Thursday, 6 Vaqrin. Not much time for you tonight, good journal! Four of the new tarboys will have to be jettisoned in Etherhorde: two brawling already over somebody's candy, one green with seasickness, the last wetting himself in his sleep like a babe, which cannot be tolerated where hammocks are slung one above the next.
So many errands in Etherhorde. We need new keys for the gate between the first-class compartments & the rest of the ship—the Money Gate, as my boys are already calling it. And we shall need a piano-mender: the daft steward in the first-class lounge unbolted the fixtures to wax the floor & did not think to secure them as we left port. Naturally the first big swell launched the old upright—& various tables, chairs & spittoons—across the boards like logs in a chute. The piano fetched over with a noise like Doomsday chimes. Hours I would have spent with Annabel will be lost to this foolishness, but first-class children must be free to scamper behind their gate without fear of riffraff, and first-class gents must have their dinner music.
Saturday, 8 Vagrin. Glad I am to write these words. Etherhorde is in sight.
Battles with Smoke
9 Vaqrin 941
Pazel and Neeps raced headlong across the berth deck, leaping sea chests, dodging among hammocks, crates, scores of weary sailors. They had two hours' freedom this morning, after twelve in the dark and stinking hold, and they didn't intend to waste a second. The ship had docked at midday in Etherhorde, if the word from above could be trusted. Now confused rumors were passing from sailor to sailor, deck to deck. All Pazel could glean from their shouts was that something was happening aloft.
“They'll be bringing on that ambassador, I'll bet you,” huffed Neeps as they reached the midship ladderway. “That's why we finally got scrubbed—deverminated, I mean. That's why we're in our new clothes.”
They climbed, looking much alike now that their heads were shaven, and Neeps' turban confiscated. “Have you seen the ambassador's stateroom?” Pazel asked. “Dastu says it's really four rooms in one!”
“Five!” said Neeps. “I never told you, did I? Peytr snuck us in last night. There's the main room for sitting and eating and whatnot, with big paintings in gold frames, and a windup organ that plays three hundred songs, and leather padding on the walls to keep it warm. You can barely hear the sea, mate! Then there's a cabin for Isiq and his Lady, and another for the girl—they say she's pretty, you know—and a washroom big enough for a bull, and a last tiny room made of glass, hanging right over the waves in the stern galleries, with a bed tucked under the window for your afternoon nap.”
“Five rooms,” said Pazel, shaking his head. “What on earth could he do with so much space?”
Neeps said he had an idea what the ambassador might do, but he had no chance to elaborate, for at that moment a tremendous noise rent the air. It was not the trumpet-blast they had expected; in fact it was like nothing they had ever heard: a gigantic screech, such as a tormented child might make if it were the size of an elephant. For a moment every other voice on the Chathrand fell silent. Pazel and Neeps gaped at each other. Then they began to climb even faster.
As they neared the topdeck the shouting of the men resumed, louder and more alarmed than before. Finally Pazel thrust his head through the No. 4 hatch into dazzling afternoon sun.
What he saw took his breath away. The ship floated just a few yards from shore, berthed in a clearing between two forests of masts that curved away endlessly north and south. This was the Royal Esplanade, the astounding deepwater channel cut right to the foot of the Emperor's Plaza of the Palmeries, from which hundreds of docks spread in long seaward-stretching fingers. Crowded tight about each of these bobbed every conceivable sort of ship: fighters, fishing-rigs, port gunners, signal-ships, lead-bellied oreships, sleek Noonfirth Javelans with their gryphon's-head bows, Opaltine merchantmen like floating teakettles, grizzled lunkets, porcelain-domed Nunekkamers, whalers, kelp-cutters, sloops. Farthest of all, on a blue slice of Etherhorde Bay, Pazel saw Imperial warships at anchor, served by the steady, ant-like crawling of transports.
“Get out of the way!” Neeps whispered, shoving from below. “I can't see a thing!”
The boys scrambled onto the deck—and then the sound came again, huge and furious. Spinning about, they faced a scene of horror. Above a crowd of frightened men stood a monster in chains, a slouching giant with a yellow-brown hide like that of some weird rhinoceros. It had long warty ears, jaws that might have bitten a spar in two and arms the length of a man's body ending in hands like gnarled stumps. Those arms were chained at the wrists, and the chains held by ten sailors each. Nonetheless the creature had somehow got hold of a man.
It was Mr. Frix, the bald second mate, whom everyone called Firecracker Frix because he was terrified of thunder and explosions. He looked limp with fear. The monster, overpowering scores of burly sailors, lifted Frix to its own chest and pressed him there like a bunch of roses.
“Lord Rin Himself!” shouted Neeps. “They've dragged an augrong aboard!”
“What is it?” cried Pazel.
“Frix's death, that's what it is! Strongest blary things that ever walked, or lurched. From the Griib Desert, where the Death Tribes are. Pazel, look!”
On shore, over another clump of frightened men, a second creature (somewhat shorter in the ears) was writhing in its chains. Its flat yellow eyes were locked on its companion. Who was in charge? Pazel looked this way and that, and finally saw Uskins and Fiffengurt upon the quarterdeck. They were arguing; Fiffengurt gestured and shook his head, as if trying desperately to talk Uskins out of his plans. But the first mate shoved him away. Leaning over the rail, he pointed down at the crew and bellowed:
“Draw pikes! Bindhammer, Fegin, Coote! Show that wretched monster he can behave or bleed!”
The pikes stood in racks near the mainmast. Sailors ran to obey Uskins' order, if only to put some distance between themselves and the augrong.
“What are they here for?” Pazel asked Neeps. “Are they slaves?”
“Nay, they're crew!” answered a voice at his shoulder. The boys turned to see Dastu, wild-eyed, standing behind them. “Anchor-lifters, them two,” said the elder tarboy. “Refeg and Rer—don't ask me which is which. But the old-timers say they can do the work of fifty men! Rose signed 'em on twelve years ago, when he last commanded Chathrand. Turns out they still live here, in a shack on the Oolmarsh. But the captain's gone to visit the Emperor, and Uskins is making a right bloody mess of things.”
“Are augrongs safe?” Pazel asked.
“Not on your life!” said Dastu. “But they're placid enough, or so Mr. Fiffengurt says, if you treat 'em right. Only one thing makes 'em mean: getting separated. Word is Refeg and Rer are brothers, and the last of their tribe this side of the Griib. They're scared to death of losin' each other for good!” He lowered his voice. “Don't you two repeat this, but Uskins told Rose he was an augrong expert. And what does he do? He has 'em brought aboard one at a time!”
On the quarterdeck, Uskins screamed at his men to hurry. Then, standing well back from the rail, he pointed at the long-eared creature on the deck.
“Quick!” he cried. “Baddy kill beast! You big fire, big fire dinner!”
Pazel knew at once that his Gift was at work. Uskins was trying to speak to the augrongs in their own tongue and botching it terribly. Nor could the magic in Pazel's head straighten out the mess: translated nonsense is still nonsense. The augrong cast a wild, confused eye in Uskins' direction. Then it turned Mr. Frix upside down and squeezed.
The sailors returned with pikes in hand, more thoughtful than when they had run away. When they pointed them at the augrong holding Frix, its companion gave a great twisting heave, scattering men like ninepins. The first creature answered with ferocious leaps and bellows. Mr. Frix, struck dumb by his predicament until then, began to howl for his life.
Uskins waved his arms and screamed: “Dinner or kill? Why not? You kill, kill, kill!”
“Oh, sky!” said Pazel. “Be quiet, you fool!�
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By the faces of the men he guessed that no one, least of all Uskins himself, knew what the first mate was shouting. The augrong knew, though, and looked ready to oblige. Mr. Frix began to wail like a man roasting on a fire.
Pazel knew what he had to do next—and before fear could stop him, he did it. Breaking the Rule of the Five Zones, he bounded up the ladder to the quarterdeck, darted right past Uskins (who was still shouting “Kill!”), planted a foot on the rail and, with only an instant to wonder if Frix's life was worth losing his own for, jumped.
The height of the forecastle let him clear the heads of the sailors with ease. But he had forgotten the augrong's chains. Even as he leaped, the monster reared backward and the chain about its neck drew up tight as a bowstring. Pazel met it with his knees, spun helplessly in the air and landed with an agonizing thump on the augrong's foot.
To the creature this was apparently the last straw. Dancing on one foot, it tossed Frix into the bay and scooped up Pazel in one hand, bellowing like a hundred bulls. Before Pazel knew what was happening he found himself being squeezed in the crook of the monster's elbow.
“Wait!” gasped Pazel. He tried to add, Please, but the breath had been knocked from his lungs, and his Gift informed him in an instant that the word did not exist in Augronga. But for an instant one word was enough: the creature hesitated, its raging red eyes fixed on the tarboy.
“You're both coming aboard,” Pazel managed to croak. “We need you both to lift anchor!”
As soon as the words left his mouth the creature loosened its grip. The augrong gaped at Pazel. Two hundred sailors gaped at the augrong. And in the moment of silence that followed, Mr. Uskins laughed aloud.
“Eat him, then, you daft dirty lizard! We need Frix, but tarboys are a penny a pound! And you'll do this ship a favor if you can choke down that Ormali runt.”
But Uskins had given up on his pseudo-Augronga, and the creature paid no heed to his Arquali. Instead it listened to the rest of Pazel's explanation. Then in deep-chested grunts (and using the foulest metaphor to refer to Mr. Uskins) it relayed the message to its companion. The short-eared creature sighed like the wind.
“Anger for nothing,” it said. “Battle with smoke.”
Its arms fell to its sides. All about the harbor, and aboard the Chathrand, men echoed the sigh. The fight was over.
Pazel, however, still hung from the creature's arm. Twisting, he found himself looking sidelong at the crowded quay. It was disturbing to be watched by so many silent people. Faces leaped out at him: a one-armed veteran, a woman with a basket of melons on her head, a lean man with a fighter's muscles holding the chains of two enormous blue dogs.
From this last figure Pazel's eyes slid to a striking older man in Imperial navy uniform, leaning from a carriage window. He had a neat beard and white sideburns, and his bright blue eyes studied Pazel keenly. It was a moment before Pazel noticed that the carriage was the most elegant he had ever seen.
The old man frowned, stuck his head farther out through the window and looked up. Following his gaze, Pazel found himself looking at a girl his own age. She had climbed to the roof of the carriage for a better view. She wore a man's clothing—jaquina shirt, breeches, a broad leather belt. She was extremely pretty, with a preposterous amount of straight golden hair falling to her waist, but her arms looked strong as a tarboy's. She also looked him straight in the eye, which was something noble-born girls never did. In fact, she smiled, a bright smile full of laughter—or mockery? Startled and suddenly shy, Pazel dropped his gaze.
“No bones smashed,” boomed the augrong suddenly, and set Pazel on the deck with a mighty thump. Pazel stumbled, dizzy and aching from head to toe. Neeps and Dastu caught him by the arms. But the rest of the crew backed away from him slightly, as if wondering what would next come out of his mouth.
Then Pazel saw Uskins glaring down at him from the quarterdeck.
“A meddler,” said the first mate. “A clown. Do you know the captain's policy for dealing with clowns?”
There was an awful silence. Uskins crooked a finger, beckoning Pazel near.
It was at that instant that Mr. Frix, Firecracker Frix, bounded up the gangway. He had just been hauled out of the bay by sailors ashore, and seawater ran from his ears and shirt and breeches. Leaping onto the deck, he pointed at Pazel and let out a great soggy whoop.
“Saved!” he cried. “That boy saved me life! Bless him, oh bless his wee little lion's heart! Hooray!” He capered in his private puddle, wet beard flapping, and waved both hands over his head. Then he scrambled onto a rum barrel and sang out again: “Saved by the tarry, the tar-tar-tarry-boy! How's that for a wonder? Come on, boys! Three cheers for little Lionheart! Hip, hip—”
“Stand down, Mr. Frix!”
No mistaking that voice, which crashed through the hubbub like a cannonball. Even the augrongs turned their heads. Captain Rose was storming across the Plaza as quickly as his game leg allowed, face shining with wrath, a carriage stopped behind him with its door flapping still. He waved as he neared the gangway: “To your stations, you gawking gulls! Clear out! Give a man room to board his vessel! And bring that other beast up after me! What fool separated them?”
All eyes snapped to the first mate. Uskins glowered and chewed his lips, but he put on a look of humble martyrdom when Rose's own eyes found him.
“Take the augrongs below, Mr. Uskins,” said Rose grimly. “I will hear your report ere we leave the capital.” Then the captain raised his voice to an ear-shattering bellow: “All hands! Welcome stations! Trumpets! Pennants! Hats! First watch to the yards! Move, you port-shoddy sheep! His Excellency's waiting to board!”
Everywhere, men flew to their tasks. Then Pazel understood: the man in the elegant coach was none other than Admiral Isiq, His Supremacy's new ambassador to Simja. And that blond girl, whose smile had left him feeling such a fool? Could that be his daughter?
Turnstile
Art thou my bloodkin, lost to storm these sundering years?
Shall I name thee brother?
My soul has shed the habit of love; trust is a thing forgotten.
Come not upon me silent, brother, lest you frighten me:
Who knows what I'll do then?
Fear this blade in my hand, brother, as I have learned to fear it.
THE MAN WHO ATE GOLD, CANTO LXII
Translated from the Nileskchet by Talag Tammaruk ap Ixhxchr
9 Vaqrin 941
The old admiral had sent word: he wanted little fuss about his boarding. This was quite unlike the Eberzam Isiq of old, who returned from battles on half-ruined warships to a thunder of guns and a throng of well-wishers filling the Plaza of the Palmeries. To the reporter from the Etherhorde Mariner, a dumpy little man in a top hat with a bedraggled bow, it was all very suspicious. Why were there no public announcements? he demanded, beetling toward the ship at Isiq's elbow. Why was Chathrand outfitted in Sorrophran? Where were the banners, the podiums, the Imperial orchestra?
“There are trumpets on the quarterdeck,” growled Isiq. “And more than enough sightseers.”
“Not half the usual number,” countered the reporter. “Why, you might as well be stealing away in the dead of night!”
“With this morning's Mariner announcing it to the whole city?”
“We barely learned of it in time! Your Excellency, a moment, I beg you. We have it reliably that a man was killed last night in your garden. Ah! Your face admits the truth! Who was he—a cutthroat? An assassin?”
Isiq plowed forward, scowling. “A common tramp. He should not have been killed, but he made blundering advances toward Lady Thasha. Our dogs brought him down, and the house guard put an arrow in his chest. That is all.”
“Your house guard refused to speak to us, Excellency. Was it the Emperor himself who demanded such secrecy? There are rumors to the effect.”
“Of course there are. Your readers survive on a diet of little else. Good day, sir.”
Sightseers were indeed packi
ng the waterfront, and more hurried into the Plaza by the minute. High above on the Chathrand, the crew stood at rigid attention. The trumpeters played an old naval song, chosen specially by Uskins because it had been popular thirty years ago in the Sugar War, when he guessed Admiral Isiq's sailing days had begun (he was quite right, but the memories the tune evoked were of scurvy and insects and boot-rotted feet).
A lizard's tongue of red carpet shot down the gangway. The admiral looked as if he would rather kick it aside. But up he tottered; and holding his arm was Syrarys, chin high, smiling ambiguously, in a sheer white dress that magnified the luster of her dark skin. From the deck Mr. Fiffengurt took one look at her and thought, This will be a hazardous trip.
Behind them came Thasha, with two books (a Mzithrini grammar and The Merchant's Polylex) in her arms and a venomous scowl on her face. Around the quay people pointed, murmuring: “There she is, the Treaty Bride, the Emperor's gift to the savages. Getting married! Poor pretty thing! She has to marry so there'll be no more war.”
“Lady Thasha!”
It was the Mariner reporter. Thasha turned him an irritated glance. I won't go through with it! she was tempted to shout. I'll run off with pirates before I'll marry a coffin worshipper! Print that!
The reporter kept his voice low, one nervous eye on Eberzam Isiq. “The man in your garden, the man they killed. Who was he? What did he say to you?”
Her father would be annoyed at her for speaking, she thought. It was an incentive.
“He didn't have a chance to say much before they killed him.”
So true: Jorl had closed on the wild, starved-looking man, who had risen from the ash pit in the corner of the garden and rushed at her like a sooty phantom, before he was halfway to her. It was dawn. Thasha, rising from a third sleepless night since Isiq announced her betrothal, had just stumbled into the yard, rubbing her eyes. She saw the sprinting man, his eyes fixed on her with the fire of murder or ecstatic prayer, for only an instant: the next he fell under the snarling boulder of the dog. Instead of fear, pity: Jorl had the man's whole black-bearded throat in his mouth. Thasha knew he would not kill unless the man pulled a knife—her dogs were very well trained. But so was she, in thojmélé fighting, bought with a thousand bruises from Hercól. She would not lose this moment, any moment, to the paralysis of surprise. She dashed forward and caught the man's hair in her hand.
The Red Wolf Conspiracy Page 14