
‘Oh, aye, lad, scarcity!’
‘So higher prices, higher profits for you.’
‘Right on the kisser!’ laughed the man. ‘You talk like you know the trade. Do you drink as well?’
He took a drink. They were the happiest people he had seen since Uláramyth. Pazel was almost beginning to enjoy himself when his mind-fit struck.
The freebooters scratched their chins. They set him up on the fife-rail, where everyone could watch him babble and moan. Pazel could not tell whether they thought him possessed, but if so, they worried less about having a devil aboard than the attention it might bring in Ormaelport. They conferred awhile, then gave him a wineskin and locked him in the hold. Pazel wished he could thank them. When he drank, his legs gave out, and he knew he had been drugged.
Days later, when he came to his senses, he was far from the city of his birth. The clipper was running north along a foggy coastline. New freebooters were aboard, and one of them evidently outranked the captain, for he had taken over the man’s cabin, and could be heard inside, with a woman. Each time the man laughed Pazel found himself staring at the door.
Later that morning, the man sent for him. Pazel was shown right into the bedchamber. There in blue pajamas, beside a rosy-cheeked woman Pazel had never seen, was Gregory Pathkendle.
He was older – so much older! All the hair that remained to him was grey. Still his eyes were bright with mischief as he beckoned Pazel to take a seat.
‘Pazel Chadfallow, is it?’ he said, making a face, as though the name tickled the back of his throat. ‘Afflicted with some permanent magic, they tell me? Well never mind, my daughter’s just the same.’
‘Which daughter’s that, love?’ said the woman.
‘I don’t mind a man with problems he owns up to,’ said Captain Gregory, ‘but there’s one thing I can’t abide. Can you guess what it is?’
The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4) Page 85
