The Ruling Sea

by Robert V. S. Redick

  Pazel had seen enough. Without a word to Neeps he turned and marched away aft. He had a vague idea of storming into Lady Oggosk’s cabin and telling her what she could do with her threats. Of course part of him realized that he could do no such thing—but how long could he keep up this charade? How long before Thasha asked him a question he couldn’t lie about?

  As he passed under the mizzenmast shrouds Neeps caught up with him, breathless from running.

  “You’re a first-class rotter,” he said. “She’s gone off somewhere with Fulbreech, and it’s your fault.”

  “How do you figure that?” Pazel asked without slowing his pace.

  “Don’t play simple,” said Neeps. “Thasha’s moody and headstrong, but you don’t have to act like she’s got some sort of plague. Can’t you be blary decent? Nobody’s asking you to marry her.”

  Pazel gave a spiteful laugh. “That’s a damned good thing. She’s not exactly good luck where marriage is concerned.”

  Neeps leaped in front of him, stopping him dead. The smaller boy’s patience was clearly exhausted. “Are we mates, or not?” he demanded. “When are you going to tell me what’s the matter with you?”

  Pazel averted his eyes, afraid of giving himself away. Oggosk had not forbidden him to talk to Neeps, but he would never forget how his friend had raged at the old witch, or her casual threat to murder him. He shuddered to think what Neeps would do if he learned what Oggosk had said after he stormed out.

  But there was another reason he was keeping away from Thasha—one he could tell Neeps about, if only he could find the words to explain it.

  “You … remember Klyst, don’t you?” he said warily.

  Neeps’ jaw fell open so wide that Pazel could see his tonsils by lamplight. “You’re still thinking about that—thing. You’re still under its spell.”

  “Don’t call her a thing, mate. She’s a girl, and she’s not so bad.”

  “She eats people.”

  “Well,” said Pazel reluctantly, “yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me the murth-spell was still affecting you? Come on, we’re going to Chadfallow right this minute.”

  “No!” said Pazel. “By the Nine Pits, Neeps, the last thing I want is another ‘cure’ from Ignus! Besides, I don’t need curing. I’m not under her spell.”

  “Pazel, her sister tied me up and left me to drown. And she would have done the same to you if your Gift hadn’t turned the tables and made her love you. You’re lucky she’s thousands of miles away.”

  “Maybe she’s not,” said Pazel. “She … well, she showed up on Dhola’s Rib. And I heard her voice tonight on the bowsprit.”

  Neeps’ face contorted helplessly. “When were you going to say something, you witless prat?”

  “When I thought I could trust you not to screw things up.”

  “Trust me? Oh, that’s priceless, that’s just—” Neeps was apoplectic. He bit his lips, clawing at the air in front of Pazel’s face. “You make me angrier than just about anyone I know.”

  “Anyone but your brother, eh? Your older brother.”

  For a moment he thought Neeps would hit him. The small boy’s face turned dark red, and his mouth tightened to a choleric scowl. “I told you,” he said, “never, ever to talk to me about brothers.”

  “And I told you I’m not under any spell.”

  “Really? What’s this, then?” Neeps flicked away Pazel’s hand, which he had raised unconsciously to his collarbone, found Klyst’s shell beneath the skin—and pinched it, hard.

  A searing pain flooded Pazel’s chest. He cried out, as somewhere inside him a girl’s voice wailed in anguish. He shoved Neeps with all his might; the smaller boy crashed against the block and tackle at the mizzenmast, and struck his head on the rail.

  Pazel doubled over, hands on his collarbone. Neeps had not broken the shell, but the pain throbbed on. Klyst is terrified, he thought. She thinks I’m getting ready to cut out her heart. The sound of her voice was so real he found himself looking about for its source, though he knew the murth-girl would never appear on the Chathrand. Her words in the temple came back to him: Not allowed. I’d be trapped there forever.

  Neeps got shakily to his feet, rubbing his head. When Pazel reached out to steady him he knocked his hand away.

  “I’m finished here,” he said. “Your cannibal-girl’s welcome to you.”

  He stalked off, and Pazel heard his feet clattering down the ladderway.

  The pain took a long time to ebb. Pazel leaned against the mizzenmast, wondering who was more revolted at his behavior, Neeps or Klyst herself. He had not been at it long when a shadow crossed his face.

  It was Druffle. The pale spike of a man was drenched in sweat and smiling. His breath smelled distinctly of rum. “Pathkendle!” he barked. “What’s this? You’ve been in a fight, haven’t you?”

  Pazel looked away; he had talked enough for one night. “Not … a fight, Mr. Druffle. Not exactly.”

  “If it tastes like a duck, it’s a duck, lad.”

  Pazel could think of no fitting rejoinder, so he said, “That sure was some music you played.”

  “Somebody had to make that Burnscove half-wit stop torturing his fiddle. And a Plapp’s Pier boy was baiting him, calling him a tuneless hack. Of course he was a tuneless hack, but many’s the brawl that began when one man stabbed another with a painful truth. We’re not built to put up with much truth, my Chereste heart.”

  “Oppo, sir.”

  “The girl’s not worth it, you know.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I saw you and Undrabust watchin’ Miss Thasha. No girl’s worth losin’ a friend over—not even a sweet puff-pastry like her. Take it from an old lady’s man: play the game calm and collected. Let Undrabust make a fool of himself. He’s got a knack for it, and when he does you’ll look all the better in her eyes.”

  “Mr. Druffle,” Pazel broke in. “I appreciate your—guidance, really. But you’re digging for clams in an oyster bed.”

  Druffle laughed. “By the sweet Tree, you make me miss Ormael! Haven’t heard that one in years.” Then he looked sharply at Pazel, and a twinkle came to his eye. “‘Digging for clams in an oyster bed.’ D’ye know who used to say that? Captain Gregory Pathkendle, that’s who.”

  Pazel jumped upright. “You did know my father! You weren’t just spinning yarns back on the Prince Rupin! Mr. Druffle, tell me about him, please! When did you see him last?”

  Druffle’s face darkened. “On the Haunted Coast, lad. When he and Mr. Hercól led the charge against the Volpeks. ’Course I wasn’t free to speak with him—that adder-tongued mage had me in thrall. But I saw Gregory fight his way onto that Volpek cruiser, side by side with Mr. Hercól. A truly fearless man, Gregory. He took down the Hemeddrin’s captain with one thrust.”

  “He seems to be afraid of me,” said Pazel.

  Druffle looked at him quizzically. “Afraid? That’s not what I’d call it.”

  Before Pazel could ask what Druffle would call it, a hand fell heavily on his shoulder. Ignus Chadfallow was there, frowning.

  “Pazel,” he said, “come with me. I need to speak with you right now.”

  Pazel shrugged off his hand and stepped away. “What do you want? Mr. Druffle and I—”

  “You can trade stories with this rum-runner on your own time.”

  “This is my own time.”

  “Rum-runner, is it?” Druffle assumed an air of dignity. “As a man of business, I’ll have you know I take abjectness to that remark.”

  Chadfallow turned Druffle a withering look. “When I have need of your areas of expertise, such as the best means of passing off muskrat pelts as mink, I shall send for you. Come along, Pazel.”

  Suddenly Druffle reached out and seized Chadfallow by the arm. “You can’t talk to me that way no more, Doctor sir,” he snarled. “We’re outside the Empire, and from what I hear you’re no more right with the law than Dollywilliams Druffle, maybe less so.”

  �
��This ship is the Empire, you fool,” said Chadfallow, “and its laws apply here as they would in Etherhorde. Now unhand me before I have you caged like a beast.”

  Druffle released him, but his eyes sparked with malice. “Such good stock, the Chadfallows. Judges and ministers, doctors and dukes. Such a noble pedicure. But you’re not above nicking another man’s pastry now and then, are you?”

  Chadfallow froze. Druffle eyed him with wicked delight. He turned back to Pazel.

  “Aye, lad. Here’s a question what’s preyed on your mind: Why did Gregory run off and leave you? Was he afraid of the Arqualis, afraid to fight for his country? No, sir, not a bit of it. Fear never got the better of good Captain G. Why, he didn’t even know the invasion was coming, because his dear friend Chadfallow didn’t tell him.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Pazel, as Chadfallow tried once more to draw him away.

  “I heard it from his own mouth,” said Druffle, “late one night, by a fire in the fens. Your dad left Ormael when he learned that his beloved wife had taken up with his fine Arquali friend. That they’d been lovers for years. Because Gregory knew that if he didn’t get away for a while he’d put a knife through the doctor’s treacherous heart—or hers. You want to know why you grew up without a father, Pathkendle? The answer’s standing right next to you.”

  Pazel turned slowly to face Chadfallow.

  “He’s … lying, right? Tell me he’s lying.”

  Chadfallow managed a laugh. “When is he not? If lies were wine, they’d name vineyards after this man.”

  At that Druffle’s face turned red as a tuna steak, and his hands clenched in fists. “I was brought up to respect men of letters,” he growled, “but you’re no gentleman. You’re a dressed-up Bilsburra ape, and you’d die of shame if you had any.”

  Pazel stared at the freebooter, then looked at Chadfallow again.

  “I used to compare my father with you,” he said slowly. “I used to wish he was as fine and cultured as you.”

  Chadfallow seemed to grope for a reply. “This cur makes it sound—”

  “You were already aboard, after the battle with the Volpeks. That was why he didn’t wait to talk to me, isn’t it? Because he couldn’t stand being near you.”

  “Pazel—”

  “I’d started to hate him,” said Pazel, cutting him off. “To hate him, for not caring more about us. But he left because he cared, didn’t he?”

  “Let me explain.”

  “I don’t want you to explain anymore, Ignus. I want you to say it isn’t true.”

  Chadfallow stood still, gazing at him, and a terrible struggle raged in his eyes. He looked like an animal caught in a trap, waiting for the hunter to return and take his life. But he made no denial. Instead he took two steps toward Druffle, struck the man across the face, and fled the deck.

  Later that evening Neeps sat across the table from Hercól and Marila, fuming, while Jorl and Suzyt watched the stateroom door with melancholy eyes and Felthrup ran worriedly around the tabletop, urging them to eat. Neeps picked at his food. He could not bring himself to tell the others what had happened between him and his friends. He had called Pazel a pig, but he was the one plagued by an embarrassing, swinish sort of question: what if Thasha did not come back tonight?

  He felt rotten to the core, even to be visited by the thought. And when Thasha did at last appear, just as the watch-captain struck two bells past midnight, he exploded from his chair.

  “There you are! Rin’s blood, Thasha, you can’t just storm off at night! I say, have you had anything to—”

  Her cabin door slammed behind her. They heard her kicked-off boots strike the wall.

  “I don’t think she’s hungry,” said Marila, expressionless as ever.

  Hercól rose and walked swiftly to her cabin. When his knock received no answer, he sighed. “I am glad she is back,” he said. “Remember what Arunis told Pazel, concerning Rose’s desire to be rid of her. It may well be a lie, but we must take no chances. Try to keep her in the stateroom; if she insists on venturing out, say I order her to carry a sword. I have my own appointment to keep with Diadrelu. Afterward I think I shall try to learn who else may be awake and busy on the Chathrand in the dead of night. Besides, of course, Mr. Pathkendle.”

  “He’ll be along,” grunted Neeps.

  But an hour later there was still no sign of Pazel, and a newly irritated Neeps set off in search of him. By this time Marila was asleep on the bearskin rug, and the dogs were snoring in a call-and-refrain. Felthrup stood on the edge of the dining table, gazing at the strip of lamplight shining under Thasha’s door, and leaning out in such a way that he would lose his balance if he began to doze. It was a cheerless game: each time he began to drift off, the near-fall would wake him. Then he would drag himself once around the table and return to his spot. He had done this for two nights already, unnoticed by anyone. He was terrified of sleep.

  A time came when his trick failed: he was so exhausted that he slept through the vertigo, experienced an instant of weightless bliss, and landed with a thump and a whimper upon the floor. Suzyt yipped without quite waking; Marila sighed and turned over on the rug. A moment later Thasha opened her door an inch.

  She was still in her deck clothes. Her face wore a distracted look. He was not sure her eyes really saw him.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she said.

  “Not sleepy,” mumbled Felthrup.

  Thasha paused, staring at him like a ghost. “What did you do back in Noonfirth, when you couldn’t sleep?” she asked.

  Felthrup’s ears pricked up instantly. “In the good times, when I wasn’t starving? Read, m’lady, always. Learning to read was the first task I set myself after the miracle of tears—after my waking, you understand. I lived above a bakery, a choice spot for a scavenger, and the baker’s daughter was learning to read, and I would listen from the top of the stair. And one day the girl read aloud to her mother from a storybook. It was a profound tale, about a jackal captured on the Samopol Veld. The hunters planned to skin him—he was just the right size to make four jackal-fur hats—but he talked his way to freedom. He told the hunters that he was a murth in disguise, and would plague them with four years of warts and spots and piles and shingles if they harmed him. A year for each hat, you see? And they didn’t dare! It was a brilliant story, m’lady. And when the girl finished I told myself that by reading I might learn almost anything, and even answer the riddle of my own existence. I’ve failed in that last endeavor, so far. Still, I became an addict, and read everything I could. Old books, newsbills stuffed in crates, soap wrappers, lists for the greengrocer, orders of execution, ledgers forgotten in city warehouses—anything.”

  “You’d read.”

  “In a word, yes.”

  Slowly Thasha’s eyes found him, and focused. “Why don’t you come in?” she said. “I think you can help me.”

  Glad to be wanted, Felthrup went to her. But in the doorway, by long and almost involuntary habit, he stopped and sniffed. Her cabin smelled of dust, sweat, a dozen kinds of food crumbs, and very slightly of blood. He looked at her with concern. “Are you wounded, m’lady?”

  Thasha did not answer him. She shut and locked her cabin door, bent down and gently raised the lame rat onto her desk. There was something in her expression that Felthrup had never seen before. One could almost mistake it for fear; but no, she was not afraid, at least not for herself. Thasha moved around her bed to a spot by the wall, reached high, and ran her fingers along a plank. After eight or ten inches her fingers stopped. The rat found nothing special about the spot, but he could tell her fingers had. Thasha pushed, and Felthrup gave a chirp of surprise, for he could suddenly see the outline of a small door, less than two feet square. Thasha clawed it open; old hinges squeaked.

  “Mr. Fiffengurt showed this to me,” she said. “The stateroom used to be the fleet admiral’s cabin, when Chathrand was a navy flagship. The admiral hid the code-books in here, and his secret orders.”r />
  In the hidden cabinet lay a book bound in fine leather. “That’s Fiffengurt’s new journal; I’m hiding it for him,” Thasha explained. “And have a look at this.”

  She removed the book, and the rat saw a thick metal plate mounted on the wall, and within the plate the outline of a drawer. The latter was about five inches tall and ten wide, with a small handle at the center. “Solid iron, and locked fast,” said Thasha. “And there’s no proper keyhole, just a tiny round hole behind the handle. Fiffengurt has no idea what might be in there. He couldn’t remember there being any inner drawer. But that’s not what I wanted to show you.”

  There were, Felthrup saw now, two books in her hand. The second book was much older and heftier than the quartermaster’s journal. Thasha looked at him. “I think you know what this one is.”

  “Of course,” said Felthrup. “Your special Polylex.”

  “I haven’t been able to make myself open it for weeks,” she said, laying the book beside him on the desk. “It’s not that the book’s cursed or poisoned or anything vile like that. But ever since the Nilstone came aboard something’s been happening when I sit down to read.”

  “What happens?”

  Thasha paused. “Ramachni didn’t want me to talk about it. But he also told me I’d have to decide when to give my trust. And I’d trust you with my life, Felthrup dear.”

  The black rat looked suddenly nervous. “If Ramachni told you to keep it secret, then you must,” he said.

  But Thasha went on. “I don’t understand it myself. Sometimes I barely notice it happening; at other times it feels as if I’ll never be the same, as if I’m burning inside, or dying.”