The River of Shadows Part 31

The resulting crash was very loud. Outside the room, voices exploded: "Pathkendle! Undrabust? What in the sweet Tree's shade are you doing?"

The box had dented the floor, but not pierced it as he'd hoped. He raised it again, and slammed it down once more.

"Muketch! Stop it, d.a.m.n you!" Stop it, d.a.m.n you!"

This time the box gouged a pinhole through the tin. Pazel struck a third time, and the hole became a matchstick-length tear.

"Blow out the lamp, Neeps," he said.

"Now? You'll be blind as a mole!"

"Hurry!"

Neeps blew out the lamp, and darkness swallowed them. Pazel struck out blind, again, and again. His lungs were burning, his mind in a haze. Then the door flew open and someone leaped into the room.

"Muketch! Undrabust!" Undrabust!"

It was Sergeant Haddismal. The Turach waved his hands before his face, choking on the fumes, and began to thrash among the bread boxes.

Pazel struck once more. Haddismal spotted them and lunged. He swatted Neeps from his path with one hand. On an impulse Pazel tossed his box aside, leaped in the air and came down hard on both heels.

The floor split like an awning stabbed by a knife. Pazel sc.r.a.ped through, bloodied, and was running before his feet touched the floor of the deck below.

Fulbreech glided past the gunports, the dormant cannon, the heaps of rigging struck down for repairs. Not hiding: he was the surgeon's mate, after all, and this was the way to sickbay. No one would ask where he was bound, at this or any hour. Still, it was a pleasant surprise to find the s.h.i.+p so quiet. Hardly anyone about, save a few tarboys scrubbing pots in the galley, and the night s.h.i.+ft on the main deck, shaping crosstrees for the mizzenmast. As if they were going to take her anywhere As if they were going to take her anywhere, he thought with a moment's unease. But then he reminded himself that it no longer mattered. Once his master heard what was coming he would have no choice but to act.

I could take it now, he had told Fulbreech. Just as surely as she did, ages past, from that cavern in the Northern ice. But she Just as surely as she did, ages past, from that cavern in the Northern ice. But she was weaker than I, weaker by far. The Stone marked her, burned her hand, and from that first tiny incision the great Erithusme began to die. I have been more careful, Fulbreech-her fate will not be mine. All the same I will wait a little longer, if I can was weaker than I, weaker by far. The Stone marked her, burned her hand, and from that first tiny incision the great Erithusme began to die. I have been more careful, Fulbreech-her fate will not be mine. All the same I will wait a little longer, if I can.

Thus had Arunis spoken at their last clandestine meeting, just hours after Thasha had come to Fulbreech in tears, and said, I told Pazel, Greysan. About us. He didn't want to believe me, but he did at last. There's no one between us anymore I told Pazel, Greysan. About us. He didn't want to believe me, but he did at last. There's no one between us anymore.

His master had smiled at that.

But Fulbreech knew there would be no smiles tonight. His master forbade any visit to his hiding place, his lair, between their scheduled meetings. Had threatened to skewer him alive if he did so, in fact-unless disaster threatened them, or threatened the Nilstone. In that case, you must come to me instantly. Decide nothing for yourself beyond the practical. You understand? While you are in my service you may entertain no philosophy, no questions of motive or end. You could never grasp the answers. Concern yourself with how, not why. You are my puppet, Fulbreech. You are my eyes, ears, hands In that case, you must come to me instantly. Decide nothing for yourself beyond the practical. You understand? While you are in my service you may entertain no philosophy, no questions of motive or end. You could never grasp the answers. Concern yourself with how, not why. You are my puppet, Fulbreech. You are my eyes, ears, hands. That would all change, his master had promised, in the life to come. But for now there was a disaster to avert.

Fulbreech quickened his pace. Just this once he was tempted to abandon the guise of the young medical apprentice. But could he bypa.s.s sickbay altogether? No, that would would draw attention; he must walk through the ward at least. There was time. He'd been quick. Twenty minutes ago he'd still been fondling that girl. draw attention; he must walk through the ward at least. There was time. He'd been quick. Twenty minutes ago he'd still been fondling that girl.

He entered sickbay, with its reek of iodine and sweat, and to his unspeakable rage found Ignus Chadfallow on duty. The man was indefatigable. After midnight, and here he was, bothering patients, kneading their scalps, taking notes on the discharge from their eyeb.a.l.l.s, poking that thermometer in whatever orifice was nearest to hand.

"Fulbreech! I've been looking for you, lad. Would you like to observe a nearly flawless vestibular spasm?"

"Nothing would please me more, Doctor," said Fulbreech, "but I must beg your indulgence for ten minutes; I haven't come for my regular rounds, you see."

"Quite right," said Chadfallow. "You're here for Ta.r.s.el, naturally."

"Ta.r.s.el," said Fulbreech, eyes darting.

"You have a surgeon's pa.s.sion, Fulbreech. At noon I give you Lognom's Joints and Their Injuries Joints and Their Injuries, and twelve hours later here you are, ready to set a man's thumb."

"As it happens, sir, I'm not entirely ready."

"Good!" replied Chadfallow. "Overconfidence is a plague in our line of work. And such manipulations cause agony, nearly every time."

Fulbreech gave a deferential nod. He had not even glanced at Joints and Their Injuries Joints and Their Injuries. "I hope you won't hold this against me, sir."

"Not at all, my boy." Chadfallow stood and led him down the row. "Why, I too needed help restraining the patient, the first time I wrenched a thumb."

The man in question, Ta.r.s.el the blacksmith, lay with his right hand floating in a tub of some aromatic broth of Chadfallow's. The thumb, pointing backward, was swollen up like the thumb of a drowned man. Ta.r.s.el lay shaking. His good hand was clamped on the edge of his cot.

"Doctor," he said, "I can't wait no more."

Chadfallow put his own hand in the tub. "Still warm," he said. "The ligaments should be pliant enough. Go ahead, Mr. Fulbreech."

"What, him?" cried Ta.r.s.el, raising himself in the bed. "Nay, Doctor, nay!"

"Silence!" said Chadfallow. "You've no cause for alarm. This is a simple procedure."

"Simple for you, you," said the blacksmith, "but this lad here, he's just a clerk. And he's nervous as a maid on her wedding day!"

Fulbreech was staring at the hideous thumb. How hard, he asked himself, could it be?

"Mr. Ta.r.s.el," said Chadfallow, "you will kindly lower your voice. Men are sleeping. Besides, you risk distracting the surgeon, to your own inconvenience."

"My inconvenience!" screamed Ta.r.s.el. "Look at him, he's set to soil his breeches! Keep him away from me!"

"Shall we proceed, Mr. Fulbreech?" said the doctor.

Fulbreech never knew how he got through that wrestling match with the blacksmith, whose arm was muscled like the haunch of a bull, and whose screams must have woken men far beyond sickbay. He was not really aware, or much interested, in his own efforts to wrench the thumb wrench the thumb. His mind was on the story he would have to tell to escape the doctor's clutches. He finished piecing it together just as the blacksmith fainted dead away.

"Low pain tolerance," said Chadfallow, placing two fingers on the man's neck. "Ah well, finish up. You'll have no trouble now."

Somehow, brutally, Fulbreech snapped the thumb back into place, with a pop pop that made him fear he might be ill. Chadfallow's praise was restrained: he might be blind to other matters, but in medicine little escaped him. Then Fulbreech explained that he would have to forgo the pleasure of the vestibular spasm, as he had actually been sent for headache tablets. "The captain's own request, sir: he's lying in the dark, quite unable to sleep." that made him fear he might be ill. Chadfallow's praise was restrained: he might be blind to other matters, but in medicine little escaped him. Then Fulbreech explained that he would have to forgo the pleasure of the vestibular spasm, as he had actually been sent for headache tablets. "The captain's own request, sir: he's lying in the dark, quite unable to sleep."

It was a perfect fib: even if the captain later denied asking for the pills, Chadfallow would attribute the contradiction to Rose's lunacy. Chadfallow took a small vial out of a cabinet and tossed it to Fulbreech. Then he looked the youth squarely in the eye.

"You may wish to consult Lognom again," he said.

"Before I sleep, sir," promised Fulbreech, and slipped out.

All this time Ensyl had waited in the ceiling of the darkened pa.s.sage. Her people had once had a spy-hole beneath a cot in sickbay, but it had been deemed too risky: Chadfallow liked to rearrange the furniture, and to inspect the walls for fungus with a magnifying gla.s.s. She kept watch now above a spring-loaded trapdoor. Fortunately there was no other entrance to sickbay.

What were they doing stalking Greysan Fulbreech? A fool's watch, a fool's errand-or the most vital task on Alifros? Ensyl had no way of knowing which of these she had undertaken. But Dri had died believing in Hercol as well as loving him. And who was she, Ensyl, if not the guardian of her mistress' beliefs?

It had grown harder, though. Hercol explained so little. Worse, he had become morbidly obsessed with Thasha: her moods, fancies, above all her romance with the surgeon's mate. Was he another Dastu, another spy for Sandor Ott? Ensyl had demanded. Hercol had begged her not to ask, and more strangely, not even to think think overmuch about what they were doing. overmuch about what they were doing.

It weighed on her, that last request. Don't think? Blind obedience? That was part of what Dri called "the madness of Ixphir House," the disorder she feared would ruin the clan. And what if Hercol was wrong about Fulbreech? What if he was no more than he seemed? A fuse was burning, Dri had whispered once: a fuse that will end in a blast to set the world on fire. The Nilstone, she'd believed, was the explosive at the fuse's end, only waiting for its spark. How much time did they have? How many more mistakes could they survive?

Then Fulbreech stepped back into the pa.s.sage, and Ensyl forgot her doubts. The youth's eyes were desperate, his mouth tight and strained. Those were not the eyes of one whose work was done. He slid to the left of the door and stood there, back to the wall, like a hunted thing. Seeing no one in the corridor, he suddenly darted across it and threw open the door opposite sickbay.

Ensyl swore. Hercol was right all along Hercol was right all along. For the place Fulbreech had entered was a tiny pump room, a service cabin for the machinery that lifted water from the bilge or the open sea, for dousing s.h.i.+pboard fires. It was probably the least-visited cabin on the deck. No other door led into the chamber. Nothing stored there was used in sickbay.

She pulled the trapdoor open wide. The pa.s.sage was deserted all the way to the bend at the foremast. But just around that bend, she knew, waited her accomplice. Dangling upside down, she spread her lips, tightened the muscles in her throat and produced a high, soft cheeet: cheeet: very much like a cricket's song. An answering shadow flickered at the bend in the pa.s.sage. Ensyl nodded to herself, jerked her head back inside and sealed the door. very much like a cricket's song. An answering shadow flickered at the bend in the pa.s.sage. Ensyl nodded to herself, jerked her head back inside and sealed the door.

On soundless feet she ran to the s.p.a.ce above the pump room. Four large bilge-pipes rose through the ceiling and continued to the upper gun deck. Like all handiwork on the Chathrand Chathrand they were tight-fitted, built to allow no seepage of wind or moisture from one deck to another. But what luck-there had been damage here as well: a seam between board and pipe had opened, by warping or trauma to the s.h.i.+p. It was no more than the width of two fingers-two ixchel fingers-but it allowed Ensyl a view of half the chamber. they were tight-fitted, built to allow no seepage of wind or moisture from one deck to another. But what luck-there had been damage here as well: a seam between board and pipe had opened, by warping or trauma to the s.h.i.+p. It was no more than the width of two fingers-two ixchel fingers-but it allowed Ensyl a view of half the chamber.

Fulbreech had struck a match and now was lighting a candle stub. Ensyl watched as he glued it with its own wax to the top of a cabinet. Then he pulled something else from his pocket: a bra.s.s jar, very small, no larger than a cherry. Lifting the lid, Fulbreech inserted a finger and scooped out a tiny amount of white cream. This he proceeded to rub into his palm. He rubbed thoroughly, entirely focused on his task. Then he put the jar back in his pocket and turned to face the door.

That's it? thought Ensyl, for already Fulbreech was reaching out (with the cream-coated hand) for the k.n.o.b. But no, he wasn't exactly. The hand was aiming for a s.p.a.ce thought Ensyl, for already Fulbreech was reaching out (with the cream-coated hand) for the k.n.o.b. But no, he wasn't exactly. The hand was aiming for a s.p.a.ce above above the doork.n.o.b. He moved slowly, and with trepidation, as though reaching into a darkened burrow. Then suddenly the hand stopped. The fingers probed, gripped, tightened. Fulbreech inhaled sharply. He stood as though holding a second doork.n.o.b, mounted above the first, but Ensyl could see plainly that he was holding only air. the doork.n.o.b. He moved slowly, and with trepidation, as though reaching into a darkened burrow. Then suddenly the hand stopped. The fingers probed, gripped, tightened. Fulbreech inhaled sharply. He stood as though holding a second doork.n.o.b, mounted above the first, but Ensyl could see plainly that he was holding only air.

Until, suddenly, he wasn't. She gasped, and thanked Mother Sky that her voice was an ixchel's and could not be overheard. Fulbreech was was holding a second doork.n.o.b. She had seen no flash or puff of smoke. The k.n.o.b was simply, suddenly there. holding a second doork.n.o.b. She had seen no flash or puff of smoke. The k.n.o.b was simply, suddenly there.

Fulbreech was shaking with fright. His free hand seized a pipe and held it rigidly, like a backstay in a gale. Slowly, with his eyes tightly closed, he turned the k.n.o.b.

Something terrible happened. The door flew wide, Fulbreech stumbled, Ensyl drew back her head. The candle was extinguished-and strangely, no light at all came from the pa.s.sage beyond. But in the last instant of light, Ensyl thought she had seen through the open door-but not into the pa.s.sageway. Instead she had glimpsed a strange, dark s.p.a.ce, not framed with wood but carved from solid rock. Ensyl had sensed some great bulky shape lunging forward, but then the light had died.

Mother Sky, what's happening?

A low sound, half slither, half shuffle, rose from darkness. Ensyl felt like running; she felt like a child in a darkened bedroom in the clan house, frightened by the echo of human footfalls. But there was nothing human about the sound coming from the darkness beyond the door.

Fulbreech's voice came out hoa.r.s.e and aghast. "M-master?" he said.

He was answered, if answer it was, by an a.s.sortment of foul vocalizations. They were mouth-sounds, maybe, but they formed no words. The sounds were sucking, gurgling, the licking of foul s...o...b..ry lips. Suddenly Fulbreech moaned, as though he had touched something unspeakably loathsome, or been touched by it. He stumbled backward; she heard his body collide with the pipes. The door creaked shut again, and clicked.

For almost a full minute there was silence. Then a voice said, "Have you brought another match?"

The voice belonged to Arunis.

"Y-y-"

"Relight the candle, Fulbreech, and tell me why you have disturbed my rest."

Pazel knew the Turachs were on his heels. Their pounding boots sounded right above him; they could probably hear his own progress through the sleepy s.h.i.+p almost as well as he heard theirs. But they would never catch him. The s.h.i.+p's four great ladderways all ended on the orlop deck: there were of course other staircases, but you had to know where to find them. It kept pirates from racing straight to the hold-and a few weeks ago, mutant rats from swarming straight to the topdeck. The Turachs would have to run all the way to the tonnage hatch, where they could swing down, if catching Pazel was worth such acrobatics. Otherwise they would press on to the mids.h.i.+p scuttle. Pazel was running for that narrow stair himself: it was the fastest way up up from the mercy deck as well. from the mercy deck as well.

But already his heart was sinking. He had escaped the bread room, but the Turachs knew the layout of the s.h.i.+p as well as he did, and they were larger and faster. They'd be waiting for him at the scuttle. They'd be waiting on every every G.o.ds-d.a.m.ned stair. G.o.ds-d.a.m.ned stair.

He stopped. It was hopeless. A weird alliance of his friends and enemies was determined to keep him from getting anywhere near Thasha. And maybe that was sign enough that he ought to sit still, just as Marila had told Neeps to do. Something that could make Fiffengurt and Haddismal work together was surely a matter of life and death.

Unless...

He laughed at a sudden, ridiculous idea. Could Rose be marrying marrying them? Could that be how Thasha meant to "end it"? Were they keeping him away out of pity, for fear he'd attack Fulbreech on the spot? them? Could that be how Thasha meant to "end it"? Were they keeping him away out of pity, for fear he'd attack Fulbreech on the spot?

Impossible. A s.h.i.+p's captain could marry anyone, it was true...but Thasha couldn't be that far gone. Could she?

He thought suddenly of Neda and Cayer Vispek, and his unsettling dream about the burial at sea. The Isiq girl wants to be rid of him The Isiq girl wants to be rid of him. He felt ill. Maybe his mind-fit was coming early. Or maybe Thasha wanted to be married before the dlomu came to take them off for their visit to the Issar.

But hold on: the dlomu. Perhaps there was was another way off this deck. He turned on his heel and ran straight back the way he had come. When he pa.s.sed by the wreckage of the ixchel's fortress he saw lamplight s.h.i.+ning down through the hole in the bread room floor. Fiffengurt's voice sounded hoa.r.s.ely, calling his name. He didn't answer. Straight on he ran, and minutes later reached the forward scuttle: a tiny, neglected laundry-chute of a staircase dropping sharply down to the hold. another way off this deck. He turned on his heel and ran straight back the way he had come. When he pa.s.sed by the wreckage of the ixchel's fortress he saw lamplight s.h.i.+ning down through the hole in the bread room floor. Fiffengurt's voice sounded hoa.r.s.ely, calling his name. He didn't answer. Straight on he ran, and minutes later reached the forward scuttle: a tiny, neglected laundry-chute of a staircase dropping sharply down to the hold.

He descended. Rin's eyes, the smell Rin's eyes, the smell. The flooding had washed out some of the cinders, blood and rat-filth, but what remained was exposed to the air now, and rotting...he shut his mind to such thoughts and groped into the darkness ahead. He had one chance, and if it came he would have to seize it instantly.

The scuttleway let onto a flying catwalk: a kind of bridge some twenty inches wide and eighty feet long, spanning the cavernous hold. No rail, and no way of telling if the boards were intact. Pazel set out across it, utterly blind, restraining a suicidal urge to run. The catwalk felt sound. He walked with arms stretched before him, but in fact he had no idea of his distance from the hull. And what then? How on earth would he get down to- The catwalk ended. His foot met with empty s.p.a.ce. He fell like a stone, and almost before he had time to be afraid struck the curving wall of the hull, and rolled and spun and crashed to the bottom of the hold.

First, a moment of stunned stillness; then the pain rushed in, and he cursed in a cascade of languages. But he was not dead, so he'd keep moving. He could still make everything all right. He crawled through a blackness of soaked and stinking wreckage. Bags of spoiled grain, ends of cables, shards of broken amphorae and sc.r.a.ps of wood. At times he was almost swimming in it. He doubted that he was moving in a straight line, but when he could touch the solid hull he corrected his path.

And suddenly there it was: moonlight. Not from any window above him, of course, but from below, reflected in a puddle on the stone quay beneath the Chathrand Chathrand, through the hole in her flank. The s.h.i.+pwrights had not yet closed the wound: two enormous planks, or wales, remained to be fitted in place. Pazel dragged himself through the sawdust (fresh sweet smells) and looked out through the belly of the Chathrand Chathrand. He was at the very bottom of her, just yards from the keel, and about fifteen feet off the ground.

Thasha. Love and fury blended hopelessly inside him. He had been too timid in protecting her, too selfish and slow. Aya Rin, let me get there in time Aya Rin, let me get there in time.

He dangled from the bottommost wale, and let go. Pain shot up his legs where they struck the stone, but he managed a clumsy take on the straight-drop-and-roll maneuver Thasha herself had tried so hard to teach him. Landfall at last, he thought absurdly, struggling to his feet. Then he ducked under the keel, dashed to the opposite scaffold and began to climb.

The cool air brought flashes of hope. Sometimes bad luck was a whale that devoured you. Sometimes you crawled out of its belly and fought on.

The dlomu ash.o.r.e did not notice Pazel at first, and by the time they did, they could think of nothing to do about him. Humans were not to leave the s.h.i.+p, but this youth's only wish seemed to be to get back inside. They might have scolded him, but they were under orders not to speak to the crew except in emergencies, and so held their tongues. The decision, as it happened, cost lives.

Pazel had climbed about eighty feet when, on the lower gun deck, Fulbreech stepped out of the pump room and quickly closed the door behind him. For the last time in his life he put on his old, false face. He was ready with a laugh and a self-effacing story about ducking into the chamber to collect himself, after some ugly work in sickbay-but no one had seen him, the pa.s.sage was still deserted. Once again he opened the pump room door.

Arunis swept into the pa.s.sage, his great mace raised before him. Fulbreech thought again how ghastly he had become. Once the mage had been stout; today he was a skeletal, staring creature, large of build but wasted within his dark, enveloping coat, the old white scarf twined about a dry and scrawny neck. And yet there was power in those hands that gripped the cruel weapon like a plaything, and his eyes still gleamed with appet.i.te.

He was marching aft at a swift pace. "The Stone is in the manger yet," he said, more to himself than to Fulbreech, who was half running to keep up. "I will not have to touch it. I will take it, of course. No one will dare to cross me. The Turachs will flee their posts, and those who do not flee I will burn. I will claim the Stone tonight, and it will know me for its master, the shaper of worlds, the next ascendant to the Vault of the Skies. The Stone brings death only to weaker souls. All the same I will not touch it. Why should I touch it, before I know that I can?"

"You should cross the s.h.i.+p by the orlop deck, Master," said Fulbreech, touching his sleeve.

"We cross here," said Arunis.

"On the lower gun deck? As you will, Master. You may be lucky here as well."

Sorcerer and servant hurried on, past the gunners' cabins and the armory. Finally the pa.s.sage ended and they stepped out into the central compartment. Moonlight filtered dimly through the gunports, and the gla.s.s planks overhead. The long rows of cannon gleamed blue-black in the shadows. Arunis hesitated, glaring.

"Empty," he said.

"As I say, Master, you're fortunate tonight. Stanapeth and Bolutu may be huddled with Lady Oggosk, but in general the s.h.i.+p is asleep."

"It is not not asleep," snapped Arunis, shooting him a furious look. "Scores of men are awake, whether they dare to stir from their chambers or not. I can feel them, crouched and frightened. Why should they be frightened? What has been happening this last hour, Fulbreech?" asleep," snapped Arunis, shooting him a furious look. "Scores of men are awake, whether they dare to stir from their chambers or not. I can feel them, crouched and frightened. Why should they be frightened? What has been happening this last hour, Fulbreech?"

"This last hour? Nothing, Master. I told you, I was with the girl. Pathkendle and his friends retired early. Bolutu spoke with someone dispatched by Prince Olik, who delivered the awful news."

Arunis began to walk quickly down the row of cannon. "Delivered it to him him, not the entire crew. I begin to wonder if you've kept up appearances, Fulbreech. Does Sandor Ott still consider you his agent, or has he seen through your mask?"

"He relies on me utterly, sir," said Fulbreech, with a hint of pride. "It was he who sent me in pursuit of Thasha to begin with, as you know."

"Then what is the great Arquali spy telling you?"

"Master, he knows nothing of Olik's plan to take the Nilstone."

"Sandor Ott is awake, fool! Rose is awake! I smelled their nervous brains the moment I stepped from my chambers! Why are they nervous, Fulbreech? What are they waiting for?"

"Your death, sorcerer. These many years-but no longer."

It was Hercol. The swordsman rose from a crouch between two gun carriages. With a gliding step he moved to block their way, Ildraquin loose in his hand, murder in his eyes.

The sorcerer's face convulsed with rage. "My death," he managed to scoff, but there was fear in the spiteful voice.