The Rats and the Ruling sea tcv-2 Page 14

  'All hail the Great Peace,' said a voice from behind them, acidly.

  It was Lady Oggosk. The boys drew instinctively away. They had long counted the old witch among their enemies. True, she had turned on Syrarys and Sandor Ott just a few days ago, and Thasha had some murky idea about her being in a secret order connected to the Lorg. But Pazel didn't much care. Oggosk was the lifetime servant of Captain Rose, and he wanted nothing to do with her.

  'Do you know what's happening, Duchess?' he asked cautiously.

  'Treachery, that's what,' said Oggosk. 'Base scheming, and not our own sort. Last night the Father was assaulted.'

  'Whose father?' cried Pazel.

  She looked at him, and seemed to comprehend a great deal. 'Not Isiq. Forget Isiq. He was doomed from the start.'

  The shouts were growing dangerous. Pazel stared at the old woman, trying to grasp what her words could possibly mean. At last, sensing that she would tell him no more, he turned to go. But before he had taken a step her clawlike hand seized his arm.

  'Where is her body?' she demanded.

  Pazel pulled his arm out of her grasp. 'With friends,' he said, 'where it's going to stay.'

  The boys pushed forwards. At the spot where the two ships were nearest the shouts became deafening. The White Reaper was nearly motionless, lying to on a single topsail beside the anchored Chathrand. She was over half their length, which made her the biggest vessel Pazel had ever seen after the Great Ship herself. And while the Chathrand 's cannon were formidable enough, the Jistrolloq's were awe-inspiring: row upon row of massive forty-eight-pounders; longer weapons for distant targets, thick-bodied 'smasher' carronades, gleaming bronze culverins at the stern. Platforms across her topdeck sported giant crossbow-like ballistas, and grappling-guns that could hook another vessel and tear out its rigging. There was no mistaking the Jistrolloq for anything but a weapon of war.

  Fortunately no one was manning those guns: at present the Mzithrinis were content to threaten their old enemies with swords, spears and curses. The Jistrolloq's deck stood twenty feet lower than the Chathrand's, so the furious mob had crowded onto the forecastle, and up the masts and shrouds. From all points her men launched the accusation: Waspodin!

  At the Chathrand 's starboard rail some twenty tarboys were squeezing and shoving for a view. Dastu stood among them, calmer than the rest. 'Pazel, over here!' he called, making room. 'What are they blary saying, mate? What's that word?'

  Pazel scanned the Mzithrini faces, trying to think how he might get out of answering. At the back of the Jistrolloq's forecastle stood three black-cloaked sfvantskors. They did not shout, but their eyes had depths of rage beyond any of their countrymen. One was older, a man of thirty or thirty-five. The others were in their twenties, their faces hard and menacing.

  'You're lookin' at them sfanksters, ain't ye?' said another tarboy, whose nickname was Fishhook. 'There was more of 'em a minute ago — and one was a girl.'

  'A girl?' said Pazel sharply.

  'Fishhook's right,' said Dastu. 'But the girl didn't stay on deck very long. Just took one good look at us and ran for the ladderway. I thought she was going to cry.'

  Pazel thought of the masked girl at the wedding, whose voice still echoed in his mind. Could that have been her? Had she been looking for him again?

  The Mzithrinis grew louder. Nor were the Arqualis content to be out-screamed: some accused the Mzithrinis of killing Thasha — hadn't they pricked her with a knife, just before she collapsed? Others demanded that they hand over Pacu Lapadolma.

  'Blood-drinkers!' they howled, red-faced. 'Black rags! Want to get whipped like forty years ago?'

  Pazel could scarcely recognise his shipmates. Were these the same people who had witnessed Arunis' black magic two days ago? The men who had run in terror from the fleshancs? Where had they found this courage, and this crazy pride? They didn't know what they were being accused of, but they were damned well going to deny it. And though they hated and feared Arunis, the sight of their old enemies brought out a deeper loathing, almost a mania. Arqual, Arqual, just and true.

  He looked around wildly for an officer. At last he caught site of Mr Uskins, pressed bodily against the rail. But to his horror he saw that the first mate was egging the sailors on. 'Told you, didn't I?' Uskins screamed. 'Never trust a Sizzy!'

  Suddenly a man on the Jistrolloq pulled himself up into the foremast shrouds. He was a strong, lean man of middle years, and he climbed nimbly, reaching the shielded archery platform called the fighting top in less than a minute. From his bearing and his gold epaulettes, and the way Mzithrini faces began to turn in his direction, Pazel knew he was their commander.

  'That's Admiral Kuminzat,' said Dastu. 'Scary looking bloke.'

  The officer stretched out his hand above the crowd. At once the Mzithrinis fell silent. Startled, the Arqualis too broke off shouting for an instant. Before they could resume the man pointed his finger and spoke.

  'Deceiver. You have killed the Babqri Father.'

  Kuminzat spoke in his own tongue, and no sign of understanding passed over the Arquali crowd. But all eyes looked where he pointed. There at the back of the mob, silent and until this moment unnoticed, stood Captain Rose. Lady Oggosk had hobbled to his side; Rose leaned down and let her whisper in his ear.

  And suddenly the captain was looking right at Pazel. 'Not a word from anyone,' he said aloud, and there was a threatening rumble in his voice. 'Get over here, Pathkendle.'

  The crew parted in silence. Pazel took a deep breath and crossed the deck, Neeps at his side.

  As Pazel had already guessed, Rose wanted him to translate the Mzithrini's words. Pazel did so, and Rose nodded grimly.

  'Tell him we know nothing of any deaths but our own,' he said, loud enough for all to hear. 'Tell him only a fool throws accusations like that around — or one with a guilty conscience of his own.'

  'Tell him nothing of the kind!'

  The voice rang out from the Chathrand 's bowsprit. It was Ignus Chadfallow. Despite a stinging distrust of his old benefactor, Pazel was relieved: Chadfallow at least was no hothead — and he too spoke Mzithrini.

  Chadfallow seized the jib stay, and pulled himself onto the planksheer above the crowded forecastle. His voice rang out sharp and clear in Mzithrini:

  'Admiral Kuminzat. Sailors of the Pentarchy. No one aboard this ship has attacked you.'

  Cries of scorn and disbelief from the Jistrolloq. The doctor pressed on: 'We mourn with you, for our beloved Treaty Bride lies dead as well. And no sane man among us blames-'

  'Chadfallow,' cut in Rose. 'You'll speak for this ship when I say so, and not a moment before.'

  The doctor bowed to Rose. But at the same time he shot Pazel a look full of desperate supplication.

  All at once a voice rang out from the Jistrolloq — in broken Arquali. 'Great Peace you are promising! Not real! Not a real thing!' It was one of the sfvantskors, an enormous young man with a hard, pinched face. 'You are the liars, the old way, the old world that is finished! Bad faith, false doctrines! These will die out everywhere, and better men-'

  'Malabron, it is not your place to speak!' snapped the older sfvantskor. The younger man fell silent, abashed. Then Admiral Kuminzat spoke again.

  'In the darkest hour of the night a beast attacked our Father when he stepped from the shrine. An unnatural creature, an abomination with wings. There was a terrible battle, with fire and spells. In the end the Father slew the thing with the help of his aspirants, but it killed one of them-'

  Kuminzat choked on the last words. He drew a sharp breath and continued.

  '-and gave the Father his death-wound. His disciples could not save him. But before he died, he pointed across the water — at your ship.'

  At his last words the Mzithrinis erupted again, and the Arqualis followed suit. It was all Pazel could do to shout a rough translation into Rose's ear.

  'Tell him-' boomed Rose, in a voice used to carrying over gales. 'Tell him that even we expected the Mzithrin to k
eep the treaty longer than a day. And then tell him to take his ship off our bows, before we take offence. And to the Pits with his crackpot stories!'

  The Arqualis roared approval: ' Tell 'im, tell 'im, tarry!' Pazel winced. He could not imagine something he'd less like to say. Inadvertently he glanced at Chadfallow: the doctor was urgently shaking his head.

  'Do it!' snapped Rose.

  Pazel felt suddenly nauseous. All around him sailors and marines were bellowing encouragement.

  'The captain says,' he began, instantly silencing the crowd, 'he says, ah, that he expected the treaty to last longer than a single day-'

  'The boy's Mzithrini is rusty!' Chadfallow cried. 'Allow me to take over, sir-'

  'Is lie,' said the young sfvantskor called Malabron. 'Boy speaking fine. Less fine is this doctor.'

  'Carry on, Pathkendle,' said Rose. 'Chadfallow, interrupt again and I'll have you in chains.'

  Suddenly an idea came to Pazel with the force of revelation. He had to tell the Mzithrinis everything, in their language, before they sailed away. Thasha's father might not succeed, and if he didn't there would be no one else. It had to be Pazel, and it had to be now. But why was he so dizzy?

  'That Ormali runt,' sneered Uskins. 'He's stalling!'

  Neeps put a hand on his arm, steadying him. Pazel bent over, hands on his knees. The noise, the heat, the stink of angry men: was it making him ill?

  And then all at once he knew better. He looked up at Neeps. 'Oh gods above, mate,' he whispered, covering his ears.

  Neeps understood in a flash. 'It can't be! It's just been three days!'

  'I feel it,' said Pazel. 'Oh credek, not here, not with so many people-'

  'Captain!' shouted Neeps. 'My mate's sick! Let Chadfallow translate, Pazel can't-'

  'Sergeant,' said Rose.

  Drellarek barked an order. Suddenly Turachs were dragging Neeps and Chadfallow away. Rose took Pazel by the shirt with both hands and hoisted him bodily atop the Chathrand's inverted longboat. His huge hand closed like a vice on the back of Pazel's neck.

  'Speak!' he thundered.

  'Lie!' shouted Neeps in Sollochi, as he vanished down the ladderway.

  Rose was no fool, Pazel thought. He would know Pazel was twisting the message, just by the Sizzies' reaction to it. I'll have to get away from him first. Otherwise he'll choke me before I can explain a thing.

  But how long would his own mind obey him?

  Pazel cleared his throat, and shouted: 'Captain Rose says there's a treaty in place, and no reason to feel offended, because after all, one of you married one of us, and we're happy and glad and expect the most honourable — babies.'

  Kuminzat stared at Pazel in disbelief. Some of the sfvantskors were shaking their heads.

  'Tell him we didn't kill his bleedin' Father,' said Rose.

  'He's very sorry the Father bled. To death.'

  'And we can settle this with cannon if he doubts my word.'

  'My word, those are unsettling cannon.'

  'And there's no demonology practised on the Chathrand.'

  'There is no demonology practised on — S QUAAAGH! CHATHWA! GRAFMEZPRAUGHAAAAA!'

  Rose leaped away from him, aghast. Pazel fell writhing from the longboat, his voice an inhuman wail. The mind-fit was on him, and he was trapped in the centre of a furious mob, and the noise tore at his brain like a thousand shrieking, stabbing birds. There were stomping feet, flying bottles, blood. Uskins and Drellarek closed in, bellowing in Pazel's face. They seemed to think he was faking — or that faking or not, they could beat him into silence.

  Suddenly a figure interposed itself between Pazel and Drellarek. It was Hercol, grave and terrible. Pazel saw him standing eyeball to eyeball with the Throatcutter, both of them poised to draw swords.

  More Turachs fell in on either side of Drellarek, but Hercol stood his ground. Pazel rose to hands and knees — just in time for Uskins to kick him hard in the stomach. If the first mate had kept his balance a little better, the kick would have finished him. As it was Pazel fell gasping, and Uskins, spitting with hate, drew his foot back for another.

  The blow never fell. Uskins spun sidelong, as though struck by a hammer. Mr Fiffengurt was there, brandishing his fists at the first mate and clearly challenging him to come back for more.

  Uskins took no persuading. Larger and younger than Fiffengurt, he picked himself up and lunged. Pazel groped to his feet as the two men collided. Hands at each other's throats, they strained against one another. Then Uskins' greater height prevailed, and he threw Fiffengurt down against the carronade. The quartermaster gasped as his head struck the potbellied cannon. Uskins raised his fist to strike again.

  Without a thought Pazel dove at him. Uskins swung with all his might, but the force of Pazel's collision brought his fist down just left of Fiffengurt's cheek — where it struck the cannon dead-on.

  Uskins howled with pain, and the sheer ugliness of his distorted voice snapped Pazel's last vestige of control. As the first mate lurched away cradling his fist, Pazel ran, fingers in his ears, biting his lips against the scream inside him. The mob fell back, as if from a rabid dog. Pazel hurled himself down the ladderway to the main deck, where to his indescribable horror he found three real geese pursued by Frowsy the tarboy, all of whom ran before him down the length of the ship trailing noises so painful they seemed to leave red welts in the air, and then through an open hatch he saw Arunis and Jervik, huddled like two men at dice, gazing at him with crafty smiles from the deck below.

  10

  Thasha's Choice

  Q. How long have you worked for the Trading Family?

  A. Thirty-six years, my lords.

  Q. And in that time, how many inspections of the Chathrand have you conducted?

  A. None, my lords. Inspections are the duty of the Yard Manager.

  Q. The Yard Manager answers directly to the Fleet Superintendant, does he not?

  A. Not directly, sir. The Superintendant's office is located on Nickel Street.

  Q. You are being evasive. How many reports have you reviewed in that time?

  A. Nineteen or twenty.

  Q. And in any of those reports was there mention of… irregularities, shall we say, in the lower decks?

  A. Does my lord refer to something beyond regular damage and restorationQ. Of course he does. Answer the question.

  A. There is a tradition of rumour and yarn-spinning among the crew that no effort by the managers can extinguish.

  Q. Did those rumours include mention of compartments that only certain members of the crew could find, or areas of the ship where men were wont to vanish, nevermore to be seen? [Extended Pause] Let the record note the witness' disinclination to cooperate with this inquiryA. I answer, my lords, I answer. Yes, I have heard both rumours, and seen them in draft reports. But the Trading Family has never considered it fitting to place such rubbish before the Ametrine Throne.

  Q. Drafts, you say? Do you mean that these rumours were later omitted?

  A. They were struck from the final reports.

  Q. Superintendant, have you any comment on the high incidence of madness in commanders of the Great Ship?

  A. My lords, I think I shall not be accused of evasion if I declare myself unfit to speculate on matters medical.

  Q. Agreed, agreed.

  Lord Admiral's Inquest, Fort Ghan, Etherhorde, 2 Nurn 953.

  8 Teala 941

  'Tea is served,' said Thasha. 'Syrarys may have been a backstabbing traitor, but she did squirrel away some fine Virabalm red. Don't worry, it's not poisoned: she brewed her own cups from this tin.'

  It was an odd tea party. Pazel was sequestered in the reading room, moaning softly with his head between pillows. Neeps sat on the great, tawny bearskin rug, cross-legged and furious, sewing a patch on one of the ninety-two sailors' shirts he had been ordered to repair as punishment for his interference on the topdeck. Jorl and Suzyt sprawled beside him, watching adoringly as Felthrup hobbled back and forth, shaking his head in ceaseless
worry. At the table, Hercol sharpened a knife with a small black stone.

  'This isn't my job,' Neeps grumbled. 'Pazel and I aren't tarboys any more.'

  'You're not anything, matter of fact,' said Fiffengurt, smiling. 'Legally speaking Rose could cast you ashore without a coin or a crumb. If I were you I'd stitch those rags like my life depended on 'em.'

  The quartermaster had a cut lip and a dark-purple bruise on his forehead, but somehow his face was the brightest in the room: Thasha might even have said it was aglow with happiness.

  The Third Sea War had not broken out quite yet: after a few minutes of bluster and bent bows, Admiral Kuminzat had abruptly called for silence. At once his crew stopped their riotous behaviour and formed ranks along the gunwale. The Chathrand mob raged on, but the men of the Jistrolloq were oddly serene, and withstood the insults and flung garbage without blinking or uttering a sound.

  Three or four minutes had passed. Then, in perfect unison, all five hundred men had raised their left hands and pointed at the Great Ship. Once again the Arqualis were startled into silence. Their enemies' faces were set, and their eyes were cold. From the deck of the Jistrolloq a drum sounded: five sharp, well-spaced beats. On the last the Mzithrinis turned and walked to their stations, and in unnerving silence the Jistrolloq wore away, on a rendezvous course with her departing squadron.

  'Eerie,' said Fiffengurt. 'It was like they were marking us, if you know what I mean. I was glad to see the back of 'em.'

  Indeed he seemed glad of almost everything, despite his account of the standoff. Felthrup, however, was squirming with unease. 'A bad sign, an omen,' he said. 'And the mad priest slain by devilry! We are not safe, friends. The dangers gather round us like beasts in a forest, and thus far we perceive only their eyes.'

  Hercol drew his knife across his palm, testing the sharpness. 'Thasha,' he said. 'You cannot put off a decision much longer.'

  Thasha's hands trembled on the samovar. 'This clerk, this Fulbreech,' she said. 'He told you he would deliver the message personally?'