The Red Wolf Conspiracy Read online

  “Was he a foreigner, m'lady?” asked the man from the Mariner.

  No doubt about that. He had looked at her and squealed something in a tongue unlike any she had ever heard. He was out of his head—but with fear, not drink. There was no hint of alcohol on his breath.

  “Yes, a foreigner,” she said. “Now you'd better go.”

  “What did he tell you—before they shot him?”

  She looked at the reporter, but it was that ash-covered face she saw. The same words, over and over. Her name, and—

  “Mighra cror, mighra cror,” she muttered aloud.

  “What does that mean?” asked the reporter.

  She had wondered the same thing. “Speak Arquali!” she'd begged. Over the growls of the mastiffs (Suzyt had arrived and joined the fray), the horrified man had still managed to comply.

  “Death, is death, death!” he wheezed in broken Arquali. “Yours, ours, all people together!”

  “Death? Whose death? How?”

  “Mighra cror—”

  “What on earth is that?”

  But another voice had ended it all: Syrarys, on the garden balcony, was shrieking, “Kill him! Shoot him now!”

  And someone obeyed. The arrow lanced down from the garden wall and struck with the neatness of a tailor's button-stitch, one inch from Jorl's paw, in the man's heart. Thasha's eyes raced back along the flight path: a shadow among oak-leaves, a man leaping into the neighbor's yard. Ten minutes later the constables were rushing the body away.

  Was that shadowy marksman one of these big, sweaty warriors behind her—the honor guard the Emperor had insisted on bestowing? She might never find out. Worse, she would never learn who the stranger was, a man who had thrown his life away for the chance to speak to her. She only knew that her father was wrong: the man was much more than a common tramp.

  She was on the gangway, leaving the frustrated reporter hopping below. On an impulse she turned to him and said: “If it all goes wrong—if something terrible happens to us—ask the Mother Prohibitor of the Lorg School about this 'mighra cror.℉”

  On deck, a grim Captain Rose bowed to the ambassador and Lady Syrarys, his red beard and blue Merchant Service ribbons fluttering in the breeze. The Chathrand's senior officers stood in a file behind him, ramrod-straight. Thasha supposed they would fall like ninepins at a nudge.

  After the guest of honor, the first-class passengers came aboard. They were some two dozen in all: families making west to the Crownless Lands, for pleasure or profit, men with sea-caps and tailored coats, women in summer gowns, children prancing about them like tethered imps. Lady Lapadolma's niece Pacu was there, almond-eyed and lovely, in neat, buttoned-up riding clothes (“Where's your pony, love?” called someone gaily). On her heels came a thin man with white gloves, slicked-down bangs, and a pet sloth clinging to his neck like a hairy baby. This was Latzlo, the animal-seller, who meant to continue his pursuit of Pacu alongside a few months' trade in wild creatures. Listening to his excited chatter about snowlarks and walrus hides was Mr. Ket, the soap merchant recently disembarked from a little ship called the Eniel. He never interrupted Latzlo, only chuckled quietly, a hand on his ragged scarf.

  It fell to the officers to greet the noble-born, Captain Rose having disappeared below with Isiq and Syrarys. Mr. Uskins, always impressed by wealth and “good breeding,” shook the men's arms like pump handles. The bosun, a short, heavy, hunched-over man named Swellows, grinned and minced around the ladies in a dance of servility. Mr. Teggatz offered scones.

  The passengers took their time, marveling at their first glimpse of the topdeck, while six hundred sailors waited in silence. Finally the last lace parasol vanished below, and the crew relaxed their shoulders and returned to work. Now it was the servants' turn to board. These outnumbered their masters two to one, but they moved more swiftly. They did not have the strength to dawdle, for besides their own small valises they carried armloads of their masters' favorite shoes or cloaks or liquor bottles (the ones too precious to be crated), tugged their dogs, in some cases bore their swaddled infants. Among them came Hercól with Jorl and Suzyt, whining pitifully at their separation from Thasha but still inspiring the other boarders to keep a respectful distance.

  Longshoremen, next. There were last supplies to be taken on: beer, salt, gunpowder, spare chain and cordage, a bone saw for Dr. Rain. All the goods the merchants hoped to sell in the west, the boots and broadcloths and calico, had to be loaded, too. And of course there were Latzlo's animals: white macaws and sable horn-bills, gingham geese, six-legged proboscam bats, green Ulluprid monkeys. Eight men hefted a Red River hog that bellowed and bashed its tusks against the cage. Stacks of smaller crates were too dark and tight for the contents to be seen.

  A number of the first-class guests were moving, not traveling, and their thousand-and-one possessions were dragged up the gangway next, or raised by the cargo crane. Most important of these were the ambassador's personal effects. All the old or valuable furniture was sealed in giant crates: Eberzam Isiq's desk, Syrarys' wardrobe, Thasha's baby cradle and the huge canopy bed where the old man spent as much time as possible with his consort.

  The crates were stuffed with cedar shavings, then nailed tight as coffins and the seams plastered over: fair protection against the damp, but none at all against the ixchel. Three hundred had raided the bed-crate the night before, sawn a hole with more than surgical neatness, wriggled in and glued the round plug of wood back into place so perfectly that even the fastidious butler sensed nothing amiss. Before dawn the crate was riddled with airholes smaller than fleas, and Talag Tammaruk ap Ixhxchr, mastermind of the assault on the Great Ship, lay back in the center of the ambassador's bed and fell asleep.

  The crowd on the quay paid no attention as half the population of Ixphir House was lowered into the hold. Cargo bored them, unless it was obviously priceless, or kicked and snorted like Mr. Latzlo's animals. As the morning wore on, they began to drift about the square, buying fried kelp or scallops at the pushcarts, greeting friends. But they kept one eye on the Chathrand, and when four Trading Family officials dragged an iron turnstile to the foot of the gangway, they all rushed back to watch.

  The turnstile was painted rooster-red. It had revolving arms that allowed one person at a time to pass through onto the gangway, and could be frozen at the turn of a key. When the Company officials had tested the device, they nodded at Fiffengurt, up on deck. The quartermaster hailed a sailor on the maintop. The sailor, in turn, pulled a yellow kerchief from around his head and waved it high.

  Nearly a mile down the quay, hidden from the Emperor's splendid keep, squatted a large, low warehouse. Two Company men stationed at the heavy door saw the kerchief and put their shoulders to the bolt. The door swung wide. And from the black mouth of the building rushed a mob.

  They were six hundred strong, laden with sacks and bundles and crates and children, some barefoot, many in little more than rags. But they ran, now and then dropping a sausage or a bag of sea biscuits, never stopping, for what good was spare food if you didn't make it aboard? These were the steerage passengers, third class. Among them were Ipulians and Uturphans, returning from seasons of labor in the Etherhorde clothing mills, often no richer, always more battered than they came. It was a diverse group. Peasants from dry East Arqual, hoping to reach Urnsfich before the tea harvest. Young couples forbidden to marry and rushing west to do just that, women whose men had disappeared. Petty criminals. Minor enemies of the crown. Refugees from the violence on Pulduraj, arrived just months ago only to find the slums of the Imperial capital more dangerous than an island at war. They had all paid in advance, and in greater numbers than the Chathrand could actually carry (the rest would wait days or weeks for another ship), and had spent the night on the bare warehouse floor, locked in, where the sight of them would not trouble the wealthy pas sengers.

  The sightseers, however, had come for just this spectacle: the blind rush of whole families, like cattle driven to stampede. Gentlemen lifted well-dress
ed boys to their shoulders. They cheered and laughed, placed bets on which paupers would reach them first.

  The mob ignored them entirely. It had been a cold, damp, miserable night, and all of them knew it was better than what awaited them aboard Chathrand: signs in third-class compartments read A LIGHTED MATCH IS SABOTAGE. SABOTAGE IS DEATH. Still they ran, to seize the best few square feet of floor they could in the darkness of the orlop deck. Except for a few hours a day in calm seas they would not breathe fresh air or feel the sun again for the length of their voyage.

  No one noticed the exhausted reporter from the Mariner, jotting furiously in his notebook in the mouth of an alley past which the poor had flowed. Nor did anyone observe the four men who came upon him from behind, calmly, one with a taut wire between his hands.

  At the gangway, the turnstile clicked and clicked: each click a parent, a child, a tidy sum. Waving, shouting them on (“To the ladderway, follow my man, down you go and swiftly please!”), Mr. Fiffengurt wondered if any of these wretches knew that they actually paid more, inch for inch, than the first-class passengers. Double, maybe, for they all but sat on each other's heads. No, it wouldn't do to speak of such things, even if he could make someone believe.

  When the count reached four hundred, the Company officers locked the turnstile with a snap. A man looked back at his father, stopped behind him on the quay: Go on, said the old man's eyes.

  New Orders

  N. R. Rose Captain

  9 Vaqrin 941

  Etherhorde

  The Honorable Captain Theimat Rose

  Northbeck Abbey, Mereldín Isle, South Quezans

  Dear Sir,

  Warmest greetings to you and my cherished mother. Please accept a son's apologies for not having written these many days.

  You will be happy to know that I have secured a commission that will erase all debts and secure future prosperity, not just for me but for all our surviving kin. The Chathrand sails on a task of such consequence that I dare not name it here, lest our enemies seize this letter and gain a mighty advantage. But I can tell you that His Supremacy has had no choice but to agree to my demands in full. He knows that I alone may be trusted to do as he commands with the Great Ship, and so has promised me lifetime governorship of the Quezans and the title of viscount. Additionally, I am to choose three unwed or purchasable girls of any price, with another of superior beauty sent every fifth year from the Accateo Lorgut.

  Many thanks for your caution regarding poison. This is a delicate moment, for I know H.S. will insert spies among my crew—indeed, he promised no less, “for my own protection.” The aged killer Sandor Ott is among them: he poses as one Shtel Nagan, commander of the honor guard attending Ambassador Isiq, his budding daughter and South Seas whore. But there has been no opportunity to speak to Ott. An unfortunate incident with the augrongs kept us from meeting ashore. Thus I have still to inform him that he must protect me not for mere show but like the crown jewels themselves: for should any ill befall me, the Emperor's foes will learn the whole story of his scheming within the year.

  This morning I went ashore early, crossed the Plaza of the Palmeries and presented myself at the Keep of Five Domes. The rumors are perfectly true: the Emperor's men take you under the earth by a wide stair, and thence by tunnels dark and madly circuitous, such that when I ascended at last into a glorious salon I had no idea which of the five domes I had entered. There they searched me like an enemy, head to toe, and bade me sit before a little table. Scores of lackeys, soldiers, monks, doctors, astrologers and seers plied me with questions, three hours of questions, mostly pointless, while a slave-girl pushed chocolates under my nose and another washed my feet. Then Prince Misoq, H.S.'s blind son, was led in and sat beside me. He pawed at my face: to know whether I smiled or frowned, he said.

  “You will sign and swear to this cause?” he asked.

  “I will sign and swear, Your Majesty to our full agreement.”

  Then he snapped his fingers, and the room emptied, and a scroll was spread before us—a scroll that could see this Empire razed to ashes, Father, were its contents known. And I signed above my printed name.

  With that we rose, the Prince clutched my arm and we left the salon by a side door and entered a corridor, the left wall of which let into some grander space through painted columns. “You may gaze upon the Throne if you wish,” he said, and I saw that this hall was in fact a long balcony, looking down upon the marvel of the Chamber of Ametrine, with the great, glittering chair on its red dais standing in a pool of light. The throne was empty: candles twice a man's height burned in the stillness, and only the Imperial guard walked in their glow.

  Then I heard footsteps at the end of the hall. Eight ugly brutes like armed boars marched toward me, clattering in their mail, followed by two other princes and a jester who drooled. After these came Magad himself. I dropped to my knees and kept my head bowed. Men passed around me, doors opened and boomed shut, and then His Supremacy touched my shoulder and bade me rise.

  He is older than commonly thought. His body has gone to fat, he has the yellowed eyes of a deathsmoker, and some manner of disease has left red welts upon his neck. I saw a green jewel on his finger: taken by Magad I from a slain priest of the Mzithrin, so rumor tells. He studied me as you might an expensive horse. The jester held the Emperor's pipe, now and then sucking on it himself with a disagreeable slurp.

  “You will dine with my sons, Captain,” said Magad. “Do you like brandied quail?”

  Nothing would he speak of but food and the hunt, and yet his eyes never ceased to probe me. At last he looked pointedly at the door at the end of the balcony, drew a deep breath and waved: “It is there. Go and see it.” Then he departed with his entourage, and when I rose from my second bow the prince nudged me forward. I walked alone down the hallway and opened the door.

  The room was about the size of my day-cabin. Torches blazed on the walls, and by their light I saw many great chests standing open. Within them—gold. Unimaginable gold. Perfect three-ounce cockles, and rods, and bricks emblazoned with the Magad seal. There were also whole chests of ivory and megrottoc horn, and four of red rubies alone—four times my weight in bloodstones, sir, I implore you to believe—and the last chest held pearls. One-third of the whole Imperial treasury is what the scroll claimed, and I doubt it not. Were I less a man than your son, my heart should have been quite faint.

  “It will be taken aboard tonight,” said the Prince when I returned, “and our hundred Turachs with it.”

  “Your Majesty,” I said carefully, “the Turachs are your supreme father's most terrible warriors. Even the Imperial marines fear them. How shall I explain their presence to my crew?”

  “They will be dressed and outfitted as marines—nothing more. It is not strange to arm a trade ship in those waters, Rose. Pirates swarm in Thól like flies in a stable.”

  “But will they obey the captain of the vessel, in an emergency? The survival of the ship could depend on it, Your Majesty.”

  “They will obey Drellarek. Drellarek will obey you.”

  “And Sandor Ott?”

  “Ott commands six spies. They can hardly afford you worry, Captain, if you have nothing to hide from the crown.”

  I had no choice: he was a prince, and could not be reasoned with. But I saw to it that he knew better than to dream of letting those killers dispose of Nilus Rose when his usefulness was done:

  “Nothing whatsoever shall I hide, Sire: neither my fears, nor my sensible precautions. In the second category are letters dispatched months ago, to certain professionals outside the Empire. In the case of my demise they will be forwarded over a span of years to the lords of the Crownless Lands, and a number of your family's internal rivals.”

  “Where no doubt they would be read with astonishment,” laughed the blind man. He was shaken and furious and wished none to see it. Probably he could think of little besides killing me, and yet realized (as you and I did long ago) that Arqual's treason can never be revealed, nor the e
xact number of those letters known, even should they extract my confession with hot iron and blades. Yet he might have threatened. He might even have had me dragged back to those tunnels and tortured for my insolence—for that I was ready. Nothing, however, prepared me for what he actually did: groping for my face again, he pulled me savagely by hair and beard, forcing his lips against my ear.

  “I know these rivals you speak of,” he whispered. “Some are banished, most are dead. The sons of Maisa are dead—we have their bodies in an ice chest. The astrologers have spoken; the dead stir and the living smell death. You cannot stop us—it is the hour of Arqual, you fool.”

  Then he released me and smiled. We dined, the royal sons insulted one another, and I left the Keep of Five Domes just in time to avert disaster with the augrongs.

  All this I tell you, sir, knowing it will gladden your heart that a Rose met the Imperial Person and set sail with a third of his wealth. Did you not swear we would one day parley with kings, and even use them for ends of our own? Perhaps you will have forgotten the occasion, but I never shall: it was a summer on Littelcatch, when you caught me dawdling with hammer and chisel, simply wasting the day, laughing among the penniless boys of the isle. I had hacked a crude figure out of driftwood. “The purpose of this, Nilus, if you please?” you asked, and I had the cheek to reply that I would learn proper sculpture, and one day carve a goddess for the figurehead of your ship. How right you were to strap me! Nonsense must be cured with clarity, and there is nothing clearer than pain.