The Ruling Sea

by Robert V. S. Redick

  A pause. Then Hercól said, “Yes, Captain, it was done by ixchel.”

  For a moment Pazel thought Rose would strike him. But just then Mr. Alyash ran up to them, bearing a bright fengas lamp.

  “The barricades are ready, Captain,” he said. “They’ll not be able to swarm up the ladderways again. Provided we have men left to seal them, after our retreat.”

  Rose nodded. “That is something. But not much. We must poison them, by the Night Gods, we must drop sulphur into the hold. You have found no way to seal the hatches against them?”

  Alyash huffed. “Without men to stand guard? There is no way, sir. They’ve shown us how fast they can chew through sailcloth and oilskins. We could cannibalize planks from the upper decks and nail ’em across the hatches, but that job would take half a day—even if we lost no more men.”

  Pazel felt Neeps’ hand squeeze his arm. The small boy was just barely awake.

  “A drug,” he murmured.

  “Yes, Neeps, it’s a drug,” said Pazel.

  Neeps gave his head a drunkard’s shake. “Find … another drug.”

  “An antidote, you mean? No chance, didn’t you hear Taliktrum? They never had very much, and it’s all gone now. And even if he’s lying, we’d never find—”

  Neeps slapped a clumsy hand over Pazel’s mouth. “Another drug,” he said heavily. “Something else. Delay it. Delay.”

  With that he was gone. Pazel caught him and lowered him to the deck.

  Chadfallow was looking at him with wonder. “This drug they use, this blanë,” he said. “Is it magical?”

  “Who knows?” said Pazel.

  “I do,” said Thasha, “and it’s not. Blanë is just brilliant medicine. In fact the ixchel know more about human bodies than we know ourselves. They’ve experimented on us, over the years, just as we have on them.”

  Everyone stared at her. It was another of those mystifying certainties Pazel had begun to expect from Thasha. But was she right? He shuddered, remembering the clock.

  “Delay it,” said Thasha. “Is that possible? Even if there’s no antidote, couldn’t we take something to hold off the sleep? Long enough to build those hatch covers, anyway?”

  “A counteragent?” mused the doctor. “Theoretically, yes. But I know nothing of this blanë! To find the right compound would take days of testing.” He glanced at Rose, and something in the captain’s face made him add, “Unless I got very lucky.”

  Rose seized the doctor’s arm and turned him bodily toward the ladderway. “Get lucky, Doctor,” he said, “that’s an order.”

  He needed help, Chadfallow said, and Pazel and Thasha promised to give it. Hercól, however, lifted Neeps and tossed the small boy over his shoulder. “I will bear him to the stateroom, and meet you three at sickbay,” he said, and was gone.

  It was sickbay and not the surgery that housed the Great Ship’s medicines. Chadfallow and the youths raced upward again, taking three steps at a time. The middle decks were now completely silent. On the ladderway they passed just one conscious man—a Turach, stumbling on his feet, eyes half closed. As Thasha passed he embraced her suddenly.

  “Lady Thasha,” he slurred. “Love you, love you. Goin’ t’inherit a farm, see? Make you happy. Lots of kids—”

  “Oh good gods.” Thasha pushed him away.

  They reached the lower gun deck, and dashed along the short passage to sickbay. There to Chadfallow’s delight (and Thasha’s, Pazel noted) they found Greysan Fulbreech, wide awake, tending a ward full of sleeping men.

  “Doctor!” he cried, “I have lost three patients! The rats came down the Holy Stair from the main deck. They broke the latch on the door. If the Turachs had not come, everyone here would have been killed.”

  “Including you,” Pazel heard himself say. Fulbreech did not even look at him. But Thasha did, reproachfully.

  “Clear a table!” shouted Chadfallow, storming in. “Listen, all of you. We are going to behave like potion-peddlers on the streets of Sorhn. I will hand you something; you will go out and find men on the verge of sleep—not utterly lost, but failing. Make them take what I give. Tell them whatever you like. Watch them, see if they grow more alert. Then rush back and tell me. And meanwhile send anyone else you can find to me directly. Ah, sheepsgaul! Put this in some water, Greysan.”

  Moments later they were out the door. Thasha had a vial of white chili oil, Pazel a yellow pill the doctor called Moonglow. They ran straight to the topdeck; it was closer than the mercy, and the only other place they knew of where men were still awake in any numbers.

  Or had been. Pazel gazed over the deck and felt his heart sink. He had hoped that he would find men still battling the sails, keeping the Chathrand from gliding faster toward the Vortex. But there were simply not enough of them. From where he stood, Pazel counted nineteen—make that eighteen, there went another to his knees—largely unoccupied sailors, wandering among the sleepers, shouting out prayers, making the sign of the Tree. Some kicked their shipmates in despair, begging them to wake. Pazel squeezed the pill in his hand. “This had better work,” he said.

  Not two minutes later he had convinced a blinking, frightened man to swallow the pill. “It’s from Chadfallow, it’ll keep you awake,” he declared shamelessly. The man gulped it eagerly, then gave him a triumphant smile. He raised both fists above his head. “I feel it!” he said, and collapsed.

  The others fared no better: Thasha’s victim cried himself to sleep, having swallowed enough chili oil to make a fire-eater beg for drink. The man Fulbreech approached vomited on the deck.

  None of these fiascos dissuaded the remaining men from following the youths back to sickbay. They had lost hope. Chadfallow was offering a last straw to clutch at, and clutch they did. They waved to their shipmates, this way, this way! The doctor’s workin’ on a cure!

  Of the fourteen men who set off for sickbay, just eight reached it. Among them were Mr. Fegin, Byrd the gunner—and, Pazel saw with outrage, Dastu. The elder tarboy’s feet dragged; he was fast succumbing. But as the others shuffled into sickbay he held back, wary eyes on Pazel and Thasha.

  “Come on, mate,” jeered Pazel savagely. “Don’t be shy. For you we’ll find something extra strong.”

  Dastu gave Pazel a heavy-lidded stare. “Think you’re better than me, don’t you, Muketch? After all the Empire’s done for peasants like you. All the doors its opened, all the helping hands.”

  Something inside Pazel came apart. He crossed the floor to Dastu and, with a cunning he never knew he possessed, made as if to draw Isiq’s sword. But as Dastu’s eyes snapped to his sword-hand, he struck the older boy’s chin as hard as he could with the other. Dastu’s head jerked sideways. Then he fell.

  “How courageous,” said Fulbreech. “You’ve just knocked out a sleepwalker. And taken someone from us who could have tried a remedy.”

  Pazel shut his eyes. Bastard. Cretin. When he opened his eyes he saw Thasha watching him, shaking her head.

  “Next!” shouted Chadfallow, pounding his fist on a table. “Who’s nearest to sleep? Raise your heads, look me in the eye!”

  An assortment of oddities lay spread before him. Pills, potions, creams, a jar of blue seeds, a dry and blackened lungfish. The men raised weary hands. One man swallowed seeds, and dropped in mid-chew. Another bit off part of the lungfish, chewed with great concentration, and dropped to the floor. Fegin drank something from a green flask. He groaned and turned rather green himself, then lowered himself to the wall. “I’d like to … apologize,” he said, as his head lolled forward.

  Chadfallow’s speed increased. He popped items into waiting mouths. “Swamp myrtle,” he said. “Bodendel marshfly. Endolithic spore.” But the men continued to drop. In frustration Chadfallow swept all the failed substances to the floor. He tore at his hair. “All right, damn it: Thermopile Red—that should keep a man working for a week! Drink it, Byrd! Drain the cup! Don’t shut your blary eyes!”

  When Byrd fell, unrevived by Thermopile Red, the doctor
let himself sink into a chair. Only he, Thasha, Pazel and Fulbreech remained. He looked at them and sighed. But before the sigh ended it had become a yawn.

  That yawn frightened Pazel immensely. At the same time he felt a cloudiness descend on his brain, and a weight in his limbs, and knew his time was close.

  He staggered forward and shook the doctor. “Fight it, Ignus! Think! We’re counting on you!”

  “Don’t,” muttered Chadfallow.

  “None of these is strong enough,” said Thasha. “What have you got that’s stronger?”

  “Nothing,” said the doctor, shaking his head. “No use … too late.”

  “The Chadfallow I know would never talk that way, while life remained in him,” said a voice from the passage.

  It was Hercól, supporting himself with a hand on the door frame. He lurched into sickbay, jaw clenched and eyes heavy, as though staving off the blanë through sheer force of will. “What’s left?” he said. “No—don’t answer. What is dangerous, ludicrously dangerous? What is against your ethics to try?”

  At the sight of his old friend the doctor opened his eyes a little wider. He looked skeptically at the items before him, understanding Hercól’s challenge, and appalled by it. He fumbled through the items, knocking several irritably aside. Suddenly he stopped, and looked at Pazel in wonder.

  “A cocktail,” he said. “A blary three-part heathen cocktail. Fulbreech! The key, my desk, the black bottle. Hurry, run!”

  Fulbreech ran across the ward. The doctor, meanwhile, lifted a tiny, round metal box, with a painting of a blue dragon on the lid. “Break the seal,” he said, passing it to Pazel. “My hand shakes too much; I will spill it, and there is precious little.”

  “What is it?” asked Hercól.

  “Thundersnuff. A stimulant, putrid, exceptional. Part of a mad Quezan cocktail, they use it as punishment for sloth. If only I can remember the third ingredient. Something very common, it was … cloves, or horseradish …”

  Fulbreech returned with a bottle, black and unmarked. “There’s some mistake, sir, this is grebel.”

  Grebel! Pazel nearly dropped the little box. It was the nightmare liquor, the madness drink. He’d had it forced on him as punishment, by certain sadistic men on other ships. Fear, panic, hallucinations—these were all he recalled of the experiences. Except—

  “I didn’t sleep,” he said. “I didn’t sleep for days! But that was just because of the fear, wasn’t it?”

  “Salt!” said the doctor, ignoring him and surging to his feet. “The third ingredient is salt! I have gypsum salt, it will do, we can chew it—here!”

  He snatched a leather pouch from the floor, ripped at the drawstring, and took a large pinch of gravel-like salt. Without preamble he gulped it, crunched it audibly in his teeth, and grabbed the bottle from Fulbreech. He favored the grebel with a look of loathing and respect. Then he tilted the bottle and drank.

  “Glah! Horrid! Quick!”

  He gestured at the little box. Pazel unscrewed the lid, breaking the seal. Inside was a teaspoon’s worth of fine red dust. The doctor bent until his nose was directly over the box. He covered one nostril and sniffed. Then he began to scream.

  “OH DEVILS! OH GODS OF FLAMING DEATH!”

  He straightened, spasmodically, as Pazel had seen men do when stunned by a flikkerman. He gave an incoherent roar.

  “It’s working!” said Fulbreech.

  Looks of terror and wild mirth chased themselves across the doctor’s face. He reeled, clutching at the air. Grebel sloshed from the bottle in his hand.

  Hercól caught the doctor’s arms. “Hold on man! It will pass!”

  Chadfallow thrust the swordsman aside and bent over the table. He put his forehead down, moaning. In his grip the table began to vibrate. Then, shaking violently, he raised his head to look at them, and spoke through chattering teeth:

  “Twice … the … grebel … half … the … snuff.”

  Those were his last coherent words. Fortunately they were the right ones. When the others had chewed the salt, swallowed the grebel and inhaled the tiniest whiff of thundersnuff, they felt weird and sick, but not deranged. Chadfallow for his part sat grinning, hugging himself, occasionally letting out a strangled scream.

  “Well, we’re awake,” said Thasha, twitching. “But there’s no more grebel—Chadfallow spilled half of it on the floor. We’re not going to be able to give this treatment to anyone.”

  “And a hundred monsters in the hold, waiting for their chance,” said Fulbreech.

  “Or more,” said Hercól. “And there is no way to know how much time we have gained. No matter—we shall fight the fight we are given. But be careful! You are not yourselves. Above all, beware your courage. It may be heightened beyond all reason, and lead swiftly to your death. Pazel, are you quite all right?”

  “Yeah,” said Pazel, sniffing. “Just hot. I feel like I’m standing next to a fire.”

  “The grebel came around to you last,” said Hercól. “I wonder if you had enough?”

  “I left him half of what came to me,” said Fulbreech quickly.

  “I’m all right,” Pazel insisted. “But listen. We can’t do this alone. It’s blary impossible. We’re going to need—”

  “Prayer,” said a voice from the doorway, “though what mongrel god might answer you I cannot guess.”

  It was Arunis. Pazel, who had not seen him since Bramian, was shocked by the change in his appearance. He had lost all the round plumpness of Mr. Ket. His face was pale, almost spectral, and a deathly light shone in his eyes. He gripped his cruel iron mace in one hand, and in the other the neck of a large and bulging sack. He looked amused at the sight of the doctor.

  “The Imperial Surgeon,” he jeered. “Prince of Arquali intellectuals. Whatever you have done to him is an improvement.”

  To Pazel’s surprise it was Fulbreech who spoke first. “Get away, sorcerer! You don’t deserve to breathe the same air as this man! And if you have any powers at all, use them to reverse what you did, to the rats.”

  “I?” laughed Arunis. “You witless dog! I have done nothing to the rats! You humans left the Nilstone in a compartment overrun with fleas. You humans failed to notice an ixchel clan in your midst, or a woken rat possessed by holy lunacy. Yes, I work for your destruction as a race, noble cause that that is. But how little you force me to do! My only fear is that the Chathrand’s crew of savages will destroy itself before it carries us to Gurishal.”

  “A noble cause was laid before you, long ago,” said Hercól. “But you chose another path, and have cleaved to it ever since. It has made you very strong, and very empty. Will you not abandon it, Arunis? There is still time to choose a new purpose—a higher purpose, beyond your poisoned dreams.”

  “Spare me the sermon,” jeered Arunis. “Delusion is not to my taste. Was ever a life more empty than your own, Hercól Stanapeth? Where has your higher purpose led? You could have been Ott’s successor—the brain behind the Ametrine Throne. You could have been the most powerful man in your Empire. But instead you chose fantasy—a mist of promises and hopes. And so did the rest of you. Where is Ramachni? Where is your father, girl? A safer place than the Chathrand, that is where! And the crawlies! For months you denied their true nature. You couldn’t admit that they were simply beasts, born rabid, ready to kill. You wanted them to be your tiny brothers. You wished to befriend them, or—” He looked at Hercól with disgust. “—to train them to perform … other services.”

  Hercól moved before anyone could stop him. He vaulted over the table and flew at the sorcerer, his black sword raised to strike. Arunis took a step back, lifting his mace, and shouted a word in a strange, harsh language. There was a flash of white light, and Pazel felt himself hurled backward, as by the slap of some giant’s invisible fist. Thasha and Fulbreech were thrown as well. But Hercól did not falter; he only slowed his step, as though fighting upwind in a gale. Ildraquin glowed faintly in his hand, and he shouted a challenge in his native tongue.


  Six feet from Arunis he slashed suddenly at the air. Now it was Arunis who felt an unseen blow. He stumbled backward into the passage, amazed and furious. Once more he cried out in the harsh language. There was a second flash. Again Hercól swung at nothing; again the mage fell back. As the swordsman came at him a third time, Arunis hurled the mace with all his strength, and ran.

  Hercól might have dodged the mace—but not without endangering those behind him. He caught it full on his shield, which cracked in two. With a snarl of pain he cast the two pieces to the ground. Then he groped for a wall. He was badly shaken.

  “After him!” he gasped. “He is about to commit some atrocity, I felt it as we fought! Do not let him get away!”

  “You’re hurt!” cried Thasha.

  Hercól shook his head. “Leave me with Fulbreech! Stop the sorcerer, girl.” With sudden decision he stood and thrust Ildraquin into her hand. “Go!” he bellowed, pushing her out.

  Thasha ran, and Pazel with her. They could hear the sorcerer’s feet pounding across the deck. They entered the main compartment, and there he was, fifty yards ahead, running for the Silver Stair.

  He was exhausted; they were gaining on him swiftly. As he reached the stair he looked back and saw Ildraquin in Thasha’s hand, and fear shone in his eyes.

  Pazel and Thasha gained the stair and hurled themselves down. Pazel could feel the grebel starting to work on his mind: that bad-dream feeling, the way dark and wriggling shapes clustered at the edge of his sight, only to vanish when he looked at them directly. He would have to warn Thasha. You’re not mad, it’s the drink, it’s the snuff, it’s every blary thing but you.

  The berth deck passed in a whirl; then they heard Arunis exit onto the orlop. “I know where he’s going!” said Thasha. “To the Nilstone! To the Nilstone and the Shaggat Ness!”

  They reached the foot of the stair—and backed away in horror, not daring to breathe.

  A swarm of giant rats was crossing the orlop, port to starboard, flowing around the foot of the Silver Stair. They were eerily quiet: no more screeching, though soft cries of “Kill!” still boiled from a few bloody mouths. Their stench was alarming: not only the rat-reek the youths had suffered for hours, but a new, oily, heady smell that made them cover their mouths, lest they cough.