“We ixchel should do the searching,” said Diadrelu. “We can enter the rat-spaces no human eye can pierce. Ensyl, go to Night Village. I do not have much hope that Taliktrum will listen to you, but you must try. Invoke the honor of the clan. Perhaps he will concede to a party of volunteers.
“As for me, Lady Thasha, I throw myself on your hospitality. There is no home for me among my people: indeed they are under edict to slay me, ‘before I further endanger the clan.’”
“That edict will be lifted,” said Ensyl hotly.
Diadrelu shook her head. “Some things cannot be undone. I have disobeyed the clan leader in a moment of crisis, and Taliktrum has drawn family blood.”
“Wait and see, Mistress,” said Ensyl. “In time they will beg you to return.”
She glanced once more at Thasha, then turned and vanished behind the bathtub.
“We have a trapdoor there,” said Diadrelu.
“I can’t say I’m glad to hear it,” said Thasha. “Oh, I’m happy that you and Ensyl can come and go. But it proves there’s a gap in the magic wall. Could it be getting larger? What if it’s about to fail?”
Suddenly a cry arose on the topdeck: “Sail ho! Jistrolloq at eight miles!”
“They’ve rounded Sandplume!” said Thasha. “By the Tree, that was fast! I’ve got to get up there—although helping Rose is the last thing I feel like doing.”
“Help him,” said Diadrelu firmly. “You have little hope of finding Felthrup, even with your dogs. And there will be no point in finding him if the White Reaper blasts us to pieces.”
Rose did need her help, for when she returned there were no less than seven ghost-captains upon the quarterdeck, flickering in and out of existence. Three were dogging Rose’s heels, arguing over tactics in voices laced with sarcasm and antique slang. Another, an ugly, woolly-bearded giant with a naked cutlass in his hand, stood growling and threatening near the wheelhouse, his eyes on an oblivious Alyash. The others milled about the deck, hectoring the living despite the fact that only Rose had any notion of their presence.
Thasha had her orders, but it was hard to face a deck full of ghosts, every one of which had commanded the ship from this very spot. Nor did she relish talking to thin air in front of Elkstem, Alyash and the half dozen others crowding the quarterdeck. That’s why he needs me to do it, she thought, to keep him from looking a perfect lunatic.
“My heart’s in the heavens,” she sang out boldly, climbing the ladder, “my soul is the Tree, my dance is forever, I fear not thee!”
The ghosts all turned to face her, and the cutlass-wielding giant, who was nearest, simply faded away. The others scattered about the deck, looking startled and irritated. Thasha was startled as well: the Lorg Academy chant had been far less effective against the wraiths in the Crab Fens.
“Very, uh, good, missy,” said Alyash, obviously confused. “We’re not afraid of them Black Rags, are we?”
Thasha shot him a piercing look. You’re one yourself, you liar.
Whether the chant or something else altogether had affected them, the remaining ghosts did not want to be anywhere near her. Confident now, Thasha pursued them around the mast and the wheelhouse. They dodged and scurried; it was a bit like playing tag. One by one they vanished from her sight. But as the last captain faded, he pointed at her with a long, blackened nail. “Tonight,” he said, and was gone.
For some time afterward she had little to do but watch the chase. It was worse than being busy, even with gruesome tasks. Rose turned them south; the Jistrolloq tacked instantly to a diagonal intercept, and Rose had no option but to set them east again. The wind was dying, which played into the enemy’s hands. By midafternoon just six miles separated the ships.
Pazel, skulking behind the wheelhouse, would not look at her. Fine, she thought, go boil yourself in the Pits. But more than once she had the feeling he was watching her, though she never quite caught him in the act.
Rose spent much of this time at his campaign desk, his back to the Jistrolloq, sketching. When Thasha sidled close enough for a glance she saw a page covered with tiny penciled numbers, long arrows, rough outlines of hulls.
At four bells he stood and latched the desk shut. “Come, Thasha, Pathkendle. We shall dine in my cabin. Mr. Elkstem, I will have updates by speaking-tube.”
Thasha and Pazel followed Rose down the ladder. They did not go immediately to the cabin, however, but walked the whole length of the Chathrand, squeezing through the busy mass of men. Thasha thought the sailors looked as frightened as any crowd she had ever been among, but as Rose passed with a smoldering gaze each man seemed to concentrate just a bit harder on his task, as if those eyes could strip away distractions like a knife stripping bark from a switch. On their return Rose paused here and there to murmur to the watch-captains, and behind their backs Thasha heard the officers shouting: “Captain Rose is formidable proud of you, lads! Says you’re the picture of an Imperial crew! His very words!”
She glanced over her shoulder, slightly awed. Rose’s casual manner was doing wonders to keep the sailors calm, and the compliments, which he never gave in easy times, were bringing smiles to their faces. Crazy or not, she thought, he’s blary good at what he does.
Lady Oggosk joined them at table. Pazel visibly stiffened at the sight of her—and also, it appeared, at being once more in Rose’s cabin. He was glancing about with a savaged expression, and Thasha reflected again that she knew almost nothing of what had been done to Pazel since the Turachs dragged him away.
“Something new in here since your last visit, Pathkendle,” said Rose, striding forward. “Which of you can tell me what these are?”
Ranged along the gallery windows were four stout, wide-mouthed cannon, their carriages tightly lashed to the deck. Behind them, bolted rigid as a mast, stood a long wooden rack about three feet high, and dangling from the rack were twenty or thirty canvas sacks, each one ending in a small iron disc. The sacks were about the size of hams, and bulged as if filled with giant marbles.
“They’re grapeshot guns,” said Thasha.
“Not much use against an armored hull, are they?” Pazel added.
Rose looked sternly at the two youths and made no answer. “Let us sit down,” he said at last.
During the meal they spoke very little. The steward poured four glasses of cloudy wine. Rose ate like a horse at a feed-bag, eyes downcast, jaw working nonstop. Lady Oggosk mashed her food with her fingers, while her red cat snored peacefully in a spot of sun.
All the while the Jistrolloq was plainly visible through the gallery windows. By the time they finished eating she was within three miles.
“Tell us, Pathkendle,” said Rose suddenly, “what would your father do in these circumstances, if he were in command?”
Pazel was taken aback. “I don’t know,” he said. “Edge his way south, maybe. Look for higher seas.”
“You misunderstand the question,” said Rose. “I meant, what would Captain Gregory do if he commanded the Jistrolloq, and wanted to take us? He must have learned to think like a Black Rag, after serving with them for years. And of course your presence on Chathrand would present no obstacle. Gregory sailed away from Cape Córistel without a backward glance at you, didn’t he? And we know he doesn’t shrink from firing on his kin.”
Pazel had spent almost six years as a bonded servant, and five months under Captain Rose. He was not, Thasha knew, particularly easy to shock. But the brutality of Rose’s offhand comment slipped past his defenses. His eyes widened, and a spasm of anger twisted his face.
Under the table, Thasha furtively touched his hand. Pazel was on the verge of doing something drastic, something Neeps-like: overturning the table, or cursing Rose at the top of his lungs. But at her touch he managed to check himself, bite back the words trying to detonate on his tongue.
“Well,” he said, breathing hard, “let’s see. I suppose he might think back on what he knows about the enemy—about you, in other words. He might say to himself, Right, her
e’s this old shifty captain who’s famous for his nastiness—”
Rose lifted an eyebrow.
“—and his greed, and for being afraid of a shipboard cat, and for the fact that he writes letters to—”
“Silence, bastard!” shrieked Lady Oggosk, rising from her chair and pointing at Pazel. “Never, never was there a lowborn with such a reckless tongue! Walk out of here, you insolent Ormali gutter-dog, before the captain has you—”
“Peace!” Rose slammed his palm against the table. “Lady Oggosk, your defense is unnecessary. Pathkendle remains confused, no more. Look out that window, lad, and your confusion will evaporate.”
Rose turned and gestured at the Jistrolloq, bright white in the sun and near enough now to count the seven falling stars on her forecourse. “There stands a man, Kuminzat, who’s crossed half the known world in our pursuit. Ott tells me that his daughter was a sfvantskor, or soon to be, and that she was killed by the incubus Arunis hurled at their old priest.”
“You knew.” Thasha sat up, eyes widening with anger. “You knew about the incubus. You knew what the Sizzies accused us of was true, and denied it to their faces.”
“Very little occurs on the Great Ship that we don’t know,” said Oggosk. “You ought to keep that in mind, both of you.”
Thasha turned on her, bristling. “Care to prove it?” she said. “Can you tell me what Arunis has been doing while the Jistrolloq closes in? Or why he wants that scepter almost as badly as the Nilstone? Or which of the crew might be spying on you for Sandor Ott?”
The old woman actually looked somewhat cowed. She dropped her eyes, as though Thasha’s gaze was too sharp for her liking. “I might if you gave me a reason,” she muttered uneasily.
“We are straying from the matter at hand,” said Rose. “Pathkendle, what do you say to my challenge? Neither you nor I know that admiral’s character. I have been substituting other men for him in my mind, and asking myself what each would do if he commanded the Jistrolloq. I would know what you think. Answer me, if you’ve a tenth the craftiness Rin gave your father. I have no more time to waste.”
Pazel’s hand was tight on Thasha’s own. “Your question is a waste of time,” he said at last. “I never sailed with my father. I don’t know what skills he used, or what tactics.”
“Then leave tactics to me. What would Gregory have felt like? What would make him chase another vessel from Simja right down to the margins of the Ruling Sea?”
Pazel made as if to speak, then once again held his tongue. Rose smiled and shook his head.
“Not gold. If riches were his aim he could have sold his services to any number of lawless barons in the Rekere or the Crownless Lands, and become rich indeed. And not the rescue of his son. What’s left? What would drive the resourceful Captain Gregory to do as Kuminzat’s done, hazarding his very life and that of his crew?”
Pazel’s grip on her hand was painful now, and a new fury shone in his eyes. “Nothing, all right?” he said at last. “Absolutely nothing would make my father go to so much trouble. He’s as selfish as you.”
Rose shook his head, as if in wonder. “From his own boy’s mouth,” he said. “Well now: that is good news. We can count on one hand the things a man will kill for. Love, lust, gold, honor, tribe: the raw ingredients of power. Ninety-nine men in a hundred will quickly show you which of these enslaves them. A ferocity lights ’em up when they’re pursuing it, and there’s no mistaking that look. All the trouble comes from the mystery man—that one man in a hundred who can keep his motives out of sight. Men like Gregory, you see.”
“And Admiral Kuminzat,” said Thasha.
“You have it, lass,” said Rose. “Though my predecessors will keep babbling their theories. How I wish they’d shut up!”
He said the last words in a sudden fury, knocking his fists against his temples. Thasha averted her eyes. It was then that she noticed Lady Oggosk was staring at her—and also realized that she, Thasha, had shed a few silent tears. They were for Pazel, she supposed, and for herself, and the murdered topman, and the shame of so much wanting—love, lust, gold—but why did Oggosk look so enraged? The witch’s eyes flickered down along Thasha’s arm, extended subtly toward Pazel’s lap, and Thasha knew she guessed that they were holding hands.
What’s it to you, you hag?
Pazel too noticed Oggosk’s look. With a start he pulled his hand away. Thasha turned and found him glaring at her. When he spoke it was against some deep resistance, as if he had to wring the words out of himself. But the words were lacerating.
“If I need pity I’ll let you know,” he said. “Meanwhile keep it to yourself. I’m—tired of this, see? Tired of being your charity case.”
“My what?”
“You think I’m dying for your attention. Like an Ormali should be, when a highborn Arquali girl stoops to help him, I guess. And you can spare me that wounded face. There’s plenty aboard who’ll be happy to tell you how special you are. Cross me off your list, that’s all—leave me alone.”
He gave her a look that was almost deranged, then turned to Rose. “As for your question, Captain sir: you really ought to be asking Thasha, not me. She’s good with tactics. But I’ll tell you right now: ghosts or no ghosts, there’s something wrong with a man who sits here tormenting people, just because he’s realized that he can’t outrun his enemy. That’s cowardice, that is. Not that you’ll ever admit it.”
No one at the table breathed. Thasha tensed herself for the fight of her life. Pazel had gone mad, Rose and Oggosk already were, and any sort of violence seemed possible. She’d lost her knife, she’d have to use things on the table, the serving fork, a shard of a plate—
Then Rose did the last thing on earth she expected. He laughed. A smile grew in the red thicket of his beard, looking like something transplanted from a merrier man. “Outrun,” he said. “Outrun.”
He raised his eyes to the skylight above the table, and the laugh grew until his great bulk fairly shook with mirth. And as he finished laughing the room suddenly darkened, for a heavy cloud had eclipsed the sun.
At almost the same moment, on the quarterdeck, Mr. Fiffengurt began to shout: “Wind’s turning! The wind’s turning right about! Inform the captain, that’s a northeaster blowin’ in!”
A great commotion began overhead, and Rose put his hands on the table and heaved to his feet. Lumbering to his desk, wine in hand, he flipped open a speaking-tube and bellowed: “South-southeast, Mr. Elkstem, and all the sail she’ll bear. Full crews to their guns. I’m on my way.”
He drank the wine in a gulp and wiped his mouth.
“Back to the quarterdeck, Lady Thasha. And you, Pathkendle: stick to your schoolbooks; there’s not a drop of sailor’s blood in you. Have you forgotten that we must let no one set eyes on the Chathrand and live? I never spoke of escaping the Black Rags; the only question is how best to destroy them.”
* As well she might. Darkling Days come from the myth of the Woman and the Troll, which tells of a fair young woman whose beloved ran afoul of the Elcand Firelords and was sentenced to death. The woman journeyed to the court of a great sorcerer-troll and begged him to hide her sweetheart in the valley he ruled. “No one defies the Firelords without great cost, my child,” replied the troll. “However, my wife leaves soon to visit her kin in the underworld, and if you will sign a contract promising to care for my sons until she returns, I will shelter you and your lover in my garden for one day, after which he must depart and answer for his offense.” The woman agreed, for she could hear the hounds of the Firelords even then, and the troll’s scribe drew up the contract and gave it to her to sign. But when the scribe looked away the clever woman changed day to Darkling Day, the latter being the four-year span Rin leaves between one solar eclipse and the next. The troll signed carelessly, and as it was a magic contract it bound him to relinquish his garden to the lovers for four whole years.
But those years of joy—feasting on the sweetest of fruits, bathing in warm springs, dreaming to
the pipes of fauns and the singing of the water-weird in the fountain—at last came to an end. And when they emerged from the garden, the Firelords’ warriors seized the man and bore him away to be executed. The heartless troll too had his revenge: he had divorced his wife and barred her from ever returning, and hence the woman was bound to go on caring for his malicious, sharp-toothed sons. And as trolls grow up far more slowly than humans, the woman only managed to fulfill the contract when she was very old, and weak of eye and memory, and too frail to hobble out of the valley of the troll. She stayed in his court, and served him to the end of her days, and at the time of the eclipse wept for reasons no one else recalled.—EDITOR.
29
The Duel
24 Freala 941
The storm built quickly as the new wind barreled in from the northeast, carrying great black-hearted thunderheads and a sheet of advancing rain. By the time Pazel and Thasha reached the topdeck the topsails were all raised for the sudden turn, and the huge yards were once more being hauled into the teeth of the wind. The Black Shoulders were out of sight, and Bramian itself was a mere smudge on the western horizon, but the Jistrolloq looked frightfully close—under two miles, probably, and closing without a doubt.
Such sudden darkness. The clouds were sealing off the heavens like a sheet of tin; already the sun was banished to a bright streak in the south, drawing away much faster than they could advance. The waves were growing too: whitecapped, they were cresting around the height of the upper gun deck. Pazel shuddered to imagine tiny Diadrelu in the stateroom, looking up at the gray-green water each time the Chathrand entered a trough. But neither waves nor wind had yet reached the awesome scale the Nelluroq was famed for, the kind that would swamp the enemy or force his retreat.
Thasha was shaking with emotion, though Pazel knew she was trying to hide it. He had never felt like such a heel. The things he’d said in that cabin. Oggosk had left him no choice, of course, but the fact spared him little shame. He longed with all his heart to tell Thasha the truth, but how could he, when he needed her to hate him?
The Ruling Sea Page 49