The Red Wolf Conspiracy

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “Ormael!” He leaped up, forgetting his pain, forgetting everything. “Ormael! Ormael!”

  He would have gone on shouting for the next five leagues, but a hand seized his elbow and yanked him down. It was Druffle.

  “Get off there, you hullaballoonish clown! You trying to wake the whole shore?”

  “But no one lives there, Mr. Druffle!”

  “I know that. Ain't good for a thing, Quarrel's Cliff.”

  “It's good for kite-flying, Mr. Druffle! And my father says it's good for a stealthy approach to the city. Is that why we're sailing so close, Mr. Druffle, sir?”

  “He he.”

  “Mr. Druffle, what is Gregory's Guild?”

  “You're an Ormali. You must know about Captain Gregory Pathkendle.”

  Pazel's heart leaped in his chest. And in almost the same instant it occurred to him that Druffle had never once asked his name.

  Before he could find his voice, one of the other boys chimed in: “Pathkendle the Traitor.”

  Pazel whirled, clenching his fists. Druffle raised an eyebrow.

  “Now, now,” he said. “That's none of our concern. Why he joined up with the Sizzies no one rightly knows. But he left 'em, see? Found himself better mates among us freebooters, and that was our lucky day. Yes indeed! To us Captain Gregory was a prince. And old Snake-tongue over there is lying. Gregory never dealt with scum like him.”

  Freebooters meant smugglers, Pazel knew. “Are you part of Gregory's Guild, Mr. Druffle, sir?”

  “You ask a right heap of questions.”

  “Thank you, sir! Is Captain Gregory still alive?”

  But Druffle only wagged a finger, none too angrily, and turned away.

  They crept nearer to Ormael. Pazel watched Quarrel's Cliff give way to the four named rocks (the Stovepipe, the Old Man, the Monk's Hood, the Hound). He saw goats in a high meadow where he'd picnicked once with his mother and Neda, and green bulges that he knew must be the crowns of the tallest plum trees. My father isn't with the enemy, he thought. He's a smuggler. Is? Was? Then the ship rounded the point, and he saw Ormael.

  The city as he knew it was gone. Half the proud wall lay in ruins, and looking up, he could gaze—as no one at sea level should have been able to—right into neighborhoods where he had run carefree and thoughtless, five years before. They were like ash dumps. Ormael Palace itself was crumbled along one side, poorly patched with new stones and surmounted by the Arquali fish-and-dagger flag in place of the Ormali sun. Everywhere rose the black sooty skeletons of old towers, temples, shops.

  Without a word, Neeps stepped up beside him.

  “My house is still standing,” said Pazel numbly. “See there on the ridge? It's the one with the vine-covered wall. The Orch'dury. I wonder who lives there now.”

  “Quite a job they did on the city,” said Neeps. “On Sollochstal they just burned our shipyard. And drafted the men, of course. And fed our Queen to the crocodiles.”

  “I didn't know that.”

  “How could you? Not as if it was printed in the Mariner.”

  “Thasha's father did this,” said Pazel. “He commanded the fleet.”

  “And do you know what I think?” said Neeps. “It's going to happen to them. To Arqual. To Etherhorde itself, one day. Things will get out of control, and somebody, somewhere, is going to take revenge.”

  Pazel looked at him. For once Neeps' voice was not fierce: he took no joy in his prediction. Then Pazel's gaze slid past his shoulder. And he froze.

  The Chathrand was anchored in the Bay of Ormael.

  “Neeps—”

  “I see her!”

  For a moment every eye on the Rupin seemed to be locked on the Great Ship. As always she looked too big for her surroundings: the Ormali cargo boats streaming back and forth from shore were like ants beside a watermelon. They would need a week to unload her, Pazel thought. But he doubted she would linger so long.

  “Our luck's turned at last,” said Neeps. “We'll have to sail right past her to dock in Ormaelport. Close enough to shout, anyway.”

  “Hush a moment!” said Pazel. Neeps obeyed, mystified. For nearly five minutes they stood in silence. Then Pazel caught his eye and led him a few paces aft.

  “Those two sailors at the rail,” he whispered, glancing in their direction. “They speak Kepperish to each other, and they don't think anyone else understands. I've been listening all morning with half an ear, and they finally said something useful.”

  “Something about us?” said Neeps softly.

  Pazel nodded. “‘A lovely ship, by damn,’ said the tall one, and the short one answered him: ‘Chathrand? Aye, and rich men aboard her, brother. Oh, what rich and powerful men! One gentleman's paying for this whole excursion.’ ‘You mean he's Mr. Druffle's boss?’ said the other. The short man said: ‘Druffle calls him the Customer. He's the one who sent us after these little divers, too.’ That was all.”

  Neeps stared at him. “Someone on the Chathrand … bought us?”

  “It sounds that way,” Pazel agreed. “But who can it be? Not Rose—he had us, and didn't give a pig's whiskers. No, I'd bet my left hand it's that sorcerer Ramachni warned us about.”

  “And Druffle's working for him,” Neeps said. “I'll bet that's why he's got a magic charm or two up his sleeve—something on loan from the mage. But why did they ever let us get picked up by the Flikkermen, if we're so blary important?”

  “Because we're not,” said Pazel. “The Flikkers didn't say a word about us coming from the Chathrand, and Druffle didn't ask. And he almost didn't buy me at all, remember? It's divers this sorcerer wants—any divers, not us in particular.”

  Neeps looked again at the Chathrand. “You must be right. But there's something else, mate. We're not landing at Ormael.”

  Pazel jumped. It was true. In the last few minutes they had passed the near approach to Ormaelport and were already drawing away. The Rupin was limping on.

  “We should have known,” said Neeps. “They can't sail into port with Volpeks aboard. I'm surprised we're passing this close.”

  “Neeps,” Pazel whispered urgently, “could you swim as far as Chathrand?”

  Now it was Neeps' turn to be startled. “I think so,” he said. “But it's broad daylight! And the wind's so low they'd hear us jump. And besides, Druffle's got his eye on you. Don't look! Maybe he's been nice to you, since you're both Ormali, but he's not taking any chances.”

  “We'll have to risk it!” Pazel started unbuttoning his coat.

  Neeps gripped his arm. “It's not a risk, it's a Volpek arrow through the shoulder blades. Slow down, mate. I know you want to go home.”

  “That's not why! It's for Thasha!”

  “You can't help her from the bottom of the sea.”

  Furious, Pazel shook off his hand. But Neeps was right. Helpless, raging soundlessly, he watched his ship and city fall away.

  By noon Ormael was out of sight, and the spruce-covered hills of Cape Córistel were all they could see of land. The day was bright and calm. The boys were put to work mending ropes while the sailors braced the surviving mast and spread a patchwork mainsail on its listing spars. They gained a little speed. But the captain ran frequently to the lower decks, returning each time with much anxious shaking of his head. He cast hateful glances at Druffle, and more than once was heard to mutter the word emergency. Pazel wondered what new disaster awaited them.

  Cape Córistel was famously easy to round from east to west, and today (fortunately) proved no exception. The great surprise was what happened next. As soon as the cape's wave-battered point fell behind them, the captain shouted orders for a starboard tack. Men hauled at the makeshift sail and the Rupin heeled painfully around. They were going to follow the north shore. And that was simply not done.

  Pazel's father had told him many stories about the Nelu Peren. One thing Pazel recalled perfectly was that no one, from the ancient Cherestön sailors onward, turned north from Córistel. There were many perils: a maze of rocks, rip
tides, a pestilential swamp called the Crab Fens that choked the mainland. But one threat overshadowed them all: the Haunted Coast. Pazel wasn't sure what it was: his father would not speak of it, and the schoolyard rumors were so many and mixed he could never make sense of them. But they all agreed on one point: any ship unlucky enough to enter those waters would never escape.

  Even Neeps, who had never been anywhere near Ormael, had heard of the Haunted Coast. “That's where we're going?” he cried, when Pazel told him. “And do you suppose that's where Druffle wants us to dive?”

  “Not Druffle,” said Pazel. “His ‘Customer.’”

  Neeps just looked at him.

  Pazel raised his hands to his forehead. “I can almost see it,” he said. “The whole game, the lie. Chadfallow was trying to tell me, back in Sorrophran. And now … now—”

  “Give me a crack at it,” said Neeps. “What did your blary doctor say?”

  Pazel closed his eyes. “He hinted that Chathrand was heading into Mzithrini territory, even though Simja's as close as she's ever supposed to get—officially. And then he started talking about the last war, and the Five Mzithrin Kings.”

  “Is that all?”

  “He said … that four of the Five Kings condemned Arqual as a land of evil. But one didn't: he was the Shaggat Ness, whose ship—”

  The boys looked at each other.

  “Was sunk by Arqualis,” said Neeps. “I know that much.”

  “Somewhere north of Ormael,” hissed Pazel. “Rin's teeth, mate, that's where we're going! To the wreck of the Lythra! Someone must have found it at last!”

  “But what does this have to do with Thasha?”

  “I don't know—yet. But the last war ended there, don't you see? With the killing of this Shaggat.”

  Neeps' face looked a little paler. “And something that went down with that ship—”

  “Could get the next war started,” said Pazel. “Stay close, mate. If the chance comes we have to be ready.”

  The chance did come—within the hour, in fact. The Rupin was but half a league from shore: a lonely shore of high dunes and small, dense oaks. The sun was hot. In the bright light the crew looked sickly and afraid.

  There was food of a kind: somewhere in the depths of the Rupin a cook had boiled broth. The captain, his dignity quite gone, carried his portion about the deck; between orders he slurped from the bowl, filled his cheeks like twin balloons, considered the matter, and swallowed. Pazel watched him with pity. He was as much a ruin as his ship.

  Those cheeks had just been filled once more when a deep, soft sound, like the contented grunt of a bathing elephant, rose through the planks. Every sailor froze. The sound repeated. Then the captain spat his soup all over Druffle, dropped the bowl and hurled himself down the nearest hatch.

  The rest of the crew began to shout. “Pumps! Pumps!” screamed the first mate.

  “What is it? What's happening?” screamed the boys.

  “Not to worry, lads!” said Druffle, wiping soup from his eyes. “A leak, maybe—some little leak, he he.”

  But his laugh was forced. The boys let out a howl and started racing about the deck, wailing in half a dozen languages. “Mamete! Rin-laj! Save me, sweet Angel!”

  Pazel looked at Neeps. Neeps shrugged. They walked quietly to the gunwale.

  “We've struck! It's the keel!”

  “It's the rudder!”

  “Drop sail! Drop sail!”

  Druffle was wrestling with the sickness-prone boy, who looked ready to hurl himself over the bow. Pazel and Neeps were the only calm figures on the ship. As such no one paid them the least attention.

  They moved aft. Pazel dropped the old coat upon the deck. “Remember what the Flikkers said,” Neeps whispered, grinning. “‘Don't breathe! Don't breathe!’”

  They dived from the stern rail, wearing just their breeches, and swam as fast and far as they could. The water was cold but not icy, and the current proved gentle. Surfacing forty feet closer to shore, Pazel realized at once how visible they would be if anyone bothered to look. As the first wave lifted him he ducked underwater again. He tried to wait for the next trough, to keep a swell between him and the Rupin. But you couldn't make progress if you were studying the waves. He gave it up and made for shore with all possible speed, rising to breathe whenever he needed to.

  No arrows flew from the Rupin, no shout of alarm. Off to his left, Neeps caught his eye and grinned again.

  They don't really care, Pazel thought. They still have eight boys.

  It was easy. It remained easy. Before they knew it they were halfway to shore.

  Pazel risked a backward glance—and was so alarmed he swallowed seawater.

  All four lifeboats were in the water, crammed with Volpeks pulling for shore with all their might. Where had so many come from? There must have been dozens hidden on the lower decks! Behind the lifeboats, the Prince Rupin was listing at a most unseaworthy angle. Pazel caught a glimpse of her sailors, leaping and waving, throwing themselves into the sea.

  They were abandoning ship.

  One lifeboat was ahead of the others, and it was coming right for them. Druffle himself was at its bow. He was pointing. He had seen them.

  Where Pazel found the strength to swim faster he couldn't say. Beside him Neeps churned the sea with equal desperation. They could hear the breakers now. But the swimming was growing harder, too: an undertow was trying to snatch them down.

  “I'll skewer you alive, my Chereste hearts!”

  The voice was a stone's throw behind. Pazel kicked for all he was worth. There was foam on the waves, a land-taste to the water in his mouth. He spat air, breathed bubbles. A big wave lifted him, and through the shallows beneath it he saw the sea's pebbly floor.

  “Nab 'em! Nab 'em or shoot 'em dead! No, NO—”

  There came a sucking noise from behind, and Pazel whirled just in time to see Druffle's boat swamped by a giant roller. The Volpeks pinwheeled into the surf; Druffle was simply gone. Then the wave caught Pazel in the chest. It raised him, spun him like a cork, scraped him along the bottom, buried him in swirling grit. Then it withdrew with a hiss, leaving him flat on his stomach, ashore.

  Sand was in his mouth and nose and eyes. He raised his head. The world was still spinning. He realized he had vomited into the sea.

  To his left Neeps lay on his side, retching.

  Pazel struggled to his feet, looking down at his friend.

  “Broken bones?”

  “Fah,” said Neeps.

  “Then get up, mate.”

  “I rather like it here.”

  Fifty yards up the beach, half a dozen Volpeks were dragging a lifeboat from the waves. Pazel yanked Neeps sharply by the arm.

  “Now!”

  They staggered away from shore, trying to break into a run. The dunes rose before them, and they were much taller and steeper than they had looked from the Rupin. Their seaward slopes, hollowed by wind, leaned over the boys.

  “After them! Move, you fat farina-guts!”

  The voice was Druffle's. Pazel caught a glimpse of his bony figure rising from the surf like a skinny Old Man of the Sea, but armed with a cutlass.

  “Stop where you are, lads!” he shouted. “Don't make us use arrows!”

  “Go kiss a squid!” Neeps yelled.

  Arrows followed. Their black shafts fell around them, vanishing to their quills in the sand. The boys reached the dunes and began to scrabble up. Neeps climbed like a monkey, but Pazel found himself floundering. The sand gave way wherever he stepped; it was like fighting the waves again. Behind him the Volpeks laughed. Then somehow Pazel's limbs sank deep enough for traction, and he shot up the dune in a matter of seconds.

  His one thought was to hurl himself down the far slope, putting a wall between him and the archers. But when he saw what lay ahead he froze.

  The Crab Fens.

  They sprawled before him, all but licking the feet of the dunes: a gray-green morass of stunted trees and spiky brush, of moss and vi
ne and stagnant water, draped in white fog that oozed about in clots. Endless they seemed, and dark. There was a great stench of rot and brine.

  “Don't stand there, you fool!”

  Neeps tackled him, and together they slid down the inside of the dune. “We've got to go in,” said Neeps. “They'll never find us if we lose 'em now.”

  Pazel said nothing. The Fens hummed like some vast machine, and he realized with dread that he was hearing insect wings.

  But in they plunged. There was no hint of a trail; indeed, there was no solid ground on which a trail could run. Sand turned to clay, and clay to black muck. The low trees closed over them like gnarled hands.

  Druffle's voice boomed from the dune-top, urging his men down into the swamp. Why does he care? thought Pazel. Why not let two of us get away?

  It was a terrible place to be barefoot. At each step the mud took hold like a sucking creature, and jagged sticks rose spear-like from the depths. They could see no more than ten yards through the brush, and as they left the dunes farther behind, the strange clots of fog settled around them. Here and there the sun broke through, but the bright shafts dazzled more than they illuminated. Sounds were distorted, too. Pazel could hear the Volpeks cursing and splashing, but were they to his left or his right? A hundred paces away or ten? Was it safe even to catch their breath?

  “… stinking insubordinate pigfaced louts!” came Druffle's voice, quite near. “You'll disappoint the Customer!”

  The horrors mounted. Pazel slid into a slippery hole under the roots of a tree and nearly drowned in the mud that gushed in after him. A fat blue wasp stung Neeps' arm: he howled and smashed it dead—and the Volpeks rallied toward them. They stepped into a swarm of green muketch crabs, the source of Pazel's nickname, and leaped for safety with the fierce little beasts still attached to their ankles. They swam across a lagoon, scattering puffy-jawed snakes.

  “Come sundown, I'll bet these 'skeeters will drink our blood dry, Pazel.”

  “Unless we step on a marsh ray first. They can kill you.”

  “Look at that blary spider.”

  “Look how the water boils with worms.”

  With such talk they managed to lower each other's spirits considerably—so much indeed that they barely noticed good fortune when it came. The Volpek voices were fading. They had shaken the pursuit.