The Ruling Sea

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “It’s that priest again,” said Pazel. “The one they call the Father. But I can’t make out what he’s saying.”

  “He is saying we shall die!” cried that rat.

  “What?”

  “Die, die! Not literally, of course. Not even metaphorically. Nor by inference intended—but how, pray, does a speaker know what his listener infers? And in the strictest sense what he is saying is not the point so much as the indisputable fact that it is being said. Bellowed, blasted, harrooed—”

  “Felthrup,” said Diadrelu. “You are healed. Your chatter proves it. But whatever are you talking about?”

  “There’s a bell ringing now,” said Pazel.

  Felthrup spun in a circle, too upset to hold still. “Not one bell—two! Disaster, disaster!”

  They opened more windows: indeed there were two bells, one high, one low, sounding precisely together so that the notes seemed to fuse as one. And now from the shore came voices, incredulous voices, crying out in delight.

  “But that’s the wedding signal,” Thasha said. “Simjans ring two bells at once to show that a couple is married. But we’re not! We never spoke any vows!”

  “Besides, they all think you’re dead,” said Neeps.

  “So what’s happening?” Thasha demanded.

  “Oh, woe, woe, woe!” cried Felthrup.

  Like the rat himself, Pazel found he could be still no longer. Despite shouts from the others he dashed across the stateroom, slipped through the door, and ran along the short passage to the upper gun deck. Men were hastening to the ladderways (really staircases, but so steep that handholds were carved into the steps), leaving swabs and buckets and half-spliced ropes where they lay. Pazel climbed with them. When they reached the topdeck the crowd was already enormous. All stood to portside, gazing at the shore.

  Among them Pazel was glad to find Dastu, his favorite among the senior tarboys. He was a broad-shouldered twenty-year-old from the rough Etherhorde district of Smelter’s Den. Like nearly everyone, Dastu was a bit afraid of Pazel—at his touch a man had turned to stone, after all. But Dastu had never once called him Muketch (mud crab), as almost all the other boys did when they realized he was Ormali. Dastu still looked him in the eye. And Dastu shared his knowledge of the Chathrand, its hidden corners, legends, slang. The No. 5 ladderway, close to the stateroom: that was the Silver Stair, because rich passengers used it, and sometimes sealed the Money Gate to keep the riffraff away from their cabins. Ladderway No. 1 (at the starboard bow) was the Holy Stair, because it was there that old Captain Kurlstaf had heard the voice of Rin. In a sense these little details hardly mattered. But Dastu’s efforts did, immensely.

  The older boy made room along the rail. “No one knows what’s happening,” he said. “Those cheers sound blary happy, though, don’t they? Strange way to show respect for the dead.”

  “Any sign of Admiral Isiq?” asked Pazel.

  Dastu shook his head. “Nobody’s come aboard since you did. And the rest of us are trapped out here, blast it.”

  Trapped. Dastu was not exaggerating. Captain Rose and the marine commander, Sergeant Drellarek, had authorized no shore leave: only the wedding party had touched land. Sickness had provided a handy excuse: two days earlier the talking fever had broken out in Ormael, where the Chathrand had lain at anchor for a week. Dr. Chadfallow had pronounced Thasha and her family in perfect health, but cautioned that the rest of the crew would have to be examined one by one—a process that might take days.

  The truth, of course, was that anyone who did go ashore would surely speak of the violent madness they had witnessed on the Great Ship. That was a risk the conspirators could not take.

  “The men must be angry,” whispered Pazel.

  “Fit to be hogtied,” said Dastu. “And the passengers! Do you realize we’ve got forty passengers aboard? Just for appearances, mate! There’s a big Atamyric family—parents, children, old aunts and uncles—trying to get home via Etherhorde. Some Simjans too. How do you think that would play ashore?”

  “Where are they? Locked down in steerage?”

  Datsu nodded. “Except for Latzlo and Bolutu: Uskins boarded them up in their cabins till we get under way. You can bet your breakfast those two are wishing they’d disembarked in Tressik.”

  Pazel shook his head. Latzlo was a dealer in exotic animals. He had been with them all the way from Etherhorde, selling walrus ivory in one port, buying sapphire doves in another, trading six-legged bats for fox pelts in a third. But trade alone had not kept him aboard. He wanted to marry Pacu Lapadolma.

  No one could deny that he was an optimist. In three months Pazel had heard the girl speak just four words to her suitor: “You reek of dung.” If she mentioned him to others it was not by name but as “the imbecile” or “that wrinkled ape.” Latzlo did not seem to mind: indeed he went on discussing names for their children with anyone who cared to hear.

  Bolutu was an even stranger case. A veterinarian much favored by the Imperial family, he was also a student of the Rinfaith and had taken the vows of a journeyman monk. He was a black man, and there was even a rumor that he was a Slevran, one of the savage nomads of the northern steppe—but yesterday Pazel had heard him speak Mzithrini. Surely, then, he was an enemy spy? But what good was a spy whose looks, acts and voice drew so much attention?

  Pazel winced. Not his voice, not anymore. Yesterday, enraged at the man’s interference, Arunis had magically forced Bolutu’s mouth open and set a live coal upon his tongue. Ramachni had stopped the burning with a counter-spell, no doubt saving the veterinarian’s life. But nothing could be done about the tongue. Already Pazel had noticed Bolutu communicating through scribbles in a notebook.

  Another happy roar from the city. Pazel looked toward the port and saw men dashing, leaping from one tethered boat to another, making for the city center. “It’s too weird,” he said to Dastu. “What’ve they got to cheer about?”

  “See that boat!” cried a sailor on their left. “Ain’t that Dr. Chadfallow in the stern?”

  And so it was. The doctor was seated in a long skiff, helping out with the oars. Pulling away on his right was Arunis. Uskins, the first mate, was also aboard. They were nearing the Jistrolloq, the White Reaper, fiercest warship of the Mzithrinis’ White Fleet. She was anchored less than half a mile from the Chathrand: close enough for Pazel to see the enemy sailors gathering at her bows.

  “They look like old shipmates,” growled Dastu. “He’s as much a villain as Arunis himself, that doctor is.”

  Pazel’s hands tightened on the rail. We won the first round, he thought. We smashed Ott’s prophecy to pieces. So what was Felthrup afraid of? And what on earth was keeping Eberzam Isiq?

  Now the little boat drew alongside the Jistrolloq, and Pazel saw Chadfallow stand to speak with a Mzithrini officer, possibly the captain himself. What the doctor said he could not hear, but the sailors clustered at the warship’s rail greeted his words with astonished cries. After a moment the doctor sat again, and the skiff turned toward the Chathrand.

  “By the Tree,” said Dastu. “The Sizzies are running a new flag up their mainmast! Not their Imperial banner, either. What is it?”

  All the Mzithrini ships were doing the same. There were cheers as the pennants rose.

  “It’s a coat of arms,” said Pazel softly. “It’s Falmurqat’s coat of arms.”

  “Falmurqat?” said Dastu. “The prince who was supposed to marry Thasha? Why?”

  At that very moment the fireworks began to pop. Whistlers and crackers, bomblets and boomers, followed by the neighs of frightened horses and the barks of hysterical dogs.

  Pazel watched the skiff approach. Dr. Chadfallow was grim, his face hardened against the rancor virtually everyone on the Chathrand felt for him. But Arunis was smiling: a smile of triumph, or so Pazel imagined. Mr. Uskins just looked afraid.

  Neeps appeared beside them. He looked at Pazel, ashen-faced.

  “Felthrup has this horrible idea—”

  “Cha
thrand! Urloh-leh-li! Ahoy ship Chathrand!”

  It was a shout from the Jistrolloq: a Mzithrini officer on her foremast was hailing them through a voice-trumpet. On the Chathrand’s own maintop the officer of the watch put a hand to his ear.

  “Felthrup’s right,” said Pazel.

  Dastu looked from one to the other. “What are you talking about? Who’s Felthrup?”

  “Admiral Kuminzat begs the honor of serving Captain Rose, Admiral Isiq and such officers as you choose,” boomed the Mzithrini. “An hour past sunset, aboard this his flagship. Seven dishes and a puff-pastry, with Mangali cordials to follow.”

  On the skiff, Arunis put back his head and laughed.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” said Neeps.

  “A soldier’s daughter.” Pazel ground his fists against his forehead. “Damn him. Gods damn that man.”

  Dastu was at a loss. “Who, damn who?”

  “They’re chanting her name,” said Neeps.

  “Whose name, blast it?” said Dastu. “Thasha’s?”

  “No,” said Pazel. “The other soldier’s daughter. The one Sandor Ott had in his pocket all this time. The girl Prince Falmurqat just married. Pacu Lapadolma.”

  Without another word he and Neeps turned and headed aft. All night the circle of friends huddled in the stateroom, conspiring anew but feeling checkmated. All night the fireworks exploded over Simjalla, gold and green and silver, and when the wind blew right they heard the chanting, even to the hour of dawn: Pacu, Pacu, Queen of Peace!

  5

  From the Editor: A Word of Explanation

  I will ask you very plainly: has anything, ever, been more absurd, more whimsical, more devoid of probability and good sense? That I should be given to witness these events and record them, here in my palace of books and meditation and cold unsalted soup? That with an iron stylus I should scribble away the fair days and the foul, write past the stroke of midnight under a lamp burning the ooze of a giant beetle, gaze like a bird hypnotized by the sway of the cobra’s hood at the events that shaped my life—their lives—all lives in unlucky Alifros?

  Do I deserve this honor? By no means. I invite the reader to observe that I have never stated otherwise. So many deaths on the Chathrand, so many days of agony and despair, so many forms courage took, the sword through the fangs of the flame-troll, the gangrenous leg under the saw, the war in the brine-reeking darkness of the hold. But there are more fundamental questions. Who killed? Who refrained from killing? Who shielded reason, frailest blossom ever to open in the soul of man, from the hailstorms of violence and revenge?

  Not me. Not this poor editor to whom the angels lend their vision for a time. I read, I write, I drink my cave-shrimp soup and pour my energies into a task for which I know I am unfit. No more can I offer history. No more do I covet for myself.

  It seemed essential to me to clear this matter up. Now we may proceed.

  6

  Conversation by Candlelight

  7 Teala 941

  The horses were strong, and the driver whipped them without mercy, so that the carriage flew heaving and rattling down the cobbled streets. Eberzam Isiq set his back against the wall and kicked until his bare feet bled. The door held. He shouted, but no one answered his cries.

  Soon the voices in the street began to fade, as if they were leaving the city center behind. Stone became wood under the horse’s hooves: they were crossing a bridge. He tried to recall the king’s chatter, where the river lay, how many crossing-points. Isiq could not even recall its name. Then blackness fell. A tunnel, the driver’s shout echoing along its length, the crash of an iron gate closing behind them.

  The carriage door opened. Isiq looked out into a large stone chamber. The light was dim; the clammy air was like depths of a hold. Before him stood a trio of young men. They were neatly but not elegantly clothed, and apparently unarmed. Bowing, they apologized for the rough ride. But Isiq knew military manners when he saw them, and military eyes. These men watched his hands as he climbed stiffly to the ground.

  “You’re Arqualis,” he said.

  It was not a question, and they made no denials, but merely turned and led him across the hay-strewn chamber. He passed an open doorway, heard the flutter of some large bird in the shadows. He wondered vaguely if he could ask for shoes.

  “Mind the step, Admiral.”

  “Am I to be killed?”

  The men looked at him, and one of them shrugged. “We’re not given to waste,” he said.

  Then something caught his eye. Quick as a snake, he plunged a hand into Isiq’s waistcoat and removed the bronze flask.

  “Not much of a weapon, that,” said Isiq.

  The man smiled slightly, opening the flask. “The Westfirth,” he said, sniffing. “Fine brandy, that is.”

  “Stay in the service long enough and you’ll be able to afford it. Ah, no. Your kind don’t live that long, do you?”

  A change came over the young man’s face. It was Isiq’s last memory, for a time.

  “Wake up, Admiral.”

  “Kill you … damn and blast.”

  He was slouched against a grimy wall. Searing pain, like the worst moments of brain fever induced by Syrarys’ poisons. His hair stank of spirits and blood. The lad had clubbed him down with his own flask.

  “There is shaved ice in the bucket beside you, and a rag.”

  His mind was clearing. He knew that voice, and loathed it like no other. He raised his eyes.

  Sandor Ott stood before him. The spymaster’s arms were crossed; his gaze was calm, but he looked even worse than Isiq felt. The tapestry of old scars that was his face was overlaid by fresh ones: the raking claw-cuts of Sniraga, Lady Oggosk’s cat, who had mauled Ott two days before in Ormael. There were other gashes, made perhaps by the stained-glass window through which he had hurled himself to escape arrest. The wounds were field-dressed, but ugly all the same.

  “When you became a spy,” said Isiq, fumbling at the bucket, “did you seduce many powerful women? For I’d say those days are through.”

  “When I became a spy, I found I could murder any number of people who displeased me a tenth as much as you have over the years.”

  “What I mean is that you’re an ugly dog.”

  Ott shook his head. “Displeasure and anger are not the same thing, Isiq. You cannot anger me. I hope, however, that you will not waste my time.”

  “I was tortured during the Sugar War,” said Isiq. “I revealed nothing. And I have less reason to fear you than I did those rebels with their whips and scorpions.”

  Ott sighed. “More reason, in fact. You simply haven’t been briefed.”

  He sat down beside the admiral, hands on knees. Only then did Isiq realize that they were completely alone. A few yards away stood a mean little table, two chairs and a candle, the only source of light. Beyond the table he saw a vague metallic gleam, possibly a hinge or doorknob. He could not see the other walls.

  “Before the Oshirams came to power in Simja,” said Ott suddenly, “there were eight King Ombroths, who were in turn preceded by a century of rule by the Trothe of Chereste. And before the Trothe this island was ruled by a demonic queen, a madwoman with a crab’s claw where her left hand should have been. She had congress with spirits, and unnatural long life: one hundred and twenty years she sat on the throne. An age the Simjans would rather forget.”

  Isiq looked at the man on his right. He was close enough to touch. One of his eyes was grotesquely bloodshot: the cat must have sunk a claw there. He had no visible weapon. Not that it mattered. Sandor Ott was the most notorious killer in the Empire. He could kill Isiq in seconds, any number of ways.

  “She outlawed funerals, this queen.”

  “Did she.”

  The spymaster nodded. “When a citizen died, she sent men for the bodies at once. She injected them with preservatives, bandaged them, soaked them in sesame oil, and lastly encased them in clay. Before the clay dried she would arrange the corpse in some life-like position—the
farmer with his hoe, the smith at his anvil, the child bent to tie a shoe—in a specially built dungeon beneath her chambers. Quite creative: the dungeon was constructed around a coal furnace, so that it might be heated like a kiln. In this way she baked the corpses hard as stone. Not as quickly as young Pathkendle dispatched the Shaggat, but effective nonetheless.”

  He knows what happened yesterday, thought Isiq. He still has spies aboard!

  “The queen had the idea that the ghosts of the dead made her powerful, and that they would linger so long as the bodies themselves did not perish. She became known as Queen Mirkitj of the Statues. She was hated and feared beyond description—even before she modified the practice for use on the living.”

  “You will be remembered as her soul’s kindred,” said Isiq.

  “I will not be remembered at all. Oh, there will be rumors—for a generation at the most—rumors of an old spy who was behind Arqual’s triumph. But no histories shall name or describe him. My own disciples will see to that. Your memoirs, for instance, will not be published, or archived, or even left in private hands. Your letters will be retrieved and burned.”

  “Why have you kidnapped me, Ott?”

  The spymaster ignored the question. “When Queen Mirkitj died at last, the palace was razed, and the upper levels of the dungeon with it. But the queen had made thousands of these statues, and the dungeon ran nine levels deep—one for each Pit of the Underworld. In any case, only the first three levels were discovered, until rather recently. We are in the seventh.”

  “Now I see,” said the admiral. “You will subject me to this ancient torture unless I do your bidding. What can be left for you to want, though? What but your bidding have I done these many years, although I knew it not?”

  “Not the least thing,” agreed Ott, smiling. “But you’re wrong again. I will inflict no pain on you if I can avoid it. For many years it was necessary to poison you—necessary, not especially pleasant—but that time is done. I merely intend to prepare you for the next phase in your service to the Emperor.