The Ruling Sea

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “Talk, you monster.”

  But the man was already talking, very softly to himself: “The rats, the rats, the rats,” he said.

  “We know they’re rats!” exploded the king, “in the same way that a godsforsaken whale-eating behemoth shark is a fish! Tell me what you know of them!”

  “They can t-t-talk—”

  “That’s more than I can say for you, you slobbering dog! Who are you? What were you doing on that hillside? What sort of black sorcery turns rats into hog-sized killing machines?”

  Suddenly the other man raised his head and looked directly at the king. His face was so white with chalky dust that he might have been a thespian painted for the stage—except for the blood that had dried in streaks.

  “It’s the queen’s revenge,” he said.

  “What’s that? Who are you? What queen?”

  The man moistened his dry lips. A small wart in the corner of his mouth began to bleed anew.

  “Mirkitj,” he said, “the crab-handed queen. We jailed a living man among her statues. We violated her unholy tomb.”

  Oshiram had outlawed torture, very publicly, on the first day of his reign. Whether as a consequence of this decree or because their minds were broken, he learned little more from either captive. But armed with the mention of “a living man” he sent eighty of his least wounded footsoldiers into the ruins of Mirkitj’s palace. Following a trampled and bloody path they found a door—once well hidden, now torn from its hinges—and descended by stages through the remains of the palace, the basements, sub-basements, and at last to the kiln.

  Months of shock and revulsion would follow, as the statues were brought one by one into the daylight, and their possible lineages debated. But nothing was so strange as the discovery of a pale old man, barricaded in the cylindrical oven and emaciated, but very much alive. He could not tell them his name, or who had imprisoned him, or for what crime. Indeed none of the soldiers recognized him, and it was only the king who saw the Arquali ambassador and father of the first Treaty Bride beneath the blood and matted hair and months of filth.

  He almost shouted, Isiq! It’s you! But something made Oshiram hold his tongue. He stood a little apart from the delirious man and waved his scribe and chamberlain to silence. He thought of all that had happened in his city that year. A murdered girl. A Mzithrini elder slain in his shrine. A curious silence from Arqual. And no word whatsoever from the west regarding the happiness of Falmurqat and Pacu Lapadolma. He felt the stirrings of fear for his little country, ever between the hammer and the anvil, ever dreaming of the day it would cease to bleed. Then he beckoned to the chamberlain and had him take Isiq to a guest room in the palace, a snug but out-of-the-way place not far from the king’s private library.

  “Send a doctor—no, send my doctor, and have him report to me the minute he leaves this man’s bedside. And see that neither he nor the guards nor you yourself ever mention this fellow to a soul.”

  22

  Bad Medicine

  20 Freala 941

  129th day from Etherhorde

  At dawn the Chathrand was no longer alone.

  They had heard nothing, and seen no vessel approach for as long as there was moonlight to see by. Yet somehow before dawn a small, single-masted cutter had swept down upon them, around the curve of one of the Black Shoulders, or else out of some hidden mooring on Bramian itself.

  She had drawn up under their lee and was closing still. The lookout bellowed; the watch-captain gave a blast on his pipe. Archers raced to the Chathrand’s fighting tops.

  The cutter was some forty feet long. There was grace to her lines, her tight-fitted timbers, and her silent crew worked the headsails with confidence, riding her gently on the swells. Little by little she edged closer to the Great Ship.

  Mr. Alyash came on deck and ordered the archers to stand down. “Let us have the ladder, gentlemen. Helmsman, nothing sudden if you please.”

  The accordion ladder snaked down the hull. On the cutter the men were rigidly alert: if they drifted too near they would founder in the Chathrand’s underswell: a fatal accident beyond all doubt. The helmsman of the smaller craft fought the waves, shouting orders to the men at the staysail. The gap narrowed: twelve feet, ten—

  Suddenly a man was airborne: he had taken a flying leap from the smaller craft. He cleared the gap and caught the ladder in both hands, smacking against the Chathrand’s hull. For an instant he vanished completely in a wave; then the Great Ship rolled and his body punched upward through the water. Alyash, watching his progress from above, heard him laugh aloud.

  The cutter veered hastily away. The man on the ladder climbed with easy assurance. Water streamed from his loose gray hair, and the tip of the scabbard lashed sidelong on his back. Some thirty feet below the topdeck he raised his eyes to Alyash and barked: “You’re the new bosun—Swellows’ replacement?”

  “Aye, sir,” came the startled reply.

  “You’ll reopen the midship portal. This is no way to board.”

  “We sealed it against the Nelluroq, Mr.—”

  “Open it. And let Elkstem know he must bear north around Sandplume Isle—tight in, there’s a cove.”

  “The cove at Sandplume?” Alyash sputtered. “But sir, the reef blocks the mouth of that cove, it’s unapproachable.”

  “There is no reef, you fool. We tore it out six months ago. Where’s the captain? What mischief has that cursed mage been up to? And what the devil happened to the Shaggat’s son?”

  “He … that is—”

  “Never mind, give me a hand. By the Night Gods, your face is ugly!”

  Alyash glared, but bent over and clasped the outstretched hand—a scar-covered hand that closed on his own like a trap. The bosun grunted and heaved backward, and the newcomer sprang over the rail and landed four-square on the deck. They stood there, eye to eye. Then Alyash wrenched his hand free.

  “You’re one to talk, you old spittin’ viper.”

  A moment’s silence. Then Alyash guffawed, and Sandor Ott cackled, and the two men locked arms in what was almost an embrace.

  “Bastard!” said Ott. “We needed you in Simja! I said we wanted you aboard eventually. I didn’t tell you to ship out as part of the crew!”

  “You left it to my discretion.”

  Ott shoved the bosun away. “That was before the Isiq girl’s trick in the shrine! You’ve no idea how close we came to ruin that day. Pacu Lapadolma’s credentials were mistranslated! What good is ‘a general daughter,’ damn your eyes, when we need the daughter of a general? We had to enlist our reserve man from the shrine to argue on her behalf, keep them all talking and considering, while we dug out old letters from her family.”

  Alyash shrugged. “What could I have done?”

  “Examined her credentials before we passed them to that raving Babqri Father, of course. Not that he’s raving any longer. That incubus tore him open like a pomegranate; I watched it all from the shadows.” He lowered his voice, leaned close to Alyash. “Tell me, has Fulbreech been exposed?”

  “Not a bit of it,” murmured Alyash with a smile. “He has even claimed a little territory in the heart of Thasha Isiq.”

  “Has he, now? Fine work; but let him understand that I will tolerate no scandal. Young fathers make useless spies; if he gets her with child I will toss him from the quarterdeck myself. Here, have a look at this.”

  Ott freed the top button of his coat, and from an inner pocket drew out a strange device of wood, bronze and iron. On one end was a handle, somewhat like that of a saw; on the other a dark metal tube.

  “What is it?” said Alyash. “It looks like a toy cannon, except for the handle.”

  “That is no toy,” said Sandor Ott. “It is a pistol. All the mechanics of a ship’s gun are right there in miniature.”

  Alyash’s jaw gradually slid open. “By the iron kiss of the Arch-Devil,” he said, turning the instrument gingerly in his hands.

  “You heretics amaze me,” said Ott, his tone a blend of
scorn and affection. “You’re obsessed with purity, yet you invoke only the corruptors—the Pit-fiends, the devils you detest. Where do you hide your god?”

  Alyash shook his head. “We’ve been over this ground for years, Ott—like two old nags. We of the Old Faith do not speak of that which you call god. We do not cage the infinite in the small mind of man; that vanity we leave to others. Tell me, what is this lever for?”

  “That is the serpentine; it lowers a burning match onto the powder charge. The explosion tends to ruin the serpentine, and sometimes the pistol itself. In truth it is not yet a practical tool. An arrow is swifter to fire, and much more accurate; a vasctha is deadlier if it strikes. But there can be only so much power in bent wood and stretched sinew, while the potential latent in this—” He gazed rapturously at the weapon. “—is infinite. You are looking at the invention of our age. In time it will bring an end to all wars, for the alternative—can you imagine it, Alyash? A world equipped with these, and using them?—would simply be too ruinous for everyone.”

  Alyash shook his head grimly. “No, I can’t imagine such a world.”

  “When that day comes, the world will have no more need of us,” said Ott, sliding the pistol back into his coat. “Enough, where’s the captain? We must bear north immediately.”

  Alyash led the spymaster forward, past rows of gaping sailors. When he caught their whispers (“Nagan, it’s Commander Nagan!”) Ott chuckled softly. They knew him—or rather, they knew the captain of Eberzam Isiq’s honor guard. That costume, that papier-mâché man, one of the myriad counterfeit selves he had lived within.

  Sandor Ott had lately come up with an image for his life. A solitary man on a desert road, the sun at perpetual noon, the road vanishing straight as an arrow behind him, littered with bodies to the edge of sight. Usually he thought of these bodies as his aliases, the soldiers and merchants and monks he had not just impersonated but become, so completely that he suffered confusion when his fellow spies addressed him by his real name. Sandor Ott: what was that, anyway, but an earlier invention? Not a talisman, not a family name, for he had known no family but the Arquali Children’s Militia, outlawed now, and slowly being rubbed out of the Empire’s official histories. He did not know who in the militia had named him. He did not even know the name of his first language, or where in the Empire it was spoken, or quite when Arquali had replaced it as the language of his thought.

  At other times the bodies on the road were simply those who had stood in his way.

  He and Alyash walked the length of the topdeck. Ott’s eyes darted everywhere, studying the ship he had departed six weeks ago in Ormael. He asked questions in a sharp military style: “How many tons of grain have you left? When did the men last eat vegetables? Has anyone been murdered? How in the Nine Pits did you damage your shrouds?”

  At the mizzen they went below, then continued forward along the upper gun deck. Halfway down the portside battery, Alyash paused and looked the spymaster in the face.

  “They sent me, Ott. They ordered me to seek a position.”

  “Aboard an Arquali ship?”

  The bosun shook his head. “Aboard Chathrand. Specifically.”

  Sandor Ott held very still. His eyes slid away from Alyash, darting again—but this time they were studying abstractions, facts arrayed before him, words and signs and evidence.

  “They suspect us,” he said at last.

  “Yes,” said Alyash.

  “They cannot know of what. But they do suspect us. That’s interesting.”

  The bosun turned and spat. “I suppose that’s one word for it. Another would be disastrous.”

  Still Ott did not move. He might have been blind to the ship about him.

  “The Babqri Father,” he said. “Your orders came from him, didn’t they?”

  Alyash nodded. “We answered to him, you realize: the Zithmoloch put their spies under his command for the duration of the wedding. And do you know who that girl was—the one the demon killed alongside the old priest?”

  “A sfvantskor trainee—fully trained, almost, by the way she fought.”

  “Ott, she was also the daughter of the Mzithrini admiral, Kuminzat.”

  Sandor Ott’s eyes refocused on the bosun, and a fascinated smile took possession of his face. Alyash squirmed at the sight of it. He had known Ott for decades, and that smile came to him only when the spymaster sensed an assault or an ambush, violence approaching like a predator from the woods. No, not like a predator. Not in your case, Ott. More like a loved one, his cherished intimate, whose absence he could bear only so long.

  By midday they had rounded the little isle of Sandplume. On the north shore, two headlands like swollen knuckles bulged northward, forming a dark, cliff-mantled cove. The reef, as Ott had promised, had been reduced to scattered rubble on the seabed, and the Chathrand glided easily into the sheltered waters. Inside, she was hidden from any possibility of view from south, east or west; and unless a ship was running between the isles, the next Black Shoulder to the north would hide them from that direction as well. The spymaster’s cutter had arrived before them; her anchor was already down.

  Captain Rose had not emerged that morning. He had Uskins greet Sandor Ott, to both men’s displeasure. But once the Great Ship lay at ease beside the cutter he sat at his desk, uncapped a speaking-tube that rose like a beheaded snake from the corner, and began to issue commands.

  Thirty minutes later Ott and Alyash arrived at his door, and the steward waved them in. Rose’s cabin was bright, the air close and steamy: hot midday sun poured through the skylight and glittered on the silver service. Rose stood at the head of the table, carving a slab of salt-cured ham on a platter garnished with potatoes and turnips and slices of withered orange. There was also a cold crab stew in a gyroscopic cauldron, its feet screwed into the tabletop, the bowl itself on ball-bearings that kept it level against the rolling of the ship. Lady Oggosk and Drellarek were seated. Uskins was at the sideboard, pouring snifters of brandy.

  Drellarek rose and gave Ott a precise military bow.

  “Sergeant,” said Ott amiably.

  “A great pleasure to have you back, sir,” said Drellarek.

  Something hissed. Captain Rose gave a violent start. Ten feet away on his desktop, Sniraga stood with bristled fur, baring her fangs at the spymaster.

  Ott’s eyes traveled to the far end of the cabin. There, looking out through the gallery windows, stood Dr. Chadfallow. He was drawn and dour, and clearly did not mean to offer any greetings of his own.

  “He will not kill you, Doctor,” said Rose, whose eyes had not left the ham. “You may join us at table.”

  “I am not hungry,” said Chadfallow.

  “Well, I certainly am,” said Ott. “Your hospitality arrives at a crawl, Captain.”

  “This is not a social occasion,” said Rose.

  “Indeed not,” said the spymaster. “Come, Doctor, the captain speaks the truth. We all know of how you’ve broken faith with His Supremacy, and while it might be enough to condemn you in a court of law—well, we are a long way from the nearest courtroom, aren’t we? Nor shall I seek vengeance for what passed between us in Ormael, any more than I shall against the duchess here. You were not to know why Syrarys and I were poisoning your old friend Isiq. A case could even be made that you acted out of loyalty to the crown.”

  Chadfallow turned from the window and looked across the wide cabin at Ott.

  “A false case,” he said.

  Ott shrugged. “This ship requires a doctor, and no one disputes that you are the finest. Indeed, we’ll have need of your special skills within the hour. Where is our guest of honor, Sergeant?”

  “The Shaggat’s son?” said Drellarek. “He is not fit company, Master Ott. Since his brother died, Erthalon Ness raves like never before. I thought you would prefer to deal with him later.”

  “Quite right,” said Ott, “but that is not who I meant.”

  “The other will be delivered as soon as we lay hands on him,
” said Drellarek. “My men face a new complication in that regard.”

  “So Alyash tells me,” said Ott. “A magical wall about the stateroom, astonishing! Your arts are no match for it, then, Lady Oggosk?”

  Lady Oggosk was sucking an orange wedge. “My arts,” she said wetly, “are at the service of the captain, not the Imperial butcher-boy.”

  Ott smiled, but no one imagined he was pleased.

  Rose was looking sharply at Alyash. “Why have you brought him to this meeting, Ott?”

  “I’m glad you ask,” said the spymaster, taking Alyash by the arm. “Gentlemen, Lady Oggosk. You’ve met your new bosun, but I dare say you were not properly introduced. As well as being a first-class sailor, he happens to be an agent of my western rivals in the field of clandestine security.”

  Silence. Drellarek studied the bosun inscrutably. Uskins, bewildered, looked from face to face. At last Ott’s meaning dawned on him.

  “A spy? A spy for the Black Rags?”

  “You watch your mouth,” growled Alyash. “I’m a son of the Holy Mzithrin, no matter what I’d like to see happen to her five criminal kings.” He surveyed the room. “You Arqualis mean to conquer and cannibalize the Pentarchy. I know that; I’m not a blary fool. I help you because I realized long ago that domination by Arqual, however great an evil, was the only way to save my homeland from gory suicide. The Shaggat Ness was the worst of the Mzithrin’s open sores, but he would not have been the last. I am not a traitor. I am simply a man who faces the truth.”

  “Facing the truth is easier with twelve thousand gold a year,” muttered Oggosk.

  “Yes, Mr. Uskins, a spy,” said Ott quickly. “What is more, the first spy ever to penetrate the ranks of the Shaggat’s faithful on Gurishal. Which is to say, the first man placed on that island who was not quickly discovered, and shipped in pieces back to Babqri. His four predecessors lasted an average of a week before the Shaggat’s worshippers found them out. Alyash lasted thirteen years. And even when the doubts began he managed to escape.”

  “With a few souvenirs,” said Oggosk, picking at her teeth.