The Ruling Sea

by Robert V. S. Redick

  Hatches were sealed against the creeping damp: a foe more stealthy than rain but just as likely to rot the wheat in the hold. That night was chilly, and men awoke with a cough. For the better part of the fifth day they held the same slow, nervous course. Mr. Elkstem sailed by the binnacle, and memory.

  As night fell Captain Rose asked Fiffengurt what he could smell on the wind. Startled to be asked his opinion after months of disdain, Fiffengurt drew a deep breath and held it, considering.

  “Smoke, sir,” he said at last. “No doubt about it. But not from a land fire, I think.”

  Rose nodded. “Nor from a burning ship. That’s blubber and oil, cooking down over coal. There’s a whaler nearby.”

  Dawn proved the captain right. The fog rose with the suddenness of a dustcloth whipped from a table; and there, broad on the port beam, rode a two-masted vessel belching dark smoke from its furnace as it crept along.

  Thasha had been on deck since first light: days of fog had made her hungry for the sun. She leaned on the mizzen-rail, studying the whaler through her father’s telescope.

  “The Sanguine,” she read aloud.

  “Out of Ballytween, m’lady,” offered a sailor, swinging up to the shrouds. “See the pennant with the wee gold harp, under His Supremacy’s own? That’s the Opalt flag.”

  “How far off is she, do you think?”

  The sailor twisted for a second glance as he climbed. “Four leagues at the outside, m’lady.”

  Not far enough, Thasha knew: if she could read that whaler’s nameplate, the men aboard her could read their own. Rose had ordered black paint spread over the three-foot gold letters that spelled out CHATHRAND, but that would not prevent the men of the Sanguine from recognizing the largest ship in the known world.

  Good luck at last, she thought. For it was exactly what the conspirators had been afraid of. Whaling was a cruel business—Pazel had told her ghastly stories of his days on the Anju—but for the moment she looked fondly on the smoke-spewing vessel. I hope you sail straight to Opalt and tell the world we lied.

  Rose emerged from his cabin, accompanied by his steward and Mr. Alyash. With dire faces they stalked to the port rail. The captain’s telescope snapped up and open. Rose gave a quick order to his steward, who bolted away.

  “Thasha.”

  She turned. Pazel had come up behind her, alone. Thasha glared a little. He had been so odd recently: one minute watching her with strange intensity, as if brooding on some great dilemma, the next downright rude. It had started before Dhola’s Rib, but grown ever so much worse since their return from the island. What had happened to him there in the dark?

  He had only said that he happened on Arunis, saw a chance to steal the Polylex, and took it. “Arunis never knew I was there. I got lucky, that’s all.” Thasha knew quite well that that was not all. The sibyl had shown something disturbing to each of them. What if Pazel’s vision had been the worst? Yet what could be so much worse than watching your mother fall to her death? Besides, after several days, she had seen Pazel smiling, even laughing a bit, with Neeps. He had even wrestled with her dogs. It was only when Thasha herself drew near that he groused and snapped.

  Thasha was angry, but she had made a firm decision to bear it with grace awhile longer. She had told Pazel before anyone else about Ramachni’s message in the onion-skin, hoping he’d see the gesture for what it was: a sign of her trust. Pazel had listened intently, hanging on every word, and gazing rather pathetically into her eyes. When she finished he shook himself, and his gaze hardened.

  “You’re still not reading the Polylex? What’s the matter with you?”

  “I don’t know,” she’d answered, humbly enough. “Something about that book makes my flesh crawl. Pazel, if you and I sat down together—”

  “He didn’t ask me to read it.”

  “No, but I don’t think he’d mind if you helped me.”

  “So now you’re second-guessing Ramachni, are you?”

  That last remark had stung. For two days now they had barely spoken. That was the worst of it, she thought: how his sharpness always came when she tried to be open to him. And yet somehow he couldn’t leave her alone.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  Pazel looked at her uncertainly. “Heard you get up, that’s all.”

  He was a light sleeper; the slightest sound brought him wide awake. Then he would shift and toss or pace the outer stateroom for an hour or more. But lack of sleep alone could not explain his moods.

  “You know,” she said, “we’re all proud of you for getting the Polylex away from Arunis. Oggosk talked about it all the way back to the ship. She said that Arunis would have found other ways to use the Nilstone, hidden in its pages, and that we’d never have found where he keeps it on the Chathrand. She says she underestimated you.”

  “I’m … overjoyed,” said Pazel.

  “When are you going to tell me how you really did it?”

  Pazel raised a hand to his collarbone. He looked at Thasha warily. “Never,” he said.

  “What’s the matter with your chest? Sore from our fighting-lessons?”

  He nodded. “Yes, rather.”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” she said. “You’re tired of the bruises. You want me and Hercól to quit knocking you around.”

  Pazel looked surprised. “I don’t give a damn about that,” he said, “and neither does Neeps. We’ve got to learn somehow.”

  But Thasha knew she’d gotten close to the truth. Clearly unsettled, Pazel looked across the choppy sea. The whaling vessel had tacked in their direction, and even as Thasha watched her topgallants sheeted home. She was coming to greet them.

  “Of course,” said Pazel, “I’m not exactly a quick learner.”

  Thasha hid her smile. Jealous idiot! He was comparing himself with Greysan Fulbreech. Thasha had told the older Simjan youth he must be a quick learner, just the day before, as he rattled off the medical topics he was studying under Chadfallow: salves, smelling salts, bone pins, leeches. Pazel had stood by, looking like he was being bled with leeches himself. But why should he compare himself with Fulbreech?

  “Have you seen him?” asked Pazel suddenly.

  “Greysan?” She shook her head. “Not yet. Is he looking for me?”

  Pazel nodded reluctantly. “I told him I hadn’t seen you anywhere, and—Oh, here he comes now.”

  Fulbreech was near the mainmast, a long stone’s throw away, but she could already see his smile. Thasha couldn’t help but smile in return—at times it seemed Fulbreech had been put on the ship just to beam in her direction. She did not feel guilty in the least for her friendliness toward him. It felt good to be smiled at, and she had some hope that Fulbreech might be recruited to their side. He had already mentioned quietly that the Sailing Code declared that men recruited through “bald lies and distortions” were to be treated as kidnap victims, and that “a kidnapped man cannot mutiny.” It was a brave statement, even if Fulbreech had said it mostly to impress her.

  Pazel turned away. “I’d better go wake up Neeps,” he murmured. “You don’t need me here.”

  Thasha could have kicked him. As if he had a rival in Fulbreech! She had never kissed anyone but Pazel—and she had done it twice, for Rin’s sake. True, that first kiss had been more to fool Arunis than to win his heart. But there had been nothing false about the second, later that night in the washroom. And both times his reaction had been to twitch and jump away, as if someone had just slapped him with a fish.

  “Stay a minute,” she said. “It won’t kill you.”

  Pazel sulked, but he stayed. Fulbreech waved to her, and she returned the gesture, seething inside. What do you expect me to do? Hate him?

  Fulbreech had, after all, done just as Hercól had asked, and informed Eberzam Isiq that Thasha was alive. It was very nearly his last act in Simja before Kruno Burnscove signed him on to the Chathrand. Fulbreech had told her the story in detail: how the old admiral had received him in the parlor of his new amb
assadorial residence, still grateful that Fulbreech had arranged for his carriage after the ill-fated wedding ceremony. How he’d listened to Hercól’s message, then begun to tremble until he spilled his tea. How he’d made Fulbreech repeat the words, tears of joy flowing down his cheeks: Your morning star has not set. Her light is hidden, not extinguished.

  Then Fulbreech had paused in his storytelling and looked up at Thasha. “As all stars hide at daybreak, no? Although a few make us wish the morning would never come.”

  Probably that was when Pazel had begun to hate him. But Thasha had laughed and rolled her eyes. Fulbreech was out of line, of course—but he had said it so lightly, almost self-mockingly, that she hadn’t even bothered to reprimand him.

  “Lady Thasha,” he called out now, reaching them at last. “I’ve made a tour of the ship, seeking you out—Mr. Pathkendle had the idea you might be somewhere about the forecastle.”

  Thasha threw Pazel a murderous glance. “What can I do for you?” she asked Fulbreech.

  “You have done it already,” he said, gazing into her eyes.

  “Mr. Fulbreech,” said Thasha, regarding him with Lorg severity, “I must forbid you to address me in that way.”

  She was embarrassed, knowing Pazel would think she had asked him to stay in order to make him suffer, listening to Fulbreech’s gallantries. The Simjan, for his part, realized that he had overstepped. “I do ask your pardon, m’lady,” he said. “I confess I am easily carried away.”

  “That’s a dangerous trait,” said Pazel. “Had it all your life, have you?”

  Fulbreech kept his eyes on Thasha. “No,” he said. “These past weeks, only.”

  Thasha’s smile threatened to resurface, so she trained the telescope on the whaler again. The ship had closed more than half the distance.

  “Is that all you wanted to say, Mr. Fulbreech?” she asked.

  “Not quite, m’lady,” he replied. “I woke this morning and recalled something else that happened on Treaty Day—a minor matter, perhaps. I worked straight through that night, running errands for King Oshiram. I had pledged to stay in the Royal Service through the day of your wedding, for His Highness was quite overwhelmed. And of course when Pacu Lapadolma took your place, the business of the crown was doubled: receptions, gifts, letters of congratulation—”

  “I don’t see why you’re telling me all this,” said Thasha, disturbed by the mention of Pacu.

  “Lady Thasha, the carriage that took your father to his residence that day was later used by others, and it was but one of many I kept track of. These carriages worked the streets until dawn. At that point, an honest driver brought me something left behind in his coach. I was never able to determine the owner, and the truth is that I forgot I carried the thing, when Mr. Burnscove invited me to join your crew.” His voice grew animated. “Such a thrill I had at the thought of it! To see mighty Etherhorde, and to earn my passage in the service of Ignus Chadfallow! But Burnscove lied to me. We will not see Etherhorde. We will not see any familiar place again.”

  “We were all lied to,” said Thasha. “But we’re going to stop them, you know, we—”

  She checked herself. It was too soon to offer Fulbreech confidences of that sort. “What was this thing you carried?” she demanded.

  “See for yourself,” said Fulbreech.

  Thasha and Pazel both turned to look. There in his hand lay Eberzam Isiq’s little bronze flask. Thasha’s breath caught in her throat.

  “You recognize it,” said Fulbreech, satisfied. “Then my guess was correct. This was the admiral’s property.”

  Pazel’s eyes narrowed. “Was?” he said.

  Fulbreech started, as if taken aback by the question. Then he bowed slightly in Pazel’s direction. “I stand corrected: is. And now, m’lady, you can look forward to the day you return it to him personally.”

  Thasha took the flask. She blinked at the handsome Simjan face before her. “Fulbreech—Greysan—thank you ever so much. For all you’ve done for us.”

  Fulbreech shook his head. “You owe me no thanks.”

  Pazel’s mouth twitched, as if he agreed wholeheartedly. Fulbreech noted the expression with a raised eyebrow, then turned a brief, sly smile on Thasha, who had reddened, although she was not sure why.

  “I must be off,” said Fulbreech. “The doctor wants a report on the reading he assigned me last night, on the subject of brain deformities. Lady Thasha, Pathkendle.”

  Another bow, and he was gone. Thasha whirled on Pazel.

  “You prat. How could you make that face at him?”

  Pazel managed to look sheepish and angry at once. “I’m surprised you looked away from Greysan long enough to notice.”

  “I’ll look where I blary please. And you can dine on dung.”

  Pazel’s retort was interrupted by Uskins’ deafening howl: “All hands! Bracing stations. Watch-captains forward. Topmen aloft. Stand by the fore topgallants. Handsomely, you lard-arsed layabouts!”

  “Pitfire!” said Pazel as the lieutenants’ shrill pipes began to sound. “What’s he need all hands for? We’re laying alongside that ship, not racing her.”

  “How do you know what we’re doing?”

  Pazel looked at her with unconcealed scorn. Then he turned his eyes up to the tip of the mainmast. Thasha followed his gaze: a streaming pennant had been loosed there: two green stripes with a yellow between.

  “‘Draw Along and Confer,’” Pazel told her. “Surprised you don’t know that, given whose daughter you are.”

  She could have slapped him. Wait till our next lesson, you dog.

  Mr. Elkstem put the helm to port, and the Chathrand’s bow swung toward the whaler. Just then they heard Neeps shouting their names. A moment later he arrived, entirely winded. “Looking everywhere for you,” he gasped. “Hercól’s doing the same. Come on, we’ve got to get to the orlop—now.”

  “All the way down there? What for?”

  “Just come on.”

  He took off running again, and they followed, mystified. “We’re going to have to use the gunner’s pole,” Neeps shouted. “Ladderways are blary jammed—everyone’s coming up!”

  Between the port ladderway and the capstan was a four-foot-square hatch that stood up several feet above the deck. Its cover had not yet been removed since the lifting of the fog, but Neeps knocked out the pins without hesitation and pushed the cover aside. The next moment he was over the lip of the hatch and gone.

  Pazel followed, tucking his elbows close to his body and vanishing down the square black hole. Thasha did not hesitate for an instant. She had wanted to do this since the day she came aboard. Climbing onto the rim of the hatch, she looked down and saw the top of the greased iron pole just a foot beneath her, bolted firmly to the deck beams.

  “Upa! Get down from there!”

  It was Alyash, the new bosun with the frightening scars. “You’ve no right to open that hatch! You could hurt someone! What are you playin’ at, missy?”

  He darted forward with startling speed. Thasha jumped feet-first through the opening, felt the man’s blunt fingers graze her cheek, and then she was gone, flying down the pole with the cool slick grease flowing through her fingers and spattering her face, laughing as the decks flew by—main, upper gun, lower gun—

  “How do I blary stop?”

  Even as she cried out, she understood: the grease turned to thick tallow, her hands began to rasp, and beneath her the boys shouted Squeeze! Use your legs! and she did so, and stopped almost elegantly a foot above the berth deck.

  “… see those men in the gun compartments?” Pazel was saying. “What are they up to? What’s Uskins doing with them?”

  “Not a clue,” said Neeps, cleaning his hands on a rag hung for that purpose beside the gunner’s pole. “And there’s no time to find out. Come on, we have to take the ladderway from here.”

  There were no crowds at this level, and they descended the ladderway at a run. In the main compartment of the orlop deck, however, they met a
troop of some dozen tarboys preparing to ascend. They were carrying cannonballs, plungers, and buckets of gunpowder.

  “Saroo!” Pazel cried as the tarboy struggled past. “What in Rin’s privy are you doing?”

  “Gun duty,” Saroo called over his shoulder. “Just for show, mate. Rose don’t like the looks of that whaler, somehow. Wants ’em to see we’re armed.”

  Thasha watched the tarboys lumber up the stairwell. The explanation did not satisfy her, but Neeps was tugging impatiently at her sleeve. “I didn’t mean tomorrow, Thasha.”

  They ran diagonally across a large and shadowy compartment and into the starboard passage. There they met Hercól, pacing nervously in the shadows. “We are too late,” he said. “She has gone.”

  “Who’s gone?” Pazel demanded.

  “Diadrelu,” said Neeps in a furious whisper. “Oh, hang it all! She warned me she couldn’t stay!”

  He led them on, past the starboard sail locker and the midshipmen’s cabinettes. Stepping through a bulkhead door, they came suddenly into a passage strewn with crockery, much of it broken, and a number of dirty spoons.

  “Teggatz sent me down here to collect the steerage dishes,” said Neeps. “I had a perfect stack in my hands and was making for the ladderway when something pricked my foot.”

  “You mean you stepped on a nail,” said Pazel.

  “Hardly, mate.” Neeps glanced up and down the hallway, then knelt and began to probe the dusty boards with his fingertips. After a moment he seemed to find what he was looking for, and struck a board with the heel of his hand. There was no click, no creak of a hinge. But where the blow landed a tiny trapdoor sprang open. Within they could see only darkness.

  “Pitfire, Neeps,” whispered Thasha. “You’ve found an ixchel door.”