The Red wolf conspiracy tcv-1 Page 18

  "You're still late."

  Ott smiled, offering no explanation. He took in the others at a glance: Oggosk the witch, smirking and mumbling as ever. First Mate Uskins, terrified, sweating profusely at the captain's elbow. Beside him, a savage-looking man with small, cruel eyes, his white hair pulled back in a braid. Ott knew him well: Sergeant Drellarek, "the Throatcutter" in military circles, head of the elite Turach warriors brought aboard to guard the Emperor's gold. Drellarek nodded to him: the slow nod of a pit viper coiled to strike. Ott took pleasure in the man as he would in a fine blade or hammer, any tool worn by use to smooth perfection.

  There were two others: Aken and Thyne. Neat little men with the soft skin of children and the nervous twitches of a pair of squirrels. Loose paper before them on the table, quill pens in their hands. They were agents of the Trading Family.

  "Put those away," said Ott, pointing at the quills. "We want no records here."

  Aken, the quieter of the two, wrapped his pen hastily and hid it away. Thyne merely set his on the table, beside a jar of ink.

  "We do want answers, however, Mr. Ott," he said. "Now that you've deigned to join us, perhaps we'll get a few. Won't you be seated?"

  Ott remained standing, hands on the back of his chair. "We have not met, Mr. Thyne, Mr. Aken," he said. "Still, I believe you know the essence of our plan. The Mzithrinis have a rebellion on their hands, and we shall profit by it. The followers of the Mad King, the Shaggat Ness, have risen on Gurishal, where they were driven by the other Kings forty years ago, after the Shaggat died at sea.

  "I say followers, but worshippers is closer to the truth, for the Shaggat took the Old Faith of the Mzithrin and hammered it into a weapon. The Five Mzithrin Kings, as you know, each guard a fragment of the Black Casket: the stone coffin wherein, ages ago, devils from the Nine Pits were burned to ashes, cleansing the people of their darkest sins. The Book of the Old Faith tells how those devils had to be lured into the Casket, and how at last the Great Devil guessed the trick and fought to escape, and the Casket broke asunder in his death-throes.

  "The Kings took the shards of the Casket to their palaces and set them in high towers, to keep the remaining devils from their lands. Under their shadow the five dynasties have ruled together for a thousand years.

  "But forty years ago something changed. One of the Kings went mad-or became a God, if you ask his believers. He named himself Shaggat, God-King, and declared that the hour had come to drive all devils from the hearts of the Mzithrini people-to make them perfect, as it were. He alone could do it, he said, for in a vision he had come upon a rope ladder dropped from heaven, and he climbed it and learned the tongues of the Gods, and many secrets, including how the Black Casket might be rebuilt."

  "Nonsense! Lunacy!" hissed Thyne.

  "But of course, sir," said Ott dryly.

  Rose leaned back in his chair, frowning. Oggosk twisted her rings.

  "And a history lecture, to boot," Thyne went on irritably. "The dead history of a lunatic cult. What of it? I find it hard to believe that we have gathered here, gentlemen, for this review of the heathen myths and squabbles of our enemies."

  "But we are here," said Drellarek, glancing sidelong at Thyne. "Let him speak."

  Thyne looked at the sergeant and decided to close his mouth.

  Ott continued, "Lunacy or not, the Shaggat persuaded tens of thousands to his cause. The other Kings named him Enemy of the Faith, but he had already vowed to sweep them aside. And now I will tell you something that does not appear in the history books: Arqual owes its very survival to that madman. Do you understand, Mr. Thyne? We were losing the Second Sea War. The bulk of the Nelu Peren was already under the Mzithrini flag. The whole Empire might have been conquered within the year, and Etherhorde burned, and Magad's head hoisted on a stake, if the Shaggat Ness had not appeared. Soon the Kings were too busy fighting him to win the war against us. That is why His Supremacy rules the greatest spread of territories on earth. Because of one holy madman in the west."

  Thyne snorted, as if he did not believe a word.

  Rose stood up from the table. "I will bring wine," he said.

  "The Mzithrin," Ott went on, "could not win two wars at once. Wisely, they chose to defeat the Shaggat, but to do so they had to pull all their forces back from the Inner Lands. We chased them west, island by island, ship by ship. And meanwhile the Four Faithful Kings crushed the army of the Shaggat in a terrible battle that laid waste to the Mang-Mzn and the Cities of the Jomm. But the Shaggat escaped."

  "We know all this," said Aken, the other Company man. "He fled the Mzithrin in a fast ship-he and his sons, and the sorcerer Arunis. The so-called Horrid Four. But their flight from the Mzithrin brought them straight into the path of our fleet. We cut that ship to ribbons-the Lythra, wasn't it? — and she sank with all hands."

  "Not all," said Sandor Ott.

  Silence: the low slap of waves suddenly audible, and the oil lamp sputtering. Thyne looked startled, even afraid; Uskins gaped like a fish. Motionless between them, Aken looked like a man who has just realized, very soberly, that he is seated among ghouls and vampires.

  A grin spread over Drellarek's face.

  Thyne rose from his chair, steadying himself with a hand on the table. "What are you saying?" he whispered.

  "He did not drown, Mr. Thyne," said Ott. "We plucked him from the wreckage. And he awaits us on His Supremacy's prison isle of Licherog."

  "Awaits us?" cried Thyne suddenly. "The Shaggat Ness, that murdering thing, that… creature, alive?"

  "And his sons."

  "But we told the world they drowned!"

  "Lower your voice, Thyne," rumbled Rose, closing the wine cabinet.

  Thyne did not seem to hear him. "Mr. Ott! Mr. Ott!" he cried. "The Shaggat was an animal, a beast!"

  "He is that," said Ott. "And much more. In the eyes of ninety thousand rebel Mzithrini, he is a God, descended to Alifros to lead them to glory. They have never believed him dead. Forty years they have fought the other Kings, and prayed for his return. Exactly when they expect that miracle to occur is a great secret, and one still unknown to the Mzithrin Kings. Shall I tell you, gentlemen? Oh yes, I know their prophecy. I wrote it, you see. My spies have whispered it in Gurishal these four decades, spread it like a sweet pox of the mind. He shall return, they all now believe, when a Mzithrin lord marries his enemy."

  "Rin's blood!" blurted Uskins. "You arranged it! The admiral's daughter and the Sizzy prince! You set the whole thing up!"

  "Very good, Mr. Uskins," said Ott. "And now you will appreciate just how vital it is that word of our plans never reaches Lady Thasha's father. For when the Mzithrin Kings grasp that young bride's place in the prophecy, they will kill her in a heartbeat. Of course, by then it will be too late. Is it not beautiful, gentlemen? Ninety thousand rebels still worship the Shaggat as a God. And we have a chance to prove them right. We shall raise him from the dead."

  "This is monstrous!" said Thyne.

  "It is genius," said Drellarek. He rose and bowed to Sandor Ott. "A weapon forty years in the smithing. My compliments, sir, on the tactic of a lifetime."

  "Except," said Aken, "that the entire White Fleet lies between us and the Shaggat's worshippers. How do you mean to get him to Gurishal, on the far side of the Mzithrin lands?"

  "Wait and see," said Ott.

  "They put a new King on the Shaggat's throne, didn't they?" asked Drellarek.

  "Right after the war," said Ott with a nod. "But the fanatics of Gurishal made so many attempts on his life that the Pentarchy changed the seat of that kingdom to North Urlanx. Both moves only served to deepen the hatred of the Nessarim for the rest of the Mzithrini peoples. Gurishal may be contained by the armies of the Five Kings, but it is primed to explode."

  "And what of the Shaggat's mage, Arunis?" demanded Thyne. "Did he too escape the wreck of the Lythra? Is he imprisoned on Licherog?"

  "No longer," said Ott. "Arunis was indeed pulled from the Gulf of Thуl and imprisoned, but
he met a curious fate. It appears he tried sorcery on his guards and nearly escaped the island. But one guard regained his senses and shot an arrow into the arm of the fleeing mage. It was but a scratch, but it bled, and by the spoor of blood Arunis was tracked down by dogs, recaptured-and hanged. The guard paid a high price for his valor, though. Arunis flung a curse at him with his last breath, and within weeks the guard began to lose his mind, convinced that he was the one dangling from a rope. He ended up in a madhouse on Opalt."

  Rose limped back across the floor. Mr. Uskins, rigid with fear but with a new gleam in his eye, leaned forward. "And the gold we're carrying? What are we to do with all that gold?"

  "Can't you guess?" snapped Ott. "The Shaggat is the blood enemy of the remaining Mzithrin Kings. We're sending him into battle, and battles require soldiers and horses, catapults and cannon and ships. Thanks to us he will have them. We are financing his war.

  "But this war will be different. This time Arqual will be innocent, a spectator-and not a war-crippled spectator, either. As the Mzithrinis retreat, fighting themselves once again, we shall move in force to take their place-permanently. And why not? Why should men of the Crownless Lands buy their boots and coal and weapons from savages who drink one another's blood? Our boots fit. Our coal burns as hot. That business, those millions in profits, should be Arqual's-will be Arqual's, in due time. And naturally, ships full of valuable goods must be protected."

  Drellarek looked at him sharply. "You're speaking of the Imperial navy," he said. "But would the Crownless Lands ever agree to let our ships back in their waters?"

  "Dear sergeant!" said Ott. "With the Shaggat returned, and civil war to the west? They will beg us on bended knees."

  "But Sizzies are Pit-fiends in a fight!" whispered Swellows, over Ott's shoulder. "Tough, and cruel, and wicked-even to their own kind."

  "We need them to be wicked, fool," said Ott. "Every misery the other Kings inflict on their people makes the Shaggat that much dearer to his followers, and costly to destroy."

  "What if they can't destroy him?" Swellows pressed. "Will he turn on us?"

  A silence. "They'll destroy him," said Ott finally. "No doubt about that. But oh, gentlemen-how it will cost them! They will be Kings of rubble when it's done! In five years' time, Arqual will own the Quiet Sea."

  "And in ten years?" asked Aken. "What of your further plans, Mr. Ott?"

  For the briefest instant Ott looked surprised. Then he said, smoothly: "Nothing further. I am sworn to defend Arqual from the Mzithrin horde. That is enough."

  Thyne gathered up his papers. "Defend it with another ship, Spy-master," he said. "You have exceeded your mandate. The Lady La-padolma never authorized such a mission for the Chathrand, nor would she. We are businessfolk, not butchers."

  Suddenly Oggosk laughed. The others jumped: they had all but forgotten her.

  "What's the difference?" she said gleefully. "Your darling Lady buys the bones of six thousand men and horses a year from the old Ipulia battlefields, grinds and sells them to eastern farmers to enrich their soils. She takes furs by the shipload from Idhe barons who set fire to trappers who don't catch enough mink. She buys ore mined by Ulluprid slaves, sells it to Etherhorde ironsmiths and sails back to the Ulluprids with spears and arrows for the slavemasters."

  "That is different," said Thyne. "That is buying and selling, commerce among free men."

  "Well then, so is our plan," said Ott. "We are buying a little room for Arqual and her manufacturers, and selling a God."

  "Madness!" repeated Thyne. "There will be no profit in this for the Company, only the loss of her good reputation-"

  Oggosk cackled again.

  "— and this very ship, her flagship, the pride of the seas." He looked at his companion, and his voice grew shrill. "Aken, why do you just sit there? Speak up, man!"

  "I can't think what to say," said Aken.

  "Well, I can," said Thyne. "Take your war games elsewhere, Ott. As Company Overseer for this trading voyage, I hereby revoke your lease on the Chathrand. You all know I have that power under the Sailing Code, section nine, article four: Gross Misstatement of Mission."

  As Thyne finished speaking, the spymaster turned to Drellarek and gave a small nod. Thyne saw the look and grasped its meaning instantly. "Wait, wait!" he cried, springing backward. But Drellarek's eyes had glazed over, and a knife had appeared in his hand.

  Then Rose moved. With one lurch he seized Aken by the lapels, wrenched him from the chair and clubbed him brutally across the face. The small man fell like a sack of grain at Drellarek's feet.

  Thyne stumbled back from the table, his mouth agape. Rose waved Drellarek off.

  "Don't harm him," said the captain. "He will see reason yet. Aken here is the dangerous one, who would have betrayed us at the first chance. He sat quiet while that ninny prattled and whined. But I could hear the wheels turning in his head."

  Speechless, the others watched Rose drag the unconscious man to the gallery windows. "Shutter that lamp, Uskins," he said.

  Uskins closed the lamp's iron shade, plunging the cabin into darkness. The men at the table heard curtains rustle, and the squeak of a hinge. A cold finger of sea wind probed the room. Then, far away, so faint they could deny it to themselves, they heard a splash. "Leave my cabin, all of you," said Rose in the darkness. "We shall talk again in Uturphe, weather permitting."

  Indiscretions

  12 Vaqrin 941

  Was he awake or dreaming? Had the fit marooned him somewhere in between?

  Pazel lay on his back at the foot of a plump, lacy bed. Still aboard Chathrand, for his limbs knew her gentle rocking, and the bed's feet were nailed down. He smelled lavender and talcum powder, and thought suddenly of Neda's room, at home in Ormael. Under his head (which still hurt and spun badly) was the softest pillow he had ever touched. And on the edge of the bed, looking down at him, was a small, strange animal. It was rather like a weasel, but jet-black, with huge, dark eyes that froze him with their gaze.

  "How's this?" it said cheerfully. "A tarboy on the floor!"

  "What!" croaked Pazel (his mouth was very dry).

  "They are all gone away and left you," said the creature. "And I must leave you as well. Can you really understand my words?"

  "How did you… I mean, yes! What?"

  "You do understand. Remarkable! You'll make her a very fine tutor indeed. Tell me, was a black rat here a moment ago?"

  "You're not a rat!"

  "My dear boy, are you ill? Not everyone who seeks a rat must be one."

  The creature sprang lightly from the bed to the top of a dresser. Pazel arched his neck: upon the dresser stood a lovely mariner's clock, the kind rich captains kept screwed down tight on their desktops. Its round face was painted to resemble a gibbous moon. Even stranger, Pazel saw that the face-hands, numbers and all-was hinged on one side, and stood slightly ajar. Behind it, within the body of the clock, was a round darkness: somehow it felt cold and strange.

  The animal nudged the clock face nearly shut, then glanced over its shoulder at Pazel.

  "You won't touch this, will you?"

  "W-wouldn't dream of it."

  "And if I were to ask you a favor, to help me with your Gift to do a very great and dangerous thing-to prevent a war, in fact-how would you answer me?"

  "What?"

  "We must talk again, Mr. Pathkendle. Goodbye!"

  Pazel shook himself. He was in the same place, resting on the same satin pillow. The little animal was gone; the light through the portholes had dimmed. And directly above him, sticking over the end of the mattress, were a girl's bare feet.

  He turned his head to one side, and found himself nose to nose with a blue dog of terrifying dimensions. It lay with head on paws, drooling gently. Try something, begged its eyes. Let me eat you.

  Overall it was better looking at the feet. In another moment, astonished, Pazel realized whose they were.

  "Lady Thasha?" he whispered.

  The feet jerked back, the be
d creaked and the face of the ambassador's daughter appeared. Her golden hair fell almost to his nose.

  "You can talk!" cried Thasha. "Hercуl! He can talk!"

  She leaped to the floor and pushed the dog aside. Just as when she boarded the Chathrand, she was dressed in a man's breeches and shirt. He was startled anew by how pretty she was, and how clean. Under his new coat and cap he remained a grimy tarboy. It had never bothered him much, until now.

  "Thank the Gods!" she said. "You made such awful sounds! What's the matter with you, anyway?"

  "I'm fine now, Mistress," said Pazel, blushing. He sat up, a little unsteadily, and tried to fasten his coat, then remembered the missing buttons and crossed his arms over his chest.

  He struggled to his feet, and nearly stumbled. He put a hand on her bed, then pulled away quickly as if he'd touched something fragile. Thasha caught his arm: the strength of her grip was startling.

  Don't stare, he thought. She had such pale skin. She wore a necklace beneath her shirt: ocean creatures in solid silver, astonishingly fine. The thought came to him unbidden: that necklace alone could pay off his bond debt, three or four times over.

  "You were very kind to shelter me," he said.

  They stood there, eye to eye, and for a moment he thought she looked as uncertain and confused as he felt himself. Then she laughed aloud.

  "You don't talk like any servant I've ever met," she told him. "You don't even have an accent. You sound like my cousins from Maj District. Why, you could pass for an Arquali if I closed my eyes!"

  "I could never do that," said Pazel at once, freeing his arm from her hand. "Even if I wanted to. And I don't, Lady Thasha."

  "Don't be prickly," she said. "I didn't say you should be an Arquali. And stop this Mistress-Lady nonsense. I'm the same age as you."

  Pazel just looked at her, irritated now. Age had nothing to do with it, of course. They were not equals. If she were a toddler and he a man of sixty, he would still be obliged to call her Lady.

  "Hercуl thinks you're under a curse," said Thasha. "Is he right? How often does it happen?"