Still, Pazel was in love. There are few things more beautiful than a full-rigged ship, and the Chathrand was a marvel to shame all others. Every inch of her seemed the work of mages. There were the famous glass planks: six mighty, translucent windows, built directly into the floor of the topdeck, flooding the main deck below with daylight. The main deck itself had two glass planks, and one survived in the floor of the upper gun deck. Over all of these men dragged crate and cannon without a second thought: in six hundred years they had never cracked, nor even sprung a leak. A few had been lost to great violence—cannon fire, falling masts—and had to be replaced with wood, for no record told the name of that wondrous crystal, nor how it had been made or mined.
The speaking-tubes were another marvel: slim copper pipes wrapped in leather, snaking between decks and compartments from stem to stern. They were not much good in foul weather, and useless in a fight, when the cannon deafened everyone. But on calm days the captain could address the officer at the helm without rising from his desk, or call for tea without leaving the quarterdeck.
Stranger sights abounded on the lower decks. Peytr showed them a gunport near the bows where a white, curved object the length of Pazel's forearm lay embedded in the wood. The boys gasped when they realized they were looking at a tooth. “Fang of a sea-serpent,” Dastu told them. “Killed four hundred years ago by the gunners at this very window. They sealed a crack in the hull with it, as you can see: good luck, that, or so they hoped.”
“And that's not the scariest thing on this ship,” said Peytr.
“No, brother, it ain't,” said Dastu quickly. “But some things we'll not discuss today.”
Of course, not naming such “things” left the tarboys more curious than ever, and soon the rumors began. Curses; creatures in the hold; weird rites among the sailors; tarboys pickled in barrels of brine: by evening Pazel had heard them all. “There's a beam in the afterhold,” a freckled boy named Durbee whispered to him, “with the names of all them what's been killed aboard since the day she launched. And even though each name's the size of a grain of rice the list stretches thirteen yards.”
“Then there's the vanishing compartments,” said the one called Swift. “If you ever see a door or a hatch where none should be—don't open it! Horrible things in those chambers—and one of 'em never lets you leave again if the door shuts behind you.”
“And s-s-s-somewhere,” put in Reyast, a kind-faced new boy whose lips quivered with his perpetual stutter, “there's a t-t-talking floorboard. It g-g-groans in the voice of a c-c-c-captain who went m-ma-maaa—”
“Nonsense, Reyast!” said Dastu, overhearing. “Rose is the only captain you should be thinking about. Fear him, if you must fear somebody, and stay out of his path. Now come along, all of you! Get those hammocks up!”
They had only just been assigned their hammocks—patched and moth-eaten, the sailors' rejects—and were scrambling to claim hanging-spots on the berth deck. The older boys showed them how to sling the hammocks from the great ceiling posts called stanchions, and how to climb the post-pegs of a lower hammock up to one's own without knocking them free and sending one's neighbor crashing down. The hammocks were hung three deep: Pazel found himself on a middle level, with Neeps above him and Reyast below.
“Footlockers to starboard,” Peytr had told them, toeing a heavy box. “Lashed tight against the bulkhead except in port and between shifts. Three boys to a box. There's fresh shirts and breeches for you, but don't you touch 'em till you've been scrubbed proper—deverminated, as we say, made pretty for the home port. Like as not Mr. Fiffengurt will burn your old rags in the furnace.”
At lunchtime, the new boys had to wait on the hundred sailors of the Third Watch, who gobbled their food and grog with enormous pleasure and shouted for more as the boys rushed up and down the stairs from the galley in a nonstop panic. Howling with laughter, the sailors teased them, saying that Captain Rose would make them run with a cannonball under each arm if they didn't step lively.
“And don't let yer fleas get into me sub-stunnance!”
“He he he! And some Ulluprid rum while you're at it, duckies!”
“Or better yet one o' them Ulluprid girlies. Can ye cook that up?”
As their own midday meal (beef hash with carrots and yams, this time) was ending, Fiffengurt appeared with a tattered sealskin logbook and a blue quill. He cleared a space on the table and addressed each new boy in turn. Birthplace? Previous ship, if any? Illnesses? Schooling? Skills? Everything they told him went into his logbook.
Pazel dreaded his turn. All day long he'd heard whispers behind his back—guesses and speculations about his skin and accent. When he named Ormael as his birthplace there were winks and muffled laughter.
Fiffengurt looked up from his book, and for the first time since their arrival looked genuinely angry. The laughter ceased. Then Fiffengurt asked for his previous ships. By the time Pazel had listed all six, the boys' faces were still and thoughtful.
“How did you learn Arquali so well?” said Fiffengurt, writing smoothly.
“I worked hard at school, sir,” Pazel answered with perfect truth. His fine Arquali had nothing to do with his mother's spell.
When the interviews were done, Fiffengurt told the boys about their duties. Pazel was glad that for all the Chathrand's size, the tasks that kept her sailing were like those of any ship, and he knew them well. Tarboys did not set sails, or weigh anchor, or stand watch, but they helped the sailors in all these tasks, and did a thousand more besides. If they were not mending sailcloth they might be washing uniforms, sanding anchor-chain, filing down old floor nails or hammering new ones. Then there were the running errands: coal to the galley, meals to the men, water for officers, snuff for the first-class lounge. The galley itself needed twenty boys at a shift. Each deck got a daily scrub. Every rope wore a protective skin of tar.
“How much rigging do we carry, boys?” Fiffengurt asked. “Can ye guess?”
“Leagues and leagues!”
“A mile's worth! Two miles!”
Fiffengurt laughed. “Thirty-nine miles,” he said. “And there won't be a fray or a weakness in any bit 'o them, lads. Not while Nilus Rose is captain.”
During the whole of that day his Gift barely made itself felt: all the boys spoke Arquali, even if a few, like Pazel himself, had a different mother tongue. Still the purring went on in the back of his head, and now and then a sailor cursed or muttered about new tarboys underfoot, and Pazel knew his Gift was translating.
Then at dusk an incident occurred that brought back his old fear of madness. The boys were on the topdeck, center aft, listening to First Mate Uskins' loud and rather sinister lecture on what he called the Five Zones. The point of his harangue seemed to be that the higher your rank, the more parts of the ship you could visit without orders or express permission. The captain was the only “Five-Zone man” aboard: he could of course go anywhere; but no one, not even the first mate (Uskins leaned forward and struck his own chest), might enter the captain's quarters uninvited. Think of it, boys! And he, Uskins, was a Four-Zone man!
His dramatic speech ground on toward the inevitable final comment on their own status as lowest of the low (a remark Uskins seemed to look forward to). As he boomed and huffed, Pazel realized one of the boys was whispering on his left. It was an odd whisper, not at all mindful of Uskins. Someone, thought Pazel, is making a big mistake.
When Uskins turned to gesture at the forecastle, Pazel risked a glance. There was no one on his left. He snapped his eyes forward again, perplexed. He had distinctly heard a voice.
A moment later it came again, louder this time: “They ate well today. Shepherd's pie for breakfast.”
Definitely on his left. But before Pazel had a chance to look again a second voice answered the first. This one was low and bitterly amused.
“Of course they did. And they'll eat well until the gangway's dismantled. You can't have boys deserting before the voyage starts.”
Was he dreamin
g? There was absolutely no one in sight: just the bare deck, and a grate covering the shot-locker hatch, the little shaft by which cannonballs could be hoisted to the forward guns. Pazel glanced quickly at Neeps. The other boy caught his eye, but there was no look of understanding. Neeps hadn't heard a thing.
“You see that posture? Chin up, hands behind the back? He's been to school, that one.”
Pazel blinked. His hands were folded behind his back.
“From the Keppery Isles?” asked the first voice.
“Wrong color. That's not just sun on his skin.”
Despite himself, Pazel cast a glance at his brown feet.
“Fidgets a lot. He'll stand out, Taliktrum.”
“He was quite still a moment ago.”
He wasn't dreaming, he was merely insane. The voices were coming from the grate. Whenever Uskins gave him the chance, Pazel squinted at it. The shaft was about two feet square. That one person might be inside it seemed absurd. That two might was simply impossible.
Then the voice said, “Ormael.”
Pazel could not breathe. He'd had years of practice at hiding his feelings from dangerous men, but nothing had prepared him for what was happening now. They were talking about him!
“Ormael! That's it! Rin's eyes, a lad from the Trothe of Chereste! He must hate them to his marrow! Give him a match and he'll burn her to the waterline!”
“That remains to be seen, Ludunte. But what's the matter with him? He's beginning to look sick.”
“Just our luck if he drops dead before—”
“Quiet!”
Pazel was shaking. Fortunately Uskins took no notice: his conclusion was carrying him away: “You may not touch the ladder to the quarterdeck. You may not open a fastened hatch. You may not touch a backstay, or a forestay, or slouch against a mast, or malinger about the galley, on pain of—”
“Did you bend your voice?”
“Of course not!”
Pazel could no longer stand it. He trained his eyes directly on the grate, and the voices broke off. He could see nothing, but he had the strangest feeling that he had locked eyes with two invisible beings.
Neeps elbowed him a warning. Pazel wrenched his gaze back to Uskins, trembling. At once the two voices resumed.
“I'll be damned to the Pit! He hears!”
“He can't! He can't!”
“He does! Look at him!”
“A freak, a monster! Taliktrum, we'll have to—”
Uskins cleared his throat. He was looking straight at Pazel.
“What the devil is the matter with you?” the first mate demanded.
Now all eyes were on him.
“N-n-nothing, Mr. Uskins. Sir!”
Uskins' eyes narrowed. He squared his shoulders. “You're the Ormali,” he said. “Pathkendle.”
“That's right, sir.”
“I do not need you to assure me I am right!” boomed Uskins, in a voice that turned heads around the topdeck.
“I'm sorry, sir.”
“Tarboys do not presume to confirm an officer's statements! If the officer's word is doubted, what good can a tarboy's do? Of course it can do no good at all. Isn't that so, Pathkendle?”
“I … uh … yes, yes, sir.”
“You hesitated. Why?”
“Pardon me, sir. You just told me not to confirm your statements.”
“Silence! Silence! Wharf cur! You dare make sport of me? Go empty your bladder, as you so visibly need to do, and then fetch lye from the galley and scrub those heads till they gleam! And when you see your own reflection remind yourself how lucky you are not to be whipped, you miserable, clever, ruddy-skinned runt! You other boys are dismissed!”
By heads Uskins meant the toilets, which on sailing ships are placed as far forward as possible so that the wind, always a bit faster than the ship itself, carries the reek of them away. The Chathrand's complement was two rows of eight, an astonishing number. He was still going at it with a long brush and lye when the order came to strike moorings, and sailors dashed to their stations, and the running pennants were hoisted to the topmasts. Hardly the glorious moment Pazel had dreamed of that first night on the Eniel. Still, he felt lucky when he thought of Uskins' error: better to be thought weak in the bladder than soft in the head. Or convulsive. Or possessed.
He was none of these, of course. Once the fright left him he had realized at once what was happening. There had been something in the shot-locker shaft. Two somethings, and they had watched him in fascination. Pazel had a good idea what kind of beings they were. The mystery was what they could possibly want with him.
Finally done with his smelly task, he stepped out onto the forecastle only to see Fiffengurt backing toward him, craning his neck to study the crosstrees.
“Pathkendle!” he said. “Head detail already? What's this about?”
“I … I don't honestly know, sir,” said Pazel. “Mr. Uskins said we mustn't confirm his statements. I tried to obey him, but somehow I muddled it up.”
Fiffengurt looked him over (or one eye seemed to), then nodded gravely. “Just as I feared. A born criminal.”
“Sir?”
“Never mind, Mr. Pathkendle. Step this way. I have another punishment for you.”
He marched Pazel across the forbidden territory of the forecastle. It occurred to the boy that if he dared tell any officer about the voices it would be Fiffengurt. He had nearly decided to do so when the quartermaster turned.
“Have you a sailor's grip, lad? Can you handle a bit of wind?”
“Certainly, sir!”
“Then scurry out the jib-stay, and be sure no snail or barnacle's defaced Her Ladyship. Work 'em free with your knife—haven't you got a knife?”
“It was stolen, sir.”
“Well, take mine a spell, but don't you dare let it drop! And go easy on the girl, for pity's sake! She's old enough to be your grandmam!” He smiled and lowered his voice. “Don't rush. Some of them limpets are blary small.”
“Oppo, sir! Oh, thank you, sir!”
In a flash Pazel was over the rail and easing out along the bowsprit line. He laughed aloud, thinking, Fiffengurt's my man! For instead of being trapped belowdecks with the rest of the boys, Pazel now swayed in the wind, one arm around the Goose-Girl figurehead, forward of every soul aboard, as the Chathrand slid free of the docks on the outflowing tide. The Shipworks gleamed; a black albatross skimmed low before him. Men ashore held their caps high, not waving: the dockworkers' farewell. On the deck the sailors murmured the prayer to Bakru, and Pazel did the same:
We go to sea, to sea, small men of soil made.
Pour milk for your lions, lord of wind;
Send them not hungry to the clouds,
Lest they roar for our blood …
Over his shoulder Pazel saw the tow-boats waiting, their men fastening lines from the Chathrand's bow. Slowly the Great Ship turned in the narrow port until the Goose-Girl faced the sea. Then for the first time Pazel heard Captain Rose's thundering shout: “Two jibs and the forecourse, Mr. Elkstem.”
“Oppo, Captain, two jibs and the fore! Spurn, Leef, Lapwing! Cast gaskets! Jump to!”
Elkstem, the sailmaster, sounded amazed to be setting sails within a stone's throw of the docks, but the men in the tow-boats grinned: Rose's haste meant their own labors would be short. Indeed, the moment the big square foresail grasped the wind the ship leaped for open water, and it was all the rowers could do to get out of her path as she gathered speed. One man laughed and pointed: “That tarboy's found him a bride!” Pazel threw a barnacle at him, laughing too.
White sail after white sail. Sorrophran vanished behind them. The light too was leaving—in half an hour it would be dark. But away west, the headland still glowed in the evening sun. And there, what a sight! Galloping to its peak was a fine black horse, and a rider in a billowing cloak.
The rider turned his steed sharply, waving. Pazel froze.
“Kozo, who's that nutter?” said the fore watchman, squinting up at the cliffs.<
br />
Pazel said nothing. The man was Ignus Chadfallow.
The doctor cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted: “… get away, lad! Jump ship in Etherhorde!”
“A madman!” said the sailor. “What's that language he's speaking?”
“Who knows?” said Pazel. But the tongue was Ormali, and he its only speaker aboard. As Chadfallow surely knew.
“… not what I planned … madness … jump ship!”
“Deep devils, but he looks familiar! Someone famous, maybe? You know him, tarry?”
For a moment Pazel couldn't find his voice. At last he shook his head. “No, sir. I've never seen him before in my life.”
Chadfallow kept shouting as they rounded the headland. The wind shifted, and his voice began to fade.
Midnight Council
2 Vaqrin 941
12:02 a.m.
“The boy must be killed at once.”
Taliktrum spoke from the fifth shelf, the highest, which was where he slept. Five feet below, on the first, Diadrelu looked up at him from the clan circle and shook her head.
“Not yet,” she said.
Taliktrum sat cross-legged, sharpening a knife on the sole of his foot. Here in the bow, where the gap between the inner and outer hulls reached nearly three feet wide, they were as safe as anywhere aboard, yet his hands seemed always on his weapons. She did not like this constant fingering of blades, this stabbing at timbers and caressing of hilts. It set a bad example for the younger folk, who were busy hiding their nervousness (call it what it is: fear) behind jokes and horseplay. Survival lay in good sense, not in bravado. Yet it was easier to provoke bravado than thought.
“He must die,” repeated Taliktrum. “And the sooner the better. He's a monster, a giant with ixchel ears. Already he knows enough to doom us all. We were lucky tonight that his punishment shamed him into silence. At dawn it will be another matter.”
“Taliktrum,” said Dri, “come down among the clan.”
He obeyed with insolent slowness, climbing down the inner hull with his knife between his teeth. Three feet above the shelf where his aunt and thirty other ixchel stood, he jumped, and landed nimble as a cat at the circle's center.
The Red Wolf Conspiracy Page 12