The Ruling Sea (12 page)

“We must hope so,” said Hercól. “But there is another question: what if he succeeds? No doubt he will destroy the Shaggat, lest by some guile of Arunis the madman be returned to life. But the Nilstone he cannot destroy: no power in Alifros can. Will he consent to guard it until some better resting place is found? It could break his dynasty—for although its merest touch slays the fearful, someone will always dream of using it, and perhaps succeed. Arunis for one believes that is possible.”

He looked gravely at each of them in turn. “We must never forget that our fates too are tied to the Stone. By our oath, first—to place it beyond the grasp of anyone vile enough to seek to use it—and by the mere fact that we are children of this world. Alifros is great, but the power of the Nilstone is limitless. There will be nowhere to hide if its power is unleashed.” Hercól turned to Thasha with a sigh. “I had counted on your father’s help in persuading Oshiram. But now—”

Thasha gasped. “Oh, the fool! What happened? He hit the king, didn’t he?”

The others smiled at one another but did not laugh. It would not do to be overheard; they were in mourning after all. Before anyone could explain, however, they were interrupted by a shrill cry.

“Hark the voice!”

They jumped. By the door to the washroom stood Felthrup Stargraven, the woken rat, terribly injured in yesterday’s battle. They crowded around him, overjoyed. He seemed remarkably steady on his three good feet (the fourth had been crushed by a drainpipe lid), and he twitched his short tail impatiently (another rat had long ago bitten it in two). Jorl and Suzyt barreled forward and licked him, an act of love in which Felthrup might soon have drowned.

But the rat shook them off and squeaked again: “Hark the voice, the voice in the distance! Can’t you
hear?”

They held still. And hear it they did: a man’s voice from an impossible distance, rising and falling gravely.

“It’s that priest again,” said Pazel. “The one they call the Father. But I can’t make out what he’s saying.”

“He is saying we shall die!” cried that rat.

“What?”

“Die, die! Not literally, of course. Not even metaphorically. Nor by inference intended—but how, pray, does a speaker know what his listener infers? And in the strictest sense what he is saying is not the point so much as the indisputable fact that
it is being said
. Bellowed, blasted, harrooed—”

“Felthrup,” said Diadrelu. “You are healed. Your chatter proves it. But whatever are you talking about?”

“There’s a bell ringing now,” said Pazel.

Felthrup spun in a circle, too upset to hold still. “Not one bell—two! Disaster, disaster!”

They opened more windows: indeed there were two bells, one high, one low, sounding precisely together so that the notes seemed to fuse as one. And now from the shore came voices, incredulous voices, crying out in delight.

“But that’s the wedding signal,” Thasha said. “Simjans ring two bells at once to show that a couple is married. But we’re not! We never spoke any vows!”

“Besides, they all think you’re dead,” said Neeps.

“So what’s happening?” Thasha demanded.

“Oh, woe, woe, woe!” cried Felthrup.

Like the rat himself, Pazel found he could be still no longer. Despite shouts from the others he dashed across the stateroom, slipped through the door, and ran along the short passage to the upper gun deck. Men were hastening to the ladderways (really staircases, but so steep that handholds were carved into the steps), leaving swabs and buckets and half-spliced ropes where they lay. Pazel climbed with them. When they reached the topdeck the crowd was already enormous. All stood to portside, gazing at the shore.

Among them Pazel was glad to find Dastu, his favorite among the senior tarboys. He was a broad-shouldered twenty-year-old from the rough Etherhorde district of Smelter’s Den. Like nearly everyone, Dastu was a bit afraid of Pazel—at his touch a man had turned to stone, after all. But Dastu had never once called him
Muketch
(mud crab), as almost all the other boys did when they realized he was Ormali. Dastu still looked him in the eye. And Dastu shared his knowledge of the
Chathrand
, its hidden corners, legends, slang. The No. 5 ladderway, close to the stateroom: that was the Silver Stair, because rich passengers used it, and sometimes sealed the Money Gate to keep the riffraff away from their cabins. Ladderway No. 1 (at the starboard bow) was the Holy Stair, because it was there that old Captain Kurlstaf had heard the voice of Rin. In a sense these little details hardly mattered. But Dastu’s efforts did, immensely.

The older boy made room along the rail. “No one knows what’s happening,” he said. “Those cheers sound blary happy, though, don’t they? Strange way to show respect for the dead.”

“Any sign of Admiral Isiq?” asked Pazel.

Dastu shook his head. “Nobody’s come aboard since you did. And the rest of us are trapped out here, blast it.”

Trapped
. Dastu was not exaggerating. Captain Rose and the marine commander, Sergeant Drellarek, had authorized no shore leave: only the wedding party had touched land. Sickness had provided a handy excuse: two days earlier the talking fever had broken out in Ormael, where the
Chathrand
had lain at anchor for a week. Dr. Chadfallow had pronounced Thasha and her family in perfect health, but cautioned that the rest of the crew would have to be examined one by one—a process that might take days.

The truth, of course, was that anyone who did go ashore would surely speak of the violent madness they had witnessed on the Great Ship. That was a risk the conspirators could not take.

“The men must be angry,” whispered Pazel.

“Fit to be hogtied,” said Dastu. “And the passengers! Do you realize we’ve got forty passengers aboard? Just for appearances, mate! There’s a big Atamyric family—parents, children, old aunts and uncles—trying to get home via Etherhorde. Some Simjans too. How do you think
that
would play ashore?”

“Where are they? Locked down in steerage?”

Datsu nodded. “Except for Latzlo and Bolutu: Uskins boarded them up in their cabins till we get under way. You can bet your breakfast those two are wishing they’d disembarked in Tressik.”

Pazel shook his head. Latzlo was a dealer in exotic animals. He had been with them all the way from Etherhorde, selling walrus ivory in one port, buying sapphire doves in another, trading six-legged bats for fox pelts in a third. But trade alone had not kept him aboard. He wanted to marry Pacu Lapadolma.

No one could deny that he was an optimist. In three months Pazel had heard the girl speak just four words to her suitor: “You reek of dung.” If she mentioned him to others it was not by name but as “the imbecile” or “that wrinkled ape.” Latzlo did not seem to mind: indeed he went on discussing names for their children with anyone who cared to hear.

Bolutu was an even stranger case. A veterinarian much favored by the Imperial family, he was also a student of the Rinfaith and had taken the vows of a journeyman monk. He was a black man, and there was even a rumor that he was a Slevran, one of the savage nomads of the northern steppe—but yesterday Pazel had heard him speak Mzithrini. Surely, then, he was an enemy spy? But what good was a spy whose looks, acts and voice drew so much attention?

Pazel winced. Not his voice, not anymore. Yesterday, enraged at the man’s interference, Arunis had magically forced Bolutu’s mouth open and set a live coal upon his tongue. Ramachni had stopped the burning with a counter-spell, no doubt saving the veterinarian’s life. But nothing could be done about the tongue. Already Pazel had noticed Bolutu communicating through scribbles in a notebook.

Another happy roar from the city. Pazel looked toward the port and saw men dashing, leaping from one tethered boat to another, making for the city center. “It’s too weird,” he said to Dastu. “What’ve they got to cheer about?”

“See that boat!” cried a sailor on their left. “Ain’t that Dr. Chadfallow in the stern?”

And so it was. The doctor was seated in a long skiff, helping out with the oars. Pulling away on his right was Arunis. Uskins, the first mate, was also aboard. They were nearing the
Jistrolloq
, the White Reaper, fiercest warship of the Mzithrinis’ White Fleet. She was anchored less than half a mile from the
Chathrand:
close enough for Pazel to see the enemy sailors gathering at her bows.

“They look like old shipmates,” growled Dastu. “He’s as much a villain as Arunis himself, that doctor is.”

Pazel’s hands tightened on the rail.
We won the first round
, he thought.
We smashed Ott’s prophecy to pieces
. So what was Felthrup afraid of? And what on earth was keeping Eberzam Isiq?

Now the little boat drew alongside the
Jistrolloq
, and Pazel saw Chadfallow stand to speak with a Mzithrini officer, possibly the captain himself. What the doctor said he could not hear, but the sailors clustered at the warship’s rail greeted his words with astonished cries. After a moment the doctor sat again, and the skiff turned toward the
Chathrand
.

“By the Tree,” said Dastu. “The Sizzies are running a new flag up their mainmast! Not their Imperial banner, either. What is it?”

All the Mzithrini ships were doing the same. There were cheers as the pennants rose.

“It’s a coat of arms,” said Pazel softly. “It’s
Falmurqat’s
coat of arms.”

“Falmurqat?” said Dastu. “The prince who was supposed to marry Thasha? Why?”

At that very moment the fireworks began to pop. Whistlers and crackers, bomblets and boomers, followed by the neighs of frightened horses and the barks of hysterical dogs.

Pazel watched the skiff approach. Dr. Chadfallow was grim, his face hardened against the rancor virtually everyone on the
Chathrand
felt for him. But Arunis was smiling: a smile of triumph, or so Pazel imagined. Mr. Uskins just looked afraid.

Neeps appeared beside them. He looked at Pazel, ashen-faced.

“Felthrup has this horrible idea—”

“Chathrand! Urloh-leh-li! Ahoy ship Chathrand!”

It was a shout from the
Jistrolloq:
a Mzithrini officer on her foremast was hailing them through a voice-trumpet. On the
Chathrand’s
own maintop the officer of the watch put a hand to his ear.

“Felthrup’s right,” said Pazel.

Dastu looked from one to the other. “What are you talking about? Who’s Felthrup?”

“Admiral Kuminzat begs the honor of serving Captain Rose, Admiral Isiq and such officers as you choose,”
boomed the Mzithrini.
“An hour past sunset, aboard this his flagship. Seven dishes and a puff-pastry, with Mangali cordials to follow.”

On the skiff, Arunis put back his head and laughed.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” said Neeps.

“A soldier’s daughter.” Pazel ground his fists against his forehead. “Damn him. Gods damn that man.”

Dastu was at a loss. “Who, damn who?”

“They’re chanting her name,” said Neeps.

“Whose name, blast it?” said Dastu. “Thasha’s?”

“No,” said Pazel. “The
other
soldier’s daughter. The one Sandor Ott had in his pocket all this time. The girl Prince Falmurqat just married. Pacu Lapadolma.”

Without another word he and Neeps turned and headed aft. All night the circle of friends huddled in the stateroom, conspiring anew but feeling checkmated. All night the fireworks exploded over Simjalla, gold and green and silver, and when the wind blew right they heard the chanting, even to the hour of dawn:
Pacu, Pacu, Queen of Peace!

5
From the Editor: A Word of Explanation

I will ask you very plainly: has anything, ever, been more absurd, more whimsical, more devoid of probability and good sense? That I should be given to witness these events and record them, here in my palace of books and meditation and cold unsalted soup? That with an iron stylus I should scribble away the fair days and the foul, write past the stroke of midnight under a lamp burning the ooze of a giant beetle, gaze like a bird hypnotized by the sway of the cobra’s hood at the events that shaped my life—their lives—all lives in unlucky Alifros?