The Night of the Swarm

24

Monday, 2 Fuinar 942.

It is truly extraordinary: our ixchel have charmed the birds of the air. One sort of bird, anyway — the swallows of Stath Balfyr — and in truth just one ixchel appears to have the knack. He is Myett’s granddad, the old duffer they call the Pachet Ghali. At six bells today he pulls out a tiny flute and sets to playing on the forecastle, and in they swarm from the island, skimming low over the bay. Lord Talag stands among them in his swallow-suit, pointing and shouting, and thirty more of the little people materialize out of their hiding places, laughing at the birds with delight. Who’s in control, I wonder: the musician or the feathered lord? But how they do keep coming, until they outnumber the ixchel four to one.

Suddenly they descend in a jabbering mass. Grown men fall back, protecting their faces, but the birds have no interest in humans. They seize the ixchel in their claws and rise, bearing them away towards the island and its steamy woods. Only the Pachet is left behind.

This, then, has been their plan since Etherhorde: to bring us all the way here from Etherhorde, and then depart on swallows’ wings. They mean to repeat this trick again and again, until their whole clan is on dry land. And what then? Ott declares for a certainty that they’ll not let us go, and this time I fear the old snake is right. What if we talked about this place? What if we came back with catapults and fire-missiles, and burned Stath Balfyr to a crisp? What if we came back with a navy?

But there are surely hundreds of ixchel hidden on the Chathrand yet, and thus far only thirty have departed. When the first group vanishes from sight the old Pachet (the word’s his title, not his name) sets the flute aside and talks to us quite reasonably. He invokes Diadrelu, ‘our lord’s dear departed sister’, and compliments Marila and Felthrup and myself for befriending her.

‘She would have wished us to part without illusions, and without hate,’ he says. ‘You are guilty of many crimes, but hating you has served us ill. Lady Dri understood this and would not pretend otherwise. She would not lie to us, or to herself. But the cost of seeing that truth was death.’

I suppose I’m in the mood for a fight. ‘It ain’t just that she saw, old man,’ I say. ‘It’s that the rest of you refused to.’

‘Not all of us,’ he replies.

I tell him he’s a mucking hypocrite. ‘If you think so much of her, why d’ye still serve the bastards who stabbed her in the throat?’

The old man looks at me, untroubled. ‘I serve the clan,’ he says, ‘as she did, to the end.’

Some hours later the birds return. With them are just three ixchel: Lord Talag and two strangers, hard-faced sorts dressed only in breeches and weaponry. They are the first proof we have that ixchel really live on Stath Balfyr. They’re outlandish, too: they have fantastic, elephant-like creatures tattooed on their chests, and their hands and forearms are painted red as though dipped in blood. They flank Talag and nod to him courteously, but Talag is all business as he speaks with the Pachet in that tongue we humans cannot hear. Now the old man looks surprised and uneasy. The birds have settled along the bowsprit, spattering the Goose Girl with their droppings, but when he starts to play again they rise up twittering and excited. This time they bear the Pachet away with the rest.

It is hard not to stare at the spot on the island where they disappeared. Sometimes I think I see the treetops moving, as if a wind were trapped there, or some big hand riffling the crowns. But there are other urgencies. The gangs have exploded yet again: there are two dead and twenty wounded. And a deathsmoker who lost his mind and threw himself at the augrongs, who panicked a little and squeezed him to death. And a plague of horrible green flies from the island. They have settled in the heads and bite our arses, and give us great goose-egg boils.

And there is a last thing, so terrible my hand is shaking as I write. About a week ago someone nicked a goat from the animals’ compartment. This was strange but not catastrophic: somewhere a confused and frightened sailor was hoarding goat-flesh, maybe, and no doubt the flies would soon give him away. But last night Mr Teggatz noticed a change in the stench around the water casks, and had the good sense to pry the lid open before he sipped. He howled. The goat’s head and viscera were floating there, half-decayed. The whole cask was poisoned, and so were four others beside it. The cook’s nose has saved lives — hundreds of lives, maybe; for he was about to boil up the evening broth. Is this the work of gangsters? Could they possibly have gone so far?

Whoever the culprit, we are now once again low on fresh water. All this, and Dr Chadfallow nowhere to be found. I have put eight tarboys on the hunt for him, and will have to watch my temper if I learn that he is poking about the lower decks yet again in search of his green mucking door.

Tuesday, 3 Fuinar 942.

I cannot sleep, and fear the visions that would plague me if I did. My heart is pounding. My shoes reek so badly of blood I have had to tie them up in a sack.

Last night Rose summoned us to a secret council in the galley — me, Ott, Uskins, Sergeant Haddismal, even Marila and Felthrup. Mr Teggatz was instructed to make a great deal of noise with pots and boilers. In this way Rose hoped the ixchel would not catch our words, if they still bothered to spy on us.

The meeting was a failure. It was clear to all of us that the ship would never be permitted out of the bay. Rose ordered Haddismal and Ott to pull together plans for a night assault on the island, and for once all three were in complete agreement. ‘They can throw boulders,’ said Ott, ‘but that will be of little use against Turachs dispersed among the trees. They are still just crawlies, and we are men.’

‘We have enough small craft to put two hundred on the shore at once,’ said Haddismal. Then he frowned and glanced at the spymaster. ‘Of course, that would leave us with no means to evacuate the ship.’

‘Timbers, then,’ said Ott. ‘The bay is calm, and the water warm enough. Lower some mastwood under cover of darkness, and let the men swim ashore on either side.’

The rest of us objected desperately. Marila said we should be sending gifts, not soldiers. Felthrup squeaked about shark fins in the bay.

‘And my officers have nothing to contribute?’ Rose demanded with a snarl. Uskins shook his head sorrowfully, but I cleared my throat. Our best hope was to find the ixchel stronghold on the Chathrand, I said, and to seize their food and water, along with a good number of hostages. Then we could bargain our way out of this trap.

But at this Felthrup only wailed: ‘You can’t, you can’t!’

‘Be quiet, Felthrup!’ hissed Marila. But it was too late. Rose loomed over him like a mountain, ordered him to reveal all he knew. Felthrup only shook his head and muttered, ‘Impossible, don’t try.’

Then Rose exploded. He seized Felthrup and stormed across the galley, making for the oven. Marila screamed, Teggatz sputtered and waved a spoon. And I–I drew my knife and went for the captain. I do believe I would have stabbed him in the back. Ott moved like a panther, however. I caught a glimpse of his face (grinning) before something struck my skull. Then darkness swallowed me up.

When I woke I was alone with Teggatz in the galley. ‘Out cold!’ he said, helping me up with a grin. ‘It’s Monday. Like every Monday. Every one is the same.’

‘Felthrup-’

Teggatz pointed proudly at the oven.

‘Gods of Death — no!’

I shoved him aside and flew across the room and threw down the iron door. Felthrup was in there, all right — blinking, terrified, unharmed. The oven was stone cold.

‘No plum duff,’ said Teggatz. ‘No baking on Monday. Bah hah.’

A few minutes later Marila appeared and carried Felthrup back to the stateroom. I sat there hoping Teggatz would produce his jug of rum, but he was all business tonight, readying the galley for lock-up so that he might snatch a few hours’ sleep. I’d rarely felt more wretched. The boils in my trousers were as sore as my head. ‘Where in the shade of the Blessed Tree is Dr Chadfallow?’ I asked aloud.

Teggatz closed the door behind me. I turned away and found myself facing Uskins, of all people. He was strangely lucid, and nervous in the extreme. ‘Thank Rin you’re awake,’ he said, glancing nervously about. ‘I came looking for you, Fiffengurt. I have the most terrible news.’

I felt my heart skip a beat. ‘What is it? The doctor?’

Uskins started, then shook his head. ‘I know knothing of Chadfallow.’ Then he lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s the crawlies, Fiffengurt. They’re going to sink us for certain. I’ve found the proof.’

I stared at him. ‘What sort of proof?’

‘Can’t you guess?’ he hissed sharply. ‘You know this ship as well as Rose. You tell me: how could a man sabotage her from within? Swiftly, irrevocably, leaving no time for the damage to be stopped?’

‘There ain’t no certain way.’

‘But the most likely. Think, Fiffengurt: how would you do it?’

I shook my head. ‘Maybe. . the way Old Captain Ingle sank the Blaze in Rukmast Harbour.’ He looked at me blankly. ‘Where were you in ’26, man? They say he braced a cargo jack against the keelson, and cranked it hard against the hull until a wale popped its screws.’

‘A wale.’

I pressed a hand to my throbbing head. ‘A facing timber, Uskins. A blary plank. You know what a wale is, by damn. Now what’s this news?’ He was silent for a moment, as though lost in thought. Then he looked up at me sharply. ‘What you’re describing is almost exactly what’s going to occur.’

‘Going to?’ I cried. ‘Are you bent full sideways? What did you find, and why haven’t you been shouting your daft dirty head off about it? Flaming toads, Stukey-’

He thumped me in the stomach, then clapped a hand over my mouth. He pressed his lips close to my ear.

‘Maggot,’ he said. ‘I have your peasant girl in my cabin with a death scarab on her forehead. If she screams, or moves, or I but think the command, that scarab will burn down through her skull like magma. You will not shout. You will show me this cargo jack, and help me position it. And you will deflect any questions, and send crewmembers out of our way.’

‘Who-?’

‘Not a word, not a word but to my purpose. I will give her agony before she dies. I warned her not to cry out even if it burned. I told her to think of her child.’

‘Arunis!’ I gasped.

He gave me a little frown. ‘The scarab has just burned through her skin. Next will come her skull, if you do not heed me. The cargo jack. Take me to it. I will not ask again.’

I started marching. Nightmare, nightmare. Arunis in Uskins’ body, intending to sink us at last. Arunis torturing Marila, disfiguring her. And damn him to the Pits, but she was strong enough to keep silent as her flesh burned. She could do that. He had chosen well.

‘You ruined our water, too, I suppose. With the goat innards.’

‘Be silent,’ he snarled.

My legs were wobbly. We crept down the No. 3 ladderway, then crossed to the narrow scuttle by the cable tiers. Uskins (Arunis) walked naturally at my side. He’d told me to deflect questions, but there wouldn’t be any. Nobody but Rose would question either of us; we were officers.

At the mercy deck I lit a lamp. There were cargo jacks down in the hold, where the sabotage would have to be done. But why make it easy for him? I started aft towards the Abandoned House, that loneliest part of the ship, where the youths and I hatched our doomed plans for mutiny. There was a jack here, in a crawlspace. But there were many crawlspaces, and they all looked the same. A man could get confused.

The halls were narrow and black. Arunis (Uskins) grew twitchy. ‘What are you doing, maggot? This is not the hold.’

‘The jack,’ I whispered. ‘Just ahead.’

‘What was that noise? Who is down here?’

‘There’s nobody here,’ I told him. ‘But look: that’s the one.’

Except that it wasn’t. In fact I wasn’t exactly sure what was behind the crawlspace door at our feet, but I was blary sure it wasn’t a cargo jack. I was stalling, of course. I’d remembered that this particular door was triple-bolted, and the bolts stiff and rusted. But now I was seized with fear for Marila. Helping to sink the Chathrand wouldn’t save her, but how could I let him maim the girl?

‘Open it!’ Arunuskins hissed. ‘Any tricks and that little whore will know pain beyond reason, I swear it.’

I set the lamp down and knelt. The first bolt slid free easily (I cursed inside) but the second put up a fight. My hands were shaking. Marila’s face, Marila’s tears-

‘Chadfallow guessed,’ said Arunuskins.

I started, twisting about, and he cuffed me on the cheek. I turned back to the bolt.

‘Mr Uskins died of nerves,’ said the voice behind me. ‘Despite the plague, he tried to refuse my services. But before I left the ship I persuaded him to keep my scarf, just in case. It was my voice in his ear, that scarf. It stoked his terror as the plague advanced, until he could think of nothing else. And then he let me in, and I took over the house.’

‘And his soul?’ I asked, shaking. ‘Where are you keeping it?’

‘Nowhere,’ said the voice. ‘That coward’s mind was of no use to me. I forced it out through the window, and let the breeze carry it away. You should thank me, Fiffengurt. You despised the man. Didn’t everyone?’

The second bolt slid free, and I moved on to the third. Slowly.

‘I too am dead,’ said the voice. ‘Dead to this world, that is. But when the Swarm has lain it waste I shall inherit the universe. Then I shall need no more puppets. I will never stoop so low again.’

I popped the third bolt. The door fell open — on a thoroughly empty crawlspace. I winced, expecting to feel him cuff me again. But instead I heard the sorcerer lurch violently away. I whirled. He was writhing, both hands at his neck. Behind him, holding tight to a garrotting wire, stood Sandor Ott.

‘Don’t do it!’ I howled. ‘He’ll kill Marila!’

‘Unluckily for him, I could not care less,’ said Ott. ‘Keep still, monster! I can drop your head on these boards with a twitch of the wrist.’

A ghastly wheeze escaped Arunuskins’ throat. His eyes were locked on me. ‘But Ott!’ I pleaded, ‘He’s put some some vile thing on Marila’s forehead, he’s torturing her-’

‘Shut up. And stand clear, unless you want to be soaked.’

The mage’s cheeks had hollowed out; his eyes were bulging like grapes. The wire had already drawn a little blood. A thin sound, like steam from a kettle, came from Uskin’s throat.

Ott grinned. ‘You have some comment on the precedings? In fact I think we’ve heard quite enough from you. But if you care to bargain for this stolen body, you may try. Let me spare you some effort: we know already that Macadra has taken the Nilstone.’

Arunuskins twitched violently. The wire bit deeper into his flesh.

‘Careful!’ said Ott. ‘Yes, we have that on good authority. Your old sparring partner learned it, dream-walking. I’m speaking of Felthrup of course. Macadra has taken the Nilstone, and slain Pathkendle’s gang. And she is halfway here.’

Once again Arunuskins jumped. His face contorted with pain.

‘Beyond that, have you anything of consequence to say?’ demanded Ott. ‘If so, just raise a finger.’

Arunuskins hesitated, beady eyes swivelling. Ott clicked his tongue. ‘I thought not,’ he said.

His arm jerked fiercely. The wire slashed, the flesh parted. I slipped in the blood as I shoved past Ott and the gushing corpse, blinded by my tears. Ott called after me casually, as if to say, Don’t bother. I flew to the upper decks, smashed into sailors, incoherent with grief-

Marila was standing on the lower gun deck, unharmed. ‘What is it?’ she cried. ‘Why are you bloody? Mr Fiffengurt, are you all right?’

I fell on my knees, hugged her, weeping like a child. All lies. They were so good at it, these spies and sorcerers. And I am hopeless and always will be. I couldn’t seem to release her. I felt her heartbeat, and I felt that wee babe kick.

Wednesday, 4 Fuinar 942.

We found Dr Chadfallow in Uskins’ cabin, under a shroud of flies. I have no heart to write of my friend just yet. Not a word more, or I shall be unable to continue.

Let me write instead of the scarf. Captain Rose soaked it in lamp oil, applied a torch, and held it out over the sea on the end of a boathook. A crowd gathered for the grim little ceremony: the ones who had outlived the sorcerer. No one said much. It felt good just to stand there. As the cloth burned, Thasha’s dogs whined and pricked up their ears, and Felthrup asked if we didn’t hear someone moaning, very far, very faint?

Now in bed I am thinking of Sandor Ott. Did he have a spy watching Uskins — or watching me? It hardly matters any more. What does matter is this: that whore’s bastard didn’t know that Arunis was lying. About Marila, that is. He simply didn’t care. He’d lost a few hands of poker against the mage before, and wasn’t going to lose this one. Come what may.

Later, in Rose’s cabin, he all but crowed. ‘I enjoyed spilling that blood. There was no reason to question Arunis further. He was dead, and you can’t threaten the dead: there’s a lesson every prince ought to learn. Nor can you bribe a man who wants nothing you possess. All we could hope for was to learn what the mage didn’t know.’

‘You lied to him,’ I said.

‘Of course. Felthrup does not know if Macadra has the Nilstone, or that she is chasing us. But now we know that Arunis hated both ideas. The two mages were not in league; or if they were, Arunis was only pretending, and planning to betray Macadra. In either case he is unlikely to have been guiding her towards the Chathrand.’

‘But why did he try to sink us?’ growled Sergeant Haddsimal, enraged. ‘We’ve got the Shaggat Ness on board! Didn’t he want that fiend delivered to his worshippers? Ain’t that the whole mucking idea? ’

‘Fool!’ snapped Lady Oggosk. ‘It was your idea. Which is to say Arqual’s. Which is to say Ott’s.’

‘It was the sorcerer’s wish as well, for a time,’ said Rose. ‘But we all know better now. The Shaggat was a tool. So was the war between Arqual and the Mzithrin. Even the Nilstone, ultimately, was a tool. The end was something blacker and more immense.’

‘And maybe Arunis found another means to that end,’ I said. ‘Maybe the Shaggat just ain’t necessary no longer. But sinking the Chathrand is.’

‘Or prudent, at the least,’ said Ott. ‘But why prudent, I ask you? What can we do with this ship that worries him? Nothing that a thousand other ships cannot do — except cross the Ruling Sea. In the North that makes the Chathrand unique. And even here such ships are exceedingly few.’

‘That is so,’ said the captain. ‘The Behemoth that chased us was vast, but any tarboy could tell you it wasn’t seaworthy. The waves on the Nelluroq would have sunk it in a matter of hours. Macadra’s ship is rumoured to be a Segral like the Chathrand, but the prince made it clear that she was just one of a handful of such vessels left afloat.’

‘And only one of them is making for the North,’ added Ott. ‘That is what distinguished us, gentlemen. There was certainly a time when Arunis wished us to take the Nilstone to Gurishal. But now, in death, he has learned something that makes him fear what once he craved.’

All this was in the wee hours of that horrid night. Despite our exhaustion we were all on our feet save Lady Oggosk, who was slumped at the dining table, chewing cow-like on a lump of mul. But at Ott’s words she grew still, and her milk-blue eyes gazed up at us with wonder.

‘A tool,’ she said. ‘By the Night Gods, Nilus, the loathsome spy may be right. We know that Arunis made tools of everyone he touched. But in another’s hands he himself may have been a tool. And for what?’

She straightened up in her chair. ‘Not for the death of the world. He wanted that himself, needed it, worked like a lunatic to achieve it. No, Arunis feared nothing but the world’s salvation. And after death, he’s learned that this very mission stands a chance of bringing it about.’

The room fell silent. On Rose’s desk, Sniraga watched us, purring. Finally the captain spoke: ‘Arunis, a tool of the Gods?’

Lady Oggosk shook her head firmly. But Sandor Ott began a slow, loud clap. At first I thought him jesting, but then I looked at his face. He had never looked so blissful, so moved. He squeezed the witch’s hands (Oggosk recoiled with a scowl), and even gazed fondly at the rest of us. His eyes, I swear to Rin, were moist.

‘So,’ he said, ‘the truth appears at last. Despite ourselves, we are on the same side.’

We waited. No one had any idea what he meant.

‘Your duchess is most wise,’ he continued. ‘And let no one doubt it further: we shall be this world’s deliverance. The return of the Shaggat will be the Mzithrin’s death-knell, and the dawn of the Arquali age. In my darkest hours I have asked myself: why? Why did we ever crossed that horrid sea? Why so vast a journey, into such unknowns? Now I understand: it was that we might learn of Arqual’s greater task.’

‘Greater?’ rumbled the captain.

The spymaster nodded, enraptured. ‘The Black Rags will fall. The Crownless Lands we will harvest like grapes on the vine. And when the banner of His Supremacy waves over all lands north of the Nelluroq, then it will be time to plan a reckoning with the South. Don’t you see? Bali Adro is imploding, ruining itself. Their sun is setting; ours has just begun to rise. Arqual is the best hope for this poor, bludgeoned world. You know that. Everyone does, in his heart. And now at last we see the guiding hand. This bay will not hold us. Nothing can hold us, nothing ever stops this boat for long. Storms, thirst, whirlpools, crawly infestations, magical armies, mutant rats. We pass through them, straight and certain as the mind of Rin. And behold, this final proof: a devil risen from the Pits to try and thwart us. But he could not. The Emperor’s cause has the mandate of heaven.’

‘I didn’t say that!’ shrieked Oggosk. But the spymaster was already making for the door.

Thursday, 5 Fuinar 942. Fegin is our first mate, now; old Coote has replaced him as bosun. Jervik Lank, Chadfallow’s last assistant, is caring for tweny-four men in the sickbay, with help (of a sort) from Dr Rain, who is indefatigable, but cannot be left alone with the patients. I am told he recently brought them soup in a bedpan.

This morning Lank showed me a note he discovered in Chadfallow’s desk. It is written in the late doctor’s hand:

Let it be known that it is my wish to be buried in the heart of the Ruling Sea, not in waters claimed by any power in Alifros, for it was only when I cast off belief in nations that I perceived something of my soul.

However if circumstances allow, I should like my son, Pazel Pathkendle, to light a candle for me in the Physicians’ Temple at 17 Reka Street, Etherhorde. This is an amendment to my Last Testament of 5 Vaqrin 941, which in all other particulars remains in force.

Five Vaqrin! It appears that just days before the Chathrand sailed from Etherhorde, old Chadfallow made a will. I have asked Lank to search for that testament, even if he had to dig through every one of Chadfallow’s twenty-two crates of documents and scrolls. Lank was more than willing when he understood that by finding it he might be doing Pazel a good turn.

Felthrup, too, has taken an interest in Chadfallow’s papers, or at least one set of them: his log of the times and places where the Green Door appeared. Fascination with the door has passed like a germ from the doctor’s mind to the rat’s. Marila says that he read the logbook straight through six times, and then began to beg her to race about the decks with him to see if Chadfallow really had found a pattern. I gather they believe he has.

As for the doctor himself, we have embalmed him after the mariner’s fashion until we somehow escape this bay.¹⁷ And how long do we have for that little job? Today at five bells the swallows returned (along with Lord Talag and his frowning escorts) and carried off more ixchel, and at seven bells they did the same. At least a hundred have fled the Chathrand already. Most did not spare her a backward glance, but a few did, their copper eyes softening with affection. The worst of boats still tries to save us from the sea.

At eight bells, Felthrup made an odd request — an audience with poor Captain Magritte, the whaler we picked up in the Nelu Rekere, and his Quezan spearmen. Of course Magritte is blind — was blinded, rather, during the carnage at Masalym. An ixchel dropped on his head from above, and that was that. Two knives, tok-tok. Chadfallow told us he was lucky to have lived through it. I often wonder if Magritte concurs.

‘What d’ye want to go bothering him about?’ I asked Felthrup.

‘The world’s salvation!’ he squeaked. I had to bite my lips to keep from shouting Not you as well! I tried to put him off until evening, but to my surprise he grew quite fierce with me.

‘What favours have I ever asked of you, you white-whiskery man? Or have I not earned even one? You think me talkative, excitable, custodian of a vacillating mind. You think my worries are dander in the wind.’

‘Now, Ratty-’

‘Our doom is near, Mr Fiffengurt! The Swarm of Night is growing, growing. He did not lie about that!’

‘Who didn’t?’

‘Who! Who! That is my question exactly! His name is not Tulor, he lies! But if I guess his true name I shall have him!’

A man can face but so much jibberish. I roused Magritte and led him and Ratty to the compartment on the main deck where the Quezans sleep. For whalers and reformed cannibals they are an amazingly pacific bunch. All four stand over six feet and have long horizontal scars on their chests for every harpoon kill. But they fear sorcery more than death itself, and have never truly recovered from the battle with the monster rats. At the sight of Felthrup (who rushed at them, babbling) they exploded to their feet and fled by the opposite door. We had to hobble after them, across the deck and down the No. 4 to the berth deck. It took a great deal of soothing before they’d consent to listen to a talking rodent.

I was most irritated with Felthrup; I daresay Chadfallow’s murder opressed us both more than we knew. Luckily he wanted just one thing from the whalers. It was the meaning of a word, ‘Kazizarag’, which I gather he found in his blessed Polylex. He’d somehow deduced that it had its roots in the native Quezan tongue, and that Magritte was the only one aboard who might effect a translation.

In fact he was right on all counts. ‘Kazizarag’ means ‘greed’ or ‘gluttony’. But the word sparked nervous laughter among the Quezans, and after some hesitation they told Magritte that it was also a word attached to many a devil or villainous God in their stories: Uchudidu Kazizarag is ‘the Greedy Pig-Devil’ who steals from the poor man’s hut while he’s out fishing the reefs.

‘Of course he is!’ shrilled Felthrup, hopping with delight. Then he turned and looked up at me. ‘I must have gold, Mr Fiffengurt! A great deal, and quickly!’

I took him from the chamber and lowered my voice. ‘Come now, Ratty; why do you say such silly things?’

‘Oh, am I silly now?’ he shot back. ‘You have done no research. You have enjoyed fresh air and pleasant company while I sat alone on Thasha’s bed, turning pages with my teeth. And all the while he is screaming, screaming behind those iron bars.’

‘Iron bars? Are you talkin’ about someone in the brig?’

Felthrup shook his head. ‘Tell me quickly: do you know where the hoard is? The great hoard from the Emperor’s coffers?’

I was startled. ‘It ain’t in one place. They broke it up into smaller caches. I’ve a pretty good guess where one of ’em is, though.’

‘You must raid it. You must bring me gleaming treasure.’

‘But why?’

‘Why!’ shouted Felthrup. ‘Why, why, why, why! Of all puerile words in the Arquali tongue! Of all vacant, gnawed-off, insipid, animal-mews-’

‘Never mind yer commentaries!’ I barked.

‘So you refuse.’

‘No I don’t mucking refuse! I’d walk barefoot in a bed of razor clams for you, if you care to know. But Rin’s gizzard, just tell me what it’s about!’

‘I would rather face him alone. He is vile and tricky.’

‘Black Pits of Damnation, Felthrup! Are you sayin’ Arunis has his claws in another man?’

‘Not Arunis. The Glutton. The Glutton is far more dangerous now.’

‘You can’t mean the Shaggat Ness?’

‘Of course not!’ He ran six times around my feet. Then he stopped, rubbed his face with terrible anxiety, and told me of the demon in the cage.

Friday, 6 Fuinar 942.

It was a suspicious box. No latches, no screws, and its lid glued down fast and for ever. It was mounted on the underside of the floor planks of the portside afterhold, about ten feet above the noxious, sloshing bilge well.¹⁸ You could easily miss it, even if you had cause to creep down inside that watery space, as few men did. I had noticed the box during the removal of the rat carcasses in Masalym. But I’d never breathed a word, for it could only be one of the treasure chests brought aboard in secret back in Arqual, and would only bring evil and infighting down upon us if its existence became known to the crew.

I’d put it quite out of my mind until my talk with Ratty yesterday. And when I arrived and stuck my head through the little bilge-hatch, I cursed.

‘What’s the matter?’ whispered Marila. I’d brought her with me to hold the hurricane lamp, which we’d only just dared to light. It had taken us the better part of an hour to find this spot, feeling our way down lightless passages. I’d made Felthrup stay behind in the state-room: if the ixchel found him here there’d be no protection we could give.

But it was all in vain: someone had beaten us to the gold. I reached in and felt the hatcheted remains of the box, still dangling from the boards. I cursed again: Felthrup would be apoplectic. Then Marila lowered her face to the hatch and she cursed.

‘Well ain’t that the devil’s pancake,’ I said. ‘And that gold ain’t no use to anybody while we’re on this ship. Including Felthrup’s own greedy devil, if it exists.’

‘Demon,’ she said, ‘and Felthrup’s only going by-’

She broke off, squinting at the darkness. Then she lowered the lamp into the bilge-well on its chain. ‘Look down there,’ she said, ‘at the very bottom. Aren’t those coins?’

Sure as Rin makes rain, there were gold cockles winking up at us, under twenty feet of frigid, ship-filthy water. The raiders had been sloppy. They’d spilled a part of their takings into the bilge.

‘How much does Felthrup need?’ Marila asked.

I shrugged. ‘As much as we can lay our hands on. But it doesn’t matter, does it? We ain’t collecting those.’

‘Of course we are. Go on, empty the pouch.’

‘See here,’ I said firmly, ‘if you think I’m about to go diving into that slime just because Ratty’s been dream-debating some pot-bellied spook-’

‘I don’t think anything of the kind.’

Before I quite knew what was happening, Marila had stripped down to her dainties and was getting set to leap into the bilge. She was a pearl diver, as I’d nearly forgotten. I told her no, no — get away from there — we’ll find a tarboy, we’ll scoop ’em up somehow — sit down, you’re too fat, you’re a mother-in-the-making-

She jumped. I was so frightened I nearly dropped the lamp chain. Marila struck the bilious water, gasped once, then turned head-down and kicked for the bottom. I must record here that she was lovely, graceful as a murth-girl, for all that her belly was round as a harvest moon. After a few strokes she’d churned up so much flotsam that I could barely see her. But when she surfaced (two long minutes later) there was gold in her purse.

She dived twice more. Then I unhooked the lamp and dropped her the chain. The first tug nearly broke my back — that babe will surely be a giant, parents notwithstanding — but there was no choice, I was going to haul her out or die trying. I fought for inches. There was no good footing; the chain snagged on the edge of the hatch. Just when I feared to disgrace myself by dropping her back into the bilge, out she came: a stinking, beautiful seal. I wrapped my coat around her. In the sack were forty gold cockles and a silver Heaven’s Tree with gems for fruit.

[Two hours later]

Something is amiss with the little people. This afternoon Lord Talag and the two islanders returned once again, and as usual there was a crowd of ixchel waiting to depart. But as the swallows descended Talag suddenly began barking orders. We couldn’t hear the words of course — it was all in ixchel-speak — and I daresay his native escorts didn’t fully understand them either. But his own clan did. At Talag’s first word they scattered in all directions, and in a matter of seconds they were gone below.

Talag brought the birds swooping down, but his gestures were different this time, more erratic, and the flock surged about in confusion. The islanders were suddenly outraged, screaming and threatening; one even waved a knife. Talag appeared to be protesting his helplessness. But after a moment he reassembled the flock, and the three flew back across the bay.

At my elbow, Sergeant Haddismal turned and gave me an accusing look. ‘What are yer little darlings up to now?’

‘Talag’s no friend to me and never has been,’ I snapped. ‘But Stath Balfyr’s not workin’ out like he planned.’

‘Oh ho,’ said Haddismal. ‘And how do you know that?’

‘By that scene, of course. By his blary face.’

‘You can’t read a crawly’s face. And what’s this plan you’re talking about?’

‘I’m not talking about any plan! What I mean is, they’re fighting, or arguing at least. So maybe these islanders didn’t greet their brothers with wide-open arms.’

Haddismal cracked the knuckles of his enormous hands. ‘If they’re fighting, let ’em fight on. Let ’em bleed! I’d step on ’em one by one if I could.’

‘Gods damn it, tinshirt, they ain’t all the same! Talag’s a lunatic, and his son’s a fool, but Lady Dri was-’

‘Scum!’

I jumped a foot in the air. It was Sandor Ott. The snake had slithered up behind me.

‘What is happening?’ he hissed. ‘What message did Talag pass to his clansmen, just now?’

‘How should I know? Do I have crawly ears?’

‘Tell us of their plan, Fiffengurt.’

At that my self-control just snapped, and I raised my eyes to heaven: ‘I DO NOT KNOW THEIR PLAN. I DO NOT KNOW THAT THEY EVEN POSSESS A PLAN. I AM NO BETTER INFORMED THAN YOU, YOU OLD-’

His arm moved in a blur. I felt a sharp sting beneath my good eye and recoiled. He had drawn his white knife and cut me, with a surgeon’s precision, just deep enough to break the skin.

‘If I learn that you have conspired with the crawlies again, I will kill you, and slaughter that whore Marila like a pig. Do not imagine my threat is as empty as the sorcerer’s. It will be done.’

Saturday, 7 Fuinar 942. All day there is eerie silence from Stath Balfyr. Then at dusk a man on the foremast reports hearing a strange echo: maybe a trumpet, maybe the bellow of some forest beast. Ott’s own beastly instincts are surely triggered, for he persuades Rose to roll out the guns and flood the deck with Turachs. The drums sound, the officers scream; the men and tarboys fall terrified into their practised roles.

And nothing happens. The night grows dark and chill. Hours pass, the gunnery crews crouch drowsy by their weapons. Rose paces, stem to stern. I too am on deck and waiting, for what I cannot say.

It comes at six bells, three o’clock in Rin’s blessed morning. But it is not the attack we fear. No, it is only the swallows again, swooping down for another group of ixchel. This time the exodus begins on the quarter-deck, not the forecastle. Men start to race there, who knows why. I hear bellows from the soldiers in the lead.

I’m halfway to the bow but make a run for it. I see Ott far ahead. ‘Alive! ’ he’s shouting. ‘Take them alive! Catch them, sweep them up, you slow-arsed dogs! ’

When I draw near I see that Talag has come from ashore without his minders, and with a much larger flock of birds. On the quarterdeck, hundreds of ixchel are waiting to leap into their claws. They are earnest and grim. No sense of victory here. Every last man and woman is armed to the teeth.

The Turachs have nets. Someone — Ott, Rose? — has commanded them to prevent this exodus, lest we find ourselves holding no hostages, and thus no cards. But the ixchel have mostly slipped through our fingers. Maybe a dozen get nabbed, or crushed underfoot¹⁹, but the bulk of the clan flows straight up the rails and rigging, like beads of oil drawn magically skyward, and the urgent swallows pluck them and make off across the bay, with Talag circling, shouting them on.

Ere they vanish I catch one glimpse of his face. For an instant I think he is disfigured: something (an ear, an eye?) has surely been ripped away. Then I realise it’s nothing physical. It’s his confidence that has ruptured, his certainty. And that is a thousand times crueller in Lord Talag, that colossus of pride. He is still fighting, still leading his people somewhere, and furiously, but the reason behind it is gone.

Monday, 9 Fuinar 942.

Marila has come running. The Green Door has appeared on the mercy deck, and Felthrup’s mind cannot be changed. We are to meet there at once, to bargain with a creature of the Pits.