The Night of the Swarm tcv-4 Read online

  Jervik lies in sickbay. I brought him a new knife: a fine blade with a walrus-ivory handle and a locking hinge. It had belonged to Swellows, the first bosun on this voyage, but in this case I didn’t mind raiding the locker of a dead man. Swellows had bragged about winning it in a tavern by cheating at spenk, and had made other, fouler remarks about how it was just the tool for a necklace-fancier.7 Jervik was pleased and didn’t ask where the knife had come from. What he did ask, to my surprise, was when we’d be turning back for Pazel and Co.

  I stumbled a bit. ‘That. . ain’t quite clear.’

  He lifted his black and blue face from the pillow. ‘Wha?’

  ‘The captain. . hasn’t made me privy to the plan.’

  Jervik squinted at me. ‘Yer leaving ’em behind, ain’t ye?’

  I expected a grin. If he’d given one I think I might have snatched that knife back from him and stabbed him in the ribs. Instead I saw the same distress in his face that I was feeling myself. I was floored. I bent down in the chair and fiddled with my shoe.

  ‘Lank,’ I whispered, ‘what am I missing, here? Did you all become friends before they left?’

  He scowled. ‘I ain’t good enough to be their friend. Not after wha I done. But I’m on your side, all right. Them others, Rose, Ott, they can all bite my-’

  ‘Hush! They’ll kill you.’ I ran a hand through my hair. ‘You can’t shoot your mouth off about this, d’ye hear? But you’re perfectly right: Ott means to sail north and abandon them all. I don’t think the captain wants to, although with Rose it’s blary hard to tell. But Ott has the Turachs behind him, so what he wants, he gets.’

  ‘I’ll cut him open. And Rose too.’

  I looked at him. ‘That was my promise to Lady Thasha. That I’d stab Rose dead if he tried to sail away and leave them here. But who would it help, lad? Are we going to seize the Chathrand and sail it back to Masalym? And what if they’re not waiting for us in Masalym? What if they’re making for some other port?’

  ‘Then it’s hopeless. Bastards, whoresons-’

  ‘It’s not hopeless. You know what they’re made of, Pathkendle and Thasha and Hercol. And there’s Turachs with ’em too, and eight dlomic soldiers. But if we’re going to see ’em again, I think they will have to come to us.’

  ‘Come to us! On what boat, Mr Fiffengurt? And how would they know where to look?’

  I toyed with mentioning Stath Balfyr, and the master plot of the ixchel. I considered trusting him with the knowledge of Hercol’s sword. What could be gained by either confidence, however, save further danger for us all? ‘They’ll know,’ was all I managed to say.

  He nodded, and I left him to his rest. A new ally, in the person of Jervik Lank. There’s no end to wonders under Heaven’s Tree.

  Teggatz reassembled the hog (Refeg and Rer did not eat it; they live on a diet of fish meal and grains) and roasted it in the galley stove, with cooking sherry and dlomic onions and snakeberries and yams. Everyone aboard got a bite of that beast, and it was sumptuous beyond all telling. I was wrong: Latzlo is no fool. For such a splendid pig the royals on Simja would have showered him with gold. I took him a plate. He nibbled with tears in his eyes.

  As for the officers, we ate in the wardroom. Uskins joined us for the first time in days, looking like something a dog had tired of chewing, as Sergeant Haddismal informed him to general delight. Rose and Ott were elsewhere, which made for looser tongues, and I dare say the rich food made us wild. Fegin told us about one such hog that got loose in a slaughterhouse in Ballytween and killed every man in the place, and seven delivery boys one after another, and the foreman who came to see why the packing was so slow.

  ‘And they all knew about the hog. It didn’t just appear like a fairy.’

  ‘This weren’t no mucking fairy,’ said Haddismal.

  Mr Thyne speculated that the hog might have gotten into a dark corner of the hold and gone to sleep — hibernated, in a word. The notion brought jeers. ‘Listen to the company man! Telling us about pigs!’

  ‘The Red River is on Kushal,’ I explained. Seeing his blank look, I added: ‘Where it’s warm all the time. No need to hibernate if you’re a tropical pig.’

  ‘Latzlo hid the creature,’ said Haddismal, matter-of-fact, ‘and I hope Rose hangs him from the yards by his thumbs. No worse moneygrubber alive than that man. You heard him in the passageway: “My property, my investment.” Gangrune and Bindhammer lying at his feet, half killed, and he’s got eyes only for this.’ He waved at the platter of bones. ‘He’s the guilty party, no doubt about it. Still thought he could sell it, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Sell it to whom?’ asked Mr Elkstem.

  ‘To us, of course. Later on, when the fresh food ran out, and we got hungry again.’

  ‘Brainless twit,’ said Uskins, through a mouthful.

  Haddismal looked at him with contempt. ‘That depends on who he’s compared with,’ he said, and chuckled at his own jest.

  ‘I wasn’t speaking of Latzlo,’ said Uskins.

  Our busy jaws stopped dead. Haddismal stared in amazement. Uskins normally flinched at the very sight of the marine, who smacked him about with some regularity. But now he just went on eating.

  ‘I didn’t quite catch that remark,’ said Haddismal, low and deadly.

  Uskins shrugged, chewed faster. Haddismal kept drilling him with those eyes, then slowly shook his head, as if he’d decided Uskins wasn’t quite worth interrupting his dinner for. The rest of us exchanged glances, started breathing again. Thyne hiccupped. Haddismal took another rib from the platter.

  ‘This hog was smarter than you on a good day,’ said Uskins.

  The Turach exploded from his chair. Thyne and Elkstem dived out of his path as he rounded the table.

  ‘Because nobody kept it, you see,’ said Uskins, the only one of us still seated. ‘It was woken, intelligent, and we’re eating it anyway, how d’ye like that, Sergeant, hmm? The Sizzies always did call us cannibals.’

  The Turach was reaching for Uskins’ collar, but he froze there, agog. Now we were all shouting at the first mate, in rage and disgust. Woken? What in the brimstone Pits did he mean?

  Uskins swallowed a large gristly bite. ‘Of course woken,’ he said. ‘How do you think it got away from the rats? Day after day in that wooden crate. Thinking, knowing its circumstances. Knowing it was travelling to its death. What did piggy do? It watched and waited. And when the rats came it kicked that crate to pieces and fled into a vanishing compartment. Just like mages have done for hundreds of years. Just as Miss Thasha used to do, in olden times, when the ship was hers. The cows and goats went too, but they were just lucky.’

  He pushed more flesh into his mouth. ‘Uskins,’ I said, ‘the hog never talked.’

  ‘Neither do I, most days,’ he said. ‘Why talk when nobody listens? You’re a bilge-brain, too.’ He gave me a meaty grin. ‘What would it say? “Hello, Mr Latzlo! It’s your thousand-pound piggy, let me out and I’ll play nice with you, I’ll fetch your slippers, I’ll never bite off your head.” ’

  ‘Raving lunatic,’ said Haddismal.

  Uskins lurched forward and dragged the whole platter to himself, knocking his plate to the floor. He began to eat with both hands, chin low, making slobbery sounds like a dog. Yet somehow he managed to keep talking.

  ‘Vanishing compartment. Vanishing compartment. The same trick the crawlies pulled to escape us — they never went ashore, they’ll be back to fight us yet — the same trick that let Arunis hide so long in the-’

  Smack. His face went right into the pile of meat, as though shoved by an unseen hand. He began to squeal and writhe, in terrible fear, and it took all of us to restrain him, and hours for him to wear himself out. He is in his cabin now, strapped to his bed lest he hurt himself. A few of us are taking turns watching over him; I am writing this by his bedside in fact. I’ve tried to talk with him, to tell him that whatever’s happening is not his fault. When I raise the candle he stares at me with the blank eyes of an
ape.

  6

  School Mates

  14 Modobrin 941

  243rd day from Etherhorde

  ‘Barley and rye,’ shouted Captain Gregory Pathkendle, stretching his arms up the halyard.

  ‘And a fair lady’s thigh.’

  The five men hauled as one. They shouted the refrain philosophically, without a hint of arousal or mirth. Admiral Eberzam Isiq hauled too, sandwiched between the bald man with hoop earrings and the white-haired giant. For Isiq the work was agony: needles of pain danced from his heels to his spotted, shaking hands. And yet he hauled, and knew he bore a share (a paltry, old-man’s share) of the weight. The yard rose. The sail billowed out. Forty years, forty years since he’d worked a boat that eight men could handle alone.

  ‘Brandy and tea.’

  ‘And a fair lady’s knee.’

  They hauled a third time, and a fourth. The topman kept the sail knife-edged to the wind. Spray doused the men on the line (cold spray; it was late winter in the Northern world) and the tarboy tossed wood shavings under their feet for traction. Isiq smiled, his mind as clear as his body was tortured. Nothing had changed, everything had changed. One day you’re that tarboy, insolent and quick. The next you turn around and you’re old.

  ‘Honey and bread.’

  ‘And a fair lady’s bed.’

  ‘To us all, brave boys, they will come to us all,’ sang Gregory, and made fast the halyard to the cleat. The men dropped the slack end; Isiq groaned and staggered away.

  Before he had gone three paces Captain Gregory was on him, seizing the admiral’s hands and turning them palms-upward for inspection. The hands were rooster-red, the blisters already forming. Captain Gregory shot him an angry look.

  ‘Pace yourself,’ he said. ‘Torn hands don’t earn their keep.’

  ‘Oppo, sir,’ said Isiq, with just a hint of irony.

  Captain Gregory didn’t smile. His finger jabbed Isiq smartly in the chest. ‘Get fresh with me, you old walrus-gut, and you’ll-’

  Cannon-fire. Both men snapped to attention, twin hounds on a scent. By old habit Isiq found himself counting: sixty, eighty explosions, double broadsides, two ships lacerating each other at close range, and chaser fire on the margins. Gregory ran forward, shouting for his telescope, though it was a bit too soon to see the fighting.

  They were near the mouth of the harbour, Simjalla City dwindling behind them, the western headland rising fast on the port bow. The little two-master creaked and wallowed. Dancer: her name seemed almost cruel. A light clipper, she might have had some simple beauty in her prime. Today she looked one storm away from the salvage yard. Her deck was bowed. Her mainsail had a stitched-up tear as long as Isiq’s leg.

  A blur of wings: the little red tailor bird was circling him, panic-stricken. ‘Is it war, Isiq, are we going to war?’

  He held up his hand, and the woken bird touched down for an instant, its wings still churning the air. ‘Not on this vessel,’ said Isiq. ‘Through it, perhaps, but that is for the captain to decide. All the same, you should stay below.’

  ‘But the sounds-’

  ‘Are nothing, as yet. Say that to yourself, each time the guns go off: it is nothing, it is nothing, it is still nothing. Let that be your task: to say it until it feels true. You must master that racing heart, Tinder, if you’re to help in days ahead.’

  The bird quieted a little. He was proud to be needed. Proud also of the name Isiq had given him: Tinder, fire-starter, the one whose patient friendship had fanned the dark stove of Isiq’s memories back into a blaze.

  ‘The dog is more frightened than I,’ said Tinder.

  ‘Have him do the same,’ said Isiq. ‘Go on; I’ll visit you presently.’

  Tinder flew below, and Isiq looked back over the stern, one final time, at the city of Simjalla. A laugh escaped him: a laugh of pain and amazement. The Dancer stood almost exactly where the Chathrand had, six months ago, when Isiq first looked on that lovely city, her white sea wall and hilltop groves, her modest spires and the lush green mountains behind. Isiq had looked out from his stateroom window, then. He had arrived as Ambassador of Arqual, ended the next day as a prisoner of Arqual’s spy service. He had lain for nearly two months in a dungeon forgotten by the citizens above, in unspeakable darkness, worshipping a glow between the locked door and the door frame, a light so faint he could barely see it with his eye pressed to the crack. And the rats: he had beaten those bastards, a swarm of gigantic, thinking rats that had boiled out of that dungeon and nearly destroyed the city from within. He had fought them with his hands, his feet, his wounded mind; and he had lived because he had to. Because there were bigger rats to kill.

  Of course he had also lived because the King of Simja, Oshiram II, had not wished him to die. He had misjudged Oshiram: he knew that now. At their first encounter he had thought the young king a dandy, a spoiled child of the forty years’ peace Arquali soldiers had purchased with their blood. But a dandy would never have taken on the Secret Fist. A dandy would have shunted him into an asylum to die a quiet death. Or packed him onto the first boat out of Simja, heading anywhere. Good luck Ambassador, don’t write, don’t remember us if you please. A dandy would not have obliged his own doctor to treat such a hazardous patient, nor given him a fat purse of gold, nor smuggled him out through the spy-infested streets to the cottage where Captain Gregory waited to receive him, along with his radiant ex-wife, Suthinia.

  Rin keep you, Oshiram of Simja.

  That had been over a week ago. Gregory had planned to sail the very morning after Isiq appeared at his doorstep, and had raced off in the night to make arrangements. Isiq had stayed up talking to Suthinia, whom the dog and the bird knew simply as “the witch”, and everything he learned about her was fascinating. She was indeed a mage, though not a mighty one. She had given Pazel his Language-Gift, and the terrible fits that came with it. And she had come over the Ruling Sea to fight Arunis, with a great company that had been almost entirely slaughtered.

  Isiq had gone to sleep at last upon a quilt on her floor. Less than an hour later Gregory shook him roughly awake. There was no sign of Suthinia.

  ‘What is it? What is it?’

  ‘The mucking Secret Fist,’ said Gregory, shoving Isiq’s boots onto his feet. ‘They’re raiding the house across the street. Get up, move, or we’ll be dead in seconds.’

  They fled by the back door, careening like a pair of clumsy thieves. Flames danced in an upper window across the avenue. Down a short alley they dashed, then turned and ran flat out for several long city blocks, the dog racing ahead to check the corners. At last Gregory let them pause for breath in a doorway.

  ‘Why were they across the street?’ Isiq demanded, gasping.

  ‘Because it’s my house,’ said Gregory. ‘That hovel we put you in was Suthee’s.’

  They’re still apart, then. Isiq despised himself a little for the elation he felt.

  ‘And also,’ added Gregory, ‘because someone’s ratted on me, told the Fist that I had human cargo to move. I help the odd debtor escape from Simja, before your good king’s bailiff can lock him up.’

  ‘Why does the Secret Fist care about debt-dodgers?’

  ‘They care about me,’ said Gregory. ‘Just a little, fortunately. But a little attention from those bastards-’

  ‘I know.’

  Gregory winced. ‘Yes indeed, your pardon. Credek, this used to be so easy! I tell you, since Treaty Day my job’s been nothing but a headache.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  The smuggler glanced at him over his shoulder. ‘Because a long time ago I gave my name to one Pazel Pathkendle — my name and precious little else. And rumour has it that on Treaty Day Pazel did a splendid job of pissing off the Imperial Spymaster.’

  So did I, thought the admiral.

  As if divining his thought, Gregory added, ‘They weren’t looking for you, Isiq. If they knew you were alive I couldn’t do a thing for you. No one could, not even the king.’

  ‘All
the same, I am sorry about your house.’

  Gregory shook his head. ‘Suthee told me the place had too many windows. I do hate it when she’s right.’

  They moved on, turning at the next corner, creeping in the shadow of a high brick wall. Another turn, and they were in a narrow lot, stepping through trash and reeking puddles, until at last they reached a padlocked gate. Cursing, Gregory rattled it, again and again, looking back fearfully the way they’d come. Then soft footsteps, young feminine fingers on the iron bars, and a woman’s elfin face smiling through them, warily.

  ‘Rajul!’ said Gregory. ‘We’re not here for you — for any of you. This is the man I spoke of, the one you’re to ask no questions about. Give me that key, girl. He will pay you more than handsomely.’

  They had stowed Isiq in a dovecot on the brothel roof. Utterly safe, perfectly wretched. The cooing of the birds indistinguishable from the moans of clients in the chambers below. Eight frigid, lice-bitten days, and he didn’t mind any of it. He had a pact of sorts with the Gods of Death: those cruel, unfashionable Gods, the ones the monks called ‘hermits in the hills’. They would let him live each day so that he might amuse them with greater folly the next. If they had let him perish in Queen Mirkitj’s dungeon, they’d never have seen him fight the rats. And if he died here of some dove-shit disease — oh, the sport they’d be missing, the spectacle!

  The women brought him food and water and bad wine, and left with his gold. Isiq dared not sit near the window, but he could lie on his stomach and raise himself on his elbows, peeping down at the port district, and a stretch of land beyond the city wall. He saw the little Simjan fighting fleet — aging, third-rate frigates of forty or sixty guns, some of them built in Arqual itself — gamely holding the mouth of the bay. He saw the little charity ships built by the Templar monks, rushing to the docks with wounded civilians. He saw the wrecking crew at work on the Mzithrini shrine.