The Night of the Swarm

29

13 Fuinar 942

Hercol and Bolutu left the topdeck at once, bearing the Nilstone and the wine of Agaroth. Thasha’s other friends crowded near her, touching her as they might something exceptionally fragile. Men crept gingerly through the wreckage, inspecting the rigging, the masts. Whole palm trees were heaved over the rail. A stunned Captain Fiffengurt began to issue orders, salvaging his ship.

The disorder was massive, but the damage proved slight, and by two bells they were underway. A few hours later, Captain Rose’s prediction was upheld: the little island east of Stath Balfyr yielded both fresh water and forage. With dusk approaching, Sergeant Haddismal led a Turach squadron ashore with casks and heavy equipment. The pumping went on well into the night, lit by the glow of the Red Storm.

The Promise followed the Chathrand to the little isle, and even as the marines were landing, she dispatched a second lifeboat. Folding ladders were lowered from the Chathrand, and soon the last members of the inland expedition were climbing aboard: Mandric, saluting the new captain and the Arquali flag; Neda, her sfvantskor tattoos still uncovered but her expression somehow changed; Ensyl and Myett riding Neda’s shoulders, scanning the deck for any sign of their people, and finding none. Next came Prince Olik. At the sight of him the Chathrand’s dlomu cheered and fell on their knees, and many wept with joy. They were all volunteers, the most loyal and loving of his subjects, and they had feared him dead at Macadra’s hands.

Last aboard were Kirishgan and Nolcindar. Tall, olive-hued, eyes glowing like pale sapphires in the dimming light, they struck wonder into the crew of the Chathrand, not one of whom had ever seen a selk. They went to Fiffengurt and lay their bright straight swords at his feet, and bowed. ‘Master of the Great Ship,’ said Nolcindar. ‘You carry the hope of the world upon your vessel. May the wisdom of the stars guide your choices.’

‘It is our heads that should be bowed, m’lady,’ said Fiffengurt.

‘Let us have done with bowing altogether,’ said Prince Olik. ‘Rise, Bali Adrons — and you too, my good selk. Captain Nolcindar, Captain Fiffengurt-’

The introductions were mercifully brief. As soon as they were over, Neda turned to Thasha and pressed her hand. ‘Sister,’ she said, ‘the Nilstone is not hurting you?’

‘It didn’t hurt me, no,’ said Thasha. ‘In fact I’m perfectly fine, at least as far as I can tell.’

‘She didn’t look fine,’ said Pazel. ‘She even shouted that the wine was poisoned.’

‘I was wrong. It was only bitter — and cold. Terribly, magically cold. Maybe wine from Agaroth has to be kept that way. In any case, I have an idea that the bottle is enchanted too. Opening it was like opening the mariner’s clock, and looking into another world — but not an inviting one like yours, Ramachni. It was a freezing, frightening land.’

‘A land we all must visit, one day,’ said Kirishgan.

‘I was only scared until I drank, of course. After that nothing in the world could frighten me: the wine worked perfectly. But I thought it would last much longer — hours, or even days. No such luck: in minutes, the fearlessness was gone, and so was my control over the Nilstone. There was no warning, either: suddenly I just felt pain. It was as if someone were trying to strike a match down my side, and if the match lit I’d burn up like a scrap of paper.’

‘As we have seen others do, who touched the Nilstone,’ said Hercol. ‘I was most relieved when you put it down, Thasha. You lingered, towards the end. I feared you were in a trance.’

Thasha turned and looked into the Red Storm’s eerie glow. ‘No, not that.’ Something in her voice made Pazel uneasy.

‘In any event, we cannot linger,’ said Ramachni. ‘What Macadra knows of our whereabouts is not yet clear. But if she has somehow learned our destination, she will not tarry. And we have already seen that she can harness the winds.’

‘But how could she know about Stath Balfyr?’ asked Fiffengurt. ‘Did she wring the name out of someone in Masalym Palace?’

‘Impossible,’ said Olik. ‘No maid or manservant or palace guard was in earshot when we discussed the route ahead. Your destination was known only to me.’ He paused, uncomfortable. ‘Of course, there were those twenty of your crew. The ones who Red into the city, and were never found.’

‘Stath Balfyr was a secret from the crew as well,’ said Pazel. ‘They couldn’t have told her. They’d never heard of it.’

‘One of them had,’ said Myett.

The others looked down at the ixchel. ‘She means Taliktrum,’ said Ensyl, ‘but we do not know what became of him, sister. I doubt Macadra is even aware of his existence.’

‘I wonder,’ said Olik. ‘He did not strike me as a man content to end his days in the shadows.’

‘And some on this ship ain’t content to end their days in the North,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘I mean your dlomic volunteers, Prince Olik. When they came aboard they thought we’d be sailing back to Masalym in a fortnight. Captain Nolcindar, will you take ’em home?’

‘I will,’ said Nolcindar, ‘but first, Kirishgan and I would speak to you of the journey ahead. We have crossed the Ruling Sea, long ages ago, and remember something of the winds and the currents.’

‘That would be a fine gift,’ said Fiffengurt, ‘and even finer if we knew we could start for home. The Red Storm’s looking weaker off to the west, and we’ve sent our falcon scouting that way. But I won’t sail us into that Storm, unless Ramachni here tells me it’s the only choice. We need to find a gap.’

Pazel couldn’t stop himself from scanning the horizon. Somewhere out there, the Swarm was also searching for that gap.

‘The work ashore will last some hours,’ said Nolcindar. ‘If time permits, I would walk the decks of Chathrand a while, after we discuss your heading. To come aboard her has long been my dream. I remember the day I first saw the plans. I doubted such a ship could ever be built.’

Fiffengurt looked at her, puzzled. ‘What can you mean, m’lady? The Chathrand is six hundred years old, and you-’

Nolcindar raised a feathered eyebrow.

‘That is,’ Fiffengurt stammered, ‘I’m sure you’re wise and strong and full of — benefits, or rather — I mean to say, you’re young. A spring flower, or a sapling at the most.’

Nolcindar held his gaze sternly. Then she broke into a laugh of pure delight.

‘A sapling! As a child, I pruned the saplings in my father’s plot. That was far away to the west, in the green valley of Tarum Thun. A selk land, of such peace and stillness that a year might pass without words, and another when we chose to do nothing but make music, for the joy of it alone. From seeds to giants I watched those trees grow, and when they were very old and losing branches, we felled a few. Some went to ships, and the ships had long lives indeed. But today they are sleeping on the ocean floor, and some of us are still here, enjoying compliments.

‘As for Chathrand, a few of her oldest timbers may have come from my father’s wood. I always hoped to board her, and listen to them speak. But early in her life Chathrand went north, into service with the Becturian Viceroys. When she returned at last, Erithusme was her mistress, and suffered no one to board her merely to appreciate her beauty, or because they loved the shipwright’s art.’

‘Love and beauty were never the concerns of Erithusme the Great,’ said Kirishgan.

Pazel smiled bitterly. You knew her, all right. But Ramachni looked up with sorrow in his eyes.

‘Never is a place beyond our understanding, Kirishgan. Like the deepest chambers of the heart.’

While Fiffengurt escorted the selk through the Chathrand, the youths descended to their beloved stateroom. At first it seemed that nothing had changed. The invisible wall still sealed off the passage fifty feet from the door; Thasha could still permit or deny entry with a thought. The elegant furniture remained bolted down much as it had since Etherhorde. The enormous samovar still gleamed.

But at second glance Pazel saw damage aplenty. The escape from Stath Balfyr had done more harm even than the assault by the Behemoth. Flying objects had smashed many windowpanes. Admiral Isiq’s crystal bookcase had shattered, disgorging antique volumes in a heap. And where the heavy armchair should have been, two long, narrow holes gaped in the floorboards. The chair had ripped free of the boards and careened about the room, smashing lesser furniture, and lodging finally behind the table, like a stout skier upended in a snowdrift.

Felthrup apologised so profusely one might have thought he had personally ransacked the chamber. ‘Oh fool! Never, never again will I ignore a squeaky floorboard! I tested every screw, twice daily when I could. But what good is a screw if the board needs replacing? Look at this place! And Marila worked so tirelessly — cleaning, repairing, fighting dust and mould. She wanted your homecoming to be splendid.’

Awkwardly, Marila took Neeps’ hand. ‘I just wanted you back,’ she mumbled. It was the most affectionate thing Pazel had ever heard her say, but Neeps seemed not to be listening: his eyes were on the windows, and the cold water beyond.

They all fell to cleaning. ‘Tomorrow we’ll patch windows — there’s plenty of spare glass laid away,’ said Marila. ‘Fiffengurt showed me how it’s done — nothing difficult, but the cutting takes time. And I’ll get my things out of your cabin, Thasha. I tried the master bedroom, but it was too huge and empty, with the three of you gone.’

‘Stay where you are,’ said Thasha, taking Pazel’s hand. ‘We’ll sleep in my father’s room, at least for tonight.’

Pazel was aware of the tightness of her grip. They had not made love since Ularamyth and he was not sure that they should do so now. She was fighting a battle inside, fighting for all of them, for the world. To turn her away from that in any way, to distract her: that couldn’t be right.

‘I wonder if there’s any food in the galley,’ he heard himself say.

Thasha looked at him as if he’d just spoken in the oddest language he possessed. She drew him into the master bedroom and closed the door. Backing him up against it, she put her hands over his eyes. He could feel her scars, healed and healing. When she kissed him he tasted the sea.

Her fingers parted. He looked between them, and laughed. Thasha looked over her shoulder, and she laughed too. One more casualty of their escape: Isiq’s brass bed. The rear legs were cracked but still bolted to the floor; the front legs had snapped clean off. Pazel knew it had been her parents’ marriage-bed: where the admiral and Clorisuela Isiq had tried and tried, failed and failed, to bring new life into their home. Only magic had let that good woman conceive. Erithusme’s magic. It had been there at the start of Thasha’s life. No doubt it would be there at the end.

‘Undress me,’ said Thasha.

‘What?’

It was not the reaction she’d hoped for. Thasha waited; Pazel didn’t move. Something would happen if he surrendered; the task would grow harder, success further away. But in another moment he would not care about that. He let their fingers touch. He reached for the top button of her blouse. She was breathing like someone who had just run miles.

Voices in the outer stateroom: Hercol, Ramachni, Fiffengurt. Pazel began to kiss her wildly, nothing could prevent this, nothing, as long as he was left alive-

She stepped back, startled. ‘Gods,’ she said, ‘that silver thing, that rod. I know what it is.’

What was she talking about? Why was she talking at all? He pulled her close again, but her hand was already on the doorknob. ‘Let go,’ she whispered, and slipped out of the chamber.

He stood there, gasping. He was ashamed of his weakness. The broken bed leaned towards him, plush and ruined, a sensuous ramp ending at a wall.

Hercol had brought the Nilstone and the wine of Agaroth. Mr Fiffengurt for his part had a bottle of Westfirth brandy. ‘Compliments of Mr Teggatz, the devious lout. Where he hides his brandy is anyone’s guess. He also begs to be told what delicacies you long for — if it’s in the larder he’ll cook it up for the returning heroes. But for now, what shall we drink to?’

‘Too many choices,’ said Pazel. ‘Absent friends? Our own good luck? Thasha’s deed with the Nilstone?’

‘The Chathrand,’ put in Thasha.

‘Or the Promise, or Prince Olik.’

‘Or the selk.’

‘In Tholjassa, all toasts are silent,’ said Hercol. ‘Some things are better thought than said.’

The choice pleased everyone. They served the brandy in dented silver cups (none of the glassware survived) and drank it off without a word. Then Thasha asked Marila for the little rod from the stanchion. ‘Come with me, all of you — and bring the Nilstone, Hercol.’

They filed into her cabin, which Marila had not changed in the slightest. Thasha rounded the bed and reached up to press a spot in the wall just above eye height. Click went a hidden latch, and a door unseen a moment earlier sprang open. Within was a small cabinet, empty save for a book, bound in dark leather and exceptionally thick.

Thasha smiled. ‘Hello, old friend.’

She handed it to Marila: the Polylex, of course. But Thasha wasn’t interested in the forbidden lore-book. She was looking at an iron plate set in the wall at the back of the cabinet. It was a rusty, formidable slab of metal, with a thick handle and a small round hole.

‘Look close, you can see an outline of a drawer,’ said Thasha. And so there was: a drawer some five inches tall and twice as wide, almost hidden by the rust. Thasha placed the notched end of the silver rod into the hole: a perfect fit. She turned it experimentally. ‘Did you hear that?’ she said. ‘Something clicked.’

She gripped the handle and tugged, to no avail. She pressed the rod deeper into the hole and turned it again, pulling at the handle as she did so. She removed the rod and inserted it backwards. The drawer would not move.

‘Gods damn it!’ she said. ‘I was so blary certain.’

Hercol set the steel box with the Nilstone carefully on Thasha’s desk (which groaned a little at the weight). ‘Make room, Thasha, there’s a lass.’ He stood square before the cabinet and seized the handle of the drawer in both hands. He drew a deep breath. Then he threw himself backwards with all his strength. There was a shriek of metal on metal, and the drawer slid open with a decisive snap.

‘Locks were not your problem, Thasha — merely rust. Your key worked perfectly well.’

What had slid open was in fact no drawer at all, but a thick iron slab. It extended more than a foot into the room, and had but one feature: a cup-like hollow at the centre, about the size of a plum.

‘I knew it!’ cried Felthrup suddenly. ‘This is Erithusme’s safe!’

Marila stared at him. ‘What safe?’

‘I told you, I told you! The safe they spoke of in the Orfuin Club!’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Felthrup,’ said Ramachni. ‘My mistress had various safes for the Nilstone in her dwellings ashore, though I never knew one had been installed on the Chathrand. They mask the power of the Stone, and make it harder — though not impossible — for enemies to detect. You won’t need that box any longer, Hercol. I daresay no one will be able to steal the Nilstone from this spot.’

Hercol donned the selk gauntlets while Pazel unlocked Big Skip’s box. With great care, Hercol tipped the Nilstone into his hand. ‘Glaya, it’s heavy!’ he wheezed. But the Stone fit snugly in the hollow of the slab.

Thasha gazed at the black orb, and it seemed to Pazel that she could not look away. Then Hercol pushed the drawer firmly shut, and Thasha blinked, as though starting from a dream.

They placed the wine of Agaroth in the outer cabinet, wrapped in scarves and braced by the Polylex. Thasha closed the outer door, and once again Pazel could see nothing but the wooden wall.

‘Ramachni,’ said Thasha, ‘there’s still wine in that bottle: two or three sips, anyway. I can use it. I can control the Nilstone.’

‘Let us speak of that another time,’ said Ramachni.

‘I know what you’re afraid of,’ said Thasha. ‘You think I’ll hold the Stone too long, and let myself get killed. But I wouldn’t risk that, I promise. I’ll be safe.’

‘Only my mistress could use the Nilstone safely,’ said Ramachni. ‘Keep striving to bring her back, and forget the wine for now. If we must turn to it, we will. But I would be happier if that bottle never again touched your lips.’

A faint hoot sounded from above: the bosun’s wooden whistle. ‘Ah, that’s our sign,’ said Mr Fiffengurt, rather sadly. ‘Come quickly, all of you. The Promise is ready to depart.’

Pazel felt a sudden ache: he had not prepared himself for goodbyes. But if Kirishgan only makes it back to that ship! Then at last Pazel could stop fearing for him every time they spoke, every time the selk drew near.

Up they hurried to the topdeck. By the Red Storm’s light they saw the Promise standing near, anchors up, sails loosed but not yet set. Her skiff was crossing the space between the vessels to collect any stragglers.

Hundreds of men had turned out on the Chathrand, but it was not hard to spot the few remaining selk and dlomu among them. Here were Kirishgan and Nolcindar, along with Bolutu, Prince Olik and a handful of the Masalym volunteers. The selk were talking with Neda and Corporal Mandric, while Myett and Ensyl looked down from the shrouds just a few feet above their heads. As the group from the stateroom drew near, Prince Olik turned to face them, and a hush fell over the crowd.

‘Well, here we stand,’ said the prince. ‘The hunters of Arunis, together a final time. Do you remember the day I came aboard hidden in a water-cask, and Captain Rose bled me with his knife? I thought my end had come, but now I shall count that day as blessed. How else could I have met you?’

‘You might have been better off if you hadn’t, Your Highness,’ said Pazel.

‘No, lad,’ said the prince. ‘I should have been poorer, sadder, and most certainly lost. You saved me from that doom. You reminded me that however desperate my struggle for the soul of Bali Adro, it is but one battle in the larger war for Alifros. You let me feel the curve and compass of the world, beyond my darkening Empire. Alas, the wider world too is darkening swiftly. But look what has come from the darkness.’ He spread his hands. ‘You, friends, have been my candles and my hope. Allies undreamed of, allies I know I shall never see again.’

‘A few of us may yet return to your country, Olik Ipandracon,’ said Ramachni, ‘if the darkness passes, and the world is renewed.’

‘We will still fight the darkness together, even though we part,’ said Kirishgan.

‘Yes, brother, we will,’ said Nolcindar. ‘For just as I led Macadra astray in the mountains, so will we seek her now, and fool her again. When she spies us, we will seem to panic, and run downwind. She will never catch us, but she may well give chase.’

‘And now goodbye, and safe running,’ said the prince. ‘Whether we meet in this life or the next, you shall dwell for ever in my heart.’

They crowded near him, with words of praise, and not a few tears. Then the prince descended the folding ladder and was gone from sight. He was followed by most of the volunteers from Masalym, while the humans cheered them, and sang, and flint-hard old sailors stammered and wept. Some actually held the dlomu back by force, shaking their hands and plying them with brandy, trading hats, trading rings and trinkets. Secrets were told and pardons asked. Unsolicited confessions were heaped on the bewildered dlomu, and still the humans talked. They had never understood the dlomu, or quite ceased to fear them²⁰; but the two races had fought and died together, and now it was finished, done.

Nolcindar took her leave next, and the survivors of the inland expedition struggled to find words for their gratitude. When his turn came before her, Pazel wished he could speak of Ularamyth, of the love that had filled him there and made him feel a foot taller and a century older and a match for any horrors from the Pits. He said none of it: the protective spell had sealed his tongue. Anguished, he gazed at this great woman of the selk, and something in Nolcindar’s smile told him that she knew.

As she descended the ladder, Pazel turned to Bolutu. ‘You’ve done so much for us,’ he said. ‘You saved my life on the bowsprit, that day Arunis left me to fall into the sea. More than that, you saved us from despair, by telling us the story of Bali Adro.’

Bolutu laughed. ‘Even though it proved out of date.’

‘Yes,’ said Thasha, ‘even though.’

Beside her, Neeps’ mouth was frozen in a belligerent expression. It took Pazel a moment to realise he was fighting back tears. ‘Pitfire, Mr Bolutu,’ said Neeps, ‘you’ve been fighting these bastards longer than any of us, except Ramachni. And you — you lost everyone, didn’t you?’

‘I lost my world, lad — my entire world.’ Bolutu closed his eyes a moment, then smiled and opened them. ‘I gained a new one, though. In time. It is only during this year away that I have come to understand how much it means to me. Human company, human food, the foul-smelling Etherhorde streets, Arquali music, the misfits of Empire who embraced me as one of their own. That world is mine, now, and I mean to keep it. That is why I shall remain on the Chathrand.’

His friends shouted with joy and surprise. ‘But you’ll be the only blary dlomu in Arqual!’ said Pazel. ‘They’ll think you’re a monster. Or will you try to become human again?’

‘Never that!’ said Bolutu. ‘No, I shall depend on you to attest to my non-monstrous character. Daily, if necessary.’

‘They’ll hound you,’ said Neeps. ‘Even the nice ones.’

Bolutu nodded. ‘Let us hope the world survives to inflict such minor miseries.’

Fegin blew two notes on his whistle. ‘Time, gentlemen!’ said Fiffengurt. ‘To the ship you mean to sail on, double quick.’

There was a great rush to the starboard rail. The last of the Masalym volunteers descended, to cries of Rin keep you! and Bakru waft you gently home! Then the Arquali sailors broke down in messy grief, cursing and hanging on one another and bawling like calves: ‘We won’t forget ’em! Never! Who says we’ll forget, damn the bastard? We love them old mucking fish-eyes!’ It was not long before a Plapp swung at a Burnscover, or perhaps vice versa, and soon a dozen men were throwing fists. Captain Fiffengurt raged, looking for the first time like his predecessor. Fegin blew his whistle ineffectually; the dogs howled, and Mr Bolutu sat down atop a five-gallon bucket and laughed. But Pazel stood still, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the night breeze. Kirishgan had not departed. He stood by the folding ladder, indifferent to the mayhem, watching the Promise as her ghostly sails bore her away.

Damn you, Kirishgan! Are you trying to get yourself killed?

Cooler heads dragged the fighters apart, and a kind of order returned to the topdeck. The Promise shrank away towards the southern horizon. Then Kirishgan turned his sapphire eyes on Pazel. Neither one of them had moved.

‘Why?’ said Pazel.

Kirishgan folded his hands upon the rail. ‘My path had become a mystery to me,’ he said. ‘I was without purpose, and that is a fearful thing for any creature, young or old. The mists only began to clear when you arrived in Vasparhaven. The stories you told me of the North, that night over tea — they echo yet in my mind. Arqual, the Mzithrin, the Crownless Lands: they have forgotten the selk altogether. A great part of Alifros no longer knows that we exist. I must change that. I must look for my brethren, and find a way for them to speak once more to the peoples of the North. Or if I cannot find them — if they are all dead or departed — I must do what I can alone. If nothing else, I can remind your people that the story of Alifros is longer than the story of humankind.’

‘Just by showing your face.’

‘By doing as you have done,’ said Kirishgan. ‘By telling stories.’

‘You’re cracked, you and Bolutu both,’ said Pazel. ‘Have you forgotten what we’re like? They’ll panic, or throw stones. They’ll lie to you, and take advantage of your honour. They won’t listen to your stories.’

‘They?’

‘We. Human beings. Oh credek, Kirishgan, I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m part of the we any more.’

Now the selk smiled. ‘There is your answer, Pazel. I am going with you to encourage such doubts.’

Hard about, and due north. It was Fiffengurt’s aim to sail as close to the Red Storm as they dared (some ten miles), and then tack west to meet Niriviel, keeping well clear of Stath Balfyr and her shoals. Soon they were close enough to the Storm for Pazel to make out its texture: strands, snowflakes, rippling sheets of light. That storm had thrown his mother two hundred years forward in time. No wonder she’s so odd. She isn’t just a foreigner in the North. She’s a visitor from a world that no longer exists. And Bolutu’s another. How have they been able to stand it? How have they done so well?

He recalled what Erithusme had said, how the Red Storm had stopped the plague from spreading north, how every human being in Arqual and the Mzithrin owed his life to that red ribbon of enchantment. Against all that, the time-exile of a few sailors counted for nothing. Unless you were one of them, of course. He looked again at the pulsing Storm. The world’s edge, that’s what it is. We’re ten miles from the end of everything we know.

But the Storm did not tame the ocean. The minute the Chathrand cleared the shoals, every person aboard felt the huge, unbridled swells, and knew that they had at last returned to the Ruling Sea. There was almost no transition: suddenly the waves were gigantic, moving hills that barrelled towards them, tireless, infinite. The Chathrand rode them easily; she could stand much worse. Still, the sensation left men thoughtful. Worse was something everyone remembered.

They tacked west into a headwind, which they battled for the next six hours. It was hard work for the night watch; but then there was no true night this close to the Red Storm. The strange light caused some headaches, and a sense of unreality as men fumbled about in its saturating glow. But the urge to flee was strong. They left Stath Balfyr behind (Myett and Ensyl watched it vanish, two women seeing the death of a dream) and at sunrise caught a favourable wind, upon which Kirishgan said he could taste the scent of honey-orchids in Nemmoc, and the dust of the Ibon Plain. But the human crew smelled nothing, and they caught no further glimpse, then or ever, of the lands of the South.

The day passed without incident, though the ship creaked and complained from spots Mr Fiffengurt had hoped were sound. Rain struck, benevolent and cool; when it passed on into the Red Storm it blazed like falling fire. Another bright night began. A pod of whales surrounded the Chathrand, and swam along with her for hours. Felthrup sat alone in a gunport and listened to their clicks, chirrups, rumbles, their pipe-organ breaths.

Deep in that night without darkness, someone screamed. It was not a sound anyone aboard had ever heard before. It was a selk’s cry of anguish; it was Kirishgan. They found him near the bowsprit, crouching down as though praying. His body shook. When he raised his head there were tears in his brilliant eyes, and he told them that he had felt the death of kinsmen.

How many? they asked.

‘Many,’ he said. ‘More than on any night since the Plazic generals began their exterminations.’ But he could not say which of his people had fallen, or at whose hand.

Some hours later a different sort of cry — Niriviel’s — woke Pazel for the second time that night. He tried to rouse Thasha, but she only groaned, so he left her sleeping and ran barefoot to the topdeck, pausing only to grab his coat. Hercol and Ramachni were there already, along with most of the dog watch. They were clustered around the ship’s bell, and atop the latter stood Niriviel, exhausted, his cream-yellow chest heaving. When he could speak he confirmed the worst.

‘I was far from both vessels, but I saw the Death’s Head giving chase, and the Promise leading her away to the southwest. The Promise was faster, and drawing away. Then a shot from Macadra’s vessel brought down her mainsail, and the Death’s Head closed very fast. When she was within a half-mile, she fired again. But it was not a cannon she fired, this time. It was a ball of red fire, spit out from some foul weapon on her quarterdeck. It struck the Promise square on her hull.’

Pazel felt as though he himself had been struck, very hard in the stomach. This, of course, was what Kirishgan had felt. Lunja. Prince Olik. Nolcindar. They had led Macadra astray, given Chathrand time to flee. And for their courage they’d been killed.

‘Macadra carries Plazic weapons, then,’ said Hercol.

‘Like the Behemoth’s,’ said Pazel, ‘but why in the Pits didn’t she use them before?’

‘Perhaps because she feared to sink the Nilstone to the seabed,’ said Ramachni, ‘and this time, drawing near enough to sense its absence on the Promise, she did not hesitate to strike a lethal blow.’

‘Do not think of aiding her,’ said Niriviel. ‘She is too far away, and the Death’s Head would catch you first. Where is my master? Wake him! Macadra is still racing towards us.’

Pazel cast an involuntary glance over his shoulder. It was a good question: where was Sandor Ott? Why hadn’t he shown his face even once since their return to the Chathrand?

‘There is something else,’ said Niriviel. ‘The Red Storm is weaker ahead: with each mile it shone less brightly. I saw no gap, but I did not fly so far as I hoped. When the Death’s Head turned in your direction, so did I.’

‘And the Swarm?’

‘That horror I did not see. I never wish to see it again.’

‘Pazel,’ said Hercol, ‘go and wake the captain. And you, brother Niriviel-’

‘Do not call me that.’

‘Your pardon. Whatever else you wish to be called, I hope strong and valiant are permissible. Come, I will tell you of your master while you rest.’

Captain Fiffengurt had ordered a thorough cleaning and straightening of Rose’s cabin, and conducted business there, but he still slept in his old quarters. Who could blame him? The stink of blood might be gone, but the memory of that carnage would take years to fade, if it ever did.

He woke like a startled cat at Pazel’s knock, and dressed while Pazel related all that they had learned. ‘Tree of Heaven, the Promise burned — and for our sake! And here we are running away from her. But we cannot help her, not from this distance. She’ll have beaten that fire or succumbed to it long before we could arrive.’

Then Pazel asked him about the spymaster. ‘Niriviel keeps asking for him. Wherever he is, can’t someone take the bird there, even for a short visit?’

Fiffengurt stopped buttoning his uniform. ‘No,’ he said, ‘the bird blary well cannot pay Ott a visit. Hasn’t anyone told you?’

‘Told me what?’

Fiffengurt leaned close to Pazel and lowered his voice. ‘That monster’s locked away.’

‘In the brig?’ said Pazel. ‘You locked Sandor Ott in the brig?’

‘Hush!’ whispered Fiffengurt. ‘No, not the regular brig. We couldn’t do that; Ott has too much support among the Turachs, and a fight between soldiers and sailors would mean the end of this ship. No, Ott locked himself up. Do you mean Ratty hasn’t told you about his great adventure? About what he found behind the Green Door?’

‘Yes, yes, but I thought he was raving. He said there was a demon on the other side.’

‘Not any more there ain’t. Someone let it escape — probably Ott himself, though he swears otherwise. I say he’s lying. Why else did he run straight there after he killed the captain?’

Pazel had to steady himself on the door frame. ‘Sandor Ott killed Rose?’

‘’Course he did. You don’t think that woman murdered our huge captain, and his steward, and very nearly Ott himself, all with her bare hands? And why was Ott there at all, before sunrise? And there was no blood on the steward — just a broken neck. A very precisely broken neck. No, Sandor Ott went to Rose’s cabin with murder in mind, and found more than he bargained for in our skipper. There’s one last proof, too: what else d’ye suppose is in the cell with the spymaster? Captain Rose’s foot locker, that’s what. Ott says he just found it there, and stepped into the cell to examine it, and the cell door slammed behind him. I’ve no doubt that last bit’s true. But there’s the Green Door too. You know it was wedged open with a metal plate.’

‘Was?’

‘I’m comin’ to that. As it happened, Mr Druffle sauntered by, and saw that the chains had been loosed around the Green Door. He poked his head inside and saw Ott, fouled with dry blood and trapped in a cage with no lock. And the best bit of luck is that Druffle came to me straight away. I swore him to secrecy, and we’d all best hope he keeps his word. Then I paid Ott a courtesy call.

‘He took one look at my face and knew I wasn’t there to free him. He spat out all sorts of threats, but he was powerless, and I think the fact shocked him deeply. He tried to appeal to my love of Arqual. I told him no one could have done more to harm my love of Arqual than he. I’d brought a sack full of food and water and some medical supplies, and I tossed them all in through the bars of the cell. Then I just walked out. Back in the passage, I pried loose the metal plate with a crowbar and shut the Green Door. It vanished at once. Sandor Ott’s in a cage he can’t open, in a brig no one can find.’

Pazel shuddered. He was glad, relieved — but behind his loathing he felt a pity for the horrible old man. Pazel alone knew the bleak, savage story of Ott’s life: the eguar on Bramian had shown it to him. Compared to Ott’s, Pazel’s own childhood had been a romp through fields of clover. Still it angered him, that pity. He wondered if the lack of it was what allowed beasts like Ott to rule the world.

‘I won’t breathe a word, Captain Fiffengurt,’ he said.

Fiffengurt put a hand on Pazel’s shoulder. ‘You don’t have to say “Captain” when we’re alone, lad. Not to me.’ Pazel grinned at him. ‘Oppo, sir,’ he said.

It was the hour before dawn when he returned to the stateroom. The chamber was still; Jorl and Suzyt rose to greet him without barking; Felthrup twitched in his sleep upon the bearskin rug. Neeps, to his surprise, lay wrapped in a blanket in the corner, alone. Pazel winced. From the moment he saw Neeps and Lunja together on the Nine Peaks Road he had known pain lay ahead for both of them, and Marila. It will fade, he thought. His heart’s full of her now, but she’s gone and not coming back. It will fade, and Marila will still be there.

He crossed to the master bedroom and slipped inside. The air was close, stuffy. They had removed the bed’s broken legs and nailed the frame directly to the floor. He smiled. Thasha had kicked away the blanket. She wore her father’s shirt like a nightgown; there must have been twenty of them in the wardrobe. Pazel sat on the edge of the bed and touched her hand.

‘Thasha? Oh Pitfire — Thasha!’

She was burning with fever. The shirt was soaked through, the sheet beneath her damp.

‘Where were you?’ she said, waking. But her voice was strained, and when he touched her face he found her teeth were chattering.

‘Why didn’t you answer me, Pazel?’

‘Answer you? When?’

‘I saw you, but you wouldn’t speak. I heard Marila crying, but that was — I don’t know when. And the birds. Thousands and thousands, all flying east.’

He was terrified. He made her sit up. Her skin like something fresh from an oven. He groped for her water flask and wrenched it open.

‘Drink!’

She stared at him in the moonlight. ‘Are you really here?’

She was looking right at him, but she wasn’t sure. He stood and opened the door and shouted for Neeps and Marila. When he looked at her again she had dropped on her side.

‘If that’s you, Pazel, give me a blanket. I’m freezing to death.’

She had saved them; she was leaving them. She loathed this world that had made her part of its destiny. Idiotic choice. Look what it’s earned you. Now I’m dying and taking your saviour Erithusme along for the ride.

The pain grew. A cold pain from deep in her gut, moving outward. As a child Thasha had once been struck by a galloping illness: sweats and vomiting that felled her in an hour and made her imagine death. What she felt now was quite different. It was more like blane, though the ixchel’s poison was merciful compared to this. Blane had hurt for a heartbeat or two. This pain went on and on.

Pazel was kissing her cheeks, asking questions: yes, he was really here. She tried to sit up a second time, at his urging. She drank a little water but it scalded her tongue. Then a stabbing light: Neeps and Marila in the doorway, staring, one of them bearing a lamp. Pazel shouted and waved his hands.

‘Get Ramachni! Get Hercol!’

Neeps sprinted away. Felthrup was on the bed, flying in circles, sniffing. ‘There is no infection about her. No bile, no blood. What is it, Thasha? Who did this, my dearest darling girl?’

‘I can’t feel you,’ she said. ‘Felthrup, why can’t I feel you with my hands?’

Marila brought a moist cloth and Pazel drew it over her face. If only he would drop it, caress her with his hands alone. He was talking to the others: ‘. . just fine when I went topside. . weaker by the minute. . doesn’t know where she is.’

Thasha screamed. Some organ inside her had turned to glass, then shattered, exploded. Or else it was fire, or acid, or teeth.

‘She’s too cold!’

‘Her shirt’s blary dripping, mate.’

‘Get some dry clothes. Get a towel-’

Time blurred. People spoke and then disappeared. Hercol and Bolutu were on either side of her; Bolutu’s webbed fingers probed her stomach, her abdomen.

‘There is no hard mass, and no swelling. Thasha, did you eat something strange?’

‘Not me,’ she said. ‘It was still breathing. I couldn’t just eat it alive.’

‘Delirious,’ said Bolutu.

She could have told them that.

They were fighting panic. Thasha watched them tearing through books, fumbling pills, arguing, turning away when their eyes grew moist. The cold advanced into her chest. She saw Ramachni by her shoulder, felt his paw touch her cheek. Dimly, she was aware that he was shocked.

At a distance, in the shadows, an ixchel woman stood watching her. ‘Diadrelu?’ she said.

But no, Dri was dead. The woman had to be Ensyl, or Myett.

Pazel was looking at Ramachni with a rage she’d never known was in him. ‘I didn’t hear you say that. You didn’t just say that. Erithusme’s own Gods-damned spell?’

A blackness descended, and when it lifted there was daylight through the porthole, but the cold was even worse. Her friends were fighting. Pazel was kneeling by the bed. Thasha tried to reach for him but could barely lift her hand.

‘Then she is our enemy, and has betrayed us from the start,’ said Hercol.

‘No,’ said Ramachni.

‘Yes,’ said Pazel. ‘Credek, Ramachni, if the wine’s to blame, and she poisoned it-’

‘Then it needed to be poisoned.’

‘How do you mucking know?’ Neeps had joined the shouting match; that was bad. ‘You haven’t seen Erithusme in what, seventeen years! Pazel talked with her five weeks ago! People change.’

‘She did not change the wine of Agaroth from her hiding place in Thasha’s mind,’ said Ramachni. ‘That was done long ago, and for a good purpose, even if we cannot now guess what it was.’

Pazel was seething. ‘Erithusme told me to give Thasha the wine.’

‘As a last resort. And she warned you that the consequences would be dire.’

‘She hinted. Why did she hint? Why couldn’t she just say, “Give her the wine if the world’s ending. Marvel at my cleverness. Let Thasha save you one last time, and then watch her-” ’

‘Pazel, be quiet!’ Marila shouted.

Tears, and more darkness. This time it did not lift when Thasha opened her eyes. Her legs were useless, two frozen logs. She swung her eyes left and right. The porthole still glowed dimly. The opposite wall, behind Hercol and Mr Fiffengurt, was simply gone. Black shapes rose in the distance: barren trees. Above them, the birds, that endless flock racing east. Her friends’ voices faded. Neeps had pulled Pazel lower, wrapped his arms about his head. They were waiting, weren’t they? They had tried everything they knew.

‘Keep fighting, Thasha,’ Myett whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t go, don’t let it take you. I almost did. I was wrong.’

Now the bed lay in a forest. A terrible place: the forest she’d seen in blane-sleep. The trees with eyes, oily and cruel. The steam and whispers from holes in the earth, the cold that hurt her lungs. She could see her own breath, but not that of her friends. They were becoming shadows, and she was leaving them, leaving with her work undone.

‘The wine,’ said Myett. ‘Do you hear me, Thasha? The wine.’

Thasha wished she would be quiet. She knew it was the wine. But Myett was still there beside her pillow. Dimly, Thasha felt the touch of her hand.

‘Look at me.’

She looked. The ixchel woman beside her was not Myett but Diadrelu, their murdered friend. She was clearer than the others. Her face brightened when Thasha turned.

‘Mother Sky, I thought you’d never hear me! Thasha, the wine is the poison and the cure. You must drink it again, immediately. Where is it, girl? Where is the wine of Agaroth?’

‘Too late,’ whispered Thasha.

A voice laughed, high with delight. There he was, Arunis. Crouched on the limb of a tree, sharply visible like Diadrelu, and leering.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘far too late. Never mind the crawly, little whore: your battle is done. Agaroth surrounds you, and Death’s border is but a short walk from where you lie. But we must settle our accounts first.’

He sat back on the limb. Grinning, he opened his robe at the collar and showed Thasha his neck. A thin diagonal gash ran all the way across it. No, all the way through it. The gash was the one she herself had cut, with Ildraquin, when she beheaded him by the ruined tower.

‘I scarred you with a necklace, once,’ said Arunis. ‘You returned the favour with a sword. But it is my turn again, and three is the charm.’

Thasha tried to move, but only managed to roll her face skyward. They were not birds, those shapes overhead. They were the souls of the fallen, racing above this Border-Kingdom and into death’s own country. As every soul flew in time. As she would, at any moment: a little death among the millions, a leaf in a hurricane, a speck.

‘No!’

Diadrelu slapped her with the full force of her arm. ‘Thasha Isiq! Warrior! Raise yourself, raise yourself and call to your friends before they vanish! The wine, girl, the wine!’

Nothing she had ever attempted was half so difficult. Her lips were all but dead, her voice was a fingernail rasping on a door. No one turned; they were weeping. She tried again. They didn’t hear a thing.

But Arunis did, and the fact that she could manage even this much scared him, evidently. He leaped down from the tree and advanced — and Diadrelu whirled like a tiger to face him, drawing her ixchel sword.

‘Now we come to it! Can you hurl death-spells in Death’s antechamber, mage? Is your soul stronger than mine? Take her from me, then! Come, come and take her!’

With that Diadrelu leaped from the bed, and when her feet touched the forest floor she was suddenly the size of Arunis, raging and deadly. Thasha gasped — and in that other world, the shadow that was Ramachni heard her.

‘Silence, everyone!’ he roared. ‘Thasha, did you speak?’

Arunis began to circle the bed, hunched low, a shadow among the trees. Diadrelu matched him step for step, keeping herself between Thasha and the mage. She taunted him, whirling her sword.

‘You could not defeat them in life. You will never do so in death. You will not touch this girl.’

Thasha forced the last of her energy into her voice. She found it, wheezed a single, barely intelligible word. Again and again.

‘Wine!’ cried the shadow-Felthrup. ‘She is asking for the wine! Run, run and fetch it!’

A figure turned and vanished into the dark.

Suddenly Arunis dropped to his knees and plunged his arm into one of the steaming holes. A voice from underground gave a cry. Arunis jerked his arm free. In his hand was a war-axe, double-bladed and cruel, but a skeleton-arm came with it. The arm was moving, fighting him for the weapon. Arunis tore the arm away and flung it into the trees.

Then he charged, and the battle joined. It seemed that Diadrelu was right: Arunis could not attack with spellcraft.Yet he was a terrible opponent, fast and vicious and strong. He swung the axe in two-handed arcs at shoulder height, or flashing down from above. Thasha was appalled by his skill. But Diadrelu was an ixchel battle-dancer: a fighter who would have shamed Turach or sfvantskor or Tholjassan war-master, if they had ever faced such a foe of human size. Whirling, spinning, her blade like a solid ring about her, she moved at twice the mage’s speed. The trouble was that her spectacular movements were better at evading an enemy than holding ground against him. From childhood, ixchel learned to weave and dodge and slip through human fingers. They did not hold ground. Diadrelu had to fight her very instincts to keep Arunis from reaching Thasha’s bed.

Except that there was no bed any longer. Thasha lay on bare earth, head propped on a stone, the roots of the evil trees wriggling beneath her. Alifros was nearly gone: nothing of it was visible save the porthole, a slight discolouration of the darkness. Her friends’ shadows lacked definite shape; their voices had dwindled to meaningless sounds.

But Diadrelu was improving. She slipped inside the sorcerer’s blows, stabbing at him, forcing him to parry with the axe. When he tried to grapple with her, she twisted under him and whirled and clubbed him down with her sword-hilt.

Arunis rolled, and swung the axe one-handed, expertly. Dri leaped back, sucking in her stomach, and the blade passed within a hair’s breadth of her ribs. Arunis swung again, sensing his advantage, driving her back towards Thasha. Dri’s balance was lost. She dodged a third blow, reeling now, and Arunis came at her with a gleam in his eye.

His fourth blow was too eager, and hence his last. Dri whirled out of range, then spun back again and kicked the mage hard in the chin. Arunis staggered, and whiplash-quick, Dri wrenched the axe from his hand and clubbed him down. With one foot upon his neck, she swung the mage’s own weapon. The axe severed his arm at the wrist.

Arunis howled. But the wound did not bleed: perhaps there was no blood in Agaroth, as there was no true and final death. Diadrelu snatched up the severed hand and flung it with all her might into the dark.

‘Go!’ she said to Arunis, ‘and if you return, I will take your other hand, and both feet, and give them to the corpses in those holes.’

A shadow appeared beside Thasha, hovering over her, speaking without words.

Arunis groped to his feet and plunged into the darkness. When he was nearly gone from sight he turned and shouted: ‘You cannot prevail. Night comes for Alifros! The Swarm will devour these maggots you defend. There is no stopping it. I have already won.’

With that he fled, cradling the stump of his arm. Then Thasha felt a gentle hand lifting her head, and cold liquid against her lips.

The wine was delicious, here in the land where it was made. Thasha felt life returning even before she swallowed. A vibrant energy rushed through her from head to toe. The shadow closest to her took shape: it was Pazel. She could hear him, feel the warmth of his hand.

Diadrelu rushed to her side. ‘They’ve done it, haven’t they?’ said Dri. Evidently she could not see the others in the cabin, or the bottle at Thasha’s lips. ‘Not too much!’ she cried. ‘Two swallows, and no more.’

Thasha had just swallowed for a second time. With effort, she turned her head away. ‘Dri,’ she said, ‘is this really death?’

‘It is death unfinished,’ said the ixchel woman. ‘Agaroth is a strange and frightening land, but still more like the world of the living than what comes next, I think. The dead may reach backwards from here. It is that reaching that keeps them from sailing on with the tide of souls.’

‘The ghosts that walk the Chathrand-’

Dri shook her head. ‘Ghosts are different. They are souls who have yet to come even this far. They are trapped in a living world, a world with no use for them. I think they suffer more than those in Agaroth. Captain Rose is among them, now.

‘But listen carefully, Thasha, while you can still hear my voice. I have been to the dark vineyards where this wine was made, and spoken with those decrepit spirits who guard its secrets.’

‘You did that for us?’

‘Listen! Erithusme’s spell on your bottle was a sound precaution, given the wine’s evil past. The Fell Princes used it for a century: they sipped the wine slowly, making each bottle last years. This allowed them to wield the Nilstone for years as well — and they did so, to the sorrow of Alifros. They exterminated whole peoples, made pyres of cities, withered entire lands.

‘Erithusme wished to leave a weapon hidden on the Chathrand, but she could never risk creating another tyrant. Hence the curse, which forces the drinker to finish the wine in a matter of days. Each sip gives a few minutes of perfect fearlessness, and so the ability to use the Nilstone. But each sip also forces the drinker to sip again within two days. Otherwise the poison is activated.’

‘I think Ramachni detected the spell at last, after it was triggered,’ said Thasha. ‘I heard them fighting about it. But Dri, what happens when I run out of wine?’

‘Very simple: you swallow the dregs at the bottom. They contain the final cure. Better yet, pour off the wine and swallow the dregs immediately. Only then will you be out of danger.’

‘But I can’t do that, Dri. We need this weapon!’

‘This weapon nearly killed you.’

Suddenly Pazel’s voice cut through the fog: ‘Thasha! Can you hear me? Come back, please come back-’

She could dimly make out his features, now — but Agaroth was fading, and with it Diadrelu. Thasha was suddenly, almost unbearably conscious of how much she had missed the ixchel woman. ‘Don’t go. Not just yet.’

‘It is you who are going, Thasha, back to the living world. But I have one last discovery to share with you first. You are bound for Gurishal, to cast away the Nilstone. But Gurishal is immense, and overrun with the Shaggat’s worshippers. You will have no time to search it shore to shore. Look for a sea rock called the Arrowhead, Thasha. Can you remember that?’

‘The Arrowhead?’

‘That is where you must land, if you have any hope of sending the Nilstone back to the land of the dead. Oh, if only you could place it in my hands! For I shall soon be crossing over, and would bear it gladly, and rest fulfilled.’

‘But Dri, how did you learn about this rock, this Arrowhead?’

‘By making a nuisance of myself. Many come to this land by the River of Shadows. They told me of a terrible fall into an abyss, down a stone tunnel, with a last round glimpse of blue sky above them, and endless darkness below. Some had heard whispers of the place before they reached it, and knew it lay near the shores of Gurishal, at the spot marked by the Arrowhead. Remember, Thasha.’

The light was growing. Diadrelu’s form grew paler still, and Thasha fought back tears. ‘I’ll remember. Oh Dri, what they did to you, Taliktrum and the others-’

‘Never mind. Show them a better example, as you always have done.’

‘You’re the best of us all, Dri, and the strongest.’

The ixchel woman smiled. ‘From childhood I thought my reason for living was to fight for my people. I was right about that. But it took a great deal longer to find out who my people were.’

‘Hercol still loves you.’

Dri paused, then looked up at the sky, where the ceaseless flow of souls went on. ‘I must leave soon. I do not know what awaits me in the land of the dead. But make certain he knows that I died undefeated, with a heart made whole by him. And say that I will look for him when his turn comes to make the final journey. But Thasha — tell him not to wait for that day, and a reunion that may never come. Do you hear me well?’

‘I hear you.’

‘Tell him the kiss I send with you is a command. He must go on living. Embrace every joy that still awaits him, every scrap and crumb of life. That is my wish for dearest Ensyl, too. It is my wish for you all.’ She bent down, and pressed her lips to Thasha’s own, and Thasha lifted her arms and embraced her. For an instant she felt the hard strength of the woman’s shoulders, the warmth of her lips. Then both sensations were gone. Dri’s body lifted, escaping Thasha’s arms like smoke. The darkness vanished, and with it Agaroth, and Dri herself.

The room was dazzling. Her friends were beyond words. They only embraced her, repeated her name, bathed her in tears of relief. Pazel was kneeling and kissing her hands again and again. She tried to hold him still but it was impossible; he was overcome.

Even Ramachni was shivering with emotion. ‘You have aged me today, Thasha Isiq,’ he said. ‘By the time I guessed the nature of the curse, it was too late for any treatment I could devise. I nearly put you in the healing sleep, which slows poisons to a crawl. But by then you were too weak.’

‘How long has it been?’ she said. ‘I mean, how long since I drank the wine?’

‘Perhaps ten minutes, dear one,’ said Hercol. ‘Why do you ask?’

Thasha closed her eyes, furious with herself. ‘I lost a chance to use the Nilstone, that’s why. I could have done something. Changed the winds, maybe even parted the Red Storm. There are just a few swallows left. I can’t be wasting them.’

‘Wasting?’ said Neeps. ‘Thasha, that mouthful brought you back from the dead.’

Thasha looked at him. Back from the dead. It was close enough to the truth. She’d gone much deeper this time than before, during the blane-coma. She looked at their bright, beloved faces. They could never know, never grasp what she had seen. It will stand between us, she thought.

‘I was. . told things.’

‘Told?’ said Marila. ‘By whom?’

‘Give her a little time,’ said Ramachni.

‘And some food, if there is any. I’m famished. Oh Pazel, stop.’

He was devouring her hands with kisses. She raised his chin, and understood: he’d been hiding his face, afraid he’d break down once again. Thasha kissed him squarely on the lips.

‘Out, everyone, and let me dress. You too, Pazel, go on.’

They obeyed her, limp with exhaustion. But as Hercol made to leave Thasha touched his hand. The warrior turned and looked her in the eye.

‘Stay a moment,’ she said. ‘I have something for you.’