The Rats and the Ruling sea tcv-2

by Robert V. S. Redick

  The next thing Pazel remembered was climbing a stair. The way was steep and dark; far ahead someone carried a single bobbing lamp. 'Where is my brother?' Erthalon Ness was whimpering. 'You killed him, didn't you? Are you going to kill me?'

  It was on the stair that Pazel noticed the sharpened hearing that sometimes accompanied his Gift. He could catch every whisper and echo: Alyash's soft curse in Mzithrini, Rose's wheeze as he lurched up each step.

  How is it going to end? When will the mind-fit come?

  At last they reached a broad wooden door. Ott stepped to the front and gave a sharp, four-note whistle. From the far side, startling everyone but Ott himself, came a woman's laugh.

  Bolts slid free. The door swung outwards, forcing them to shuffle backwards. A brighter lamplight flooded the stair. And in the doorway stood Syrarys Isiq.

  She put out her hand to the spymaster. Her beauty left the men abashed. She wore a white blouse embroidered with red coral beads and a necklace of cobalt-blue pearls. Her olive skin glowed in the lamplight, and her sumptuous lips curled with mirth, as if the men crowded below her on the steps were part of some great parlour-game whose rules she knew better than anyone. 'We beat you by a full day, darling,' she said.

  Ott took her hand and kissed it. 'I have been here four,' he said, 'keeping watch by sea, until the Great Ship reached her hiding place.'

  Syrarys spread the fingers of the hand Ott had kissed. Along with rings of gold and silver, diamond and bloodstone, she wore a simple, tarnished ring of brass. 'A little bird gave me that one,' she said.

  Ott laughed, then took the ring from her finger and slipped it on his own. 'Come, Syrarys,' he said. 'You know what this day holds.'

  He swept through the door and into a great stone chamber, and the woman who had raised Thasha from a child went with him. As he stepped into the chamber Pazel recalled the creaking bridges of his dreams. He felt as if he were upon one again. They told us she died in Ormael. They told us she leaped from a tower into the sea. We know nothing, we're toys in their hands.

  They bound his wrists with metal cuffs and sat him in a corner, too far from the hearth to be warmed in that chilly underground. Unlike the chamber below this was not a natural cave; the room, and several others adjoining, were carved from the living rock. They gave him water and ship's biscuit, later a handful of berries that resembled coffee beans and tasted like sweet smoked grubs.

  Syrarys came to look at him, with Ott beside her. Hatred shone in her eyes.

  'Thasha's little friend,' she said. 'Do you know what her father did to me, bastard? Something much worse than rape or beatings. He bought me, like a dog. He groomed and bathed me and took me out in society on a leash, so that the Etherhorde nobles could admire my tricks.'

  'That's not what I heard,' said Pazel. 'I heard Isiq never asked for a slave at all. That the Emperor sent you to him, and the old man didn't think he could refuse.' He looked at Ott. 'I wonder who gave His Supremacy that idea.'

  Syrarys slapped him, hard. Pazel raised his shackled hands to his face. 'I believe the part about doing tricks, though,' he said.

  She would have struck him again if Ott hadn't drawn her away. Pazel found himself wondering what Thasha would do if Syrarys returned to the Chathrand.

  The drug-delirium came and went. Several hours in that windowless chamber simply vanished. When his memory returned it moved in leaps, like a stone skipping on a lake. Men around a table. Captain Rose brooding over a chart. Elkstem waving his hands, shouting, I can't blary say, Captain! You don't get that close to the Vortex and live to tell! Drellarek sharpening a hatchet. The Shaggat's son chained to the wall, asleep.

  At another moment he woke with Syrarys' voice in his ears, and flinched, expecting pain. But she was nowhere near him. He raised his head and saw her with Ott on the far side of the chamber. They were kissing, and arguing between the kisses. Pazel's strange hearing brought it all to his ears.

  Want to go with you.

  No, dearest. The job in Simja only you can accomplish.

  You said Isiq would be the last one!

  I said I hoped, Syrarys. But there was madness when the girl collapsed.

  You bastard. I'll make you pay. I'll sleep with your spies. The pretty ones, the youngest.

  Don't try it. They fear me even more than they desire you.

  Care to bet?

  Pazel's head swam. He fought to stay awake, to hear more of their argument, but the darkness closed over him again.

  Later they stood him up and walked him to the table. It was by now covered with books, scrolls, loose vellum sheets. Nearly everything was old; some of the books appeared positively ancient. Look, they said, and spread before him something that might have been a scrap of sailcloth with old grey stains. Look there. What is that?

  'Your finger?' he said.

  Rose seized his ear and twisted savagely, as if annoyed to find it so tightly fastened to his head.

  'There's writing, Pathkendle. Lean closer.'

  Tears of pain in his eyes, Pazel leaned over the canvas. The faces around the table watched him breathless. Rose was pointing at a symbol in pale blue ink. Was it a character, a word? The only thing Pazel was sure of was that he'd never seen its like before.

  His vision blurred; he shut his eyes, and when he opened them again he read the word as easily as though it were his own name:

  ' "Port of Stath Balfyr." '

  The men exclaimed: some relieved, others in doubt. 'I told you,' said Syrarys, her voice softly ardent. 'I told you it came from a chart.'

  'What's that language, then, cub?' asked Drellarek, pointing at the canvas.

  Pazel hesitated. 'N-Nemmocian,' he said at last. It was the truth, but he only discovered it by speaking the word aloud.

  'Where is the tongue spoken, lad?' asked Sandor Ott.

  'How in the Pits should I know?'

  'The boy's Gift does not extend so far,' said Dr Chadfallow. 'He learns nothing of the culture of the languages he… acquires. Nothing but what one may deduce from the words themselves.'

  'Then we're no better off than before!' huffed Alyash. 'Why, we could spend the rest of our lives looking for a place called Stath Balfyr, where they may or may not speak something called Nemmocian. And begging your pardon, Lady Syrarys, but we can't be certain this was torn from a chart.'

  'I don't understand,' said Pazel.

  The men looked at him uncertainly. It was Sandor Ott, of all people, who broke the silence.

  'The world beyond the Ruling Sea,' he said, 'is not entirely forgotten. What you see before you is all that the libraries, archives and private collections of the known world have yielded to my investigators, after a decade of searching.'

  He lifted an ancient book, cracked it open, blew. The page flaked and crumbled.

  'Not much to show for our labours, is it?' said Ott. 'But there were a few helpful discoveries: that first canvas gives us some idea of the shape of the coastline we may reach. Another document seems to be a list of surnames — royal families, in all probability — and the lands they govern. But the jewel in this musty hoard is a page from a diary or log-book. I will not show it here, for it is so delicate that each time we remove it from its case a portion crumbles to dust. We have copied it out, however — word by word, number by number.'

  Pazel's head was swimming; he was finding Ott's words very difficult to follow. 'What… does it tell you?' he managed to ask.

  'Headings,' said the spymaster. 'Course headings, and distances, from Stath Balfyr to lands on this side of the Ruling Sea. Lands we know, cities that yet exist, even though the names have changed. Eldanphul, the old name of Uturphe. Marseyl, that the Noonfirth Kings renamed for their founder, Lord Pol. And one island whose name has not changed: Gurishal. Do you see, Pathkendle? If we can but find this Stath Balfyr, we will know the exact course to the Shaggat's kingdom, and the multitude that awaits him.'

  'If we find it,' said Alyash, shaking his head.

  'Yes,' said Ott, 'if. Unfortunately
the collector of ancient manuscripts who owned this particular scrap of writing… died, trying to stop my men from seizing it. And his records contain no mention of the page.'

  Syrarys turned impatiently from the table. 'You needn't explain things to the tarboy,' she said.

  Ott looked Pazel up and down. 'I am following my instincts with this one,' he said. 'The ignorant make poor servants. For as long as he is with us, he must grasp the fundamentals. Of course, he will not be with us for ever.'

  'What do you mean by that?' demanded Chadfallow, leaning forwards.

  The spymaster ignored him. 'Pathkendle,' he said softly, 'do the words Stath Balfyr mean something in themselves?'

  'No,' said Pazel.

  It came out too quickly, a blurted denial. Sergeant Drellarek sat back with a laugh.

  Ott turned to look at Chadfallow. 'There's an answer for you, Doctor. Your tarboy has just lied, very clumsily. My boys in the School of Imperial Security tell better falsehoods after thirty minutes of training. How long will Pathkendle be with us? A short time indeed, if he fails to answer my questions. But long enough to hear one or more of his friends beg for death: a death Ramachni's spell, alas, will make it inconvenient to provide.'

  Pazel swallowed. He was only too aware how easily Ott could carry out his threats. Thasha, Neeps and Marila would be forced to leave the protection of the stateroom in short order if Rose let the spymaster cut off their food.

  'Look at him, he's stalling,' said Syrarys.

  Fascination glimmered in Ott's eyes. 'No, he is considering his choices. He's a thoughtful lad.'

  Diadrelu. Pazel closed his eyes. Forgive me.

  'Answer the question, Pathkendle,' said Rose.

  'Sanctuary,' said Pazel. 'Stath Balfyr means Sanctuary-Beyond-the-Sea. '

  Broad daylight. Somehow Pazel had slept the night away, chained once more in his corner. He shook his head fiercely. He had no memory of waking at all.

  He was on horseback, clinging to the saddle horn, startled out of his trance. Birds were singing; the great black horse pranced in the mud; and around him a million leaves and fronds and flowers glittered from a recent downpour.

  It was already hot; Pazel felt as though some great animal were breathing on him. Yet the noise of the sea was close and loud, and off to his left he saw a place where the trees ended, and blue sky began. He knew suddenly where he was: atop the cliffs, on the edge of Bramian's great wilderness. It felt like trespassing, like putting a toe through some forbidden doorway just to see what would happen.

  Ott climbed into the saddle behind him. Pazel stiffened: it was frightful to be so close to the assassin, with his scarred and deadly hands gripping the reins on either side. Pazel had heard the phrase Stath Balfyr whispered among the Ixchel. Only once or twice, when they forgot his abilities; and they spoke it with reverence, like a holy name. He had given something sacred to the most profane man he'd ever known.

  Ott turned the horse in a half-circle, and Pazel caught a glimpse of the cave mouth, low like a burrow and all but invisible with greenery. There were other horses: one bore Chadfallow, another Alyash. Swift and Saroo were mounted also; their horses carried large leather purses secured to chaps before the riders' knees. The last and largest steed bore Drellarek and Erthalon Ness, the latter gazing in horror at the jungle about them.

  Ott waved his men back underground. Then he turned to the other riders and raised a cautioning hand.

  'The first part of this journey is likely to be the foulest,' he said softly. 'Stay close to me, and do not stop unless I do. Trust your horse's footing: these are the noblest animals His Supremacy could provide, and mountain-trained from birth. Away, now! Ride fast and silent, as you value your lives.'

  With that he spurred his horse into the bush. There seemed no path at first, and they crashed (far from silently) through great sprays of palm and ferns and creepers. But very soon the underbrush thinned. Huge trees loomed over them, craggy black-barked monsters laden with vines and mosses and dangling epiphytes. The horses were indeed magnificent. They dodged roots and rocks, and somehow guarded their riders' balance at the same time.

  They began a steep ascent, criss-crossing a gurgling stream. In patches of sunlight over the water Pazel saw butterflies of iridescent blue, rising in sapphire clouds at their approach.

  'Where are you taking us?' he asked.

  'Quiet!' said Ott. 'Or you'll find I've taken you only to your grave. We are ascending the mountain known in the Outer Isles as Droth'ulad. An evil corner of a vast, evil isle.'

  'Evil?' said Pazel. 'But it's beautiful. Look at it.'

  'I am most certainly looking,' said Ott, who was in fact peering deep into the trees ahead. 'Yes, evil: the name means Skull of Droth, the Demon-Prince. But it is not Droth who threatens us now. I am looking for the Leopard People. This has been their part of Bramian for longer than anyone from the outer world has been coming here. Fortunately for us they fear to climb Droth'ulad, but they will slip around its base sometimes, to hunt monkeys or wild dogs. They are master archers, and will kill us if they can.'

  'Why do they fear the mountain?'

  'Because something lives at the summit that kills them. Not the demon himself, I think, but perhaps something not greatly to be preferred. We would do better to avoid that place ourselves. But the ridgetop is the only swift path to our destination, and Elkstem swears we must put to sea in a matter of days or be kept from all hope of safe passage by the Vortex.'

  'But what in the Nine Pits do you want on Bramian?'

  'Nothing whatsoever. It is our allies' wants that concern me.'

  'Allies?'

  'Be silent, lad.'

  The way grew steeper yet, and they were forced to slow the horses to a walk. There was a path of sorts, now: a meandering mud track, full of roots and snags and fallen trees. Weird shocks of colour met their eyes: a fleshy orange fungus that seemed to glow in the shadows, a scarlet hummingbird, a metallic-gold moth. Now and then the path left the cover of the forest to skirt clifftops, jutting like grey teeth from the blanketing green. At such moments Pazel looked down on steaming valleys, over lakes and serpentine rivers, and once he saw a ring of standing stones upon a treeless hilltop, and a thread of rising smoke.

  But the sounds were a torment. Whistles, hoots and howls: the noise of countless birds and beasts, never seen except as shadows, flickers of movement, hints of wings. Worst of all were the insects. His altered hearing made their whines, drones, chirps and buzzings hideously distinct. When they bit him near his ears he heard the piercing of his skin.

  Up they went, hour upon hour. Rain came and went with astonishing force. When it grew strong enough to blind them Ott would signal a halt, and the horses would stand steaming in the cold spray as the path became a river gushing about their legs. Pazel covered his ears, deafened. But the downpours were brief, and it seemed that the instant the last drops fell the sun came dappling through.

  Once more Pazel's mind became clouded, and he lost all sense of time. One minute he would be clinging to the horse's mane as the animal struggled up some narrow ravine; the next he would be staring at a hairy vine as thick as his arm, only to discover that it was a monstrous centipede, scurrying up a trunk.

  At still another moment he found himself listening to the half-hearted daytime hoot of an owl. No one else seemed able to hear the bird, and Pazel could not find it in the canopy overhead. But he heard its mate answer, and a soft flutter of wings. And then (Pazel caught his breath sharply) the first owl spoke in words. Its voice was black and velvety, the voice of a night hunter woken by day.

  'I should like to know where they think they're going.'

  'You could ask,' said the other, in a higher voice.

  'They're savages, my dear fool. They speak no tongue of Bramian.'

  The second owl trilled uneasily. 'I do not like this mountain. I can taste sea air, and it frightens me. The shorebirds' talk is always full of fear, warships, movements of men. Let us go inland tonight. Where the wor
ld is still whole.'

  'We will go to the Court of Grethim,' said the first owl. ' The priest will welcome us, and let us hunt in the spice gardens, and perhaps I will read another story from his book of leaves.'

  Pazel never told anyone about the woken owls. He had an awful image of Sandor Ott trying to shoot them from the branches. He stopped searching for them with his eyes, and the birds did not speak again.6

  Onwards, upwards. At last Pazel's acute hearing diminished, and he began to feel more like himself. Far above them, he thought the texture of the forest changed, as though something immense stood among or behind the trees. Then Drellarek reined in his horse. He pointed up into a nearby tree. A large white monkey dangled there, its back to them, motionless, dead. It was pinned to the trunk by an arrow.

  Ott cursed. 'We've startled them,' he said. 'The Leopard People don't just abandon their kills. And blood is yet leaking from that wound. Forward! It is a race now, and we must win.'

  He said a soft word to his horse and it charged up the slope, abandoning the trail in favour of a straight line for the summit. Pazel heard the other horses thundering behind.

  Suddenly a human voice spoke from the jungle. 'What are they, Uncle?'

  Pazel jumped, startling both Ott and the horse.

  ' They are men like us,' replied another, older voice. 'But they are slavers from across the sea. Don't fear them, boy. They will take no slaves today.'

  'Damn you, be still!' growled the spymaster.

  'Mr Ott,' said Pazel, struggling to keep his voice low and calm.

  'They've found us. They're watching.'

  Suddenly Erthalon Ness gave a squeal of terror, pointing a finger at the jungle to their left. Pazel turned and saw them: scores of long-limbed figures, racing through the forest with the swiftness of cats. They wore loincloths only, and their pale yellow bodies were dabbed all over with spots of black. Some of the men carried strange iron hooks, and all had bows over their shoulders.