The Ruling Sea

by Robert V. S. Redick

  24

  The Editor, Being of the Opinion That Suspense Is a Vulgar Commonplace, Reveals the End of the Story

  One by one they died. All of them, the vicious and the virtuous, the Drellareks and the Diadrelus, their lovers, their foes. The nations they bled for, killed for: those perished too. Some in extraordinary style, a conflagration of prejudice and greed, coupled to war machinery. Others were simply buried as the vast, unsound palaces they dwelt in collapsed, those houses of quarried contradiction.

  They died, you see. What else could have happened? I witnessed a number of deaths, heard others related by those who were present; I even contributed some names to the tally—your editor is a murderer; it’s not as rare as you think. Until quite recently I had comrades from that time, fellow survivors, people in whose eyes a certain light kindled when I said Chathrand or Nilstone or the honor of the clan. Never many. Today, none at all.

  It was all so long ago, an age. How many of the young scholars around me today, in my incontinent dotage, believe that the world of Pazel and Thasha ever existed—that it was ever as cruel or as blessed or as ignorant as we found it? No one in this place even looks like a Pazel or a Thasha. Why should they believe in them? So long as I live I am proof of a sort—but I, who sailed on Chathrand to her last hour, resemble myself less and less each passing year. And when I die there will be those who pause on the library stair to gaze at my portrait, wondering if the artist were mad.

  What’s left of those people? The ones I loved, the ones I detested? Not their faces (you must give them those yourself), nor their bones (though I keep Ott’s skull on the parlor table, and talk to it sometimes; he’s the only one whose looks have improved), nor their skins, shoes, teeth, voices, graves. Even the museums that collected artifacts from that time have crumbled, and the stone markers that read HERE STOOD THE MUSEUM. What’s left? Their ideas. Still today—when the world is utterly changed, when men of learning begin to argue that human beings never had a time of glory, never built great cities, never tamed the Nelluroq or tasted the magic that moves the stars—still today, we need those ideas about the dignity of consciousness, the brotherhood of the fearless and the skeptical, the efficacy of love.

  I hear your laughter. The young scholars laugh too, and whisper: That old spook upstairs has gone sentimental, mixing up his memories and his dreams. Laugh, then. May your mirth last longer than a thunderclap, and your ironies, and your youth. In the end you’ll be left with ideas—nothing else—and one or two of you will have spent your lives working honestly to help the best ideas flourish and grow. My friends on the Chathrand were such people. That is why I must record their story before I go.

  We are not blood and gristle and hair and spit. We are ideas, if we are anything at all. That part of us that was never truly living is the only part of us that cannot die. Now then, back to Bramian.

  25

  A Picnic on the Wall

  23 Freala 941

  132nd day from Etherhorde

  When dawn broke in the tower, Dr. Chadfallow at last did Pazel a good turn: he took the youth on his own horse, getting him away from Sandor Ott. When the spymaster noticed the arrangement, he gave the doctor a long, cold appraisal, but did not speak.

  It occurred to Pazel that Chadfallow might have just saved his life, but it was almost impossible for him to feel gratitude. For a long time he could think only of his last glimpse of the Shaggat’s son, releasing Alyash’s hand in a muddy clearing beneath the tower, and being lifted onto the shoulders of the thin, strong, wildly tattooed and altogether deadly Nessarim. He heard again the terrible war-cry that had started when they lifted Erthalon Ness: a cry that swept down to the riverbank, leaped across the water, and then like a fuse that has burned its way to the firecracker, exploded from every mouth in the settlement:

  From one spark a storm of fire, from one womb a nation!

  The Shaggat for us is truth entire, for others a conflagration!

  Every foe his wrath shall feel, every liar hear him! Lesser kings to him shall kneel, and fearless warriors fear him!

  So ever nearer Heaven’s door in prayer and blood anointed,

  We follow him, we follow him, unto the hour appointed!

  The chant had broken up into a high, fierce caterwauling that raised the hairs on the back of Pazel’s neck. Ott had explained that the Nessarim had borrowed this last cry from the Leopard People: it was the sound they made when they attacked the colony in force. The Nessarim actually admired the Leopard People’s courage and swiftness, he said, and tried to show their respect through the mimicry. Ott’s ultimate goal was conversion of the tribes themselves to the Shaggat cult: unlikely, he admitted, but not inconceivable.

  Their second journey along the wall was even more spectacular than the first. A rainbow arched over the northern mountains; palms waved their emerald tresses from the ridgetops; a waterfall gleamed in the morning sun. But the beauty only made Pazel feel more sick at heart. He did not know why he had risked so much for a madman, but he knew quite well that he had failed. The man tried to believe me. Why couldn’t he face the truth?

  He clenched his fingers in the horse’s mane, thoughts sliding from mystery to mystery. At last they settled on one that concerned the man behind him.

  “Ignus,” he said. “Tell me about the prisoner exchange, back in Simja. How do you know they had my mother, and Neda? Did you see them?”

  Chadfallow tensed. For several minutes he said nothing at all. Then he said, “Don’t be obtuse, Pazel. When could I have seen them? My counterpart Acheleg swore that they were there, both of them, in Simjalla City.”

  “When was the exchange supposed to happen?”

  Chadfallow sighed. “The morning after the wedding. Which as it turned out was also the day the Chathrand and the Jistrolloq almost came to blows. The day you translated Rose’s threats.”

  “Ah,” said Pazel. “Well.”

  “Yes. Well.”

  Pazel was glad the doctor could not see his eyes. He was furious. Did Chadfallow think he’d had a choice? Hadn’t the man noticed how he’d twisted Rose’s words to make them less insulting to the Mzithrinis? Was it his fault that Arunis had dispatched some kind of demon to murder the Babqri Father?

  They rode on in silence awhile, watching mice and lizards at the horses’ approach. Then Chadfallow began to speak again. “I negotiated the exchange in private. I worked at it for three years—from the moment I heard of plans for a Great Peace. I obtained a writ of extradition signed by His Supremacy, to be presented to the Warden of Licherog. But all that was before I knew of the Shaggat conspiracy.”

  “I don’t believe a word you say,” said Pazel, his voice tight as a wire. “You could have ended the conspiracy at the governor’s table in Ormael. Instead you denied that the Shaggat was aboard. You laughed at us, said that Arunis couldn’t be the real Arunis, called us a bunch of overexcited children. You kept us from exposing the whole festering lie.”

  “I saw the Shaggat hanged!” snapped Chadfallow. “Of course I didn’t believe he’d returned! Besides, I was in shock, like you. In shock at the depth of Ott’s betrayal.”

  “I don’t think you were shocked at all,” said Pazel. “I think you’re still a part of the conspiracy. I think your job from the start has been to make me useful to them—me and my gods-damn Gift.”

  Chadfallow’s knuckles were white on the reins. He was struggling with himself.

  “Did you see the list of Mzithrini names, that day?”

  “I saw it,” said Pazel, recalling how he and Neeps had pored over the scraps of parchment.

  “How many of them did we have on board?”

  Pazel hesitated “Mzithrinis? None, as far as I—”

  “None. Exactly. We never collected them—they rot on Licherog yet, if they are alive at all. Ott lied to me as he did to everyone. Three years of talks, and when the day came, I had no prisoners to give the Mzithrinis. What, then, do you imagine I planned to bargain with?”

 
“I don’t know, Ignus. Gold?”

  “The Shaggat Ness. The Shaggat, author of eighty thousand deaths in the Pentarchy. Think, Pazel: any Mzithrini old enough to recall that face would give me the keys to the five kingdoms to be allowed to put a knife in his heart! Your mother and Neda—they would have been nothing, no price at all. By now they’d be free, Suthinia would be—”

  A spasm shook his body. He dropped the reins from one hand and grabbed Pazel by the jaw.

  “But a statue? What in Rin’s firebolts could I do with a statue of the Shaggat Ness? You ruined everything when you turned him to stone. You took away the only chance they had.”

  The worst of the day’s heat lay behind them. This time no rain or wind squalls slowed their progress. When five hours had passed, they climbed a crooked ridge and saw the fortress-city looming ahead.

  “We’ll be back in your caves by nightfall, won’t we, Mr. Ott?” asked Saroo.

  “Unless you prefer to spend the night on Droth’ulad,” said the spymaster. “It’s all downhill after the fortress: that should help us stay ahead of the savages. And with any luck the eguar will remain sated as before.”

  “He wasn’t sated,” muttered Pazel, still burning with the unfairness of the doctor’s accusations.

  “Hush!” whispered Swift, glancing nervously at Ott. “Pazel, you’re a hazard to your own blary health. And another thing—you ride like a sack of spuds. Why in the Pits did Ott bring you along?”

  “Why’d he bring you?” Pazel shot back.

  “Because Saroo and I are great riders, obviously. And because we’re small, and that let the horses carry more gemstones. There, now what’s your answer?”

  Pazel looked away. His Gift was the answer, of course, but what had he done with it except overhear a few shouts from the Leopard People? Probably Ott was wishing even now that he’d left Pazel behind on the ship. Maybe, he thought bitterly, Ignus will offer to force something really strong down my throat, next time …

  Perhaps two miles from the city they came to a low saddle in the hill, and Ott called for rest. Pazel could just make out the triple arch they had passed through the day before. He shuddered at the memory of the eguar’s voice.

  They dismounted, and the boys watered the horses from a feedbag. Alyash tore chunks from a dark loaf of bread and handed them around. It was a gift from the Nessarim, along with two sausages and a clay flagon of wine: as if the forty-year journey of Erthalon Ness back into the fold had been reduced to a barter for foodstuffs.

  “Vicious bastards, those Nessarim!” said Drellarek approvingly. “Scrawny but bloody-minded; I could see it plain in their faces. They’d fight like wildcats even against my Turachs, I daresay.”

  “They have only their faith to live for,” said Ott. “And if you still wish to know, Doctor, we made this journey in support of their faith. To bring them a sign, a swallow of magic to carry with them into war.”

  “A war they can only lose,” said Chadfallow.

  Grinning, the spymaster inclined his head.

  “A diversion,” said Saroo. “You built that whole town full of crazies as a diversion.”

  Pazel was aghast to hear a note of admiration in the tarboy’s voice. His brother Swift was more guarded, however: “The Shaggat’s son would be an old man, now,” he said, “if he hadn’t spent half his life asleep. How do they know it’s really him?”

  “They knew instantly,” said Alyash. “He’s the son of their god, after all. They knew the birthmark on his elbow, and his tattoos—masterpieces, they were, the artist was blinded when he finished the boys.”

  “Will the Secret Fist tell those poor fools when to sail?” asked Drellarek.

  Ott shook his head. “They are their own masters. We shall merely be sure it happens before the Shaggat himself reaches Gurishal. And when they do sail, we shall raise the alarm in every corner of Alifros. ‘The Nessarim! The Nessarim reborn, and howling that their Shaggat is coming back as well!’ The world shall hear it loudly. And then we shall help the poor, ineffectual White Fleet to destroy them.”

  “Destroy them!” cried Pazel, his voice cracking. “You’re going to destroy them?”

  “The Mzithrinis will do the bulk of the work,” said Ott, “but we shall sink a ship or two—visibly, of course—and chase them into the line of fire. They’ll have their moment. They’ll take a bite out of the Sizzy fleet. But that will be trivial. The real wound to the Black Rags will be the humiliation. Forty years after the war, men will say, and they still can’t eliminate the Shaggat cult! Best of all, the Five Kings will believe it themselves. As our other dogs begin to nip and bite, rumors of the Shaggat’s return will spring up throughout the Crownless Lands. The Sizzies will be looking everywhere for the source of the rumor—and meanwhile they’ll redouble the blockade between Gurishal and the eastern lands. But they will not be able to stamp the rumor out. And each time a dog sinks its teeth into that bear it will respond with greater desperation.”

  “A diversion,” said Alyash. “You’re right, Saroo my lad. But what a diversion! The first bay, the first howl from the hunting-pack. The Five Kings will hear it and tremble.”

  “And those other dogs?” said Chadfallow, with quiet rage. “Who are they, and where are they hidden? Are they to be sacrificed as coldly as the men in that settlement?”

  Ott shook his head, smiling. “Would you deprive me of all my surprises, Doctor?”

  “I would deprive you of more than that.”

  “Ha!” laughed Sandor Ott. “My woman, for example? And my liberty? You have attempted both of these, and failed. And even if you had persuaded that useless Ormali governor to clap me in irons, how long do you think I would have been held?”

  “Two days,” said Chadfallow. “After that I would have seen you locked in the brig of a packet boat making for Etherhorde—with an ample guard. I paid them in advance: the guards, and the owners of that boat. I had a letter prepared for His Supremacy, with all I knew of your betrayals. Particularly how you and that—” Chadfallow bit off the word. “—viper spent the last year poisoning his good friend Eberzam Isiq.”

  Pazel was suddenly afraid for Chadfallow. His fury had hardly vanished—Chadfallow was one to talk of betrayals!—but in spite of everything Pazel somehow felt he would be lost without the man. Can’t you see what you’re risking, fool? he wanted to shout. Ott’s probably killed more people with his bare hands than you’ve saved in surgery.

  For the moment, however, Ott just looked amused. “His Supremacy would have consigned your letter to the fire. He knows quite well the necessities of this campaign to perfect his dominion. You, for starters, are certainly expendable. As for his friendship with Isiq—” He looked at Alyash and Drellarek, and suddenly the three of them began to laugh, low and hard. Pazel watched them, recalling how Niriviel had taunted Thasha. The Pit-fiends. They have done something to the admiral.

  Chadfallow’s face was darkening with rage. “What of future ‘necessities’?” he asked. “How many leeches will you affix to the body of the Empire? Will you have the territorial governors assassinated? The lord admiral, perhaps? Will you decide that Magad’s sons are unworthy to inherit the crown, and kill them as you did Empress Maisa’s?”

  The men’s laughter redoubled. “Oh Doctor, stop,” said Alyash, wiping tears from his eyes.

  “Yes, Ignus, stop,” said Pazel. “They’re not worth it.”

  The doctor turned him a tortured look. And suddenly Pazel recalled something Chadfallow had told him years ago, about the oath Arquali doctors took before their titles were conferred: Life in all its loveliness shall I defend, even at the cost of my own. Did Chadfallow think he had broken that oath too many times?

  “Ott kill Maisa’s brats!” said Drellarek. “That’s priceless! Why don’t you tell ’im the truth, Master Ott?”

  Ott shook his head again. “There are things I won’t discuss with a man who’d try to brand me a traitor.”

  “You are a traitor,” said Chadfallow, his contro
l slipping further. “You are a weak, grasping, small-minded man. You have perverted all that I lived for and held most dear. I will name your dog, Sandor Ott: it is Arqual itself. You have trained it with cruelty and fear. You have made it vicious, ready to bite anyone who crosses its path.”

  The spymaster’s laughter was abruptly gone. Drellarek and Alyash fell silent. Ott rose to his feet, eyes locked on Chadfallow.

  “Not just anyone,” he said.

  Pazel leaped up and grabbed Chadfallow by the arm. “Please,” he hissed, “don’t say any more.”

  “We’re going to need him, Ott,” said Alyash, still smiling.

  “There is a field surgeon here at Bramian Station,” said Sandor Ott. “He can serve the Great Ship, in a pinch. Chadfallow, you have twice defamed me with the one insult I swore never to bear. Call me a traitor again, and you will see if I am weak.”

  “You’re a tr—”

  Pazel struck Chadfallow as hard as he could. There was a sound like a snapped branch, and blood gushed from the doctor’s nose as he stumbled to the ground. He stared at Pazel, amazed, not even trying to stanch the flow.

  “Shut your damned mouth!” screamed Pazel at the doctor. “Wait, Mr. Ott, he’ll take it back, please, please, I’ll make him—”

  Sandor Ott drew his long white knife. Pazel stood between them, arms thrown wide, pleading with the assassin. There was a dreamlike quality to his voice; it sounded soft and faraway, like an echo. Behind him, Chadfallow rose and tugged out his sword.

  “Put it down, Doctor!” laughed Drellarek. “That’s blary suicide, and you know it. Come to your senses and apologize, if you want to live.”