The Red Wolf Conspiracy Part 10

"DRINK IT ALL!".

They drank. Pazel had never imagined such misery. His belly ached by the second mugful, and by the fourth he knew his mother was poisoning them, for she herself took not a drop. When the pitcher was finally empty she let them go, but they could do no more than stagger to their rooms and lie quaking, holding their stomachs. Minutes after climbing into bed, Pazel was unconscious.

That night he dreamed his mother entered his room with a cage full of songbirds. They were lovely and of many colors, and their songs took shape in the air and fell like cobwebs about the room. Each time she entered the room the birds wove another layer, until a net of solid sound hung from the walls and wardrobe and bedposts. Then his mother shouted, "Wake!" and Pazel gasped and bolted upright in bed. He was alone, and his room held nothing unusual. Yet the dream had left him with a final, ludicrous image: as he woke, gasping, it seemed that the webs of birdsong had not simply vanished but rushed into his mouth, as if he had inhaled them all on that first breath.

When he left the room he saw three startling things. The first was Neda seated at the table, head in hands, looking quite a bit skinnier than the night before. The second was his mother, in even worse shape, crying at his sister's knees, saying, "Forgive me, darling, forgive." The third was that the garden had sprouted lilies two feet tall.

Then his mother looked up, screamed with joy and ran to embrace him.

Her poison had almost succeeded: they had lain at death's door for a month. Pazel returned her embrace, and when she pressed her ivory whale into his hand and asked him to keep it always he said he would. This was the mother he knew; that other, storm-wors.h.i.+pping, custard-apple creature was a nomad who dropped in now and then to wreck their lives. This mother was easy to love. She guarded the house from the great world beyond, and sang him highland lullabies, and if he ran into nettles at the orchard's edge, she removed them, armed with tweezers and his father's magnifying gla.s.s.

But if he ever saw another custard apple in the house he would just run away.

Four days after rising from his coma, the purring began. It felt warm and almost pleasant. When he told his mother about it she put down the s.h.i.+rt she was mending and came to face him.

"Pazel," she said, lifting his chin sharply, "my name is Suthinia. I am your mother. Do you understand?"

"Of course I do, Mother."

"The geese fly east to chase the drakes."

"What geese?"

Instead of answering, she tugged him to his father's library and pulled a crumbling volume from the shelf. She pointed at the spine and told him to read. Pazel obeyed: "Great Families of Jitril. With Sketches of Their Finest Mansions and "Great Families of Jitril. With Sketches of Their Finest Mansions and--"

"Ah ha ha!" she yelled in triumph.

She kissed his forehead and ran from the room, shouting for Neda. And when Pazel looked down at the book again, he realized that he had just read a language he didn't know. His father had purchased the book for its drawings, on some long-ago voyage to Jitril; neither he nor anyone they knew could read the words. But now Pazel could But now Pazel could. He opened the book at random: "... this dread chief, scourge of the Rekere, whose n.o.ble whiskers "... this dread chief, scourge of the Rekere, whose n.o.ble whiskers--"

Mother, Pazel thought. You're a witch.

So she was: a witch or seer or sorceress, just as the good people of Ormael had always feared. But not a very good one, it seemed. Neda did not acquire the Gift, and in fact showed no change at all except that her hair turned silver, like an old woman's. When Neda failed to read Jitrili, or to understand spoken Madingae, she gave her mother a look Pazel would remember all his life. Not one of anger, but of simple awareness: she had nearly killed her daughter for nothing.

"It may start yet, when you've grown," Suthinia said, and Neda shrugged.

Despite his body's weakness, Pazel was on fire. He ate five eggs and nine strips of bacon, then ran to the city. It was annoying how few languages were to be met with in Ormael, until he reached the port. There he heard Kushal merchants denigrating the local wine; old Backlanders who feared the rains would fail; secretive Nunekkam in their domed skiffs, twittering about the crab catch; and a red-eyed lunatic, barefoot and blistered, who screamed about a coming invasion in a language no one understood.

On that first occasion his Gift lasted three days--and ended, as it always would, in a mind-fit.

This was pure horror. Cold talons seized his head, the odor of custard apples filled his mouth and nostrils, and the purr rose to an ugly, hysterical squawking. Pazel shouted for his mother. But what came from his mouth was nonsense, a baby's blather, noise.

His mother spoke nonsense, too, and Neda. "Gwafamogafwa-Pazel! Magwathalol! Pazelgwenaganenebarlooch!"

He closed his eyes, plugged his ears, but the voices got through. When he looked again, Neda was pointing at him and shrieking at their mother, as if she were the one having fits. Soon his mother responded in kind. The sound was beyond belief "Stop! Stop!" Pazel wailed. But no one understood. When Neda began hurling onions and saucers he ran to the neighbor's house and hid under the porch.

In three hours the fit ended with a snap. He crept out: the neighbor was singing as she cooked, a normal human voice, and no sound was ever sweeter.

But at home his mother said that Neda had tied her clothes up in a bundle and left. The next week he received a letter--she was with school friends, she was looking for work, she would never never forgive their mother. forgive their mother.

Neda sent a boy for her things. She never visited, and did not write again. But one day Pazel found a letter in progress on his mother's dresser. Come back for Pazel's sake, Neda Come back for Pazel's sake, Neda, it read. You don't have to love me You don't have to love me. The letter sat there for days, unfinished: too many days, as it proved.

The magic always worked the same way: first the Gift that gave him the world, then the seizures that cut him off from everyone. A few days of wonder, a few hours of h.e.l.l. The Gift was incredibly useful, of course--and he never forgot a language that he gained through it--but the fits scared him half to death. Once indeed they nearly caused his death: on board the Anju Anju, the whalers sealed him in a coal sack until he fainted. He woke locked in the pigsty, and remained there till landfall. The sailors told him he was fortunate: the captain, believing him possessed by devils, had wanted to pitch him over the side.

By chance they were in Sorhn--and Pazel made straight for the famous street where witches, alchemists and Slugdra ghost-doctors plied their trades. After many inquiries they directed him to a potion-maker, who took every penny he had saved toward his citizens.h.i.+p and served him a thick purple oil. It bubbled, and when the bubbles burst he heard small wheezes like dying mice and smelled something putrid. He drank it in a single gulp.

The potion worked. Nearly a year pa.s.sed without a mind-fit. The fact that he would learn no more languages--magically, anyway--had seemed a small price to pay. But thanks to Chadfallow, the Gift and its horrors were back. Any regrets at his decision to break ties with the doctor vanished when he remembered that smell of custard apples, that ghastly squawking. More bitter for you than me More bitter for you than me. How could he have done such a thing?

Let the fits come at night, he thought. Not while I'm on duty, please! Not while I'm on duty, please!

Shouts and Whispers

1 Vaqrin 941

9:19 a.m.

In any case (Pazel told himself, climbing the gangway), there was no need to worry for several days. He had a new s.h.i.+p to discover, a new life to create.

Halfway to the topdeck someone spoke his name. Pazel turned to see the small, turbaned boy walking just behind him. The boy grinned, and spoke almost in a whisper.

"Where'd you learn that language, eh? Tell the truth!"

"I don't don't know it," said Pazel, unsettled. "Like I told Fiffengurt--someone translated for me." know it," said Pazel, unsettled. "Like I told Fiffengurt--someone translated for me."

"Rubbis.h.!.+" said the boy, and held out his hand. "I have a nose for lies, and that wasn't a very clever one. You're Pazel, you said? My name's Neeps."

"Neeps?"

The small boy's face turned serious. "A ridiculous name, of course."

"No, not at all."

"It means 'thunder' in Sollochi."

"Ah," said Pazel, although he already knew.

"Actually, it's short for Neeparvasi," said the boy, "but you can't be a Neeparvasi in the Empire of Arqual. The Emperor's favorite concubine had a son named Neeparvasi who disgraced himself somehow--used the wrong fork at dinner, maybe, or stepped on the Queen Mother's foot. His Supremacy sent him off to the Valley of the Plague, and forbade anyone to mention him, or remind him the boy had ever existed. And so the name's on a forbidden list, and I'm just Neeps Undrabust."

"Pazel Pathkendle," said Pazel. "How did you end up ash.o.r.e?"

"Dismissed for fighting. What could I do? The blary lout insulted my grandmother."

Pazel wasn't eager to befriend someone who turned insults into fistfights. But he had to admit he was glad to meet another boy from the margins of the Empire.

"There's a lot of us," he whispered, looking over the crowd of boys.

Neeps caught his meaning. "Newly conquered folk? Yes, lots, and that's very strange. Arqualis don't trust anyone with an accent, or skin like yours, or one of these." He tapped his turban. "In fact they hate you a little, or a lot, until your country's been part of the Empire for a hundred years--fully digested, as my old captain used to say. Well, Sollochstal's not digested, I can tell you. Not by a long shot."

His voice was proud but not ill-humored, and Pazel found himself smiling.

"They think I'm just tanned, you know. About half the time."

"And then you open your mouth."

Pazel laughed, nodding. Ormali was a singsong language--and despite all his efforts its rolling cadences emerged in every tongue he spoke.

As they neared the top of the gangway the noises of the s.h.i.+p grew louder. Surging ahead of the boys, Mr. Fiffengurt seized a buntline and pulled himself up on the rail, giving an expansive wave.

"Aboard! Aboard! Step lively, now!"

Like goats crossing a stream, the boys leaped onto the deck. Pazel would never forget what he saw in those first moments. A city A city, he thought. It's a city afloat! It's a city afloat!

They were boarding amids.h.i.+ps. Here the vessel was so wide that the Eniel Eniel could have sat athwart her without touching the rails. Fore and aft she seemed a broad wooden avenue, crowded with barrels, boxes, timbers, heaps of sailcloth, spools of cordage and chain. Swarming through these obstacles were hundreds upon hundreds of people--sailors, stevedores, customs officers, tearful sweethearts, efficient wives, a man selling little sc.r.a.ps of sandrat fur ("n.o.body drowns with sandrat fur!"), monks leaving their holy thumbprints in ash on the foreheads of believers, two bald men fighting over a chicken, a tattoo artist etching a boar on a burly chest. The tarboys stood frozen, awed. They were the only stationary beings aboard. could have sat athwart her without touching the rails. Fore and aft she seemed a broad wooden avenue, crowded with barrels, boxes, timbers, heaps of sailcloth, spools of cordage and chain. Swarming through these obstacles were hundreds upon hundreds of people--sailors, stevedores, customs officers, tearful sweethearts, efficient wives, a man selling little sc.r.a.ps of sandrat fur ("n.o.body drowns with sandrat fur!"), monks leaving their holy thumbprints in ash on the foreheads of believers, two bald men fighting over a chicken, a tattoo artist etching a boar on a burly chest. The tarboys stood frozen, awed. They were the only stationary beings aboard.

A second headcount, and Fiffengurt led them aft, past the mainmast, the longboat, the tonnage hatch yawning like a mineshaft. Clerks and mids.h.i.+pmen shoved by without a glance. High on the yards the sailors looked distant indeed, and Pazel was not surprised to see Mr. Uskins inspecting their work with the aid of a telescope.

At length they reached the stern port ladderway, and Fiffengurt led them into the belly of the s.h.i.+p. One floor down was the main deck, every bit as crowded as the topdeck above, but quite a bit hotter and smellier. Next came the upper gun deck, where the s.h.i.+p's cattle were temporarily stockaded, wearing looks of bewilderment Pazel found deeply justified. Farther forward the boys caught a glimpse of the cannon themselves. They were ferocious guns, tree-trunk thick and scarred by countless years of fire and salt. "Grandfather-guns," said Fiffengurt. "Terrible weapons, to be sure. But the bow carronades throw shot like prize pumpkins. Eighty-pounders. Down we go."

On the lower gun deck a sharp smell of frying onions told them the galley was near. Through the open bulkhead Pazel glimpsed it: a steamy compartment full of pots and saucepans and hanging ladles, where a squadron of cooks busied themselves around a cast-iron stove in which one might have roasted a buffalo. "Mr. Teggatz!" shouted Fiffengurt, barely pausing. "Thirty-six for breakfast, plus the old boys! Now, if you please!"

One more descent, and they stood in darkness. Fiffengurt strode away from them, as sure and quick as he'd been on the daylit topdeck, and Pazel wondered if he had committed the whole s.h.i.+p's plan to memory. A minute later they heard him striking at a flint, and then a lamp sputtered to life.

"Berth deck," said Fiffengurt. "You'll sleep right here, lads, and eat at the rear of the main mess, past the deckhands. You'll have light from the hatches in good weather, and the windscoops freshen the air a bit, once we're under way. Never mind the smell; you won't notice it in a day or two. No windows in your compartment, but if you don't act like hooligans the sailors may leave the doors open on their own berth, and you'll have a bit more light. Come on, in with you."

By the dim glow of walrus oil they explored their new home: a musty wooden cavern, its far corners lost in the gloom. Ma.s.sive stanchions braced the ceiling, which was low enough for the largest boys to touch. Every beam and bulkhead wall, and even the long dining tables, were carved from the same gigantic, immeasurably ancient kind of tree. The air was heavy; it smelled like a barn sealed tight against a storm.

Fiffengurt rapped on a bulkhead. "Cloudcore oak. Strong as any wood in Alifros, but lighter by half. The gun and berth decks are almost solid cloudcore. We don't know half the secrets of the Chathrand Chathrand, lads, but here's one we grasp well enough. Not that it does us much good: there are no more cloudcore oaks. The last fifty trees grow on Mount Etheg in a secret place. They harvest one tree a century, for essential repairs to this gray lady."

Footsteps rang on the stairs behind them. "Ah, Teggatz! Very timely!" said Fiffengurt. "My lads, be good to this man or he'll poison you: he's our head cook."

Teggatz was portly, with round red cheeks. His eyes were small and recessed nearly to the point of invisibility. He laughed, rubbing his hands together nervously. The boys waited, the laugh went on, the hands moved faster and faster. At last Teggatz spoke, in a gleeful, soft explosion: "Shepherd's pie!"

"Shepherd's pie, is it?" said Fiffengurt. "Fancy that! Bring it on, then!"

"Fancy!" giggled Teggatz, and waved up the stairs. More footsteps, and then a second group of boys appeared, bearing plates and platters and cups. They numbered about fifteen: the senior tarboys, kept on from previous voyages. Most greeted the new boys with frank, friendly looks, but a handful gazed at them with something like hostility, as if they were sizing up the compet.i.tion. Fiffengurt introduced them all by name as they set their burdens on the tables.

"These are your elder brothers," he told the new boys. "Some of them have been four years with Chathrand Chathrand. Of course, we've all got a new captain, and new rules to learn. But until you know the s.h.i.+p as well as they do, see that you heed 'em. Peytr and Dastu here are your chiefs because they're the oldest--turning full sailors in a year's time, if they stay out of trouble."

Pazel studied the two older tarboys. Peytr had narrow shoulders and a pointed chin. He smiled, but there was a wariness to his look, as if he were guarding himself against some unpleasant surprise. Dastu was broad and strong, with a look of serenity to his clean-shaven face.

Fiffengurt left them as they sat down to eat. The shepherd's pie was delicious and hot, and when they finished, Peytr and Dastu led them on a tour of the Chathrand Chathrand. This was a hasty business: the s.h.i.+p was set to launch at dusk and work was rising to a frenzy. Lieutenants stormed fore and aft, sweating, shouting orders nonstop. Cargo cranes rose and fell. Brigades of sailors rolled casks along the decks. The boys were shoved, stepped on, laughed at, cursed. No matter where they stood they were in someone's way.

Still, Pazel was in love. There are few things more beautiful than a full-rigged s.h.i.+p, and the Chathrand Chathrand was a marvel to shame all others. Every inch of her seemed the work of mages. There were the famous gla.s.s planks: six mighty, translucent windows, built directly into the floor of the topdeck, flooding the main deck below with daylight. The main deck itself had two gla.s.s planks, and one survived in the floor of the upper gun deck. Over all of these men dragged crate and cannon without a second thought: in six hundred years they had never cracked, nor even sprung a leak. A few had been lost to great violence--cannon fire, falling masts--and had to be replaced with wood, for no record told the name of that wondrous crystal, nor how it had been made or mined. was a marvel to shame all others. Every inch of her seemed the work of mages. There were the famous gla.s.s planks: six mighty, translucent windows, built directly into the floor of the topdeck, flooding the main deck below with daylight. The main deck itself had two gla.s.s planks, and one survived in the floor of the upper gun deck. Over all of these men dragged crate and cannon without a second thought: in six hundred years they had never cracked, nor even sprung a leak. A few had been lost to great violence--cannon fire, falling masts--and had to be replaced with wood, for no record told the name of that wondrous crystal, nor how it had been made or mined.

The speaking-tubes were another marvel: slim copper pipes wrapped in leather, snaking between decks and compartments from stem to stern. They were not much good in foul weather, and useless in a fight, when the cannon deafened everyone. But on calm days the captain could address the officer at the helm without rising from his desk, or call for tea without leaving the quarterdeck.

Stranger sights abounded on the lower decks. Peytr showed them a gunport near the bows where a white, curved object the length of Pazel's forearm lay embedded in the wood. The boys gasped when they realized they were looking at a tooth. "Fang of a sea-serpent," Dastu told them. "Killed four hundred years ago by the gunners at this very window. They sealed a crack in the hull with it, as you can see: good luck, that, or so they hoped."

"And that's not the scariest thing on this s.h.i.+p," said Peytr.

"No, brother, it ain't," said Dastu quickly. "But some things we'll not discuss today."

Of course, not naming such "things" left the tarboys more curious than ever, and soon the rumors began. Curses; creatures in the hold; weird rites among the sailors; tarboys pickled in barrels of brine: by evening Pazel had heard them all. "There's a beam in the afterhold," a freckled boy named Durbee whispered to him, "with the names of all them what's been killed aboard since the day she launched. And even though each name's the size of a grain of rice the list stretches thirteen yards."

"Then there's the vanis.h.i.+ng compartments," said the one called Swift. "If you ever see a door or a hatch where none should be--don't open it! Horrible things in those chambers--and one of 'em never lets you leave again if the door shuts behind you."

"And s-s-s-somewhere," put in Reyast, a kind-faced new boy whose lips quivered with his perpetual stutter, "there's a t-t-talking floorboard. It g-g-groans in the voice of a c-c-c-captain who went m-ma-maaa--"

"Nonsense, Reyast!" said Dastu, overhearing. "Rose is the only captain you should be thinking about. Fear him, if you must fear somebody, and stay out of his path. Now come along, all of you! Get those hammocks up!"

They had only just been a.s.signed their hammocks--patched and moth-eaten, the sailors' rejects--and were scrambling to claim hanging-spots on the berth deck. The older boys showed them how to sling the hammocks from the great ceiling posts called stanchions, and how to climb the post-pegs of a lower hammock up to one's own without knocking them free and sending one's neighbor cras.h.i.+ng down. The hammocks were hung three deep: Pazel found himself on a middle level, with Neeps above him and Reyast below.

"Footlockers to starboard," Peytr had told them, toeing a heavy box. "Lashed tight against the bulkhead except in port and between s.h.i.+fts. Three boys to a box. There's fresh s.h.i.+rts and breeches for you, but don't you touch 'em till you've been scrubbed proper--deverminated, as we say, made pretty for the home port. Like as not Mr. Fiffengurt will burn your old rags in the furnace."

At lunchtime, the new boys had to wait on the hundred sailors of the Third Watch, who gobbled their food and grog with enormous pleasure and shouted for more as the boys rushed up and down the stairs from the galley in a nonstop panic. Howling with laughter, the sailors teased them, saying that Captain Rose would make them run with a cannonball under each arm if they didn't step lively.

"And don't let yer fleas get into me sub-stunnance!"

"He he he! And some Ulluprid rum while you're at it, duckies!"

"Or better yet one o' them Ulluprid girlies. Can ye cook that up?"

As their own midday meal (beef hash with carrots and yams, this time) was ending, Fiffengurt appeared with a tattered sealskin logbook and a blue quill. He cleared a s.p.a.ce on the table and addressed each new boy in turn. Birthplace? Previous s.h.i.+p, if any? Illnesses? Schooling? Skills? Everything they told him went into his logbook.

Pazel dreaded his turn. All day long he'd heard whispers behind his back--guesses and speculations about his skin and accent. When he named Ormael as his birthplace there were winks and m.u.f.fled laughter.

Fiffengurt looked up from his book, and for the first time since their arrival looked genuinely angry. The laughter ceased. Then Fiffengurt asked for his previous s.h.i.+ps. By the time Pazel had listed all six, the boys' faces were still and thoughtful.

"How did you learn Arquali so well?" said Fiffengurt, writing smoothly.

"I worked hard at school, sir," Pazel answered with perfect truth. His fine Arquali had nothing to do with his mother's spell.

When the interviews were done, Fiffengurt told the boys about their duties. Pazel was glad that for all the Chathrand's Chathrand's size, the tasks that kept her sailing were like those of any s.h.i.+p, and he knew them well. Tarboys did not set sails, or weigh anchor, or stand watch, but they helped the sailors in all these tasks, and did a thousand more besides. If they were not mending sailcloth they might be was.h.i.+ng uniforms, sanding anchor-chain, filing down old floor nails or hammering new ones. Then there were the running errands: coal to the galley, meals to the men, water for officers, snuff for the first-cla.s.s lounge. The galley itself needed twenty boys at a s.h.i.+ft. Each deck got a daily scrub. Every rope wore a protective skin of tar. size, the tasks that kept her sailing were like those of any s.h.i.+p, and he knew them well. Tarboys did not set sails, or weigh anchor, or stand watch, but they helped the sailors in all these tasks, and did a thousand more besides. If they were not mending sailcloth they might be was.h.i.+ng uniforms, sanding anchor-chain, filing down old floor nails or hammering new ones. Then there were the running errands: coal to the galley, meals to the men, water for officers, snuff for the first-cla.s.s lounge. The galley itself needed twenty boys at a s.h.i.+ft. Each deck got a daily scrub. Every rope wore a protective skin of tar.

"How much rigging do we carry, boys?" Fiffengurt asked. "Can ye guess?"

"Leagues and leagues!"

"A mile's worth! Two miles!"

Fiffengurt laughed. "Thirty-nine miles," he said. "And there won't be a fray or a weakness in any bit 'o them, lads. Not while Nilus Rose is captain."