The Night of the Swarm tcv-4

by Robert V. S. Redick

  Tuesday, 28 Modobrin 941.

  Felthrup is sleepwalking. This is preferable, he declares, to not sleeping at all, by which malady he nearly perished on the Ruling Sea. Yet any sleep disorder in the rat should set alarm bells ringing throughout the Chathrand. His insomnia proved to be his way of fighting Arunis, who was attacking the minds of who-knows-how-many crewmembers as he tried to master the Nilstone.

  He has come a long way as a dreamer, Felthrup declares. Time was that Arunis had infiltrated his dreams, and placed a lock on them, so that he could torture and interrogate the rat all night, and be certain Felthrup would be none the wiser by day. Now that lock is broken (another result of the sorcerer’s death, maybe?) and Ratty can remember his dreams like anyone else: imperfectly, that is, and through the veil that falls with the opening of the eyes. I ask what he thinks he’s searching for, when he roams the passageways, or bumps along the edges of the stateroom chambers in his sleep. ‘The doors of a club,’ he tells me cryptically. ‘I have a friend there who might help us, if I can only find him.’

  Marila has a little bulge at her beltline already, as though her stomach aspires to catch up with those round cheeks of hers. Felthrup tells me that she is ‘miserable, weak, sickly, ill-humoured, dolorous’, but he is distressed whenever one of us suffers a hangnail. What is certain is that Mrs Undrabust has no patience with the indignities of her condition. She storms about looking for work and grows irritated when the women steerage passengers — old spinsters to the last, since the desertions in Masalym5 — coo and cluck at her and tell her she should be abed. Mr Teggatz lives in fear of her: she is usually famished but gags on his offerings. The tarboys are sniggering over a rumour that she begged the cook for a salted pig’s ear, claiming it was for Thasha’s dogs, and then was seen gnawing it herself on the No. 3 ladderway.

  Dr Chadfallow, for his part, is healing — Ott knows just how far to torture a man — but he is broken in spirit, and does not hide the fact. ‘I have chosen all the wrong paths in life,’ he said this evening, as Marila and I changed his bandages. ‘I should never have set foot in the Keep of Five Domes. I grew to like it there, among the jewels and courtesans. I thought I could stand beside Magad and nudge his Empire towards the good. I thought reason would prevail. Self-delusion, nothing more. The Emperor gelded me the day he called me to court.’

  At that Felthrup began to leap up and down. ‘The villain! The wretch! Was the operation terribly painful?’

  ‘Hush, Ratty, it was a figure of speech,’ I said. And to Chadfallow: ‘All you could do was try, man. Nobody steers a ship but the captain.’

  The doctor was having none of that. ‘When a captain will not turn you must place another boat across his way. I should have fought Magad sooner, while there was still time.’

  ‘You’d have made a lousy rebel,’ put in Marila, who has a knack for getting to the heart of things. ‘You’d have just been hanged or stabbed or something. And then you’d never have invented your parasite pills, and I’d have died when I was eight.’

  Chadfallow snorted, then winced with pain, but for a moment I saw pleasure in his eyes.

  He is not alone in his melancholy, of course. Rose is still hermited in his cabin; Uskins still shuffles about like the walking dead. The men are grim, the tarboys witless with fear, the dlomu simply astonished. They hang together, these dlomu. Rin knows they must need the comfort of familiar faces, when all they see are pale humans, ghost faces to them, their country’s exterminated slaves come back to life. They sleep on the boards, play a game with dice and chalk lines, exercise at dawn. Teggatz says they don’t eat much — not more than half what a human eats — but after labour how they will gobble mul. I’ve watched ’em knead those sticky globs like bread dough, then chew and chew ’til a peaceful look steals over them, and they sleep. I’ve eaten the stuff myself (bland and vaguely foul it is) but still haven’t a clue what’s in it.

  As I say, they’re close. Still the ganglords smell fresh blood and are trying their luck at recruiting. This evening I heard Kruno Burnscove make a pitch to three of the youngest dlomu. Protection, he kept saying. ‘At the darkest hour, you’ll need more than forty brothers and sisters, won’t ye now? Human beings are wicked, you have no muckin’ idea. If we get lost out there, and the food gets low? You think them Plapps will settle for that dlomic putty you live on? Why, they’ll kill you and cut out your fat and boil it up into a stew. They’ve done it on other ships, lads. There’s witnesses aboard.’

  He noticed me listening, then, but only smiled. What was I going to do about it?

  ‘All lies,’ I told the dlomu. ‘Pay no attention, lads. There’s strychnine on certain tongues.’

  ‘He would say that,’ Burnscove countered, pointing at me with a blackened nail. ‘Let me tell you about the neighbourhood this one comes from-’

  We bickered, but I could tell who had their ears. So could Kruno Burnscove, whose twinkle kept on brightening. Rose still needs the gangs; their hatred of each other protects him from any serious threat of mutiny. Otherwise he’d long ago have cut the heads off those twin snakes.

  Thursday, 31 Modobrin 941.

  A ghastly night. Marila came weeping to my door. Sharp pains in her gut, and vomiting too: the poor girl was a sight. I put her in my bunk and ran to Chadfallow, hating to think of him rising and tearing all his stitches. But Felthrup was there ahead of me (he is Marila’s constant guardian in the stateroom), nipping at his ankles, chiding him to be careful.

  ‘Dysentery, if she’s lucky,’ said Chadfallow. ‘Nothing to do with the pregnancy — but I’ve seen it end a few. We must be ready for that.’ He sent me dashing off to Teggatz with a fistful of herbs to brew into tea. By the time I got back to my cabin he and Ratty were there, and Marila was moaning. She threw up the first cup; the second gave her the runs. A crowd gathered in the passage, hushed and fearful. Of all forms of good luck that sailors believe in, a babe in a lawful, wedded womb is the most potent. Not the cruellest bastard aboard wanted her to lose the child.

  Marila sipped that brew for hours, Teggatz rushing back and forth from the galley with fresh kettles, Chadfallow taking her temperature, sniffing her sweat, making her blow up little balloons Rin knows what else besides, Ratty flying about my little cabin like blary ball lightning, insisting that everything be ‘perfect, please everyone, not good enough, passable, tolerable, tarboyish, rodent-grade — perfect!’ and Marila herself moaning and squatting mortified on chamber pots behind a blanket. No blood, she’d say, and we’d all sigh and swear.

  Very late, the symptoms broke. Marila lay still, breathing easier, and the crowd drifted away, smiling like children. In time she persuaded Chadfallow to go to his rest, and I sent Felthrup along behind to see that he did so. Marila fell asleep gripping my sleeve. I lowered myself to the floor and closed my eyes. If anyone can bring us hope it will be young Mrs Undrabust.

  I dreamed of the other youths. Pathkendle toppling from a bridge. Undrabust knuckle-walking like an ape. Thasha trapped in stone like a fly in amber. I had the power to save them from those calamities, to pull them together in my arms, and wonder of wonders, when I did so we had all become the same age, each of us in our bursting prime, unbent and exuberant and delivered from fear. They’re my kin, I thought, and why did it take so long to see it? For the journey was ended; someone was calling me away. And I only knew the place they had in my heart because I was leaving, because we’d never live beneath the same roof again. I woke stricken, on the point of blubbering tears.

  Then my eyes snapped open. An ixchel was crouched on my foot locker, gazing at me. I started to rise, and knocked over the little stand with the tea kettle, waking Marila with a gasp.

  The ixchel was gone. Surely I’d had a dream within a dream? ‘What is it, what’s happened?’ cried Marila. Nothing, dear, nothing. Old men will have nightmares, they talk to themselves, you should never spend the night in their company.

  But the vision troubled me throughout the day. For it was not just a
ny ixchel I’d dreamed about. It was Talag, their lord and elder, the embodiment of the clan. A genius and a fanatic, and a man who’d not be pried away from his people by any power on earth.

  Friday, 1 Halar 942.

  By our shipboard reckoning it is New Year’s Day. And thus the first day of spring in the North — though here the dlomu say that autumn has begun. And why should I expect anything comforting and familiar? Everything is backwards here. There are mould spores on the biscuits of a colour I’ve never seen in my life. There’s a second moon in the sky. Creatures with the skin of black eels and spun-silver hair rule an empire, and humans — what are they? Formerly slaves; today nothing at all, a bad memory, a handful of mindless scavengers dying of hunger in the wild. Rin’s mercy, what will happen to those we left behind?

  The new year. Start of the twenty-nineth in the reign of that crooked man I shall never again call His Supremacy. I once adored him, our Magad of Arqual. I knew he’d had a hand in driving Empress Maisa from the throne, but the fact never troubled me. She was corrupt and twisted, she had to be — my schoolteachers had told us so. Never mind that the Abbot’s Prayer we said every morning had included a plea to Rin for her safekeeping. One morning she was our Empress; the next her portrait came down, and we were told that she was a villainess, and had been ‘mercifully’ allowed to flee into exile. They spoke of her with shame, that day. The following morning no one spoke of her at all. The last time I pronounced her name it was to my brother Gellin, and he hushed me angrily. ‘Don’t you ever pay attention, Graff? We’re not to mention that whore. She’s a stain on Arqual and best forgot.’

  I didn’t argue. He was right; I was certain of it. Our generation had rather too many certainties.

  Thirty years would pass before I heard another tale of Maisa’s overthrow. Hercol Stanapeth’s was a darker tale, but I didn’t have to be terrified or bullied into believing it. And we live (don’t we now?) in the hope that it may yet end well.

  Whatever the future holds, this new year is starting off as dismal as the inside of a shark. The men’s feet drag, their eyes wear foggy veils of despair. They’re haunted by this day, of what it could be for them, what it has been. The work furloughs, the gifts of candy, the kids screaming and hugging your knees. The games and laughter. The wine gulped, the girls kissed, the marriages consummated or destroyed. So precious, even the bad memories, here on an alien sea.

  Then at midday Rose proves once more his gift for shocking us (the man’s mind is a jungle; at any moment a bright bird may issue from it, or a gruesome snake). We’re assembled on deck, even the late watch rousted and dragged into daylight, and there from the quarterdeck he bids us believe in the future: ‘As I told you once before, lads, the future we can fight for, not be given.” He doesn’t elaborate, mercifully enough: we are none of us open to pretty speeches any more. But he does bring forth the apple-cheeked Altymiran woman who helps out Teggatz in the galley. She’s well liked, and has regained a bit of her plumpness on the rations provided by Prince Olik. She also turns out to have the lungs of a choir mistress, and she sings us a naive little melody about the lambing-time in Arqual, and blast me if she doesn’t turn us all to lambs for ninety seconds or so.

  Next comes his real trick: the old fox suddenly produces thirty bottles of aged juniper idzu, secured in his cabin since Etherhorde, he says — but in what rat-proof, wave-proof miracle of packing I should like very much to know. The men don’t care to ask: tarboys have brought our tin cups from the galley and are passing them quickly. Rose breaks the sealing wax and pours a thimbleful. Before a silent ship, he drinks, swallows, considers. Then he nods and looks at us.

  ‘No better idzu could I obtain in the capital,’ he said softly, ‘and I would have you know two things. First, neither I nor anyone aboard has partaken of this store, until this moment. Second, that I am a fair judge of liquor-’ there are chuckles at the understatement ‘-and this drink is fine. Truth be told, it surpasses the drink they plied me with in the Keep of Five Domes, when I dined with the Emperor’s sons. If it were possible, I should declare it fit for you — fit for the most capable and dauntless men ever born beneath the arc of heaven, born to make mockery of hardship, born to crack an old, bedevilled skipper’s heart with pride. I should like to declare it that good — but nothing is that good. It is all I have to give you this New Year’s Day. A drink, and my promise to fight for our lives, hard as it may be to find the path to their salvation. Drink now to its finding, men of the Chathrand. That is all.’

  The crew roared. Staggered, I looked out over that throng of wretches. Plapps and Burnscovers, sailors and Turachs, even some of the folk we’d blary kidnapped on Simja: all cheering. They hadn’t even tasted the drink, but what did it matter? The Red Beast had praised them to heaven, and they loved him, suddenly. The drink went round; it was ambrosial and strong as the devil’s mead. ‘He’s not just our captain, he’s our father!’ shouted a young midshipman, and seconds later I heard a song we used to sing in Temple School, on the lips of hundreds of overgrown boys:

  Father dauntless, we’re your lads, through cold and darkness wending.

  Climb we will that blasted hill,

  Lonely, sad but marching still

  Father fearless, lead us on, the night is surely ending.

  They pressed close to him. Rose never did smile: that would have diluted the effect. He only nodded, urging them to drink, and the idzu was gone before anyone could get too afflicted. They went singing to their stations, those wretches. I turned and slipped through a crowd of bewildered dlomu, making faces at the strange stuff in their cups and stranger joy in the humans around them, and then I saw Sandor Ott at the No. 4 hatch, looking over the scene with a certain abhorrence. I could have laughed. This is why you need him, killer. This is why you don’t dare make a final enemy of the man.

  Saturday, 2 Halar 942. The second day of any year is a disappointment. This one was marked by weird and hideous events. The predawn watch came off their shift wild-eyed and swearing: one of them had heard music in the darkness, flutes, but no players could they find, aloft or below. Already the talk is of ghosts. Did you see ghosts, I enquire? Well no, Mr F, not as such. But who made that music, eh? A fevered imagination, that’s who, I told ’em, but I wasn’t getting through. Ghosts, they insisted. Of course Rose’s endless mutterings on the subject have made it hard for even the natural sceptics among them to hold steady.

  At two bells, the expected cry finally comes: land ahead, a mist-fuzzed shadow, and another spotted minutes later, further west. They are the Sparrows, the dlomu aboard tell us: little no-count islands, but for any ship with business in the Island Wilderness the sight of them marks the moment for turning away from the continent once and for all. With double hands on the braces we’re soon tacking northwards. I look back and cannot see the Sandwall. But when I close my eyes I see their faces, plain as my hand: Thasha and Pathkendle, Undrabust and Hercol. I don’t believe in prayer, and yet I pray.

  Five bells. I’m on the berth deck (routine inspection, no whimpering tarboys any more) when from the orlop below comes a howl such as man gives only when running for his life. I’m down the ladderway in seconds, with Teggatz and the tarboy Jervik Lank on my heels and Mr Bindhammer racing ahead. Rin save us, who do we see but the purser, Old Gangrune, running like a lad of twenty, and just behind him a mountain of red muscle and white tusks and slobber. It’s the Red River hog — the same mucking animal that disappeared in the rat war — fat and huge and furious, and before we can do more than gawk they’re both around the bend in the corridor.

  Alas for Gangrune it was a dead-end passage. We charged in, screaming, but the beast was already goring the man, waving him about on its tusks like a dishrag. We attacked and a horrid melee it was. No boar in Alifros compares to a Red River either in size or sheer mean mordaciousness. Bindhammer was trampled. Jervik stabbed the beast in the jaw but his little knife broke off at the hilt. Teggatz had brought a meat cleaver and lopped a slab of pork from one
fatty shoulder. The hog turned screaming and caught his arm near the elbow, and you could see his arm would not long inconvenience those boltcutter jaws, so I drove my knife into the neck of the beast, once, twice, thrice, and the third time it screamed again and backed off Teggatz and smashed me up against the wall. I lost my knife. I locked my hands on those tusks but they were slippery with blood and then it chomped me, Gods of Death, it’s a wonder this left hand ain’t in its belly right now.

  I have Jervik to thank for that. He picked up the cleaver and proceeded to carve his way into the hog’s right buttock, deranged and deadly he looked, and the hog whirled and trampled him worse than Bindhammer, and Pitfire if all four of us weren’t down, bleeding, beaten flat and the hog not remotely tired of thrashing us, and a few men I’d like to vivisect just gazing meekly around the corner, and then a huge shadow and a roar and Refeg the augrong lifted the beast off Jervik, smashed it left and right, shattering the walls, and then his brother Rer caught up from behind and bit down on one huge kicking hog-leg. A crack, a squeal. The thing kept fighting. They had to tear it apart.

  Tonight we are all still alive, though Bindhammer’s lung is collapsed and he fights for breath, and Jervik is so bruised and battered he can scarcely move. But the hog! I know its history: that fool Latzlo meant to sell it to the highest bidder, for the feasts after Thasha’s wedding. He’d fattened it out of his own purse, all the way to Simjalla City. Of course neither he nor his prize pig ever made it ashore.

  Where can the beast have hidden, all this time? The answer is nowhere. We run a tight ship; nothing half its size could be overlooked for long. I think back to the ixchels’ accusations, when they were still in charge: that we were hiding cattle and goats somewhere aboard. They claimed they’d heard the creatures, a moo-moo here, a bleat-bleat there, and we just laughed in their faces. No one is laughing any more.