The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4)

by Robert V. S. Redick

  All this was in the wee hours of that horrid night. Despite our exhaustion we were all on our feet save Lady Oggosk, who was slumped at the dining table, chewing cow-like on a lump of mül. But at Ott’s words she grew still, & her milk-blue eyes gazed up at us with wonder.

  ‘A tool,’ she said. ‘By the Night Gods, Nilus, the loathsome spy may be right. We know that Arunis made tools of everyone he touched. But in another’s hands he himself may have been a tool. And for what?’

  She straightened up in her chair. ‘Not for the death of the world. He wanted that himself, needed it, worked like a lunatic to achieve it. No, Arunis feared nothing but the world’s salvation. And after death, he’s learned that this very mission stands a chance of bringing it about.’

  The room fell silent. On Rose’s desk, Sniraga watched us, purring. Finally the captain spoke: ‘Arunis, a tool of the Gods?’

  Lady Oggosk shook her head firmly. But Sandor Ott began a slow, loud clap. At first I thought him jesting, but then I looked at his face. He had never looked so blissful, so moved. He squeezed the witch’s hands (Oggosk recoiled with a scowl), & even gazed fondly at the rest of us. His eyes, I swear to Rin, were moist.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘the truth appears at last. Despite ourselves, we are on the same side.’

  We waited. No one had any idea what he meant.

  ‘Your duchess is most wise,’ he continued. ‘And let no one doubt it further: we shall be this world’s deliverance. The return of the Shaggat will be the Mzithrin’s death-knell, and the dawn of the Arquali age. In my darkest hours I have asked myself: why? Why did we ever crossed that horrid sea? Why so vast a journey, into such unknowns? Now I understand: it was that we might learn of Arqual’s greater task.’

  ‘Greater?’ rumbled the captain.

  The spymaster nodded, enraptured. ‘The Black Rags will fall. The Crownless Lands we will harvest like grapes on the vine. And when the banner of His Supremacy waves over all lands north of the Nelluroq, then it will be time to plan a reckoning with the South. Don’t you see? Bali Adro is imploding, ruining itself. Their sun is setting; ours has just begun to rise. Arqual is the best hope for this poor, bludgeoned world. You know that. Everyone does, in his heart. And now at last we see the guiding hand. This bay will not hold us. Nothing can hold us, nothing ever stops this boat for long. Storms, thirst, whirlpools, crawly infestations, magical armies, mutant rats. We pass through them, straight and certain as the mind of Rin. And behold, this final proof: a devil risen from the Pits to try and thwart us. But he could not. The Emperor’s cause has the mandate of heaven.’

  ‘I didn’t say that!’ shrieked Oggosk. But the spymaster was already making for the door.

  Thursday, 5 Fuinar 942. Fegin is our first mate, now; old Coote has replaced him as bosun. Jervik Lank, Chadfallow’s last assistant, is caring for tweny-four men in the sickbay, with help (of a sort) from Dr Rain, who is indefatigable, but cannot be left alone with the patients. I am told he recently brought them soup in a bedpan.

  This morning Lank showed me a note he discovered in Chadfallow’s desk. It is written in the late doctor’s hand:

  Let it be known that it is my wish to be buried in the heart of the Ruling Sea, not in waters claimed by any power in Alifros, for it was only when I cast off belief in nations that I perceived something of my soul.

  However if circumstances allow, I should like my son, Pazel Pathkendle, to light a candle for me in the Physicians’ Temple at 17 Reka Street, Etherhorde. This is an amendment to my Last Testament of 5 Vaqrin 941, which in all other particulars remains in force.

  Five Vaqrin! It appears that just days before the Chathrand sailed from Etherhorde, old Chadfallow made a will. I have asked Lank to search for that testament, even if he had to dig through every one of Chadfallow’s twenty-two crates of documents & scrolls. Lank was more than willing when he understood that by finding it he might be doing Pazel a good turn.

  Felthrup, too, has taken an interest in Chadfallow’s papers, or at least one set of them: his log of the times & places where the Green Door appeared. Fascination with the door has passed like a germ from the doctor’s mind to the rat’s. Marila says that he read the logbook straight through six times, and then began to beg her to race about the decks with him to see if Chadfallow really had found a pattern. I gather they believe he has.

  As for the doctor himself, we have embalmed him after the mariner’s fashion until we somehow escape this bay.17 And how long do we have for that little job? Today at five bells the swallows returned (along with Lord Talag & his frowning escorts) & carried off more ixchel, and at seven bells they did the same. At least a hundred have fled the Chathrand already. Most did not spare her a backward glance, but a few did, their copper eyes softening with affection. The worst of boats still tries to save us from the sea.

  At eight bells, Felthrup made an odd request – an audience with poor Captain Magritte, the whaler we picked up in the Nelu Rekere, & his Quezan spearmen. Of course Magritte is blind – was blinded, rather, during the carnage at Masalym. An ixchel dropped on his head from above, and that was that. Two knives, tok-tok. Chadfallow told us he was lucky to have lived through it. I often wonder if Magritte concurs.

  ‘What d’ye want to go bothering him about?’ I asked Felthrup.

  ‘The world’s salvation!’ he squeaked. I had to bite my lips to keep from shouting Not you as well! I tried to put him off until evening, but to my surprise he grew quite fierce with me.

  ‘What favours have I ever asked of you, you white-whiskery man? Or have I not earned even one? You think me talkative, excitable, custodian of a vacillating mind. You think my worries are dander in the wind.’

  ‘Now, Ratty—’

  ‘Our doom is near, Mr Fiffengurt! The Swarm of Night is growing, growing. He did not lie about that!’

  ‘Who didn’t?’

  ‘Who! Who! That is my question exactly! His name is not Tulor, he lies! But if I guess his true name I shall have him!’

  A man can face but so much jibberish. I roused Magritte & led him & Ratty to the compartment on the main deck where the Quezans sleep. For whalers & reformed cannibals they are an amazingly pacific bunch. All four stand over six feet & have long horizontal scars on their chests for every harpoon kill. But they fear sorcery more than death itself, & have never truly recovered from the battle with the monster rats. At the sight of Felthrup (who rushed at them, babbling) they exploded to their feet & fled by the opposite door. We had to hobble after them, across the deck & down the No. 4 to the berth deck. It took a great deal of soothing before they’d consent to listen to a talking rodent.

  I was most irritated with Felthrup; I daresay Chadfallow’s murder opressed us both more than we knew. Luckily he wanted just one thing from the whalers. It was the meaning of a word, ‘Kazizarag’, which I gather he found in his blessed Polylex. He’d somehow deduced that it had its roots in the native Quezan tongue, & that Magritte was the only one aboard who might effect a translation.

  In fact he was right on all counts. ‘Kazizarag’ means ‘greed’ or ‘gluttony’. But the word sparked nervous laughter among the Quezans, & after some hesitation they told Magritte that it was also a word attached to many a devil or villainous God in their stories: Uchudidu Kazizarag is ‘the Greedy Pig-Devil’ who steals from the poor man’s hut while he’s out fishing the reefs.

  ‘Of course he is!’ shrilled Felthrup, hopping with delight. Then he turned & looked up at me. ‘I must have gold, Mr Fiffengurt! A great deal, and quickly!’

  I took him from the chamber & lowered my voice. ‘Come now, Ratty; why do you say such silly things?’

  ‘Oh, am I silly now?’ he shot back. ‘You have done no research. You have enjoyed fresh air and pleasant company while I sat alone on Thasha’s bed, turning pages with my teeth. And all the while he is screaming, screaming behind those iron bars.’

  ‘Iron bars? Are you talkin’ about someone in the brig?’

  Felthrup shook his head. ‘Tel
l me quickly: do you know where the hoard is? The great hoard from the Emperor’s coffers?’

  I was startled. ‘It ain’t in one place. They broke it up into smaller caches. I’ve a pretty good guess where one of ’em is, though.’

  ‘You must raid it. You must bring me gleaming treasure.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Why!’ shouted Felthrup. ‘Why, why, why, why! Of all puerile words in the Arquali tongue! Of all vacant, gnawed-off, insipid, animal-mews—’

  ‘Never mind yer commentaries!’ I barked.

  ‘So you refuse.’

  ‘No I don’t mucking refuse! I’d walk barefoot in a bed of razor clams for you, if you care to know. But Rin’s gizzard, just tell me what it’s about!’

  ‘I would rather face him alone. He is vile and tricky.’

  ‘Black Pits of Damnation, Felthrup! Are you sayin’ Arunis has his claws in another man?’

  ‘Not Arunis. The Glutton. The Glutton is far more dangerous now.’

  ‘You can’t mean the Shaggat Ness?’

  ‘Of course not!’ He ran six times around my feet. Then he stopped, rubbed his face with terrible anxiety, & told me of the demon in the cage.

  Friday, 6 Fuinar 942. It was a suspicious box. No latches, no screws, and its lid glued down fast & for ever. It was mounted on the underside of the floor planks of the portside afterhold, about ten feet above the noxious, sloshing bilge well.18 You could easily miss it, even if you had cause to creep down inside that watery space, as few men did. I had noticed the box during the removal of the rat carcasses in Masalym. But I’d never breathed a word, for it could only be one of the treasure chests brought aboard in secret back in Arqual, and would only bring evil and infighting down upon us if its existence became known to the crew.

  I’d put it quite out of my mind until my talk with Ratty yesterday. And when I arrived and stuck my head through the little bilge-hatch, I cursed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ whispered Marila. I’d brought her with me to hold the hurricane lamp, which we’d only just dared to light. It had taken us the better part of an hour to find this spot, feeling our way down lightless passages. I’d made Felthrup stay behind in the stateroom: if the ixchel found him here there’d be no protection we could give.

  But it was all in vain: someone had beaten us to the gold. I reached in and felt the hatcheted remains of the box, still dangling from the boards. I cursed again: Felthrup would be apoplectic. Then Marila lowered her face to the hatch and she cursed.

  ‘Well ain’t that the devil’s pancake,’ I said. ‘And that gold ain’t no use to anybody while we’re on this ship. Including Felthrup’s own greedy devil, if it exists.’

  ‘Demon,’ she said, ‘and Felthrup’s only going by—’

  She broke off, squinting at the darkness. Then she lowered the lamp into the bilge-well on its chain. ‘Look down there,’ she said, ‘at the very bottom. Aren’t those coins?’

  Sure as Rin makes rain, there were gold cockles winking up at us, under twenty feet of frigid, ship-filthy water. The raiders had been sloppy. They’d spilled a part of their takings into the bilge.

  ‘How much does Felthrup need?’ Marila asked.

  I shrugged. ‘As much as we can lay our hands on. But it doesn’t matter, does it? We ain’t collecting those.’

  ‘Of course we are. Go on, empty the pouch.’

  ‘See here,’ I said firmly, ‘if you think I’m about to go diving into that slime just because Ratty’s been dream-debating some pot-bellied spook—’

  ‘I don’t think anything of the kind.’

  Before I quite knew what was happening, Marila had stripped down to her dainties and was getting set to leap into the bilge. She was a pearl diver, as I’d nearly forgotten. I told her no, no – get away from there – we’ll find a tarboy, we’ll scoop ’em up somehow – sit down, you’re too fat, you’re a motherin-the-making—

  She jumped. I was so frightened I nearly dropped the lamp chain. Marila struck the bilious water, gasped once, then turned head-down and kicked for the bottom. I must record here that she was lovely, graceful as a murth-girl, for all that her belly was round as a harvest moon. After a few strokes she’d churned up so much flotsam that I could barely see her. But when she surfaced (two long minutes later) there was gold in her purse.

  She dived twice more. Then I unhooked the lamp & dropped her the chain. The first tug nearly broke my back – that babe will surely be a giant, parents notwithstanding – but there was no choice, I was going to haul her out or die trying. I fought for inches. There was no good footing; the chain snagged on the edge of the hatch. Just when I feared to disgrace myself by dropping her back into the bilge, out she came: a stinking, beautiful seal. I wrapped my coat around her. In the sack were forty gold cockles & a silver Heaven’s Tree with gems for fruit.

  [Two hours later]

  Something is amiss with the little people. This afternoon Lord Talag & the two islanders returned once again, & as usual there was a crowd of ixchel waiting to depart. But as the swallows descended Talag suddenly began barking orders. We couldn’t hear the words of course – it was all in ixchel-speak – & I daresay his native escorts didn’t fully understand them either. But his own clan did. At Talag’s first word they scattered in all directions, & in a matter of seconds they were gone below.

  Talag brought the birds swooping down, but his gestures were different this time, more erratic, & the flock surged about in confusion. The islanders were suddenly outraged, screaming & threatening; one even waved a knife. Talag appeared to be protesting his helplessness. But after a moment he reassembled the flock, & the three flew back across the bay.

  At my elbow, Sergeant Haddismal turned & gave me an accusing look. ‘What are yer little darlings up to now?’

  ‘Talag’s no friend to me and never has been,’ I snapped. ‘But Stath Bálfyr’s not workin’ out like he planned.’

  ‘Oh ho,’ said Haddismal. ‘And how do you know that?’

  ‘By that scene, of course. By his blary face.’

  ‘You can’t read a crawly’s face. And what’s this plan you’re talking about?’

  ‘I’m not talking about any plan! What I mean is, they’re fighting, or arguing at least. So maybe these islanders didn’t greet their brothers with wide-open arms.’

  Haddismal cracked the knuckles of his enormous hands. ‘If they’re fighting, let ’em fight on. Let ’em bleed! I’d step on ’em one by one if I could.’

  ‘Gods damn it, tinshirt, they ain’t all the same! Talag’s a lunatic, and his son’s a fool, but Lady Dri was—’

  ‘Scum!’

  I jumped a foot in the air. It was Sandor Ott. The snake had slithered up behind me.

  ‘What is happening?’ he hissed. ‘What message did Talag pass to his clansmen, just now?’

  ‘How should I know? Do I have crawly ears?’

  ‘Tell us of their plan, Fiffengurt.’

  At that my self-control just snapped, & I raised my eyes to heaven: ‘I DO NOT KNOW THEIR PLAN. I DO NOT KNOW THAT THEY EVEN POSSESS A PLAN. I AM NO BETTER INFORMED THAN YOU, YOU OLD—’

  His arm moved in a blur. I felt a sharp sting beneath my good eye & recoiled. He had drawn his white knife & cut me, with a surgeon’s precision, just deep enough to break the skin.

  ‘If I learn that you have conspired with the crawlies again, I will kill you, and slaughter that whore Marila like a pig. Do not imagine my threat is as empty as the sorcerer’s. It will be done.’

  Saturday, 7 Fuinar 942. All day there is eerie silence from Stath Bálfyr. Then at dusk a man on the foremast reports hearing a strange echo: maybe a trumpet, maybe the bellow of some forest beast. Ott’s own beastly instincts are surely triggered, for he persuades Rose to roll out the guns & flood the deck with Turachs. The drums sound, the officers scream; the men & tarboys fall terrified into their practised roles.

  And nothing happens. The night grows dark & chill. Hours pass, the gunnery crews crouch drowsy by their weapons
. Rose paces, stem to stern. I too am on deck & waiting, for what I cannot say.

  It comes at six bells, three o’clock in Rin’s blessed morning. But it is not the attack we fear. No, it is only the swallows again, swooping down for another group of ixchel. This time the exodus begins on the quarterdeck, not the forecastle. Men start to race there, who knows why. I hear bellows from the soldiers in the lead.

  I’m halfway to the bow but make a run for it. I see Ott far ahead. ‘Alive! ’ he’s shouting. ‘Take them alive! Catch them, sweep them up, you slow-arsed dogs! ’

  When I draw near I see that Talag has come from ashore without his minders, & with a much larger flock of birds. On the quarterdeck, hundreds of ixchel are waiting to leap into their claws. They are earnest & grim. No sense of victory here. Every last man & woman is armed to the teeth.

  The Turachs have nets. Someone – Ott, Rose? – has commanded them to prevent this exodus, lest we find ourselves holding no hostages, & thus no cards. But the ixchel have mostly slipped through our fingers. Maybe a dozen get nabbed, or crushed underfoot19, but the bulk of the clan flows straight up the rails & rigging, like beads of oil drawn magically skyward, & the urgent swallows pluck them & make off across the bay, with Talag circling, shouting them on.

  Ere they vanish I catch one glimpse of his face. For an instant I think he is disfigured: something (an ear, an eye?) has surely been ripped away. Then I realise it’s nothing physical. It’s his confidence that has ruptured, his certainty. And that is a thousand times crueller in Lord Talag, that colossus of pride. He is still fighting, still leading his people somewhere, & furiously, but the reason behind it is gone.

  Monday, 9 Fuinar 942. Marila has come running. The Green Door has appeared on the mercy deck, & Felthrup’s mind cannot be changed. We are to meet there at once, to bargain with a creature of the Pits.

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