“Rose built the fire-control teams into a force like you’ve never seen, after the Behemoth launched those blazing monstrosities at us,” he told Pazel, shortly after Thasha’s ordeal, “but I hope we never put ’em to the test. Wood and tar still burn, and flaxen sails as well.”
As for the wine of Agaroth, Thasha’s friends urged her desperately to take Dri’s advice and pour it out, swallowing only the dregs. “In two days you’ll collapse again,” said Pazel. “You can’t put yourself through that.”
“Or you,” said Thasha, “and I won’t. I’ll take another sip in plenty of time.”
“And delay the poison by two more days? What’s the point? What if we drop the bottle and it shatters?”
“Guess I’ll lick the deck, won’t I?”
No one could change her mind: they would still be prisoners in Stath Bálfyr, she observed, if she had never dared to drink. But that night the choices before her loomed stark and grim, and in the morning she took Ramachni aside.
“You said you thought of putting me to sleep. To slow the poison.”
“I did.”
“Could you still do it? Could I sleep until we need the power of the Stone again? For days, or weeks?”
Ramachni seemed disinclined to answer, but Thasha would not be put off. At last he turned his black eyes on her fully. “It can be done,” he said, “but you will get no closer to freeing Erithusmé in your sleep.”
“Why not? I found other answers in my sleep. Felthrup learned volumes in his sleep.”
“Felthrup is a dreaming prodigy. And you found your answers on the shores of death, not natural sleep. But we are confusing the matter, Thasha. I want that poison out of you.”
His concern touched her, and then gave her a fright. Night Gods. He doesn’t trust his mistress either.
Still, she did not dispose of the wine. The hours ticked by, and her debates with her friends became arguments. They begged and cajoled, and even tried to shame her. At one point Neeps and Pazel marched her into her old cabin, demanded the silver key, and opened the safe where the Nilstone lay.
“Erithusmé had this idea that we could never succeed without her magic,” said Pazel. “You’re beginning to sound just like her. Use the mucking Stone, then. Pour off the wine, drink the dregs and use it one last time. Maybe you really can part the Red Storm.”
Thasha held the bottle in the crook of her arm. “I’ll drink before the night is out.”
“Another little sip,” said Pazel, accusing.
“The dregs will still be there, damn it all! I’ll drink them when I have to. Don’t worry about that.”
Neeps shook his head, grinning, furious. “I love you, nutter girl. But it takes gall to say don’t worry straight to Pazel’s face.”
Thasha wondered if the tarboys could possibly make things harder. “Forgive me,” she said, “I’m not trying to—”
“No,” said Pazel. “I won’t forgive you, if you get sick again.”
He closed the safe and walked out of the cabin. Neeps looked at her a moment, then followed. Thasha sat on her old bed, clutching the ancient bottle, feeling the cold bite her fingers. Dusk was here; the poison had struck at sunrise. She had some twelve hours left.
“SAIL! ABAFT THE PORTSIDE BEAM! SAIL, SAIL!”
It was the alarm they’d all waited for, and dreaded. When it came Pazel was aloft himself, tightening bolts along the main topsail yard in the weird red glow. He had no telescope, and could see no ship. Above him, the lookout howled: “A five-master, she is! Five masts and thirteen miles!”
Those last words nearly made Pazel fall from the yard. Just thirteen miles? Was he sleeping? Rose would skin that man alive!
He raced down the mast. Below, men were pouring onto the deck, and Fegin was striking the ship’s bell as though trying to break it. When Fiffengurt emerged from Rose’s cabin, however, he did not run, but only climbed with swift decorum to the mizzen yard. He was a new captain, performing the role of the unruffled leader, and everyone knew it and expected no less.
Pazel was running aft when Kirishgán appeared out of the crowd. “It is the Death’s Head,” he said softly. “Macadra has found us at last.”
“But thirteen miles? How did the lookouts miss her?”
Kirishgán gestured at the Red Storm. “Our back is to the bonfire, Pazel. She came out of the dark. We were dazzled, though we did not know it.”
Pazel looked at him, stunned. It was such a simple thing, but who aboard had ever sailed alongside a bonfire? “And now, credek, they have the wind advantage too—it’s turned in our faces again. Is that Macadra’s doing?”
“Very likely,” said Kirishgán. “She did as much when she first tried to take the Promise.”
“But this time she’s flanking us. She’ll close that gap in no time.”
“Unless we find our gap first,” said Kirishgán.
They hurried to the quarterdeck, through the multitude of rushing, frightened sailors. Fiffengurt’s orders had gone out: skysails, studding sails, a third jib strung from the spankermast. Pazel knew it could not add much to their speed. Nothing could, save a change of wind or an about-face, or some massive jettison of supplies.
Mr. Coote was bent over the tonnage hatch. “Gunnery! Fire brigades! Come on, lads! Move like you mean to save this ship!” Coote looked too old to bear the duties of a bosun. And we’ve no quartermaster, no doctor, no second mate. Fiffengurt’s running this ship with half a team.
Pazel’s friends began to congregate around the Silver Stair. Marila was holding Felthrup; Neeps was holding Marila. Ramachni and Thasha stood a little apart, the mage perched atop a forty-eight-pounder cannon that had just been run out through a gunnery door in the portside rail. The others were handing around Isiq’s fine telescope, examining the Death’s Head and quietly cursing.
Because his mind-fit had struck before the first attack, Pazel had never glimpsed Macadra’s vessel. What he saw when his turn came chilled his blood. The Death’s Head truly was a second Chathrand, but a Chathrand in terrifying disguise. From the waterline to her fighting tops she was armored: crude, thick skins of cast iron enveloping the hull, which showed through only here and there. Even her figurehead (a great black bird) was made of metal. Huge and mysterious devices cluttered her deck, some throwing off long cattails of orange sparks that scattered on the wind.
“Are those … weapons?”
“They are,” said Hercól. “We saw them in action from the deck of Nólcindar’s vessel. We had good luck then: I doubt those weapons are precise enough to have struck the little Promise without dropping her to the seafloor, along with the prize. Today Macadra’s reckoning may be different.”
“But take heart,” said Felthrup. “However vile, however truly sanguinary those arms prove, they are nothing compared with what the Behemoth carried. That was like being attacked by a whole city. And yet we survived.”
“The Behemoth was slow, Felthrup,” said Marila.
“And this time we are,” said Hercól. “Fiffengurt will blame himself for our predicament, but what else could he have done? We had nowhere to hide, except in the bay of Stath Bálfyr. We could not sail north, and didn’t dare head south again.”
“So all Macadra had to do was guess whether we’d turn east or west?” said Marila.
“Right, and that was simple,” said Neeps. “She can tell that the Storm’s paler to the west, and she must know we mean to pass through. This is an ugly business, mates.”
Pazel crossed the deck to the forty-eight-pounder cannon, where Thasha stood with Ramachni. The mage was still perched atop the gun, looking southward, and holding exceptionally still. Thasha put a finger to her lips. Ramachni was up to something. They waited, leaning slightly together, as gun crews stormed around them and topmen scrambled in the rigging like nimble cats and battle netting was stretched overhead.
At last Ramachni turned from his vigil. He looked at them somberly. “We must prepare,” he said.
“For a firefigh
t?” said Pazel. “But that’s exactly what we’re doing.”
“Not just for a firefight. We must prepare for slaughter. Macadra has no plans to capture us. If she offers clemency, it will be a ruse to secure our surrender. She wants us dead.” He paused. “She also thinks the Chathrand will take much longer to burn than the Promise.”
“You read her mind?”
“The surface, Pazel. The outer thoughts and feelings, as Arunis did with many of you before his death. It could be a façade, or some other subtle ploy, but I doubt that. She is not in a subtle mood.”
“Why does she care how long the Chathrand would burn?” asked Thasha.
“Because she is prepared to torch us entirely, and then pluck the Nilstone from the flames.”
Pazel had a sense that the world was about to implode. As though they were all trapped in a crate and hearing the approach of some gigantic wheel. Thasha gave him a searching look. He dropped his eyes in shame.
“Don’t say it. I was wrong. I’m glad you still have some wine.”
“Can you stop her, Ramachni?” Thasha asked.
“Stop her? I would stand some chance, if it came to a duel. But that hardly matters now. I cannot protect us from the Death’s Head and its terrible weapons. Still, we have gained one advantage: this close to the Storm, Macadra will not likely be able to harness the winds, for the Storm itself is one great weather-spell, and mightier than any she could cast.”
A sudden cry from above made Pazel flinch with apprehension. But it was good news, this time: the gap had been sighted, some twenty miles dead ahead. The men cheered, though the terror of the enemy was great in them. Pazel took Thasha’s hand and drew it quickly to his lips. He caught Neeps’ eye from across the deck, and saw a new light there, an almost unbearable hope.
Fiffengurt descended from the mast and made straight for the quarterdeck, shouting as he went: “To the braces with your teams, gentlemen! We shall come about, full to starboard! Mr. Elkstem, lean on that wheel!”
There was a new explosion of activity; five hundred men attacked the ropes. Thasha looked at Pazel, bewildered. “What’s he doing?”
“Tacking closer to the Storm, but damned if I know why.”
“We’ll go faster downwind.”
“Of course, but how far? We have to break east or west eventually.”
Fiffengurt climbed the ladder and helped Elkstem at the wheel. For many hours they had been obliged to follow a zigzag stitch across the seas. Exhausting tacks, endless reversals: but no ship could sail straight into a headwind. There was always, moreover, the danger of drifting into the Storm. Now Fiffengurt had them running straight for it.
“Death’s Head trimming sails to match, Captain,” boomed Fegin. “She’s got keen eyes, that witch.”
“Right you are, first mate. Mr. Coote, take thirty men to the cable tiers. I want extra stays on all five masts, coiled and ready to deploy. But keep ’em on the deck below, hard by the hatches but out of sight.”
“The Turachs won’t like it, Captain—all that rope in their space.”
“Perhaps they’d prefer six hundred enemy boarders in their space, Bosun. You may inquire.”
The Chathrand sliced a clean, sharp path toward the Storm. Pazel and Thasha went below with Coote’s team of thirty and helped wrestle the vast, awkward ropes up to the main deck. Pazel had the uncomfortable feeling that the effort was pointless, that Fiffengurt was merely trying to appear as though he had a plan. The winds were steady, but hardly strong enough to call for doubling the mast supports.
“About six miles to the Storm front, Captain,” shouted Fegin. “And still sixteen or more to the gap, if it’s really there. Enemy holding steady behind.”
When they returned to the topdeck, Ramachni was speaking with Kirishgán.
“Your captain and his ship are as one,” said the selk. “See how the men at each station look to their watch-captain, and the latter to the quarterdeck? They are speaking without words. No one would know that he has been in command barely a week.”
“Fiffengurt’s spent most of his life on the Chathrand, the same as Captain Rose,” said Pazel.
“Which of them persuaded augrongs to join the crew?” asked Kirishgán.
He nodded in the direction of the No. 4 hatch. Pazel smiled. Refeg and Rer, the enormous anchor-lifters, were slouching to points on either side of the mainmast. The sailors smiled at them too, from a distance.
“Rose found them, and they’re worth their weight in gold,” said Pazel, “but I can’t imagine what they’re doing up here. They’ve never helped out with the rigging before.”
“We’ve never been so short-handed before,” said Thasha.
“Quite so,” said Ramachni. “We may need every advantage left to us. I too must beg your pardon, Thasha: you were right to keep the wine. For once I am glad of your stubborn—”
He broke off, his fur standing on end. His eyes snapped to the quarterdeck.
A figure stood there, facing Elkstem and Fiffengurt, who recoiled in horror. A tall woman, chalk-white of skin, so gaunt and narrow-boned that she appeared almost stretched. Her eyes were fixed on the captain, and a long, bony finger was pointing at his heart. Pazel knew at once that he was looking at Macadra.
Ramachni leaped from the cannon and raced toward the quarterdeck. Pazel and Thasha chased after him, though Pazel had no idea what they might be preparing to do. Up the ladder they rushed. The hideous woman turned her head and studied them—with recognition, Pazel thought, at least in Thasha’s case. But she’s never seen Thasha before. What does she sense?
Ramachni stood between the sorceress and the wheel, teeth chattering with rage.
“Macadra Hyndrascorm,” he said, “we have slain your Plazic servants, your devil-dogs, your Thrandaal ogress and the demon for whose services you mortified your flesh. We have slain your foul brother Arunis. Do you think you will be spared, if you impede us?”
Her brother! thought Pazel.
Macadra threw her head back violently, as though her neck had snapped. High laughter rang across the deck.
“Impede us! Do you mark his words, Arunis? I had best break off the attack and run for Bali Adro, and leave the Nilstone in the keeping of Erithusmé’s mascot, and this ship of the diseased, the murderous, the mad.” She lowered her head and pointed at Fiffengurt. “Turn the ship away from the Storm, Captain Fiffengurt! There need be no killing today. Strike your sails and await my vessel, and we will spare all your lives.”
Pazel had a great urge to shout at her: No, you won’t! But Thasha squeezed his arm, and almost imperceptibly shook her head. Pazel shuddered at the recklessness of what he’d nearly done. For what if Macadra didn’t know that Ramachni could hear her thoughts? Why give away an advantage like that?
“Yes,” said Ramachni, “you must break off the attack, and run. There is power here to destroy you. Very soon it will reveal itself, and strike.”
Macadra sneered. “With the Nilstone? I think not. Across the Ruling Sea you carried it. Through the wilds of Efaroc, the hell of the Infernal Forest, the snows of Urakán. And never in all that time did the Nilstone serve you. Even Arunis failed to wield it, save in his last suicidal hour. Why keep it, Captain? What a danger and a horror it has been! Give it to me, and I will heal your people and send a benevolent current to waft you home.”
“Aye, madam,” said Fiffengurt, “and when killers creep in at my window, I’ll put knives in their hands.”
Macadra stepped closer to the captain. “A killer has crept in at your window, old fool. Turn your vessel, or watch me destroy it.”
Pazel risked a glance ahead. What was Fiffengurt doing? They were flying fast toward the Red Storm: could he possibly mean to sail straight in?
Ramachni looked back over his shoulder. “I love an albatross, don’t you, Captain?”
“An albatross?” Fiffengurt was startled only for a moment. “Yes, sir, I do adore ’em. But where’s a rat when you need one?”
“Here I am!�
�� Felthrup squirmed in a frenzy. Hercól took him from Marila’s arms and raised him to the quarterdeck, where he scrambled to the captain’s feet.
“Felthrup here is my negotiator,” said Fiffengurt. “If you want the Nilstone, talk with him.”
“If you want to live, turn your ship around, and clear the deck of these rodents.”
“Rodent,” said Felthrup. “Singular. My lord Ramachni is a mustelid, and specifically a mink. Now pay attention, sorceress! Without my consent the Stone will remain forever beyond your reach.”
Without a glance at Felthrup, Macadra said, “No place is beyond my reach.”
“But what an immodest trickster you are! Why, the Storm itself threatens to snatch away your prize. And the seabed? Perhaps you hope you can recover it from such depths, but surely you have some doubt? Otherwise, why didn’t you burn the Promise to ashes, when the Stone was aboard?”
“I saw no reason to kill,” said Macadra.
“You lie, but what of it? However great your reach, some doors are still closed to you. The door of the Orfuin Club, for example.”
Macadra froze. Slowly, for the first time, she turned her gaze on Felthrup.
“Yes, unpleasant person!” he said. “I was there, and watching you. I do not fear the River of Shadows. Of course you know full well that I cannot take the Nilstone from this world by any dream-journey. But within this ship are doors to lands you do not know, and will never find. Erithusmé built some; others were made by the Bali Adro shipwrights; and still others were simple accidents, fissures opened by too much powerful spellcraft in a single place. Burn the Chathrand and you destroy the doors. Will you gamble that you can steal the Nilstone away from us before we hide it in another world? If so, you have less sense than many a rodent I could name.”
Pazel was almost too shocked to breathe. Felthrup! When did you become so fierce?
But Macadra only laughed again. “Rat! You have surprised me. There may be a place for you at court in Bali Adro, if you are wise enough to rethink your allegiances. Quick wit is not something to be wasted—”
“Oh, no, no indeed! Consider the parable of the nine golden—”
The Night of the Swarm Page 72