Were codes a kind of language, too? Would Pazel be able to read her diary as plainly as she could?
And why on earth did she keep thinking of him? Hercól's attacker was the one to concentrate on. She would find him, she promised herself. And the first person to speak to was Ket. Thasha slipped into her cabin, locked her diary away in her desk, glanced once more at Hercól (he had not moved an eyelash) and left the stateroom.
The ship was chilly and dark. Sailors tipped their hats as she passed. Mr. Ket was not in the dining room, and the lounge was empty but for Latzlo the animal-seller and the veterinarian, Bolutu. They were locked in an argument about walrus-hunting. Bolutu seemed to think one could run out of walruses; Latzlo said the seas could never be emptied. The very notion appeared to irritate him.
“I know animals,” he said, stroking his pet sloth with such force that its fur shed in a cloud. “Animals are my business. Do you think I would put myself out of business?”
“A grocer may run out of cabbages and not close his store,” said Bolutu.
“I have no interest in vegetables!”
When Thasha finally got their attention, they told her Ket was enjoying Smoke Hour on the forecastle. Thasha set off at once, climbing to the topdeck and running in the open air. The waves were taller now, and the wind had a bite. Away to starboard the gray mountains of Uturphe looked no closer than at noon.
Smoke Hour was an arrangement for the third-class passengers, who were never permitted in the smoking salon. At dusk these poorest travelers were allowed to rent the use of a pipe on the forecastle. The fee was outrageous and the tobacco stale, but there is little an addict trapped in a cold, crowded ship will not agree to. This evening thirty men were busily puffing away: Smoke Hour in fact lasted forty minutes.
How odd to find Mr. Ket among them: he was certainly no third-class traveler. He wore a sea-cloak with blue silk at cuff and collar, and a gemstone on his finger flashed red in the setting sun. Instead of a blackened rental pipe he had his own, fine water pipe of burnished brass. He stood by a starboard carronade, as far from everyone else on the forecastle as he could get.
“Lady Thasha!” he said, bowing at her approach. “A very good evening to you!”
“I'm afraid it isn't,” said Thasha. “My tutor's dying, and no one seems able to help.”
“Poor man!” said the soap merchant, lowering his voice. “And what an ill omen for us all! Has he not woken yet?”
“No,” said Thasha. “But I'm grateful to you for saving him. You're very brave, Mr. Ket.”
“I had no time to be brave,” he said, dropping his eyes. “I merely found myself acting.”
There was, Thasha saw now, one flaw in Mr. Ket's wealthy profile: a careworn white scarf, knotted tight about his neck. Something held on to from childhood, Thasha supposed: rich men had their quirks.
“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked.
Ket shook his head. “I beg your pardon, I cannot. Mr. Fiffengurt demanded my promise not to tell anyone of this ugly event.”
“I promised, too,” said Thasha. “But surely he meant for us not to spread the story? Since we both know it occurred, there's no harm if we talk, is there?”
The merchant hesitated, fussing with his pipe, but it was clear Thasha would accept no refusal. After some furtive glances around the deck he spoke again, very softly.
“I honor your concern for your friend, m'lady. But I fear you would put yourself in danger for his sake. The assassin is still aboard. Any one of these men behind me could be him.”
“Hercól is more than a friend,” said Thasha. “He's as dear to me as an older brother. Whatever becomes of him, I must know what happened.”
“Very well,” Ket sighed, “but it will do you no good. For in the end, what did I see? A man I took for a sailor, crouching by an open hatch, swinging a hammer at something within. The next moment—it was very dark, you understand—I saw that man leap down onto the steps himself and return with something large and dark over his shoulder. It was Mr. Hercól, of course, but I guessed no such evil thing. The man passed out of my sight for a moment, behind the barge davit, and then I heard him cry out. I rushed forward in time to see him stumble and drop his burden—now obviously a man!—half over the rail.”
“Was his voice high or low?” asked Thasha.
“Neither, especially,” said Ket. “But I scarce had time to notice, for the cretin was rolling your friend over the side. Hercól was waking up from the hammer blow, but not fast enough—and it was the greatest luck that he struck the mizzen-chains. The man drew his knife, leaned over and cut your friend savagely. And then Mr. Hercól made that … extraordinary kick.”
“Where did Hercól kick him—in the arm, or the hand?”
“The wrist,” said Ket. “Why do you ask, m'lady?”
“Go on, please!” said Thasha. “What happened next?”
“The next instant—well, I seized that capstan bar and had at him.”
“What made him stumble?” asked Thasha.
Ket's eyes widened. “I wish I knew,” he said. “Another piece of good luck, is all I can fathom. The deck was clear enough. But without that stumble, Mr. Hercól would certainly have died.”
“And he fought you, this man?”
“Indeed he did.”
“Was he a trained fighter?”
Ket looked startled. “What unexpected questions,” he said. “He fought well enough, I suppose. But this was the first real fight of my life—may it also be the last!—and so I am a poor judge.”
“But you have answered me, you know,” said Thasha. “You've told me you're not a fighter yourself, and yet you beat him.”
“My dear girl, I had the capstan bar.”
“But don't you see,” said Thasha, struggling for patience. “A trained fighter would have run circles around you, trying to swing that heavy bar. Or just taken it away from you and broken it over your head. So he wasn't a soldier, or one of my father's guards.”
“Skies above, no! Just someone crazy enough to want to kill.”
“Or ordered to,” said Thasha softly.
“Ordered, m'lady?”
“Never mind, Mr. Ket. Thank you again for your courage. By the way, what were you doing out on deck so late at night?”
Ket looked away, then drew a hand across his forehead. After a deep breath he said, “Confinement disturbs me. Small rooms, tight spaces … these trouble my soul. I cannot breathe.”
“That's nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Ket,” said Thasha, for once almost liking him. “I felt the same way at school.”
Dinner that evening was hosted by Mr. Uskins, whom Thasha detested, so she told her father she had no appetite, and when he and Syrarys had dressed and departed she promptly rang the bell for room service.
She frowned. Ket was something of a fool. Nothing about the attacker had made an impression: not even the amazing fact that he, Ket, a baby-faced merchant with gray hair and a paunch, had trounced the man without a scratch. Thasha, however, had learned several things. She added these to her list:
What I Know (Cont.)
If I should ever marry, it will not be to a soap merchant.
Hercól's attacker was no trained fighter.
That man's wrist is in agony, or broken.
Thasha knew well the force of Hercól's kicks, even on the practice floor. A kick to save his life would be simply explosive. She ought to explain this to the officers searching Chathrand. But how could she, without letting them know how much more than a servant Hercól was?
The tarboy who came from the galley was very short. Like most of the men aboard, he stared at her as if she were some odd and fascinating monster. “Dinner for one!” she snapped, grabbing her dogs before they could leap on him. “And no shrimp heads, please. Yesterday my dinner was like a little congregation, watching itself being eaten.”
“I'm very sorry, m'lady.”
“It's not your fault, idiot. Close the door. No, no—” She waved a hand
. “Without leaving, yet. What's your name, anyway?”
“N-Neeps,” said the small boy, shaking with relief as the dogs collapsed on the bearskin.
She cocked her head at him. “Well, N-Neeps, how many sailors are there aboard the Chathrand?”
“About six hundred, common and rated, Lady. And twenty midshipmen.”
“And how many passengers?”
“Four hundred steerage, Mistress—and a score first-class, plus servants. And your noble family, of course.”
“Half of them male … and a hundred marines … that's over nine hundred men! Well, that's simple!” She laughed aloud. “All I have to do is check nine hundred wrists before tomorrow morning! Don't ask, I won't explain! Just tell me: what have they done with Pazel Pathkendle?”
The boy jumped, but said nothing. He looked disturbed in an entirely new way.
“You know who I mean,” said Thasha. “The Ormali. The one who got flogged for being rude to my father. Who flogged him, anyway—that big baboon they call Jervik? I'll bet he volunteered.”
Neeps fidgeted, glanced at the door.
“Are they going to throw him off the ship at Uturphe?”
“I can't tell you, m'lady,” he said.
“Why not?” Thasha pressed. “I'm his friend, you know. Maybe his only friend.”
Now anger sparked in Neeps' glance. “We tarboys take care of our own,” he said.
“Splendid! Tell me, then: what's the punishment for insulting an ambassador?”
“Whatever the captain wants.”
“What does Rose usually do?”
“Sometimes one thing, sometimes another.”
“Can you”—she took a careful breath—“at least tell me where they're keeping him?”
“No.”
They stood there, eye to eye. Jorl wheezed and flopped on his chin. Then Thasha put her hands to the back of her neck, beneath her golden hair. After a moment she frowned.
“Help me,” she said curtly, turning her back and lifting the hair aside.
“M-m'lady?”
“The clasp on my necklace. It's stuck.”
Neeps stared at her. She looked back steadily over her shoulder, daring him to say another word. Neeps wiped his hands on his pants, then reached into the golden hair as one might a nest of spiders. He made a face. She sighed and crossed her arms. He struggled with the clasp.
“Really, N-Neeps, it's not that—Ouch!”
“Augh!” screamed Neeps, as they both flinched. The necklace dropped to the floor.
“What did you do, imbecile?” cried Thasha, holding her neck.
Neeps scooped up the chain. “It wasn't me, Lady Thasha! It was a spark—a ferrous spark. Got me, too! Must be iron in this necklace somewhere.”
“Don't be daft, it's pure silver! Let me see if it's harmed.”
Neeps held out the necklace, but she made no move to take it from him. The tiny sea-creatures gleamed in the lamplight.
“Well, it's fine, anyway,” she declared. “And pretty, no?”
“It's beautiful, m'lady.”
“Too bad you tried to steal it.”
“What?”
Neeps dropped the necklace again. Thasha caught it and draped it over a chair. “I'd taken it off to bathe, see? You slipped it into your pocket, but I noticed the bulge as you were turning to go. How do you suppose the captain punishes stealing from an ambassador's cabin?”
“You're a blary damn pigsty liar … m'lady!” sputtered Neeps, trembling with rage.
Thasha sighed. “Of course you would say that. And perhaps the officers will take your word over mine. Well, go on, back to your duties, N-Neeps. I think I'll eat in the dining room after all—now that I have something to talk about.”
She was extremely proud of herself: a nicer piece of blackmail one could hardly ask for. But to her astonishment Neeps gritted his teeth and stepped toward her, only stopping when Suzyt growled.
“No, they won't believe an Outer Isles tarboy over a daisy-sweet bit of wife cargo like you. They'll clap me in jail, is what. And then make me work off twenty times that trinket's worth—and brand my arm. That's standard punishment for first-time thieves. Let 'em. Do your worst. But I'll not help you land Pazel any deeper in trouble. We—you've done enough to him already!”
Three steps and he was out, with a smart slam of the door. For a moment Thasha stood rooted to the spot. He was calling her bluff! Then she realized that if Neeps disappeared he would be no easier to find on the enormous ship than Pazel himself.
A moment later she was through the door, running with her boots unlaced. Neeps was thumping down the stern stairway. “Wait, wait!” she cried, tumbling after him, but he only ran faster—down and down, across the berth deck to the opposite stair and down again.
Just above the mercy deck he abruptly turned, blocking her way. It was dark: they were deeper in the ship than she had ever set foot. She smelled animals and hay.
“You really are his friend, aren't you?” she said.
“That's right,” said Neeps, more winded than Thasha herself.
“I didn't know. I thought everyone hated him for being Ormali.”
“Only dumb louts hate him. The rest are afraid of him because of what happened with the augrongs, and because a few blary idlers say they heard him speaking devil-tongue.”
“Why aren't you afraid?”
Neeps just looked away. Thasha realized she already knew: this shrimp wasn't afraid of anything. Be careful, shrimp, she thought. Someone may try to cut off your head.
“What makes you so curious about Pazel?” Neeps asked.
“I don't know,” she said. “Honestly I don't. But he seems special, smart maybe, also a fool like you, of course—Oh, that's not what I mean! I mean you're right. His trouble started with us, when Prahba tried to talk to him about the Rescue of Ormael. Or the”—she struggled with the word—“invasion, if that's what you like to call it. So at the very least I owe him some help. I want to get him out of the mess we got him into.”
“Well, you can't,” said Neeps. “All you can do is make things worse. There was a collection for him among the tarboys—eight gold, enough for a third-class ticket, maybe. If he's lucky he'll ship out on the next boat, get into the lawless territories of the Nelu Rekere.”
“Can he sign on with another ship, out there?”
Neeps shook his head. “The Sailing Code isn't enforced in the Rekere, but most decent ships end up back in the Quiet Sea sooner or later. His name would be checked against the registry in any big port. As soon as they found out what Chathrand dismissed him for, he'd be charged with misleading his captain.”
“Then what can he do?”
“Go out in a small fishing boat, one that doesn't stray far from its home port. Or work the docks.”
Thasha couldn't believe her ears. “A docker or a fisherman? For the rest of his life?”
“Or a pirate. Lots of demand for pirates. Always getting killed, you see.”
“This is terrible!”
“’Course, he might try going inland from Uturphe. Folks say there's work in Torabog, cutting cane.”
“You're lying!” Thasha cried. “It can't be that bad!”
“You call me a liar? After that little game in your cabin?”
“That was just to make you tell me where he was!”
Neeps stepped closer, and she knew he could see her tears. His voice was gentler, if only slightly. “Suppose I did tell you,” he said. “What good would it do? How could you possibly help him now?”
“By hiring him,” said Thasha simply.
“Hiring him? Are you cracked? What do you imagine he'd do—sew you a blary wedding dress?”
“I can't tell you what I'd hire him for. It's a secret.”
“You're marrying a Sizzy prince. He'll have ten girls just handlin' your laundry. Pazel wouldn't know the word for ‘sock.’”
“Yes he would!” she said, her voice rising in desperation. “Oh, sky! Can't you just take me to
him?”
“I'm right here, Thasha.”
Pazel stepped around the bend in the stairs and put a hand on Neeps' shoulder. “Thanks, mate,” he said.
“Be careful with this one,” growled Neeps. “She's a trickster. She wants to get me jailed as a thief.”
“I wouldn't really have done it!”
“We can't stay here long,” said Pazel. “Thasha, what's this secret you want to share? Anything you can tell me, you can tell Neeps.”
“I have two,” said Thasha. “But you have to swear not to betray me.”
Neeps scoffed, but Pazel said: “We'll swear if you like. We're not tattlers.”
After she had their promises, Thasha told them about Hercól and the mysterious attacker. As she expected, neither boy had heard of the events: Fiffengurt's rumor-control efforts had so far succeeded.
“A murderer aboard,” said Neeps. “That's marvelous. He shouldn't be too hard to spot, though, if his wrist is in such bad shape. All we have to do is find out who's been let off work.”
“How?” said Pazel. “Mr. Uskins keeps track of that sort of thing, and Rin knows he won't tell us. We could ask Dr. Rain who he's treated, but I doubt that whoever attacked Hercól will be looking for treatment in sickbay.”
Neeps sighed. “You're right, I suppose. But you had another secret to share, Thasha. What is it?”
Thasha took a deep breath. She said, “I'm not marrying that prince. Not for Prahba or Arqual or peace or anything. Hercól was going to get me out of it, somehow. If he dies—”
Her sobs broke out in earnest. The boys looked at each other. One did not simply hug an ambassador's daughter, did one? At last, awkwardly, they gripped her by the elbows, as if propping up a rickety ladder. They could not tell if she was comforted or annoyed.
The Red Wolf Conspiracy Page 25