The Night of the Swarm Page 6

  Chadfallow took a careful breath. “The Shaggat is seventy-four years old. And he has just suffered traumas that would strain the faculties of any man. The touch of the Nilstone. The killing fire that ran up his arm. The transmutation into a dead statue, through Pazel’s Master-Word, and this morning’s reversal. But above all he is disturbed by the loss of the Stone. To gain it was his lifelong obsession. He thinks the Gods themselves chose him to wield it, along with that lesser artifact, Sathek’s Scepter. And because he cannot have had any sense of time’s passage while enchanted, he must perceive that the Stone has just been taken from him.” Chadfallow shook his head. “His mind is warped beyond all healing now. What you saw is likely all that remains.”

  Old Dr. Rain cleared his throat. “He exhibits a certain unease, Captain Rose. That is to say, he is uneasy.”

  Rose turned him a choleric stare. The old medic looked quickly at Chadfallow.

  “I cut off the dead hand,” said Chadfallow. “He felt nothing. Below the wrist the limb was dry and brittle. It’s a wonder it did not break during that wrestling match.”

  “It did not break, because I did not break it,” said Ott. “What else?”

  Chadfallow shrugged. “His body is otherwise sound. The man is a war elephant. You’ve heard the legend about the arrow that broke off in his chest, the head of which was never extracted? I saw the scar, I felt the hard nub with my fingers. The wound was two inches above his heart. There are flecks of iron embedded in his left eyeball, too, and signs that his feet were blistered by walking through fire, or over coals. He is indestructible, in a word. Only his mind has failed, and that utterly.”

  Rain cleared his throat again. “In professional terms—that is, in proper language, medical language—”

  “Stop your fidgeting, dog!” snapped Rose. He was addressing Captain Maulle, but Rain flinched as if struck.

  Haddismal was scowling. “The Shaggat’s mad, but he ain’t an animal. The good doctor exaggerates.”

  “Agreed,” said Ott. “You’re distorting your own diagnosis, Chadfallow, because you wish our cause to fail. In violation of your medical oath, to say nothing of your oath to His Supremacy.”

  Chadfallow bristled. “You saw it yourselves,” he said. “That man raged for six minutes without a glance at his own maimed foot. He might have bled to death without noticing the wound.”

  “And blary good riddance,” said Mr. Fiffengurt, the quartermaster, unable to contain himself.

  Sandor Ott turned his gaze on Fiffengurt. “Another proud son of Arqual,” he said. “What has happened to all your friends, traitor?”

  Fiffengurt’s bad eye drifted. But the other was clear and sharp, and he trained it now on Sandor Ott.

  “My friends are right here,” he said, thumping a fist to his chest. “Where are yours, exactly?”

  A frigid silence followed. Then Ott said, “Captain Rose may have his reasons for delaying your execution—”

  “He does,” said Rose. “The word is seamanship, and it cannot be wasted.”

  Fiffengurt did not smile—Rose would get no smile out of him, not in this lifetime—but a certain grim pride showed in his face.

  “Seamanship,” said Ott, “just so. Yet this voyage will end one day, Mr. Fiffengurt. And when you step ashore, so shall I.” He turned back to the others around the table. “As for the Shaggat: hysteria is rarely permanent. Through all the years of his ascendancy he was prone to fits. They form part of the legend of his greatness.”

  “They can’t have been like this,” ventured Elkstem, the sailmaster. “He’d never have been able to lead no rebellion. He was screaming like a stuck pig.”

  “I doubt we shall ever see another display like this morning’s,” said Ott. “And if we do—well, Doctor, I did not add you to this mission because I loved your company. You earned great fame with diseases, but your talents go further, don’t they? Before the miracle with the talking fever you had another specialty. A rather lucrative one, at that.”

  Chadfallow started. “You’re mistaken,” he said.

  Ott raised an eyebrow, smiling.

  Dr. Rain snapped his fingers. “ ‘Ignus Chadfallow, Sedatives and Stimulants,’ ” he said. “Remember, Ignus? You gave me your card at the Medical Academy dinner, in the spring. I have it right here …”

  The old man fumbled in the pockets of his threadbare coat, at last producing what looked like a mouse’s nest. Tearing open the fluffy wad, he extracted a crushed and soiled square of parchment. He held it up, beaming. Chadfallow stared in disbelief.

  “That card is twenty-six years old,” he said.

  Ott leaned over and snatched the card from Rain. He squinted. “ ‘Compounds to Induce Tranquillity and Peace of Mind.’ Capital, Doctor; the Shaggat Ness is in good hands. Besides, we do not require the murdering genius of his youth. All he needs is that apocalyptic impulse, and enough coherence to put his fanatics once more on the path of war.”

  “And the Nilstone?” asked Rose.

  Ott shook his head. “The Nilstone is behind us. And despite the Shaggat’s obsession, the cursed thing was never part of our plan. It nearly killed him, after all. Let it remain here in the South. If it has truly caused the death of Arunis, so much the better. Our concern is to finish the task His Supremacy placed before us, with all dignity and speed.”

  “Dignity,” said Chadfallow.

  He spoke the word softly, but it still conveyed the bitterness of a lifetime. Captain Kurlstaff, breaking his silence, said, “I like this doctor, Rose. But the spymaster wants him dead.”

  “Hold your peace, Ott,” said Rose. “I have not brought you here to bicker like tarboys.” He turned to Fiffengurt and barked suddenly: “Where in the black Pits is the first mate? Did I summon my deck officers or not?”

  “I conveyed your order to Stukey myself, Captain,” said Fiffengurt. “He only grunted at me through his door.”

  “Uskins missed his noon log entry as well, sir,” put in Mr. Fegin, who had recently been promoted to the rank of bosun. “Perhaps he’s ill?”

  Rose looked at the doctors, who shrugged. “He’s not been to sickbay,” said Chadfallow.

  The captain’s fury was a live coal in his chest. “Find the duty clerk, Mr. Fegin,” he said, very low. “Tell him to inform Mr. Uskins that if he is not here within three minutes he will be tied to the mizzenmast with a vat of excrement from the chicken coops, and not released until he drinks it.” He paused, then shouted: “Go!”

  Fegin was off like a greyhound. The captain spread his hands flat on the table, glaring at the faces around him. “Why do ships sink?” he asked them. “Imprecision, that is why. Laxity and sloth, and men who look the other way. That will never be while I command this ship.”

  He took care not to glance at Sandor Ott. But a part of him knew that his words were for the spy, a reminder of what Rose alone could deliver.

  “We are being hunted, gentlemen,” he said. “In all likelihood that sorceress has reached Masalym by now, and learned that we have fled. Whether or not she realizes that we don’t have the Nilstone, she’ll want to take us—and she has the right ship for the job. The Kirisang, also known as the Death’s Head. The vessel’s every bit as large as the Chathrand, and a warship through and through. Or so Prince Olik claimed. Of course I do not trust him, or any other dlömu. But we have seen Bali Adro firepower for ourselves.”

  He gave them a moment to remember it: the horrific armada that had passed so near them, great squalid ships held together by spellcraft, bristling with terrible arms.

  “Now take heart, for Arunis is dead. Lady Oggosk sensed it, and the Shaggat’s return to life is the proof. He is gone, and the Nilstone is gone, and the ship is both provisioned and repaired. You may have heard that there was a hairline crack in the keel—”

  They had not heard: Fiffengurt and Elkstem gaped, struggling to contain themselves.

  “—but I assure you that rumor is false: no ship of mine will ever touch the Nelluroq with a damage
d keel. No, the Chathrand will not disappoint us. The sorcerer is gone, and if any crawlies remain, we shall deal with them as with any vermin.

  “In short, gentlemen, we are done with the South. The last stage of this mission lies before us. We must find our way to Gurishal. The Shaggat must go to his tribe, to wreak havoc in the heartland of the Mzithrin. Only then will we be suffered to return to Arqual, and our families.”

  Ott and Haddismal looked deeply content. The others showed varying degrees of confusion. “But sir,” said Fiffengurt, “ain’t it nearly time to land our men on the Sandwall? We talked about it just yesterday. Men with mirrors, to relay the all-clear signal from Masalym, when it comes.”

  “We will be landing no one on the Sandwall,” said Rose.

  “How, then,” said Chadfallow, “are we to know when Macadra has left the city, and what course she is on?”

  “I say again, no need.”

  “But I don’t understand, Captain,” said Fiffengurt. “How will we know when it’s safe to return for Pazel and Thasha and the others? Can Lady Oggosk tell you that as well?”

  “Oggosk has nothing to tell me in this regard,” said Rose, “because we are not going back.”

  The explosion was just as he had foreseen. Chadfallow and Fiffengurt rose, shouting in rage. “You wouldn’t dare, Captain!” thundered the quartermaster. “Leave them behind? How can you even jest about such a thing?”

  “I make no jests,” said Rose.

  “You will not do it!” shouted Chadfallow. “What’s more, you dare not. The Nilstone—”

  “—is in Hercól’s hands,” said Ott, “or perhaps those of the Masalym Guard who rode with him. In either case we can do nothing about it. Believe me, I hate to leave a thing of such power unclaimed. It would be a great joy to present it to our Emperor.”

  Chadfallow was gaping. Fiffengurt was nearly out of his head. He stepped toward Rose, hands in fists. Sergeant Haddismal, grinning, merely seized his arm. Ott was watching Chadfallow with lively curiosity. Neither the spy nor the Turach bothered to stand up.

  “This is unthinkable,” said Chadfallow, shaking with rage. “Even for you, Rose. We gave you our trust.”

  “Oh, Doctor, you’re priceless,” laughed Sandor Ott. “You gave nothing of the kind. Tell the truth, old man: you never expected to see them again. You knew they were choosing exile among the fish-eyes for the rest of their days—indeed, exile was the best possible outcome for the ardent fools. I’m not calling you a coward, sir. You might even have joined them, if I’d allowed it, for you’re quite fond of your family of criminals. But of course I could not allow it. We have over seven hundred men left to care for, and no doctor but you, save that, that—”

  He gestured vaguely at Rain, whose eyes tracked his moving hand, befuddled. Ott and Haddismal roared with laughter.

  “Prince Olik’s brief rule in Masalym will already have ended,” said Rose, speaking over them. “Macadra will likely kill the man, if she can do so quietly enough. In any case she will replace him with one of her servants. Ott is correct, Doctor: you knew from the start that we would not return. So did your friends who went ashore, in their hearts.”

  “You yourself planned to go with them,” said Chadfallow, staring rigidly at Rose. “What if Ott had let you join the expedition? Do you think for one instant that if Mr. Fiffengurt had taken command, he would have abandoned you?”

  “Ott did not prevent me going ashore,” said Rose.

  At that Spengler paused in his rummaging, and spat. “You’re a liar, Rose. He hogtied you. You should boot that spy’s arse right over the rail.”

  “Pointless speculation,” said Ott. “I would have compelled Fiffengurt to sail on, whatever his preference might have been. No, our dalliance with traitors has run its course. If there was any justification for their presence aboard, it lay in their efforts to thwart Arunis and drive him from the ship. That work is done, but His Supremacy’s great task is not.”

  Fiffengurt’s face had turned so scarlet that Rose half expected to see blood filling the whites of his eyes. Chadfallow was restraining him by force. The doctor’s jaw was clenched, as if words he dared not utter were caught between his teeth. He drew a deep, shaky breath. “Sandor Ott,” he said, “you’re a man of immense talents, immense energies and strength.”

  Smiling broadly, as though preparing for a grand entertainment, Ott leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his head.

  “You are the personification of commitment,” the doctor continued. “That I would never deny, although I differ with your choice of loyalties. You might have grown very rich, without ever leaving Etherhorde; you might have settled for exploiting your office. You did not. You chose one task and pursued it selflessly, and with skills like no other man alive. I say all this because I wish you to know that I am not blinded by the animosity between us.”

  Haddismal appeared to be preparing some caustic remark, but Ott wagged a finger at him for silence.

  “Now all I ask,” said Chadfallow, “is that you try to see beyond that hatred yourself. The Emperor you serve has long counted me among his irreplaceable servants. In his name, let me ask … a favor of you. Let the men be landed on the Sandwall, and await the signal from Masalym. Let us wait for them here, as we discussed. Only for a fortnight—your plans for the Shaggat will not be harmed by such a small delay. Let us see if Macadra departs, and whether Pazel and the others return. They need not trouble you, now that Arunis is gone. They can be kept in the brig—all of them, all the way to Gurishal and beyond. But do not leave them here, to grow old and die among the dlömu, never seeing human faces again.”

  Ott’s smile had faded into something more thoughtful. Haddismal too had shed his look of mirth.

  “Rose, you must put a stop to this,” said Kurlstaff. “You’re the blary captain, not the spy. He should be seeking that boon from you.”

  Rose looked the ghost in the face but said not a word.

  “I am begging you, Mr. Ott,” said Chadfallow. “But more important, I am appealing to the idealist in you—the loyal soldier. Your dedication to Magad the Fifth is a passion in your heart, like all human loyalties. Pazel, Thasha, Hercól Stanapeth—their passions are no different. Consider them misguided, consider them mad if you must. But see what you share with them—it is conviction, sir, a willingness to risk one’s very life for what one holds most dear.”

  Ott was frowning now. His eyebrows knitted, and the scars about his eyes were lost for a moment among the wrinkles.

  “Not just their lives,” said the doctor softly, “but their souls. They are in the land of the mind-plague. They may all become animals, brainless tol-chenni, if we abandon them. Mr. Ott, do you imagine that they would take such a terrible risk if they did not believe it was essential? Is that not what you believe of Arqual’s conquest of the Mzithrin? Disagree with them all you like—but do not condemn them in this way. To do so is to condemn yourself.”

  The room was silent. Even Spengler had turned away from the cabinets to gaze at the Imperial Surgeon. Ott himself was looking down at the table. He blinked, a quizzical light in his eyes.

  “A good speech, Doctor,” he said. “It’s plain to see why His Supremacy needed your diplomatic skills. But you’ve left out a key detail, I think.” He raised his eyes. “You’re his father, aren’t you? Pathkendle’s father. You cuckolded Captain Gregory while he was away at sea.”

  Silence. The living and the dead were still. Then Chadfallow, never shifting his gaze from Sandor Ott, said, “Yes, I did. And Pazel is my son, that’s true.”

  “Are you the girl’s father as well? Did you sire a future sfvantskor on that woman?”

  “Neda is Gregory’s daughter,” said Chadfallow stiffly. “She was born before I ever knew him, or Suthinia Pathkendle.”

  “You were wise not to lie,” said Ott. “That would have ended the discussion. But one thing still perplexes me, Doctor. Why lie to the boy? He asked if he was your son just before leaving the Chathr
and, I believe. And you denied it to his face.”

  Chadfallow looked shocked. Though why should he be, thought Rose, to learn that the spymaster continued to spy?

  “You let him depart thinking himself the son of that traitorous freebooter, that nobody,” said Sandor Ott. “Why?”

  The doctor’s hands were trembling slightly. “I made a rash promise,” he said at last. “To his mother, the night she told me that the child was mine. She was afraid of losing her son, as she was already losing Captain Gregory. She feared that Pazel would choose me over her, one day, if he ever learned the truth. And so I swore I would never tell.”

  “It has cost you a great deal to keep that promise, I think,” said Ott quietly.

  Chadfallow nodded. “Yes, it has,” he said.

  “Hmm, so,” muttered Ott. “You wish us to give them a fortnight. To catch up and rejoin us.”

  “Nothing more,” said Chadfallow. “A fighting chance, sir. In Magad’s name.”

  Ott looked sidelong at Haddismal. Then he rose to his feet and started for the door. He waved his hands as though relinquishing the matter. “This means the world to you, apparently,” he said.

  “Do you mean—”

  “You served Arqual truly, once,” said Ott. “I haven’t forgotten.”

  Chadfallow closed his eyes, his shoulders bowed with relief. Mr. Fiffengurt put a shaky hand on his arm.

  Then Rose glanced up to see that Ott was ushering Turachs into his cabin. Haddismal barked a code word, gesturing at the doctor and Fiffengurt, and before either man had time to react they were seized, and the door slammed anew. Ott struck Fiffengurt in the stomach, lightning-fast, dispassionate. The quartermaster doubled over, laboring to breathe.

  The soldiers threw the struggling doctor to the floor and stretched him out, a man on each thrashing limb. They beat him, slapped him so hard that the outlines of their fingers appeared like strips of white paint on his cheeks. Sandor Ott let himself into Rose’s sleeping cabin and returned with a pillow, fluffing it in his hands.

  “Credek, he’s in for it now,” said Captain Maulle.