The Ruling Sea Part 2

The sheets were newly laundered; the pillow beneath his head brought back dim memories of fluff and mother's warmth. There were books in a shelf built into the headboard. The man in spectacles reached behind his head and took one. He caressed the leather, then drew the volume reverently to his chest.

I cannot give this up, he thought.

'Nor need you,' said the other, as if he had spoken aloud. 'Well, then, do we have an agreement?'

'I - You see, sir, there are obligations--'

The man in black crossed the room in four strides.

'Obligations?' he said venomously. 'Only to me, henceforth. What obligations can your kind feel, save b.e.s.t.i.a.l urges?'

'Please,' rasped the thin man, clutching the book even tighter. 'Don't misunderstand me. That is the horror of my life, being misunderstood.'

'The horror of your life is what you are,' said the other. 'You're a freak, an abomination. I alone can change that. And all I ask in return is that you tell me what goes on in that stateroom. Thasha Isiq's stateroom, the place I cannot see.'

The thin man pinched his eyes shut and rubbed his hands quickly together, a spastic gesture of nerves. 'But I am only dreaming this, dreaming you and these people and that lovely food. None of it is real real.'

'You talk like a simpleton,' said the other, 'but that is not your fault. Most beings see consciousness as no more than a coin: heads you're awake and busy, tails you sleep and dream. But reality is not so flat. It is more like a die of many sides. You toss it, and live with whatever it reveals. A mage, however, can read all sides of the die at once. I have shown you this day's beginning as the men of Chathrand Chathrand are living it. As you will live it, when you become a man.' are living it. As you will live it, when you become a man.'

'But in plain fact? Am I not there in Thasha's chambers, safely asleep?'

The other's patience was fraying again. 'A body lies there. A maimed and vile organism. Your mind is with me - and what is a body without a mind? Which part is really you? And if your very soul longs for a human life, and I offer it to you forever - have I not understood understood you, Felthrup? Have I not grasped the very dream you live for?' you, Felthrup? Have I not grasped the very dream you live for?'

'Yes, you have,' said the thin man, avoiding his eye.

'Good!' said the man in black. 'Then let us shake on it, like men. I will give you this body forever. And you will be my eyes and ears.'

The thin man felt his sweat on Rose's pillow. Slowly, fearfully, he shook his head. 'They are my friends,' he said.

'They are nothing of the sort. They have toyed with you from curiosity, and for their own gain. Men befriend other men, not craven things like you.'

'They have been so kind.'

'What of it? What are their little kindnesses, beside the world I have opened to you?'

'Not opened opened, sir.' The thin man's voice shook. 'Expanded is perhaps the better word. The world opened to me just once, in a house in Noonfirth, when the dumb brute in me died and I became a woken being, reasoning and aware.' is perhaps the better word. The world opened to me just once, in a house in Noonfirth, when the dumb brute in me died and I became a woken being, reasoning and aware.'

The man in black stared at him a moment. Then his face contorted with such pure hatred that the other scrambled away from him across the bed.

'Reasoning and aware!' he shouted. 'You cesspool filth. Go, then, return to what you were. Run and hide and eat dead things, and be hunted by all creatures. Oh, see!'

He pointed, feigning shock. The thin man looked at his own left arm and gave a wail. From the elbow down it was lifeless, withered, crushed. The man in black reached forward and tore the gla.s.ses from the other's head.

'Gold spectacles,' he hissed derisively. 'A scholar, Felthrup, is that how you picture yourself? How fine, how truly n.o.ble - but what is this what is this?'

A tail! The thin man had grown a tail, leathery and short and ending in a stump, as if long ago bitten in two.

'Arunis,' he said, 'please, I beg--'

The sorcerer struck him across the face, and when the thin man raised his right hand to his aching cheekbone, the hand was a long pink paw.

'Down, vermin!' bellowed the sorcerer. 'Crawl and whimper and weep! And pray that Arunis is merciful when he comes again - for I will come, and you will do my bidding, or by the Beast in the Pit I'll see you broken and mad.'

He was gone. Rose's cabin was gone. The thin man lay on gritty planks in the bowels of the s.h.i.+p. And when he tried to stand he toppled over onto his three good feet, and was himself again, the black rat with the soul of a scholar, caged in the nightmare that was his body. There were eyes in the darkness - his rat-brethren come to kill him, under orders from their lunatic chief - and he leaped up and ran.

'Wicked Felthrup!' they hissed, giving chase. 'Unnatural rat! Friend to men and crawlies, slave to thought! Let us eat you and end it!'

Such temptation. The deck was endless and foul. Ixchel voices laughed on his right, He only thinks he thinks He only thinks he thinks, and he turned and barely saw the little figures in the shadows before their arrows began to pierce him like needles of gla.s.s. He ran on, bleeding. Walls and stores and stanchions flashed by, and there was nowhere safe from his persecutors, and from the crates above him the red cat (deathless like all his demons) purred for his blood, and ahead loomed the shapes of men deadliest of all, and he ran and dodged and prayed but there was no salvation for those cursed by the G.o.ds.

3.

Procession

7 Teala 941

'You will allow, sir, that the Annuncet Annuncet is more than noise: it is music, after a fas.h.i.+on. No two Mzithrini elders sing it quite the same, although I'm told the words are simple: is more than noise: it is music, after a fas.h.i.+on. No two Mzithrini elders sing it quite the same, although I'm told the words are simple: This house is open to men and G.o.ds; none need fear it save devils and the devilish; come, and find the good you seek This house is open to men and G.o.ds; none need fear it save devils and the devilish; come, and find the good you seek. All very pleasant. Still our sfvantskor sfvantskor guests were loath to part with their blades.' guests were loath to part with their blades.'

King Os.h.i.+ram II, Lord of Simja, chuckled at his own remark. Walking at the royal elbow, at the centre of a vast, ecstatic throng, Eberzam Isiq returned a smile: the most false in his long public life. His heart was pounding, as from battle. He was hot in his wedding regalia - antique woollens, leather epaulettes, otterskin cap with the admiralty star - and the king's chatter grated in his ears. Still the old admiral walked with lowered eyes, measured step. He was an amba.s.sador, now, and an amba.s.sador must show the greatest deference to a king, even the petty king of an upstart island.

'Enlightened policy, Sire,' he heard himself say. 'Simja has nothing to gain by allowing armed and violent men to walk her streets.'

'Nothing,' laughed Os.h.i.+ram. 'But by that token who can we afford to exclude, hmmm?'

The sun was high over Simja: it was approaching noon. The mob of well-wishers a.s.saulted the king's retinue with their cheers, their spark-flinging firecrackers, their piercing fishbone whistles. Onlookers filled every window, the young men dangling perilous from the balconies. Flightless messenger birds nine feet tall skirted the crowds, grimy boys clinging to their necks. Monks of the Rinfaith droned in harmony with their bells.

They pa.s.sed under an arch between the port district and the Street of the Coppersmiths. The king pointed out the workshop from which he'd ordered lamps for the amba.s.sadorial residence. Isiq nodded, in agony. The blary fool. Does he think I wish to speak of lamps? The blary fool. Does he think I wish to speak of lamps?

Before the two men walked a vision. His daughter, Thasha, had been at war with lavish clothing since she was old enough to ruin it. She was not a good Arquali girl but a bruising fighter, with a conscript's temper and a grip to make a wrestler wince. And yet here she was: grey-gowned, satin-shoed, cheeks dabbed with powdered amethyst, golden hair twisted up in a braid they called a Babqri love-knot. Exquisite, beautiful, an angel in the flesh: Exquisite, beautiful, an angel in the flesh: the mob breathed the words after her in a sigh no effort could contain. the mob breathed the words after her in a sigh no effort could contain.

Thasha looked straight ahead, back rigid, face quiet and resolved. Isiq's pride in her stabbed him at every glance. You did this. You brought her here. You dared not fight for your child. You did this. You brought her here. You dared not fight for your child.

A small entourage surrounded Thasha: the personal friends custom allowed her to name. The swordsman, Hercol Stanapeth, her friend and tutor of many years, tall and careworn and matchless in a fight. Mr Fiffengurt, the Chathrand's Chathrand's good-hearted quartermaster, whose stiff walk and one-eyed way of looking at the world ('the other just points where it pleases') reminded the admiral of a fighting c.o.c.k. And of course the tarboys, Pazel and Neeps. good-hearted quartermaster, whose stiff walk and one-eyed way of looking at the world ('the other just points where it pleases') reminded the admiral of a fighting c.o.c.k. And of course the tarboys, Pazel and Neeps.

The two youths, despite vests and silk trousers hastily provided by the king, looked terrible. Ragged, red-eyed, bruised about the face. Pazel Pathkendle, child of vanquished Ormael, gazed out through his straight nut-brown locks with an expression more like a soldier's than that of a boy of sixteen. A searching look, and a sceptical eye. He had turned that sort of look on Isiq at their first meeting, when the admiral found him with Thasha in her cabin, and Pathkendle declared, in so many words, that her father was a war criminal.

At the time the charge had felt outrageous. By tonight it could well be an understatement.

The other tarboy, Neeps Undrabust, fidgeted as he walked. A head shorter than Pathkendle, he glared at the crowds on both sides of the street, as if searching for a hidden enemy. They fear the worst They fear the worst, thought Isiq, but have they lived long enough to withstand it when it comes? For that matter, have I?

They had argued the night away - the tarboys, the admiral, Hercol and Thasha - and yet they'd failed to find a way to save her. Not from a loveless marriage; she would suffer that but briefly. Days, weeks, a fortnight or two. The Mzithrin Kings would need no longer to discover how they had been deceived, and to murder the girl at the deception's heart.

His cravat was too tight. He had dressed without a mirror, repelled by the thought of the face awaiting him there: the face of an imbecile patriot, a blind blunt tool in the kit of Magad V, Emperor of Arqual, and his spymaster Sandor Ott. By the fiends below, I hate myself more than Ott. By the fiends below, I hate myself more than Ott.

The king touched his elbow. 'Are you quite well, Amba.s.sador?'

Isiq drew himself up straight. 'Perfectly, Sire. Forgive me, I confess I was lost in thought.'

'As a father must be at such a time. And I know the matter of your musings.'

'Do you?'

'Of course,' said the king. 'You're pondering what last words of wisdom to bestow upon the child of your flesh. Before another man takes your place, as it were. Do not fear: Simjan custom shall be observed today as well as Mzithrini. On this island fathers and daughters enjoy a private leave-taking. I trust you've understood? It is of course why we make for the Cactus Gardens.'

'I'm aware of your tradition, Majesty, and glad of it.'

'Splendid, splendid. You'll have eleven minutes alone with her. But do wave to my people, won't you, Isiq? They've had no small bother about all this, and see! They've laid down flowers for the Treaty Bride.'

A whole street of flowers, in fact: the last approach to the gardens was buried in blossoms, a thousand yards of yellow scallop-sh.e.l.l blossoms with a honeyed scent, poured two inches deep and bordered with rosewood. Children from the mob had been allowed past the guards and stood with eager handfuls, presumably to toss at the Bride. It seemed a crime to walk on the flowers, but that was clearly the idea.

'Isporelli blossoms, Excellency,' said the king's chamberlain from behind them.

'Are they? Pitfire!'

His little outburst turned heads. Isiq had not seen isporelli in fifteen years, nor wanted to. They were his late wife's favourite.

'You may thank Pacu Lapadolma for this intelligence,' said the king, as they trampled beauty flat. 'She has exchanged letters with our Mistress of Ceremonies for the better part of a year, now, and helped out in many particulars.'

The girl in question walked just behind Thasha's entourage, on the arm of Dr Ignus Chadfallow. Isiq could hardly bear to look at Chadfallow, a favourite of the Emperor and, until yesterday, Isiq's best friend. Better to look at Pacu, lovely Pacu, daughter of a general and niece of the Chathrand Chathrand 's owner. She was sixteen, like Thasha and the tarboys, and already a widow. She was also Thasha's Maid-in-Waiting. Thasha had once remarked that the girl could as easily have done her 'waiting' back in Etherhorde and spared them months of misery: she and Pacu did not get along. 's owner. She was sixteen, like Thasha and the tarboys, and already a widow. She was also Thasha's Maid-in-Waiting. Thasha had once remarked that the girl could as easily have done her 'waiting' back in Etherhorde and spared them months of misery: she and Pacu did not get along.

'She has generosity of spirit,' Isiq had retorted. 'She loves Arqual as pa.s.sionately as any man in uniform. And she believes in the Great Peace. I heard her say as much to her aunt.'

The Great Peace. He had believed in it too. Desperately, although in secret, for a soldier of Arqual was not expected to waste his energies imagining peace with the enemy he had been trained to destroy. Isiq had been born into a world of chaos and fear. He could not remember a time when the spectre of war, and annihilation should the war go badly, had not hung over his family. Defending Arqual against the Mzithrin, and the numberless small foes and revolutionaries that boiled up from the marshy edges of the Empire, was the n.o.blest life he could have chosen. The The only only life, by d.a.m.n. The only choice you could have lived with, once you knew you had it in you life, by d.a.m.n. The only choice you could have lived with, once you knew you had it in you. He was a soldier of Arqual, and even if he sat out the rest of his days in the court of this foppish King Os.h.i.+ram he would never truly be anything else.

Half a century in the service. Half a century of struggle and bloodshed, maimed friends, fatherless children: he saw now that they had all built to this moment. Treaty Day. The Great Peace. Millions were waiting for it to begin.

And it was all a monstrous sham. Peace was the furthest thing from the mind of his Emperor, as Thasha and her friends had grasped before anyone. For chained in the bowels of the Chathrand Chathrand was a deposed king of the Mzithrin, the s.h.a.ggat Ness, a madman who thought himself a G.o.d. His twisted version of the Old Faith had seduced a quarter of the Mzithrini people, and inspired a doomed but hideously b.l.o.o.d.y uprising. When the Mzithrin Kings at last crushed the rebellion, the s.h.a.ggat had fled in a s.h.i.+p called the was a deposed king of the Mzithrin, the s.h.a.ggat Ness, a madman who thought himself a G.o.d. His twisted version of the Old Faith had seduced a quarter of the Mzithrini people, and inspired a doomed but hideously b.l.o.o.d.y uprising. When the Mzithrin Kings at last crushed the rebellion, the s.h.a.ggat had fled in a s.h.i.+p called the Lythra Lythra - right into the jaws of Arqual's own navy. - right into the jaws of Arqual's own navy.

The Lythra Lythra had been blown to matchsticks. But the s.h.a.ggat, and his two boys, and his sorcerer: they had been plucked from the waves alive, and whisked off to a secret prison in the heart of Arqual. had been blown to matchsticks. But the s.h.a.ggat, and his two boys, and his sorcerer: they had been plucked from the waves alive, and whisked off to a secret prison in the heart of Arqual.

He was the most dangerous lunatic in history, east or west. For forty years now the world had thought him safely drowned. And for forty years Arqual's guild of a.s.sa.s.sins, the Secret Fist, had been infiltrating the s.h.a.ggat's wors.h.i.+ppers. On Gurishal, the fanatics' war-blighted island of exile, the Secret Fist had stoked their faith, encouraged their martyrdom, a.s.sa.s.sinated the moderates among them. And above all, it had spread a false prophecy of the s.h.a.ggat's return. Those G.o.ds-forsaken wretches! They might have abandoned their cult and rejoined the Mzithrin by now, if only we'd let them be! Those G.o.ds-forsaken wretches! They might have abandoned their cult and rejoined the Mzithrin by now, if only we'd let them be!

Instead, the spymaster Sandor Ott had prepared them for a second uprising, even as Arqual and the Mzithrin prepared, with the greatest sincerity, for peace.

If you want a lie to fool your enemy, test it on a friend. The proverb was surely Ott's cardinal rule. Even the highest circles of the Arquali military (of which Isiq was indisputably a part) had been kept ignorant. And the blood-drinking Mzithrinis: they had taken the bait in both hands, as King Os.h.i.+ram's prattle made clear.

'They've loaded three s.h.i.+ps full of presents, Isiq. Sculpture, tapestries, fiddles and flutes, a whole spire from a ruined shrine. A petrified egg. A miraculous talking crow. All for Arqual - the s.h.i.+ps as well, mind you. And they're sending artists to paint your Emperor Magad. I gather they're dying to know what he looks like.'

'The world changes swiftly, your Highness,' mumbled Isiq.

'It does not seem very swift to me - one day I will show you the City of Widows - yet I understand you, Isiq, I declare I do. Peace is our destiny, and we who have lived to see these days must rejoice. The future! How welcome it is!'

A few decades without a bloodbath, and he thinks it's for ever. But how could anyone have guessed the sheer, foul audacity of the plan? For the prophecy Ott had spread among the s.h.a.ggat's faithful came down to this: that their G.o.d-King would return when a Mzithrin prince took the hand of an enemy soldier's daughter when a Mzithrin prince took the hand of an enemy soldier's daughter. Isiq was that soldier, and Thasha the incendiary bride.

Horror and betrayal: and that was before the sorcerer entered the game.

Isiq waved to the mob, despair gnawing his heart like some ghastly parasite. Who among them would believe, even if he screamed it, that as soon as his daughter took Prince Falmurqat's hand the Great s.h.i.+p would set sail - not for Etherhorde, as they'd pretend, but for the depths of the Nelluroq, the Ruling Sea, where no other s.h.i.+p left afloat could follow her? That by crossing that chartless monstrosity of ocean, resupplying in the all-but-forgotten lands of the southern hemisphere, and returning far to the west of Gurishal, they would do the impossible - sail around around the White Fleet, that impenetrable naval wall, sweep down on Gurishal from the Mzithrinis' blind side, and return the s.h.a.ggat to his horde? Preposterous! Unthinkable! the White Fleet, that impenetrable naval wall, sweep down on Gurishal from the Mzithrinis' blind side, and return the s.h.a.ggat to his horde? Preposterous! Unthinkable!

So unthinkable that it could just come to pa.s.s.

No, King. Do not welcome the future, do not hasten it. A cracked mirror, that is all it will prove: a desert where we maroon our children, a broken image of the past.

The Cactus Gardens were the pride of Simja. Tended by a guild of botanical fanatics, they stretched over four dry acres in the heart of the city, a patch of earth that had never been built upon. There were cacti tall as trees and small as acorns, cacti that climbed and cacti that wriggled along the ground, cacti disguised as stones, or heavy with armoured fruit, or bristling with six-inch spikes.

At the heart of the garden rose the Old Sentinels: two rows of ugly, blistered, thousand-year-old plants that groped like tortured fingers at the sky. Between them walked Isiq and his daughter, hand in hand, alone. The procession had swept on without them, into the Royal Rose Gardens next door. Their eleven minutes had begun.

'Failed,' said Isiq.

'Stop saying that,' said Thasha, pulling a wayward spike from her gown. 'And pick your feet up when you walk! You never used to shuffle along like a clown.'

'I won't waste these last moments bickering,' he said. 'Nor will I ask you to forgive me. Only to remember, to think of me now and again, should you somehow--'

Thasha put a hand to his lips. 'What a silly a.s.s you are. Why won't you trust me? You know I have a tactical mind.'

Isiq's brow furrowed. Despite his best efforts he had dozed off briefly in the night. One moment he had been seated on a bench in his cabin, his great blue mastiffs snoring at his feet. The next she was kissing him awake, saying that the Templar monks had drawn their boat alongside the Chathrand Chathrand, waiting for her. A new steadiness had shown in her face, a resolve. It had frightened him.

Now between the monstrous cacti he pressed her hand to his chest.

'If you have devised some plan, you and Hercol and those mad-dog tarboys, it is for you to trust me me. Reveal it now. We'll have no other chance to speak.'

Thasha hesitated, then shook her head. 'We tried, last night. You started shouting, remember? You forbade us to speak.'

'Only of madness. Only of running, or fighting our enemies head-on, or other forms of suicide.'

'What if suicide's the answer?' she said, looking at him fiercely. 'No marriage, no prophecy come true. It's better than anything you've come up with.'

'Do not rave at me, Thasha Isiq. You know His Supremacy left me no choice.'

'I'm tired of that excuse,' said Thasha sharply. 'Even today you're saying "no choice," when the most dangerous thing would be to take no risks at all.'

'That is juvenile idiocy. I know what risk is, girl. I have been a soldier three times as long as you've been alive. You have courage, that's something no one denies. But courage is just one of the virtues.'

Thasha heaved a sigh. 'Daddy, this is the last last thing--' thing--'