The Red Wolf Conspiracy (33 page)

“You will know.”

“Look at this place,” said Thasha vaguely. “It's a disaster.”

So it was: a whirlwind seemed to have passed through the stateroom. Pictures were crooked, chairs overturned, crumbs of cake spread everywhere. Thasha herself, with her hair bedraggled and her silver necklace twisted over one shoulder, looked as if she had just climbed down from a mast.

Ramachni touched Pazel's arm. “Remember: each word is gone forever after you speak it. Everything depends on your choices. Listen to your heart, and choose well.”

He crept down from the window bench, wheezing like an old man. Thasha hurried forward and lifted him. Her face was suddenly very worried.

“Be strong, my warrior,” Ramachni said to her. “Now go and find Hercól, and let him take me to my rest.”

But there was no need to go looking for Hercól. Seconds later he threw open the outer door, leaped inside and slammed it behind him.

“Ramachni, you have kept them too long!” he whispered. “Hide! Her father comes! By the Night Gods, you two—straighten your clothes and sit down to your studies!”

Ramachni vanished into Thasha's cabin while Hercól began frantically putting the room in order. Snatching up Thasha's grammar book, he thrust it into Pazel's hands.

“For the love of Rin, watch that tongue of yours!”

They had just enough time to drop into studious postures before Eberzam Isiq flung open the door.

“So,” he said with a glance at Hercól, “you found them.”

He was furious. Pazel reflected dimly (his mind was still rather thick) that he had never apologized—but how could he apologize for speaking the truth?

Hercól cleared his throat. “I found them. Hard at the books, Your Excellency.”

“But not in public chambers,” said Isiq. “Did I give you the run of my cabin, Pathkendle?”

“No, sir,” said Pazel, struggling to his feet. His voice sounded odd to his own ears. Thasha started to rise as well, then sat again with a thump.

“And yet you dare return,” said Isiq, breathless with rage, “after your insolence a month ago.”

“Don't blame him, Prahba,” said Thasha, her voice equally strange. “I couldn't stand the noise in the lounge. I made him come here.”

He looked at her, clearly taken aback. “You brought him? Well, then—it is not your fault, Pathkendle. But it is most improper that you two should be alone! Bring Syrarys, next time—or fetch Nama, or Hercól. Hmmph! And how is her Mzithrini, boy?”

Pazel swallowed. “She … amazes me, Excellency.”

Isiq demanded a demonstration. Thasha cleared her throat and said,
“My husband is not always a pencil.”

“Are you laughing, boy?”

“No, sir.” Pazel gave a gagging cough. Isiq took a step closer, studying him.

“Chadfallow might have adopted you,” said Isiq.

Now it was Pazel's turned to be startled. “Yes, sir,” he stammered. “I owe the doctor a great deal.”

“You're an educated boy. Why did you risk insulting me that day?”

Pazel gripped the chair. “I have no excuse, Your Excellency.”

“Just as well.” Isiq forced out a chuckle. “You learned Mzithrini from their envoy, didn't you? Chadfallow called him a barbarian in silks. Perhaps a little barbarism rubbed off on you? Not a bad thing, that. A little barbarism fortifies a man.”

“Yes, Excellency.”

“Let us forget the past, shall we? You showed great valor with those augrongs. And when I learned that you were the son of Gregory Pathkendle I naturally wished to meet you. That coat is to your liking?”

“Yes, Excellency; I thank you.”

“We shall forget the past.” Isiq ruffled Pazel's hair. “A strange meeting for us both, eh? You're the first Ormali I've spoken to since the Rescue. And naturally I am the first soldier of that campaign to speak with you.”

“No, Excellency. The first to speak with me was the corporal who kicked me unconscious because he wanted to rape my mother and sister, and could not find them.”

After Hercól had clamped a hand over his mouth and dragged him from the stateroom (with a look that made it clear just how thoroughly Pazel had cooked his own goose), after Uskins appeared and stripped him to the waist and tied his wrists to a fife-rail, after men gathered by the score to gawk and mumble about Rose's wrath, after someone began to lash him with a knotted whip and a gleeful Uskins shouted,
“Harder, wretch, or I'll demonstrate on you,”
after Pazel heard a sob and realized Neeps had been made to deliver the punishment, after Pazel felt tears streaming down his cheeks and blood trickling to his breeches—only then did the worst result of his outburst occur to him.

He would never see Thasha again.

But that was the least of his troubles, wasn't it? He had never much bothered with girls: everyone knew they spelled disaster in a seafarer's life.
Like coral isles
, went the saying:
pretty at a distance, ringed by reefs
.

He shouldn't care. He didn't even know her, and what he did know—that she was the daughter of the man who had burned Ormael, and pampered, and rather violent, and indiscreet—he did not much like. Did he?

Fire and fumes, Pazel. You do
.

It was a final, unexpected lash. She might have been a friend—after all these years, a friend!—but he would never find out now. And Neeps, his other friend: he would vanish, too, and kind Mr. Fiffengurt, and—oh, sky!—the chance of finding his parents and Neda again! If Dr. Chadfallow had really been guiding him back to them, Pazel had just thrown the chance away.

Suddenly he wished very humbly for the protection of the Imperial surgeon. What would happen to him? Who would care if he died?

Dr. Rain cleaned his wounds with eucalyptus oil and sent him back to his hammock. He could not lie in it, so he lay on his stomach on the filthy floor, hardly daring to sleep for fear that boys would tread on him in the blackness. And yet he must have slept, for sometime in that miserable night he found himself suddenly awake, possessed of a terrible awareness.

I've lost all my people
.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, Neeps returned from his night shift, felt his way to Pazel and gripped his arm. Pazel sat up, wincing, and Neeps handed him a pouch.

“What's this?”

Neeps did not make a sound. Pazel untied the pouch and felt inside. Coins, six or eight of them. By the weight Pazel knew they were gold.

“Where'd you get these, mate?”

Neeps said not a word. He pressed a second object into Pazel's hand. It was a folded knife.

“Neeps! Is that my father's knife? It is, isn't it?”

Neeps was still fumbling in his pockets. At last he produced a final gift: the ivory whale.

“Did you have to fight Jervik?” Pazel whispered.

Neeps sniffed. Only then did Pazel realize that he was sobbing with rage and shame.

“By my grandmother's bones on Sollochstal,” he said in his squeaky voice, “I'll see them pay for what they made me do to you.”

FROM THE SECRET JOURNAL OF
G. STARLING FIFFENGURT, QUARTERMASTER

Saturday, 13 Ilqrin
. Quiet sailing on a nervous ship. Rose is tyrannical & Uskins cruel, but both have kept to themselves these two days since the flogging of Pazel Pathkendle, as if sated by that wicked business. For Mr. P. P. of course there is no future: he shall be put ashore in Uturphe with a purse of horsemeat & the mark of shame upon his papers. Uskins that great hog tried to brand his wrists—
I
for Insolent on one,
R
for Reckless the other. He had Pathkendle in the smithy & was heating a branding iron when I arrived & intervened. Not very gently, either: I told him that iron would find new & uncomfortable quarters if he tried to use it on one of my boys. Uskins sneered at me for defending the
Muketch
—the boys' strange nickname for Pathkendle. I gather it has something to do with crabs.

Uskins did quite enough damage when he made the boy's best friend, Neeps Undrabust, dole out the lashes. Mr. Undrabust walks about looking as if he'd killed someone. He has also been fighting: Mr. Jervik Lank apparently remarked that Pathkendle was a “girly” because he'd cried under the lash—as if marines & mercenaries didn't as well!—& that Undrabust was worse, as he'd cried just because he had to whip a “daft Ormali.” Undrabust went for him like a wildcat. Fortunately Peytr & Dastu were on hand & tore him away before anyone was hurt.

I looked the other way on this occasion, but I won't be able to do so again. Fighting is a plague that must be stamped out quickly, lest it escape all control.

Sunday, 14 Ilqrin
. Foul dreams: Anni sick, her father forced to beg a loan from the Mangel thugs to buy medicine, a swarm of black insects over Etherhorde, a baby crying in the hold. Such visions have plagued me for weeks—since that awful night, in fact, when Mr. Aken of the Chathrand Trading Family was lost overboard, just a few leagues out of Ellisoq Bay. Only Swellows saw him fall, & though we dropped sail & put out the lantern craft, no trace of his body was found. Swellows claims he was staggering drunk, but I said nothing of this in the letter I wrote to his wife. His cabin showed no trace of liquor, & the offending bottle, if bottle there was, went with him to the deep. Rose led us in a prayer for the man's good soul—so sincerely that I could at last imagine the captain ending his days as a monk.

Currently Rose sits whole days at his desk, scribbling, leaving only for the sailmaster's report & his evening meal. Turwinnek Isle came & went, & the ruins of the ancient city of Nal-Burim on the southeast tip of Dremland. Commander Nagan's moon falcon was sent inland & returned with a fat grouse, which was served with mint at the captain's table tonight. Mr. Latzlo offered five hundred cockles for the bird, but the soldier loves his Niriviel & would not hear of it. One has to admire such gentle feelings in a fighting man.

Wednesday, 17 Ilqrin
. Confusion & delays. Strong SW winds had us tacking all but back toward home from Wednesday last to yesterday morning. Since then no wind to speak of: we are reduced to a crawling two knots.

The confusion though concerns our heading. Nal-Burim is the usual signal to trim due west, for any ship bound for the Crown-less Lands. But to general amazement Rose has given no such command: we are holding a south-by-southwest course, & leaving the mainland behind. Mr. Elkstem inquired at the Capt.'s door & was told to steer as instructed & blast his curiosity.

Last night Pazel Pathkendle was attacked by other boys in the darkness—tied into his hammock & pissed upon, told that he “should have been made a slave” & not “disgraced the best ship of the best people in Alifros.” His friends Undrabust and Reyast were elsewhere. No one will give me names.

For his own safety I have moved Pathkendle's hammock to the brig, where he will sleep under lock and key until expelled in Uturphe. If we ever get there.

Monday, 22 Ilqrin
. Harpooned a reaper shark; Teggatz made a soup. In his gullet (the shark's) found the whole skeleton of a human hand, with a fine silver ring on one finger. Our cook presented it to me with much blinking & rubbing of hands, & minutes later managed to say: “Bad shark.” I shall give the ring to Annabel one day, without the tale of its provenance.

Winds NW & freshened considerably: seven knots at the strike of the noon bell. Still bearing south.

Sunday, 28 Ilqrin
. This morning Rose gave the order to bear west—finally. At a minimum we have plunged eighty leagues out of our way. To what purpose? the men demand, & I have no answer.

Here's another oddity—one I'd nearly forgotten. Back in Etherhorde, Rose spared me the quartermaster's usual task of drumming up sailors to complete our crew: I was glad, for it gave me some last precious hours with Annabel. Mr. Swellows handled the recruiting, & he is ever keen to follow Rose's orders to the letter. How, then, did he end up signing so many Plapp's Pier men? They are capable sailors, certainly. But any fool knows the Great Ship's been crewed for generations by the Burnscove Boys.
^*

I took care to sort Plapps & Burnscovers into separate watches, & to mix 'em with those who don't belong to either gang. So far there have been no brawls—yet they will come, sure as I write these words. Thasha Isiq & her prince may wed, Arqual & the Mzithrin disarm, but the holy war of Plapp vs. Burnscove will rage on so long as there are crates of fish to fight over.

Wednesday, I
Modoli
. Apparently we have a maniac aboard. Last night by the No. 3 hatch someone attacked Hercól Stanapeth, Ambassador Isiq's valet, & nearly succeeded in killing the man. He was struck a fierce blow to the head that left him briefly senseless. Next he knew, this attacker was making to hurl him over the rail. At the last instant the would-be killer groaned & stumbled, & rather than tossing Hercól far out into the waves, he managed only to roll him over the side, where the valet's ankle caught in the mizzen-chains. The maniac then drew a knife & stabbed Hercól's leg three times. But the valet, in most extraordinary fashion, kicked the knife out of the man's hand with his free foot—this while dangling upsy-downsy, bleeding from head & leg, & knocking like a landed fish against the hull.