Neda managed hands and knees. She crawled after him, feeling her strength return. The man called over his shoulder:
'They told you no Arquali could outfight you, didn't they? Well, girl, I've stolen your death tonight: a shameful death it would have been. Go back, and wonder what other lies your masters are peddling.'
He was gone. Neda put her forehead down on the sand. Wishing her heart would stop, knowing it wouldn't. Even at death she was a failure.
Pazel, in love with that butchering admiral's daughter? That couldn't be. She'd seen what they did to him. She'd watched the blows, felt them. The old man was a liar and a fiend.
Then she saw the glint of the knife. He'd left it blade-down in the sand. She rose and went to it and pulled it free, and as she did so she felt exactly what he had described, a rupture of her certainties, a skin tearing away. What was beneath it? Was there anything she would recognise as herself?
A flash of red light. Brilliant, almost blinding. Neda froze: it had come from the direction of the shrine. Then, faint above the noise of the waves, she heard the screams begin.
'Father!'
She ran as she had never run before. The Father was using Sathek's Sceptre: he was facing some terrible threat. She clawed her way up the beach, passed the horrible old man (transfixed, staring), and flew straight at the shrine. There was fire in the courtyard: fire among the pillars, fire spinning overhead like a great ignited bird.
She could hear war-cries from Cayer Vispek and Suridin, and then came the Father's roar and another flash of light. Neda ran blind, smashing through the underbrush. When her eyes cleared she saw an impossibly hideous shape — burning, fanged, dog-like, child-like — dive from the air over the courtyard.
The Father waited beneath it, his beard half scorched away, and he caught the incubus with a blow from the sceptre that hurled it shrieking into the night.
Howls from the windswept pasture. The last of the revellers were fleeing for their lives.
Suridin chased after the thing, wielding an iron skewer from the feast. Cayer Vispek held the Father in his arms: the old man had nearly collapsed. Then Neda's feet touched marble and she was in the courtyard, shouting to them, raising the blade she had stolen to end her life. The Father whirled to face her, his eyes brightening with what looked like joy. And then the demon screamed back through the pillars and struck him in the chest.
Both men were felled by the blow. Cayer Vispek grabbed at the creature, though it was still wreathed in flames. The Father, his chest spouting blood, cried out in a strange language, and the black crystal in the sceptre glowed. A sudden change came over the incubus: the deformed creature vanished, and some milder, weaker shape flickered where it had been. Only for an instant; then the incubus resumed its monstrous form and closed its jaws on the Father's neck.
Neda closed the distance and pounced. Down she stabbed, burying the knife in the creature's spine. The incubus twisted, slashing at her arm, spitting fire. The knife shattered. The incubus released the Father and rose on its burning wings. It flew wild about the courtyard, howling with the voices of the damned, spilling gouts of blood that vanished in flames before they touched the ground.
A hand closed on Neda's arm: Suridin was hauling her to her feet. The girl shoved Neda to the left of the Father while she took his right, and Cayer Vispek tried to staunch his gushing wounds.
Again the incubus pounced — this time on the sceptre, tearing it from the Father's weakening grasp. The Father cried out. The demon leaped, beating its wings with effort, risingSuridin grabbed its leg. Neda could smell her hands burning — it was like taking hold of a log in the fire. The demon dragged her across the courtyard as Neda tried desperately to strike the creature herself. Then the incubus dropped the sceptre, twisted in mid-air, and tore into the arm that held it earthbound.
Suridin screamed in agony. With no forethought at all Neda snatched up the sceptre and struck. The incubus wailed and its flame sank low. Neda felt the power in the black crystal, shard of the Casket that was the bane of demonkind. Suridin fell; the incubus crashed beside her on the marble, and with a cry Neda brought the sceptre down again.
The fire went out. The demon fought on, a black smoking shape. Neda struck again and its howling ceased, but still its claws tore at Suridin. Once more Neda struck, with a cry of 'Rashta helid! '
And suddenly it was gone. No corpse lay beneath the sceptre. Not a whiff of its demon-smoke lingered in the air. The incubus left nothing in its wake but wounds.
Cayer Vispek brought the other aspirants back from the sea. The Father lived two hours more: long enough for Neda to summon the courage to tell him where and how she wished to begin her life as a sfvantskor, and for the old priest to give his consent. It was long enough too for old Cayerad Hael to be woken and rushed ashore from the Jistrolloq, for the sceptre belonged in the hands of the eldest sfvantskor. And it was long enough for the Father to point in the direction of the harbour, and wheeze into Neda's ear:
'The demonetta… it came from that ship… from Chathrand. I knew. I knew from the start.'
Neda did not leave the Father's side. His life was slipping away, and so was the aspirants' self-control. They bickered and shouted and stood apart to hide their tears. He could not leave them, the world could not be meant to turn out this way. But the Father looked at Neda and his smile was proud, as if to say, Remember, daughter. They despaired; you did not. You were stronger than any of them.
Could he see through her, even now? Would he learn how wrong he was?
When he died at last their grief spilled over. Malabron was the worst. He spoke blasphemies about the death of the Faith, and glared at Cayer Vispek as if he would fight him, and said that the whole tragedy was Neda's fault.
At that the others shouted him down. The Father had clung to Neda in his last moments, after all, and it was she who had dealt the creature its death blow. And Suridin, the admiral's daughter, who perished just minutes after the incubus, had put three fingers on Neda's cheek in an old Mzithrini gesture, one reserved for closest kin. 'Sister,' she'd said.
9
Stand-off in Simja Bay
8 Teala 941
87th day from Etherhorde
Esteemed and Cherished Friends,
If you are reading this, you will know that I have not returned to the Great Ship. With great regret I must declare that I do not intend to.
My daughter is dead. My heart has sustained a blow from which it will not recover: not in a century, let alone in the few years that remain to me. Like all of you I hoped we might somehow triumph over sorcerer and spy. We did not triumph. The enemy was stronger, better prepared. It is my shame to have misidentified the enemy — and to have been slow to identify my friends.
But the fight does not end with this parting. I have begun to mend ties with King Oshiram. Already I have persuaded him to ask a few key delegations, including the Mzithrinis, to linger after the other guests depart. To them I shall reveal all I know of our Emperor's conspiracy, the plottings of Arunis and the threat of the Nilstone. From this base of believers I will set out to convince the world, and to build a sea-wall against these twin evils. At the very least the Mzithrinis will be warned to guard every approach to Gurishal, even from the western Nelluroq, from whence they have assumed no approach could ever come. The Shaggat, stone or flesh, will never reach his worshippers.
I told Thasha once that I had set aside my admiral 's stripes for good, and I meant it. Now more than ever I believe in my duty as a diplomat — but not Magad 's diplomat. Arqual must be represented by a voice and a face besides the Emperor's: a voice men will learn to trust; a face associated with honour and goodwill. Our future — and never again shall I believe that there is any future but that which we build together — depends on these things, even more than on tactics and the sword.
When you have taken a moment to reflect, as I have, you will realise that this task is mine alone.
You five swore an oath, and to that oath you must hold
true. A mighty spirit chose you for the task, no doubt because it sensed in you the strength to see it done. Thasha's sacrifice will not be the last. But you must never falter. Let an old soldier tell you: comrades fall, but the mission endures.
Farewell, friends. We shall never see each other more, unless as some believe there is peace hereafter in the shade of the Tree.
Unvanquished, E. Isiq
Thasha put down the letter, stunned. 'He's not coming with us,' she said.
'Don't tell me you believe that thing,' said Neeps.
'Don't you?' said Pazel.
It was midmorning, the day after the wedding fiasco: another glorious, gusty day at summer's end, but in Thasha's cabin there was barely light enough to read. A dark cloth hung over the porthole: she was still in hiding, still dead as far as anyone knew beyond her circle of friends. She parted the cloth an inch and looked out. Pilot boats were skimming across the Bay of Simja, directing larger vessels out into the Straits. In a few hours Chathrand herself would be setting sail.
'Of course I don't believe it,' said Neeps, picking up the sheet of wrinkled paper again. 'The letter's obviously a fake. Thasha, if your father had really decided to stay here, don't you think he'd sail three miles to tell you goodbye?'
'He would if he knew I was alive.'
'Even if he didn't,' said Neeps, 'he'd want to, you know, take his leave of your body. And to see the rest of us off.'
'He'd want to,' said Pazel. 'But if he's watching us through a telescope he'll have noticed the archers along the rail. Not to mention the fact that no one's been allowed on or off the ship besides the wedding party, and that Fulbreech fellow. We're prisoners here. He's too smart to get caught as well.'
'He could take a boat out to hailing range, and shout us a farewell,' said Neeps.
Thasha laughed bitterly. 'And tell everyone on the Chathrand the sort of things he's just written down? Not likely.'
'You've both lost your minds,' said Neeps. 'This is Admiral Isiq we're talking about. The man who never lost a naval battle. The man who tells kings to get stuffed.'
They were interrupted by a whimper. Beneath Thasha's writing desk sat a low basket, and in it upon a folded blanket lay Felthrup the rat. He had returned to the basket shortly after his outburst the day before, and had not woken since. Now he twitched, mumbling and moaning in his high-pitched, nasal voice.
Suddenly, without waking, he cried out: 'Don't ask me! Don't ask!'
Thasha went to his side and stroked the little creature. 'He has awful dreams,' she said. 'I wake him up sometimes, poor thing, but then he's afraid to go back to sleep. And he needs some sleep, Rin knows.'
'That kick from Jervik would have killed him, without Ramachni's help,' said Neeps.
'Nerves may kill him yet,' said Pazel.
Thasha pointed at the letter in his hand. 'Look at it again, will you? Do you see anything odd — see anything, I mean, outside the meaning of the words?'
The boys studied the letter again. Both shook their heads.
'Exactly.' Thasha took the sheet and pointed to a tiny, vaguely star-shaped fleck on the third line. 'You took it for an ink blot, and you were looking for something strange. But it's his mark, his code. And the only thing it means is, "Nobody's holding a knife to my throat." He never told anyone about it except for me and Hercol.'
'Well it didn't work,' said Neeps stubbornly. 'Thasha, I have a nose for lies, and that letter stinks like a fisherman's boot. Tell her, Pazel.'
'He's usually right,' Pazel admitted.
'Usually?'
'Well it's not as if you're perfect, mate.'
'I see,' said Neeps crisply. 'Not as if I've got a magic gift, is that it?'
'Come off it,' said Pazel.
'That's what you're thinking. "Why trust him? It's just his natural brain at work." '
'You are making me worry about your brain, that's a fact,' said Pazel.
'At least mine doesn't turn me into a dry-heaving rooster every month or-'
'Stop it!' said Thasha. 'You're driving me mad!'
The boys clammed up at once. Thasha turned back furiously to the window. The last of the supply boats had drawn alongside; stevedores were piling goods onto cargo lifts. They had taken on more food and water — and scandalously, more passengers, five or six poor souls bound for Etherhorde — the better to sustain the illusion that they were making for the Arquali capital. Who were those people? How much had they paid? When would they find out that they were never going to arrive?
She heard again her father's words in the Cactus Gardens. You're all I have left, Thasha. I can't watch you die before me as she did.
'Find Hercol,' she said. 'Bring him quickly. Please.'
'Do you think the letter's real?' Pazel asked.
'Daddy wrote it, if that's what you mean,' she said. 'And those tactics, and the way he blames himself, and that bit about completing the mission no matter the cost — it's exactly what I'd expect from him. And there's the star.'
She touched it with a finger, drew a deep breath. 'There's only one thing I'm sure of: Daddy has to be told that I'm alive. Maybe he's right — maybe he shouldn't come with us. But it would be heartless to sail off and leave him in the dark.'
When the tarboys were gone, Thasha pulled a trunk from beneath her bed and removed her training gloves. They were ugly things, iron gauntlets with wool padding over the knuckles and rusted chain looped tight about the wrists. Hercol had wanted them tight, and heavy. A hundred shadow-punches in those gloves usually left her gasping. But she wanted more than that today.
She stepped into the outer stateroom, locked the door, ordered her dogs to lie still. The ship was in some sort of commotion; men's voices, and their pounding feet, echoed through the floor and ceiling. Perfect, she thought, and launched into a battle drill.
Thasha was a fine fighter, exceptional in a few respects. But she also had a wilful streak. It did not express itself as anger — Hercol had taught her never to rely on rage — but as impulsiveness. Hercol had detected the flaw at once. Inspiration is a fine ally, but a fatal master, he would say. Be warned, Thasha: I shall make you feel the folly of your impulses, until you learn to know the good ones from the bad. It will sting and you will hate me, but at least you'll be alive.
Even bare-handed the drill was exhausting, full of leaps and blocks and whirling jabs. With the heavy gloves it became so taxing that Thasha could think of nothing else. The world emptied of everything but sweat, poise, balance, the duel with her unseen foes. She fought in circles. Thump thump! went her fists against her father's reading chair. Each glove like a stone mallet in her hand.
When she completed the routine she began it again. Faster, girl! scolded Hercol's voice in her head. It's your blood they want to spill! Her heartbeat as sharp and urgent as the blows. At last, almost delirious, she ran to the wall and pulled down one of the crossed swords issued to her father decades ago when he became an admiral. It was a thin blade, but in her gauntleted hands it felt like a six-foot Becturian sabre. In a perfect fury of concentration she fought her way once more about the chamber, slashing, thrusting, Hercol's voice goading her, pitiless when she missed the mark. Someone's trying to cut off your head! he'd shout. Do you see him or don't you? It's not a game, you spoiled bitch, you're striking to kill, you're striking to kill.
She came out of the trance with the sword half-buried in an imaginary chest. Sickened by what she saw in her mind, as her tutor insisted she must always be. Elated by her own strength. And so tired she could barely stand.
Her father had thought she might take up painting. A gentle suggestion, he'd said. The day he and Syrarys delivered her to the fanged gate of the Lorg School.
She staggered to the washroom, opened the tap on the cast-iron tub. Painting. Had he ever known her at all? She stripped off her clothes, stepped into the cold saltwater and scrubbed herself clean, then rinsed off the salt with a few precious cups of fresh water. She looked at her body in the mirror on the door. Sun-darkened arms
, breasts no longer quite a girl's, muscles quivering with cold. Men had started to notice that body. Falmurqat certainly had. The prince would have lain with her by now, in his own stateroom aboard his long white ship. Instead Pacu Lapadolma was there across the bay, faithful daughter of Arqual, naked in the arms of her Mzithrini husband. For a time.
Hercol was not in his cabin, nor any of the common rooms. The boys made next for the upper decks. Before they reached the midship guns, however, they found that a great commotion was brewing somewhere above. Men were dashing forward, flowing around both sides of the tonnage hatch and up the ladderways. From above came the sound of voices raised in anger.
'What is it?' Pazel cried. 'A fight?'
'Fight?' someone echoed, not looking back. 'That's just what I said!'
'Fight! Fight!'
Too late, Pazel realised that none of the men knew what they were running towards. But his offhand word seemed to be what everyone wanted, and as they ran it spread around them like an oil fire. Men seized knives and bottles and boarding-pikes, off-duty marines snatched up their spears.
'A damned riot, that's what!'
'Plapps versus Burnscovers!'
'Can't be! Rose would skin 'em alive!'
There was a stampede on the ladderway. Pazel and Neeps were carried upwards past the main deck, where still more sailors jammed the stair, and were spat with the rest into the dazzling sunlight near the foremast. The jeers and shouts grew louder. Pazel leaped up on the fife rail and shielded his eyes.
'Oh Pitfire,' he said.
The Jistrolloq was lying alongside Chathrand, barely a yardarm between them, and an even larger crowd of Mzithrinis — all bearing weapons — had thronged to her rail, bellowing and chanting.
'Waspodin! Waspodin!'
'What are they saying, Pazel?' Neeps shouted.
Pazel jumped down again, foreboding like a sickness in his belly. 'Don't repeat it, whatever you do,' he whispered. 'They're chanting "murderers".'
Neeps' mouth fell open. At the bow, the taunts were growing louder.
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