The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4)

by Robert V. S. Redick

  ‘Domesticity?’ said Pazel.

  ‘Beg your pardon?’

  ‘No sir, I can’t guess.’

  ‘Boasting, that’s what,’ said Gregory. ‘So I have in mind to find out if you were boasting when you told my boys you knew your way around a ship.’

  He drilled Pazel for some ten minutes concerning sails and rigging and the standard etiquette of the sea. Then he asked Pazel about his surname.

  ‘I knew a Chadfallow. He was a doctor, and a great man, although he was too close to the Usurper in Etherhorde. He was one of the most powerful men in Alifros, in his time. Do you know the man I’m speaking of?’

  ‘Ignus Chadfallow,’ said Pazel uneasily. ‘I knew him. I’m his son.’

  The woman burst out laughing. But Captain Gregory just looked him up and down. Pazel found himself remembering certain mornings when the woman beside Gregory had been his mother, and the window behind the bed had looked out on plum orchards. There had been mornings when this man made griddle-cakes, or took Pazel out to edge of the Highlands to spot foxes and deer. A small, sweet life. A life he’d never thought would end.

  ‘Hush your cackling,’ Gregory told the woman. ‘The lad didn’t lie about his sailing smarts; why should he lie about his father? And even the noblest among us may sew a few wild seeds.’

  ‘You’re proof of that.’

  Gregory kissed her. ‘Even dry old Chadfallow had a passionate side. I happen to know that for a fact.’ He winked at Pazel. ‘There’s a past behind every man, ain’t there, my boy?’

  Pazel signed on with Gregory’s freebooters that very day, and in the two years that followed he saw more of the Northern world than he had on all his years on merchant vessels. With his new shipmates he camped in bogs and salt marshes, danced with Noonfirth courtesans, smuggled arms, liquor and living men across the battle-lines. He was aware that he had realised his oldest dream: to sail with the man he’d always believed to be his father. But that had been a childish dream. Gregory’s passion for ribald jokes, for helping orphans, for bedding women whose languages he didn’t speak and whose very names he confused: all that had been carefully hidden. Pazel only now began to know the man.

  Gregory’s friendship with the Empress was something more than strategic: he had despised Arqual even before it invaded his homeland. He took countless risks for Maisa’s rebels, whether by sharing intelligence in secret letters or hiding swords in sacks of meal. ‘I’m no idealist, Pazel,’ he confided once, ‘I just know how to pick the winning team.’

  Pazel hoped Gregory was right, but doubted anyone could be sure. Maisa’s rebels had yet to launch a single raid on Etherhorde. Still, defectors continued to join her ranks, and the noose about the capital was tightening. After one bloody week in springtime, Ulsprit fell. Pazel was there in the city when Maisa rode through as a liberator, waving from an open carriage beside Prince Eberzam Isiq. Pazel was surprised to see a little bird swoop down and land on Isiq’s shoulder. Prince Eberzam turned it a blazing smile.

  But if Gregory had aged, Thasha’s father was actually venerable, and Maisa was almost ancient. Her iron will was apparent in every glance, but her frame was skin and bone, and her hands shook as she waved. And for the first time Pazel wondered who, if anyone, these two were grooming as an heir.

  That night Gregory did not come back to the ship, and the next day they sailed for Dremland without him. As Ulsprit dwindled on the horizon, the bosun let it slip that Gregory had stayed behind for a woman.

  ‘Of course he did,’ said Pazel. It had happened before: Gregory leaving his ship in other hands, arranging passage with friends or fellow schemers, rejoining them in some distant port. But the bosun said that this woman was a special case. ‘They were married once, you see. She was his wife.’

  ‘His wife? His wife Suthinia?’

  ‘Aye, the witch. So he’s told you about her, has he?’

  Pazel looked back at Ulsprit. It was hard to find the words. ‘I know about her,’ he said at last.

  In Dremland, late at night, he wrote a letter to Gregory and slipped it under his door. Then he bundled his things into his hammock and slipped onto the dock. He had forged papers and fine seamanship, and thirty languages to his name. He’d spent less money than he’d earned in Gregory’s service. He knew how to get along. How was never likely to be a problem, he decided. The harder questions were where, and why.

  He went on wandering. Now and then he took a drink. There were times when his loneliness rose up and seemed to smother him, and other times when he recalled Ramachni’s words on Gurishal, and felt glad, and was determined to hold on.

  He bribed his own way across the battle-lines and walked the streets of Etherhorde, and stood in front of the old Isiq mansion on Maj Hill. That upper window, her bedroom. That garden, where Hercó1 taught her to fight. Then he found his way to Reka Street, and was admitted to the Physicians’ Temple, and lit a candle for Dr. Ignus Chadfallow, and stayed there in silence for a time.

  By evening he was anxious to be gone: too many women in Etherhorde looked like Thasha Isiq. He fled to Uturphe, and grew drunk on Uturphan brandy, and stumbled into the flikkermen’s quarter in a daze. The flikkermen chased him, cracking their whips, until they realised he was cursing them in their own language, flawlessly. At once they grew affectionate, and fed him raw river eel, and never wanted him to leave.

  The next month he stopped in Simja, and visited the taverns there, and listened to the sailors’ gossip. To his amazement, he heard them speaking of the Shaggat Ness.

  ‘What’s that?’ he said, breaking in. ‘You have that wrong, surely? The Shaggat’s dead.’

  ‘Oh, the father, aye, on Gurishal. But this is his son, lad. On Bramian. Ain’t you heard? The Usurper raised him like a pet snake, with thousands of his crazies, up a big river in the jungle. He even built them a fleet. And the Shaggat’s boy sailed off just like they wanted, to make war on the Mzithrinis. It was all according to plan.’

  ‘Somebody’s ugly plan,’ his friend added, with a belch.

  ‘Until one day the son wakes up and says, “It’s over. My father the Shaggat is dead. I am going home to set the white monkeys free.” And he turns his fleet around and sails back to Bramian, and sets up a kingdom on that riverbank, and starts to bring the tribals into his fold. The island’s full of savages, you know. And the poor old Secret Fist! They can’t take Bramian back from him. They don’t have the manpower these days.’

  Seaside taverns were better than the Polylex, Pazel decided. A day later he heard an even stranger rumour, concerning Gurishal. As planned, the Mzithrinis had paraded the body of the Shaggat Ness before his worshippers, and that had crushed their spirits, all but destroying the faith. But on Gurishal too a new cult had arisen: the Shaggat Malabron. A scepter-wielding madman with the powers of a sorcerer, who was quickly taking control of the great island. At his side he was said to keep a strange, foreign counsellor, an old man with scars and a wolfish grin.

  Pazel sighed, and drank up. They had killed one Shaggat, but two had taken his place.

  At long last he made his way home to Ormael. The city was rank, crowded, penniless, beautiful. He saw his own home, with kindly-looking strangers behind the windows and mewling cats in the yard. He walked up into the plum orchards and helped himself to a plum. He sat in the late afternoon sun and closed his eyes and knew an hour’s peace. He thought that love had nearly killed them all but love had also saved them, more times than he could count.

  Later that year he bought a passage to Opalt. He had no clear purpose in going there, except to lose himself in bustling Ballytween, one of the greatest cities of the North. In the flood of strangers’ voices, he thought he might not hear the one voice that followed him everywhere. And that would bring relief, of a kind.

  Things did not go as planned. On his first walk through the port district, he saw a public house called Annabel’s. The place was large and crowded, and he walked right by. But at the corner he paused, looking back at the brig
ht doorway. Then he walked back and stepped inside and bought himself some ale and fritters at the bar. He was finishing his second pint when he saw Fiffengurt at a corner table, playing chess with Felthrup.

  He took the table beside them, and started chatting when the opportunity arose. Captain Fiffengurt was the brother of the bar’s owner; he was also very drunk. Felthrup drank only water; he was intent on winning the game. But they seemed to like talking to him. They stayed, even as the crowd grew thinner, and Pazel bought them ale and food and asked them to tell their stories, and they obliged. By midnight they had forgotten the chess match, and were telling Pazel of the great waterworks of Masalym. By closing time they had brought him to the wreck on Gurishal.

  ‘I ran her clean aground,’ put in Fiffengurt. ‘But that wasn’t the end, was it, flatty? Oh no. We watched her from the meadows on the clifftops. Watched her swept away to perdition, and Lady Thasha still aboard. I still, still dream—’

  He staggered away from the table, looking sick. ‘Why does he drink so much?’ Pazel asked.

  ‘You might too, Pazel, if you had lost five years of your life, and come back to find everything changed.’

  Pazel looked down into his tankard: nearly empty. The rat had a point.

  ‘And Captain Fiffengurt has his sorrows,’ Felthrup continued. ‘Oh, he calls himself lucky, very lucky, to be here again with his beloved Annabel, and to know his dear daughter. They fled here from Etherhorde, during the worst part of the fighting. And it has been good for everyone: there are no beer-wars on Opalt, no breweries torched by rivals.’

  ‘What’s his worry, then?’ asked Pazel.

  ‘Anni married his brother, Pazel. Years before our return. She is quite fond of him; the man is a good husband and father. But the child is Fiffengurt’s. You must keep that last fact to yourself.’

  Pazel rested his chin on his hand, and sighed. ‘I won’t tell a soul.’

  ‘Good,’ said Felthrup. ‘I have a feeling I can trust you. In fact I will now share a secret of my own. I mean to become a historian.’

  ‘Do that!’ Pazel slapped the table and laughed.

  ‘Ah, you are flippant, but I spend every day in the archives, here in Ballytween; it has become a second home. But there is something more. Where that voyage is concerned I have a special advantage. Do you know what I did, when the Great Ship lay smashed on the beach?’

  Pazel thought about it. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘I drank the blood of the keel. They brought me to shore on a raft, and while the others were boarding I caught a strange, warm, resinous smell, and then I saw it dripping, dripping from a crack in the good ship’s spine, where it arched overhead. I licked the spot. It tasted like nothing I have ever experienced. And the next day the memories began.’

  ‘Memories?’

  ‘Of everything, my lad. I can summon the memories of everyone who made that voyage with us. The cook. The tarboys. The anchor-lifters. The ixchel. Erithusmé’s ship had a soul, Pazel Pathkendle, but the difference is this: it was a composite soul. All of us together made up that soul, and now it speaks to me. And I must listen and remember. That is the least I can do.’

  ‘Felthrup?’

  ‘Yes, lad?’

  ‘You just used my last name. But I never told it to you. Did I?’

  Felthrup nibbled his fritter, thinking. ‘No, it was Diadrelu who told me. Before you and I ever met.’

  ‘Felthrup!’

  ‘Yes, lad!’

  ‘You remember me! I mean, you just started to remember me. When I walked in here you didn’t know who I was!’

  The rat looked at him blankly. Then he squealed so loudly that he stopped all conversation, and even the piano player. He leaped over the table into Pazel’s lap. He began to hop up and down.

  ‘I forgot you! I forgot you! And then I remembered, and forgot that I had forgotten!

  Oh, Pazel Pazel Pazel—’

  The lamentable truth is that he wet himself, and Pazel in the process. Pazel could not have cared less. He held the lame rat against his cheek and tried not to cry. Nearly four years had passed since anyone had looked at him with recognition.

  Of course Felthrup at once shared all he knew of their friends. Bolutu had remained in Simja, and with the King’s blessing – and the help of one particularly talented dog – opened the Royal Inter-Species Institute. ‘He sent a letter not two months ago. They’ve purchased a villa with extensive grounds. The humans who come there will learn from woken animals, and vice versa, and both will take their understanding out into the world. I dare say the work is needed. Many a dog, horse, hare and raven still lives in fear of opening their mouths.’

  ‘But you’re not afraid. You’re right here in the middle of the pub, playing chess.’

  ‘That’s because he’s Felthrup Stargraven,’ boomed Fiffengurt suddenly. ‘Where’ve you been the last few years, lad? This rat’s a hero of Alifros. He’s battled sorcerers and pudgy devils, and an ugly, nasty daddy-rat, GRAAAA—’

  He dropped to all fours and did an impression of Master Mugstur, to the other patrons’ delight.

  ‘Never mind him,’ said Felthrup. ‘I have news of your sister.’

  Neda! Tell me, for Rin’s sake!’

  ‘She and Hercól are together, and deeply in love. They would They are Empress Maisa’s special envoys to the Mzithrin, and have done a great deal to ensure that the peace will never again be broken, so long as Maisa is a power in this world.’

  ‘They’re married, are they?’

  ‘Alas, no,’ said Felthrup. ‘In his last letter, Hercól said he dared not ask your sister for her hand, ‘while so many enemies remain to contend with, and so much evil flourishes in the dark.’ I fear for them, Pazel. I am very much afraid they will undertake a mission into the heart of Gurishal, to confront the Shaggat Malabron, and Sandor Ott. Both of them feel bound to the task.

  ‘But enough! It is late. You must stay with us tonight, my boy. And change those smelly breeches, for shame!’

  Felthrup and Fiffengurt shared rooms above the tavern. Pazel set the rat on his shoulder, passed through the kitchen and up a darkened stair. The rooms, when they entered, surprised him pleasantly. They were spacious and fine.

  ‘We do not go hungry,’ admitted Felthrup. ‘Sergeant Haddismal divided up the Chathrand treasure among all the survivors, and Admiral Isiq gave us more ere we separated. Fiffengurt handed his share over to Miss Annabel, saying that he had gone to sea for the sake of her family’s debts, and wouldn’t neglect them now. Anni used it to purchase this house, and from that day she has considered Fiffengurt a business partner. Now change. You’ll find clean things in that dresser, beneath the clock.’

  Pazel smiled as he stepped into Fiffengurt’s pants: the wiry sailor had grown rather stout. Then he froze. The clock on the dresser was unmistakable. It was Thasha’s, the beautiful mariner’s clock, with its face shaped like a gibbous, mother-of-pearl moon.

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Felthrup. ‘Ramachni left that in our keeping. He has long since departed for his own world. And he says that I must join him there, one day.’

  ‘What? You? Why you, Felthrup?’

  Pazel, the Waking Spell has been the cruelest sort of blessing. I am a rat, in a rat’s frail form. I have plans and hopes that far exceed my body’s limitations, and its life span. When I depart down the tunnel in that clock, Ramachni tells me that I will find myself in another body, human or dlömic or some other long-lived race, on the other side. And he will present me to a certain learned academy, and even vouch for my studious nature.’

  ‘Felthrup! That’s wonderful! But … how long do you have?’

  ‘Before I leave? This body’s aches will tell me that. A few years, I hope. But there is something more astonishing, my boy. That other world, Ramachni’s? It is our future. Or rather, a future that might be ours.’

  ‘Might be.’ Pazel rested a hand on the clock, feeling sudden loneliness. ‘You mean the way the Chathrand might have ended up on that empty
island, where Lord Talag hid his clan?’

  ‘Correct,’ said Felthrup. ‘Ramachni’s Alifros is linked to our own by a thin footpath, winding through endless mountain-chains of years. But in the actual walking we find that the path divides almost endlessly. Some paths lead down into fertile valleys, others to ice and fear. There is no telling, deep in the mountains, whether you have strayed or not.’

  Pazel stayed on in Ballytween, and thanked the Gods for Felthrup Stargraven. He took a room in the port district with a view of the sea. He tutored children in many languages, and became a celebrity at Annabel’s. On free days he went with Felthrup to the city archives, and learned many things about the world they had saved.

  Fiffengurt still did not know him, and when Coote and Fegin paid their old captain a visit they did not know him either. Nor did the half dozen other survivors of the Chathrand who passed through Ballytween that year. If the Master-Word’s effects were waning, they were taking their time.

  He was twenty-one and considered handsome. The serving-girls fought bitterly over the right to bring him beer. Some of them were beautiful, many of them were kind. Now and then he found he could kiss them, or even go through the motions of love. But he could not court them seriously. The kindest and the loveliest he avoided: they stirred a pain in him he could not bear.

  His drinking grew worse. A morning came when he woke up knowing that he had spent the whole night at Annabel’s, buying rounds for the house, switching languages as often as he switched tables, slapping the backs of strangers, avoiding Felthrup’s worried eye. He had an idea that several tarboys from the Chathrand had shown up that night, some of them with sweethearts, and it frightened him to realise that he might just as easily have imagined them in his stupor. He threw up into a basin. He lay back thinking of death.

  Then his hand went to his collarbone. There was a warmth there that had nothing to do with alcohol. He had almost forgotten the sensation, golden sunlight in his veins, a thing so beautiful that no one who felt it should ever speak of sorrow again.