“I did call for the forty-footer,” he said.
“Go to the Pits,” said Thasha.
Hercól laughed aloud. “No harm in a brisk morning swim. But for the sake of our more delicate comrades we should get out of this wind.”
“And across this mucking island,” said Darabik. “Her Majesty’s council is surely already convened on the north shore. If you truly mean to attempt this lunacy involving Gurishal, you will need all the help we can provide.” He shook his head. “Of course, it will not be enough.”
“Walk now, and mope later,” said Druffle. “Follow me, shipmates! Never mind your little bumps!”
His good spirits did not flag as he led them inland. He claimed to know Serpent’s Head—it was a famous stop for smugglers—but could that account for his glee? Now that Pazel thought about it, Druffle had been grinning since the rescue of Darabik’s men. Now he walked along laughing softly to himself, and making a happy buzzing sound in his throat.
It was an exhausting morning. Though not mountainous, this end of Serpent’s Head was mostly desolate, crisscrossed with dry rivers of lava twisting down like mammoth tree-roots from the heights. There were cracks and fissures and bare bulbous hills. Above them, the volcano moaned and hissed.
But the trees Pazel had seen were real too: they stood in clumps like islands in the dead landscape, oases spared by chance. There were young palms and rugged tree-ferns, vines and sprays of scarlet flowers, hummingbirds and ants. Pazel found them all the more lovely for their delicate, doomed courage. As for Mr. Druffle, he ran up breathlessly to each oasis, studying the treetops. Each time this happened his smile faded, only to break out again as his eyes moved to the next clump of trees.
Thasha was questioning Darabik for the twentieth time about her father. “Yes, m’lady, I do expect him,” said the commodore. He allowed himself a grudging smile. “Needless to say he won’t be expecting you.”
“Will he be coming ashore?”
“Will he! I’d like to meet the man who could stop him! No, the admiral never waits for us to secure an island. With the deepest respect, Lady Thasha, your father is an impossible man.”
“It runs in the family, Commodore,” said Pazel, dodging Thasha’s fist.
For five hours they trudged and scrambled. When they grew thirsty Druffle showed them how to suck dew from the fern-fronds. There were no trails, but now and then they passed small mounds of clam shells. Druffle claimed they were trail markers, and over time he was proved correct: the mounds led them sensibly enough through the lava-maze.
“I can hear the surf on the north shore,” said Kirishgán. “When we pass over that next hill I think we shall see it.”
The hill in question was large and crowned with a particularly lovely stand of trees. They began to climb, drinking in the birdsong. Pazel turned and looked back to the south. He could see the coast in the distance, but not the Chathrand: she was gone until tomorrow at the earliest.
Suddenly Druffle exploded: “There! There! D’ye see it? Sweet teacups in heaven, my darlings! It’s honey!”
He dashed up the rest of the hill, and before anyone could stop him began to scale a palm. In his manic state he had found the agility of a young man, if not a monkey. Pazel shielded his eyes: near the fronds at the treetop, bees were boiling. The others saw them too, and they all shouted warnings. But Druffle paid no heed. Up the tree he went, straight to the hive, and when he reached it he plunged in his hand to the wrist. Drawing it out again, he held up a mass of something sticky and pale. He took a great bite of it and hooted with joy.
“What did I tell you? Island honey! Straight from the fuzzy arses of the gentlest creatures in Rin’s green earth. Stingless bees! What do they need stingers for, eh?”
Pazel was laughing despite himself; most of the others were as well. “Blary lunatic,” said Neeps.
“Come and taste, come and taste! They don’t need stingers. No bears in the islands to steal this gold. Only me, only lucky Druffle, whose dream just came—”
A sharp sound. Druffle’s back arched terribly. He fell forward, the honey-hand still raised, and as he dropped Pazel saw the arrow buried deep in his ribs.
“Oh, Gods, no!”
Pazel and Neeps raced up the hill, deaf to the shouts of those behind them. It occurred to Pazel that he might be running toward his death. He could not stop. Druffle, the hapless fool, lay writhing on the ground. The arrow had passed through him. It was holding his chest off the ground like a stilt.
As the boys reached the man, a dark-robed figure burst from the underbrush. Pazel saw the flash of the falling sword and tried to dive away. Too slow. This was death.
Steel met steel with a clang.
Hercól. He had stopped the killing blow with Ildraquin, and now he leaped and dealt the man a lashing kick to the chest. The dark-robed attacker was no clumsy fighter, however; he absorbed the blow and spun around to strike again, expertly, his sword making an arc for Hercól’s chest.
Once more Hercól was faster. Ildraquin flew up, inside the arc of the other weapon. Hercól’s sword barely slowed as it severed the man’s arm. Pazel did not see the downward stroke that followed. But he heard it, and saw the man fall headless to the ground.
The hilltop was suddenly swarming with men. Druffle wheezed. Blood was foaming about the wound: a pierced lung, Ignus would have said. Pazel pressed his hands about the wound, and Druffle raised a weak hand as if to help him. The honey-coated hand. A few harmless bees still crawled on his flesh.
Druffle lay still.
Pazel wondered at his own dry eyes. This man who had purchased him from slavers. Who had been a slave himself, to Arunis. Who had played the fiddle like an angel and swilled liquor like a fiend. Who had escaped all his tormentors, tasted sweetness one last time.
He looked up. No one was fighting. Sixty or more dark-robed fighters stood about them in a circle, swords pointing inward. Men and women, with kohl dabbed on their cheekbones and tattoos on the backs of their necks. The Mzithrinis had been lying in wait.
The landing party was disarmed and made to kneel. Their hands were tied behind them, and their ankles bound fast. Six guards surrounded Neda, who was facedown in the dirt, with a female soldier’s boot on her neck. The Mzithrinis retrieved the severed arm and head of the man Hercól had killed, washed them with oil and bore the corpse into the trees. Druffle’s body they left where it lay.
Pazel glanced around. Ramachni was nowhere to be seen.
Their captors still had not addressed them, but they stared with frank astonishment at Bolutu and Kirishgán. Pazel caught their whispers: “What in the black Pits of damnation are they? Demons in the flesh? Can they work curses with those eyes?”
“Brothers, listen to me—” Neda began in Mzithrini. Their captors barked at her to be silent, and one kicked her in the side.
An hour passed. They were given water and moved into the shade. Despite their shock at encountering a dlömu and a selk, their captors actually paid them little attention: they appeared somewhat preoccupied. About half had vanished into the trees atop the hill.
The sun sank low. The volcano moaned and rumbled. At last Pazel heard footsteps approaching, and a Mzithrini officer in a spotless black-and-red uniform stepped out from among the trees. His face unreadable, his movements precise. The guards snapped to attention: the man was evidently of some rank. An aide approached and handed him a ledger-book. The officer glanced from the book to the captives and back again, several times. Then he nodded and walked up to Pazel’s sister. The female soldier took her boot from Neda’s neck. The officer pointed at Hercól.
“This man killed our brother in fair combat, and to save his friend. That is no dishonor, and he need fear no special punishment. Inform him.”
Neda looked up at Hercól. “He says—”
“I understand you, sir,” said Hercól in Mzithrini.
The officer whirled. “You as well! Do you all speak our tongue?”
“No, brother,” said Ne
da. “Only he and—”
The officer spat in her face.
“Call me brother, will you? A rebel sfvantskor gone over to the Arqualis!”
Neda’s eyes blazed with fury. She tried to rise, but six sword-tips jabbed at her, and the female soldier pressed down again with her boot. Neda spoke through the mud and grass about her face. “I serve no Arquali, now or ever—”
“Bitch in heat. You lie.”
“I was sent to kill them,” said Neda. “I failed. They took us prisoner.”
“Which is why you laughed at the fool in the tree, and gazed at this swordsman with open lust. Keep silent, vow-breaker, or I will cut those ensigns from your flesh.”
He meant her tattoos, Pazel realized with horror. Neda twisted beneath the soldier’s boot, glaring up at him fearlessly. But she held her tongue.
Hercól’s eyes were no less deadly, though his voice was controlled. “You call her vow-breaker,” he said, “and you are right: she is that. But it is a greater crime to raise youths in a windowless cell, and then demand vows pertaining to the world beyond. Those who break such vows may be many things, but they are never weak.”
“Where did you learn Mzithrini?” demanded the officer.
“In my own windowless cell. From my old masters, and your archenemies, the Secret Fist. I too broke certain vows. I was expected to use my life to kill your people, to destroy your country from within.”
The officer held his gaze for a long moment. Then he turned and studied their faces one by one. “What are these creatures?” he said.
“The black man is a dlömu. The other is a selk. They are no more your enemies than—”
“Shut up.” The officer pointed at Druffle’s corpse and addressed his men: “Bury this one. Mark the spot.” Then, speaking once more to Hercól, he indicated Darabik.
“That man is too old to fight. He was not guiding you, like the idiot in the tree. He carries himself like a general. Is he in command?”
“We have no commander ashore,” said Hercól.
“Then you have no commander at all.”
Hercól frowned.
“You doubt me?” said the officer. “Very well: untie their legs. Hold the swordsman and the traitor-girl like the deadly snakes they are. All of you, get up.”
Legs freed but hands still tightly bound, the captives rose stiffly to their feet. The officer led them into the greenery, along a trail beneath the palms. Within, the evening shadows were already dark, but Pazel caught glimpses of many warriors: resting, eating, sharpening their swords. The captives filed past them in silence, nudged on by the blades of their guards.
When they emerged from the oasis they stood on the hill’s far shoulder. The officer stood aside, and the captives gasped. The whole north side of the island spread below them, all the way to the coast of the Narrow Sea, and there—
Aya Rin!
Ships beyond counting, slaughter beyond words. At first Pazel could see no order in any of it. Large vessels, smaller ones, burning, blasting, listing, going down. Flashes of fire, wreaths of smoke.
“Startling, isn’t it, how little one hears?” said the officer. “Blame the west wind for that, and the volcano of course.”
Pazel’s eyes began to sift what he saw. There was a huge force of heavy warships pressing south, toward Serpent’s Head and the westernmost isles of the archipelago. It was easily the largest flotilla Pazel had ever seen in the Northern world, and it was decimating a force about one-third its size. The latter ships were in disarray. Some were tacking west, into the wind; others had turned to engage their enemies head-on. A few were fleeing south between the islands, toward the Ruling Sea. The fight was not completely one-sided: vessels on both sides were burning, sinking. But Pazel could see no hope for the lesser fleet.
“You are witnessing the end of an insurgency,” said the officer. “The smaller force is trapped between the Nelluroq and Magad’s great flotilla. They have been dying all morning, and will go on dying through the night.”
No one in the landing party could speak. Pazel could hear the cannon-blasts, now, just barely, over the rumbling of the volcano. He felt dizzy, defeated. On his left, Commodore Darabik’s face was ashen, and Hercól too looked appalled.
“They fight bravely,” said the Mzithrini officer. “They have stung Magad’s fleet, and will keep on doing so until the very end. Yes, they certainly have heart. Everything else, of course, is against them. Wind, numbers, ammunition, luck. Some have managed to reach the shore, after their boats were pulverized. They will die tomorrow. Magad has men enough to flush them out like rats, once the sea-battle ends. And do you know who they are, those rats? Maisa’s rebels. The remains of her naval forces. They were planning to gather here, to regroup and try once more to topple the cannibal-king. But then you know all this. You’re Maisa’s agents too.”
No one denied it. Commodore Darabik walked forward, dragging his feet. “We were betrayed,” he said. “The Usurper knew about the gathering of our forces. He knew.”
Hercól looked at the officer. “Magad’s land forces will find you as well, tomorrow,” he said.
“Perhaps,” said the officer calmly. “We may be forced to surrender to the cannibals. For an hour or two.”
He turned and pointed to the northwest. There was rain and haze in the distance. “You cannot see it, yet, even with a telescope—”
“I can see it,” said Kirishgán. “Another fleet, even larger than this one. They are fierce vessels, all painted white, and bristling with cannon, every one. There are many men aloft, but they have spread no canvas. The fleet is standing still.”
Once more the officer was stunned. “Feather eyebrows and eagle eyes,” he said. “Yes, our White Fleet is coming. Not to rescue Maisa’s rebels—that is no task of ours—but to destroy the Arquali navy, which is a force for evil in this world.”
He gestured at the hill nearest to where they stood. It was barren, but at its peak lay an enormous mound of sticks and palm-fronds. “Soaked in chemicals, special chemicals that burn long and bright. We will watch the battle, and when Maisa’s rebels have done us all the good they can do, we will light this beacon and summon our fleet. By then it will be past midnight, and Arqual will be wounded, tired, short of ammunition. Then it will be Arqual’s turn to be caught between the hammer of a stronger enemy and the anvil of the Ruling Sea.”
“You did this,” said Pazel. “You told Arqual where Maisa’s forces were gathering.”
“Fool,” said the officer. “We will not shed our blood for your rebellion, but why should we help Arqual to crush it? No, the Secret Fist learned of this gathering all by itself. After years of blundering along without Sandor Ott, it seems they are once more a functioning spy agency. You can’t lay the blame on us. Now then—” He turned and raked them all with his eyes. “—tell me how you came to be here, and whom exactly you answer to in Maisa’s ranks.”
There was a long silence. Darabik broke it at last. “I serve under Her Majesty’s royal husband, Prince Eberzam Isiq. This girl is his daughter, who was the Treaty Bride. They are all crew on the Great Ship, the Chathrand, which has just returned from across the Ruling Sea.”
At first the Mzithrinis just stared at them, lost. Then as one they roared with laughter. Even their commander gave in. “Of course,” he wheezed, drying his eyes. “Why didn’t I guess? And this explains why so many of you speak our language. And why a lapsed sfvantskor travels with you. And why the idiot was hooting and signaling from the tree.” He waved at his men. “Go on, search the island. Maybe Empress Maisa herself is down there somewhere, wandering among the rocks.”
“I’m Thasha Isiq!” shouted Thasha, enraged.
This nearly finished them. “She got the name right, Captain!” said one of the soldiers. “It was Thasha, the girl who died in Simja—”
“No, you ass, that was Paca, Paqui, something—”
“Syrarys! Syrarys Lapadolma!”
“How can you be so ignorant?” bellowed Thasha
. “Syrarys was my father’s consort, and she tried to kill us. Pacu Lapadolma was my maid-in-waiting, who took my place when I was nearly strangled. Have a look at my Gods-damned neck; you can still see the scars!”
Silence.
“Well, come on! It’s not that mucking complicated!”
She had shouted in Arquali, of course. None of the Mzithrinis had understood her, but they had sobered nonetheless. “She sounds just like him,” muttered one of the soldiers.
The officer rubbed his chin. He ordered Thasha gagged, and then walked away into the trees. Pazel could not see what was happening within the oasis, but a few minutes later he heard a number of people approaching, and the officer’s voice.
“Turn him. The old fool’s looking the wrong way.”
Then a deeper voice boomed from the trees: “Oh, Tree of Heaven! Oh, sweet and merciful Rin!”
Crashing, stomping, and then out he came: a bald, barrel-chested man, trailing leg-irons, trying to run in them, holding out his arms to Thasha. His tattered uniform trailed leaves and vines. He didn’t notice. With a flick of his hand he tore Thasha’s gag away, then knelt and embraced her. Thasha, hands still bound, laid her cheek atop his head and wept.
“Prahba.”
“My darling girl, my beauty—”
Eberzam Isiq. Pazel had thought of him many times since the Red Storm. The admiral had looked old and unsteady since Pazel’s first glimpse of him on the quay in Etherhorde. But now if anything he looked six years younger, not older. His flesh had color; his limbs looked strong and hale.
He’s free of the deathsmoke, Pazel realized. No one’s poisoning him anymore.
“Thasha, Thasha,” said Isiq. “I let them hurt you, take you from me, I’ll never ask you to forgive—”
Thasha shh’d him through her tears. Pazel wished he could blow everyone away from the spot, give them this moment, let them be alone together for a time. Isiq rose to his feet and pressed her cheek against his breast. Only then did he take in the rest of them.
“Stanapeth! Undrabust! Pazel Pathkendle! Bless you, Darabik, you found them!”
The Night of the Swarm Page 77