“Stath Bálfyr was a secret from the crew as well,” said Pazel. “They couldn’t have told her. They’d never heard of it.”
“One of them had,” said Myett.
The others looked down at the ixchel. “She means Taliktrum,” said Ensyl, “but we do not know what became of him, sister. I doubt Macadra is even aware of his existence.”
“I wonder,” said Olik. “He did not strike me as a man content to end his days in the shadows.”
“And some on this ship ain’t content to end their days in the North,” said Fiffengurt. “I mean your dlömic volunteers, Prince Olik. When they came aboard they thought we’d be sailing back to Masalym in a fortnight. Captain Nólcindar, will you take ’em home?”
“I will,” said Nólcindar, “but first, Kirishgán and I would speak to you of the journey ahead. We have crossed the Ruling Sea, long ages ago, and remember something of the winds and the currents.”
“That would be a fine gift,” said Fiffengurt, “and even finer if we knew we could start for home. The Red Storm’s looking weaker off to the west, and we’ve sent our falcon scouting that way. But I won’t sail us into that Storm, unless Ramachni here tells me it’s the only choice. We need to find a gap.”
Pazel couldn’t stop himself from scanning the horizon. Somewhere out there, the Swarm was also searching for that gap.
“The work ashore will last some hours,” said Nólcindar. “If time permits, I would walk the decks of Chathrand awhile, after we discuss your heading. To come aboard her has long been my dream. I remember the day I first saw the plans. I doubted such a ship could ever be built.”
Fiffengurt looked at her, puzzled. “What can you mean, m’lady? The Chathrand is six hundred years old, and you—”
Nólcindar raised a feathered eyebrow.
“That is,” Fiffengurt stammered, “I’m sure you’re wise and strong and full of—benefits, or rather—I mean to say, you’re young. A spring flower, or a sapling at the most.”
Nólcindar held his gaze sternly. Then she broke into a laugh of pure delight.
“A sapling! As a child, I pruned the saplings in my father’s plot. That was far away to the west, in the green valley of Tarum Thün. A selk land, of such peace and stillness that a year might pass without words, and another when we chose to do nothing but make music, for the joy of it alone. From seeds to giants I watched those trees grow, and when they were very old and losing branches, we felled a few. Some went to ships, and the ships had long lives indeed. But today they are sleeping on the ocean floor, and some of us are still here, enjoying compliments.
“As for Chathrand, a few of her oldest timbers may have come from my father’s wood. I always hoped to board her, and listen to them speak. But early in her life Chathrand went north, into service with the Becturian Viceroys. When she returned at last, Erithusmé was her mistress, and suffered no one to board her merely to appreciate her beauty, or because they loved the shipwright’s art.”
“Love and beauty were never the concerns of Erithusmé the Great,” said Kirishgán.
Pazel smiled bitterly. You knew her, all right. But Ramachni looked up with sorrow in his eyes.
“Never is a place beyond our understanding, Kirishgán. Like the deepest chambers of the heart.”
While Fiffengurt escorted the selk through the Chathrand, the youths descended to their beloved stateroom. At first it seemed that nothing had changed. The invisible wall still sealed off the passage fifty feet from the door; Thasha could still permit or deny entry with a thought. The elegant furniture remained bolted down much as it had since Etherhorde. The enormous samovar still gleamed.
But at second glance Pazel saw damage aplenty. The escape from Stath Bálfyr had done more harm even than the assault by the Behemoth. Flying objects had smashed many windowpanes. Admiral Isiq’s crystal bookcase had shattered, disgorging antique volumes in a heap. And where the heavy armchair should have been, two long, narrow holes gaped in the floorboards. The chair had ripped free of the boards and careened about the room, smashing lesser furniture, and lodging finally behind the table, like a stout skier upended in a snowdrift.
Felthrup apologized so profusely one might have thought he had personally ransacked the chamber. “Oh, fool! Never, never again will I ignore a squeaky floorboard! I tested every screw, twice daily when I could. But what good is a screw if the board needs replacing? Look at this place! And Marila worked so tirelessly—cleaning, repairing, fighting dust and mold. She wanted your homecoming to be splendid.”
Awkwardly, Marila took Neeps’ hand. “I just wanted you back,” she mumbled. It was the most affectionate thing Pazel had ever heard her say, but Neeps seemed not to be listening: his eyes were on the windows, and the cold water beyond.
They all fell to cleaning. “Tomorrow we’ll patch windows—there’s plenty of spare glass laid away,” said Marila. “Fiffengurt showed me how it’s done—nothing difficult, but the cutting takes time. And I’ll get my things out of your cabin, Thasha. I tried the master bedroom, but it was too huge and empty, with the three of you gone.”
“Stay where you are,” said Thasha, taking Pazel’s hand. “We’ll sleep in my father’s room, at least for tonight.”
Pazel was aware of the tightness of her grip. They had not made love since Uláramyth and he was not sure that they should do so now. She was fighting a battle inside, fighting for all of them, for the world. To turn her away from that in any way, to distract her: that couldn’t be right.
“I wonder if there’s any food in the galley,” he heard himself say.
Thasha looked at him as if he’d just spoken in the oddest language he possessed. She drew him into the master bedroom and closed the door. Backing him up against it, she put her hands over his eyes. He could feel her scars, healed and healing. When she kissed him he tasted the sea.
Her fingers parted. He looked between them, and laughed. Thasha looked over her shoulder, and she laughed too. One more casualty of their escape: Isiq’s brass bed. The rear legs were cracked but still bolted to the floor; the front legs had snapped clean off. Pazel knew it had been her parents’ marriage-bed: where the admiral and Clorisuela Isiq had tried and tried, failed and failed, to bring new life into their home. Only magic had let that good woman conceive. Erithusmé’s magic. It had been there at the start of Thasha’s life. No doubt it would be there at the end.
“Undress me,” said Thasha.
“What?”
It was not the reaction she’d hoped for. Thasha waited; Pazel didn’t move. Something would happen if he surrendered; the task would grow harder, success further away. But in another moment he would not care about that. He let their fingers touch. He reached for the top button of her blouse. She was breathing like someone who had just run miles.
Voices in the outer stateroom: Hercól, Ramachni, Fiffengurt. Pazel began to kiss her wildly; nothing could prevent this, nothing, as long as he was left alive—
She stepped back, startled. “Gods,” she said, “that silver thing, that rod. I know what it is.”
What was she talking about? Why was she talking at all? He pulled her close again, but her hand was already on the doorknob. “Let go,” she whispered, and slipped out of the chamber.
He stood there, gasping. He was ashamed of his weakness. The broken bed leaned toward him, plush and ruined, a sensuous ramp ending at a wall.
Hercól had brought the Nilstone and the wine of Agaroth. Mr. Fiffengurt for his part had a bottle of Westfirth brandy. “Compliments of Mr. Teggatz, the devious lout. Where he hides his brandy is anyone’s guess. He also begs to be told what delicacies you long for—if it’s in the larder he’ll cook it up for the returning heroes. But for now, what shall we drink to?”
“Too many choices,” said Pazel. “Absent friends? Our own good luck? Thasha’s deed with the Nilstone?”
“The Chathrand,” put in Thasha.
“Or the Promise, or Prince Olik.”
“Or the selk.”
“In Tholjassa, all toasts are silent,” said Hercól. “Some things are better thought than said.”
The choice pleased everyone. They served the brandy in dented silver cups (none of the glassware survived) and drank it off without a word. Then Thasha asked Marila for the little rod from the stanchion. “Come with me, all of you—and bring the Nilstone, Hercól.”
They filed into her cabin, which Marila had not changed in the slightest. Thasha rounded the bed and reached up to press a spot in the wall just above eye-height. Click went a hidden latch, and a door unseen a moment earlier sprang open. Within was a small cabinet, empty save for a book, bound in dark leather and exceptionally thick.
Thasha smiled. “Hello, old friend.”
She handed it to Marila: the Polylex, of course. But Thasha wasn’t interested in the forbidden lore-book. She was looking at an iron plate set in the wall at the back of the cabinet. It was a rusty but very formidable slab of metal, with a thick handle and a small round hole at the center.
“Look close, you can see an outline of a drawer,” said Thasha. And so there was: a drawer some five inches tall and twice as wide, almost hidden by rust. Thasha placed the notched end of the silver rod into the hole: a perfect fit. She turned it experimentally. “Did you hear that?” she said. “Something clicked.”
She gripped the handle and tugged, to no avail. She pressed the rod deeper into the hole and turned it again, pulling at the handle as she did so. She removed the rod and inserted it backward. The drawer would not move.
“Gods damn it!” she said. “I was so blary certain.”
Hercól set the steel box with the Nilstone carefully on Thasha’s desk (which groaned a little at the weight). “Make room, Thasha, there’s a lass.” He stood square before the cabinet and seized the handle of the drawer in both hands. He drew a deep breath. Then he threw himself backward with all his strength. There was a shriek of metal on metal, and the drawer slid open with a decisive snap.
“Locks were not your problem, Thasha—merely rust. The key works perfectly well.”
What had slid open was in fact no drawer at all, but a massive iron slab. It extended more than a foot into the room, and had but one feature: a cup-like hollow at the center, about the size of a plum.
“I knew it!” cried Felthrup. “This is Erithusmé’s safe!”
Marila stared at him. “What safe?”
“I told you, I told you! The safe they spoke of in the Orfuin Club!”
“That could well be,” said Ramachni. “My mistress had various safes for the Nilstone in her dwellings ashore, though I never knew one had been installed on the Chathrand. Such safes mask the power of the Nilstone, and make it harder—though not impossible—for enemies to detect its presence. You can put that box away, Hercól. I dare say no one will be able to steal the Nilstone from this spot.”
Hercól donned the selk gauntlets while Pazel unlocked Big Skip’s box. With great care, Hercól tipped the Nilstone into his hand. “Glaya, it’s heavy!” he wheezed. But when he set the stone into the hollow of the iron slab, it was a perfect fit.
Thasha gazed at the black orb, and it seemed to Pazel that she could not look away. Then Hercól pushed the drawer firmly shut, and Thasha blinked, as though starting from a dream.
They placed the wine of Agaroth in the outer cabinet, wrapped in scarves and braced by the Polylex. Thasha closed the outer door, and once again Pazel could see nothing but the wooden wall.
“Ramachni,” said Thasha, “there’s still wine in that bottle: two or three sips, anyway. I can use it. I can control the Nilstone.”
“Let us speak of that another time,” said Ramachni.
“I know what you’re afraid of,” said Thasha. “You think I’ll hold the Stone too long, and let myself get killed. But I wouldn’t risk that, I promise. I’ll be safe.”
“Only my mistress could use the Nilstone safely,” said Ramachni. “Keep striving to bring her back, and forget the wine for now. If we must turn to it, we will. But I would be happier if that bottle never again touched your lips.”
A faint hoot sounded from above: the bosun’s wooden whistle. “Ah, that’s our sign,” said Mr. Fiffengurt, rather sadly. “Come quickly, all of you. The Promise is ready to depart.”
Pazel felt a sudden ache: he had not prepared himself for goodbyes. But if Kirishgán only makes it back to that ship! Then at last Pazel could stop fearing for him every time they spoke, every time the selk drew near.
Up they hurried to the topdeck. By the Red Storm’s light they saw the Promise standing near, anchors up, sails loosed but not yet set. Her skiff was crossing the space between the vessels to collect any stragglers.
Hundreds of men had turned out on the Chathrand, but it was not hard to spot the few remaining selk and dlömu among them. Here were Kirishgán and Nólcindar, along with Bolutu, Prince Olik and a handful of the Masalym volunteers. The selk were talking with Neda and Corporal Mandric, while Myett and Ensyl looked down from the shrouds just a few feet above their heads. As the group from the stateroom drew near, Prince Olik turned to face them, and a hush fell over the crowd.
“Well, here we stand,” said the prince. “The hunters of Arunis, together a final time. Do you remember the day I came aboard hidden in a water cask, and Captain Rose bled me with his knife? I thought my end had come, but now I shall count that day as blessed. How else could I have met you?”
“You might have been better off if you hadn’t, Your Majesty,” said Pazel.
“No, lad,” said the prince. “I should have been poorer, sadder, and most certainly lost. You saved me from that doom. You reminded me that however desperate my struggle for the soul of Bali Adro, it is but one battle in the larger war for Alifros. You let me feel the curve and compass of the world, beyond my darkening Empire. Alas, the wider world too is darkening swiftly. But look what has come from the darkness.” He spread his hands. “You, friends, have been my candles and my hope. Allies undreamed of, allies I know I shall never see again.”
“A few of us may yet return to your country, Olik Ipandracon,” said Ramachni, “if the darkness passes, and the world is renewed.”
“We will still fight the darkness together, even though we part,” said Kirishgán.
“Yes, brother, we will,” said Nólcindar. “For just as I led Macadra astray in the mountains, so will we seek her now, and fool her again. When she spies us, we will seem to panic, and run downwind. She will never catch us, but she may well give chase.”
“And now goodbye, and safe running,” said the prince. “Whether we meet in this life or the next, you shall dwell forever in my heart.”
They crowded near him, with words of praise, and not a few tears. Then the prince descended the folding ladder and was gone from sight. He was followed by most of the volunteers from Masalym, while the humans cheered them, and sang, and flint-hard old sailors stammered and wept. Some actually held the dlömu back by force, shaking their hands and plying them with brandy, trading hats, trading rings and trinkets. Secrets were told and pardons asked. Unsolicited confessions were heaped on the bewildered dlömu, and still the humans talked. They had never understood the dlömu, or quite ceased to fear them;20 but the two races had fought and died together, and now it was finished, done.
Nólcindar took her leave next, and the survivors of the inland expedition struggled to find words for their gratitude. When his turn came before her, Pazel wished he could speak of Uláramyth, of the love that had filled him there and made him feel a foot taller and a century older and a match for any horrors from the Pits. He said none of it: the protective spell had sealed his tongue. Anguished, he gazed at this great woman of the selk, and something in Nólcindar’s smile told him that she knew.
As she descended the ladder, Pazel turned to Bolutu. “You’ve done so much for us,” he said. “You saved my life on the bowsprit, that day Arunis left me to fall into the sea. More than that, you saved us from despair, by telling us the story of Bali Adro.”
Bolutu laughed. “Even though it proved out of date.”
“Yes,” said Thasha, “even though.” Beside her, Neeps’ mouth was frozen in a belligerent expression. It took Pazel a moment to realize he was fighting back tears. “Pitfire, Mr. Bolutu,” said Neeps, “you’ve been fighting these bastards longer than any of us, except Ramachni. And you—you lost everyone, didn’t you?”
“I lost my world, lad—my entire world.” Bolutu closed his eyes a moment, then smiled and opened them. “I gained a new one, though. In time. It is only during this year away that I have come to understand how much it means to me. Human company, human food, the foul-smelling Etherhorde streets, Arquali music, the misfits of the Empire who embraced me as one of their own. That world is mine, now, and I mean to keep it. That is why I shall remain on the Chathrand.”
His friends shouted with joy and surprise. “But you’ll be the only blary dlömu in Arqual!” said Pazel. “They’ll think you’re a monster. Or will you try to become human again?”
“Never that!” said Bolutu. “No, I shall depend on you to attest to my non-monstrous character. Daily, if necessary.”
“They’ll hound you,” said Neeps. “Even the nice ones.”
Bolutu nodded. “Let us hope the world survives to inflict such minor miseries.”
Fegin blew two notes on his whistle. “Time, gentlemen!” said Fiffengurt. “To the ship you mean to sail on, double quick.”
There was a great rush to the starboard rail. The last of the Masalym volunteers descended, to cries of Rin keep you! and Bakru waft you gently home! Then the Arquali sailors broke down in messy grief, cursing and hanging on one another and bawling like calves: “We won’t forget ’em! Never! Who says we’ll forget, damn the bastard? We love them old mucking fish-eyes!” It was not long before a Plapp swung at a Burnscover, or perhaps vice versa, and soon a dozen men were throwing fists. Captain Fiffengurt raged, looking for the first time like his predecessor. Fegin blew his whistle ineffectually; the dogs howled, and Mr. Bolutu sat down atop a five-gallon bucket and laughed. But Pazel stood still, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the night breeze. Kirishgán had not departed. He stood by the folding ladder, indifferent to the mayhem, watching the Promise as her ghostly sails bore her away.
The Night of the Swarm Page 69