The Rats and the Ruling sea

22

20 Freala 941

129th day from Etherhorde

At dawn the Chathrand was no longer alone.

They had heard nothing, and seen no vessel approach for as long as there was moonlight to see by. Yet somehow before dawn a small, single-masted cutter had swept down upon them, around the curve of one of the Black Shoulders, or else out of some hidden mooring on Bramian itself.

She had drawn up under their lee and was closing still. The lookout bellowed; the watch-captain gave a blast on his pipe. Archers raced to the Chathrand's fighting tops.

The cutter was some forty feet long. There was grace to her lines, her tight-fitted timbers, and her silent crew worked the headsails with confidence, riding her gently on the swells. Little by little she edged closer to the Great Ship.

Mr Alyash came on deck and ordered the archers to stand down. 'Let us have the ladder, gentlemen. Helmsman, nothing sudden if you please.'

The accordion ladder snaked down the hull. On the cutter the men were rigidly alert: if they drifted too near they would founder in the Chathrand 's underswell: a fatal accident beyond any doubt. The helmsman of the smaller craft fought the waves, shouting orders to the men at the staysail. The gap narrowed: twelve feet, tenSuddenly a man was airborne: he had taken a flying leap from the smaller craft. He cleared the gap and caught the ladder in both hands, smacking against the Chathrand's hull. For an instant he vanished completely in a wave; then the Great Ship rolled and his body punched upward through the water. Alyash, watching his progress from above, heard him laugh aloud.

The cutter veered hastily away. The man on the ladder climbed with easy assurance. Water streamed from his loose grey hair and the tip of the scabbard lashed sidelong on his back. Some thirty feet below the topdeck he raised his eyes to Alyash and barked:

'You're the new bosun — Swellows' replacement?'

'Aye, sir,' came the startled reply.

'You'll reopen the midship portal. This is no way to board.'

'We sealed it against the Nelluroq, Mr-'

'Open it. And let Elkstem know he must bear north around Sandplume Isle — tight in, there's a cove.'

'The cove at Sandplume?' Alyash sputtered. 'But sir, the reef blocks the mouth of that cove, it's unapproachable.'

'There is no reef, you fool. We tore it out six months ago. Where's the captain? What mischief has that cursed mage been up to? And what the devil happened to the Shaggat's son?'

'He… that is-'

'Never mind, give me a hand. By the Night Gods, your face is ugly!'

Alyash glared, but bent over and clasped the outstretched hand — a scar-covered hand that closed on his own like a trap. The bosun grunted and heaved backwards, and the newcomer sprang over the rail and landed four-square on the deck. They stood there, eye to eye. Then Alyash wrenched his hand free.

'You're one to talk, you old spittin' viper.'

A moment's silence. Then Alyash guffawed, and Sandor Ott cackled, and the two men locked arms in what was almost an embrace.

'Bastard!' said Ott. 'We needed you in Simja! I said we wanted you aboard eventually. I didn't tell you to ship out as part of the crew!'

'You left it to my discretion.'

Ott shoved the bosun away. 'That was before the Isiq girl's trick in the shrine! You've no idea how close we came to ruin, that day. Pacu Lapadolma's credentials were mistranslated! What good is "a general daughter," damn your eyes, when we need the daughter of a general? We had to enlist our reserve man from the shrine to argue on her behalf, keep them all talking and considering, while we dug out old letters from her family.'

Alyash shrugged. 'What could I have done?'

'Examined her credentials before we passed them to that raving Babqri Father, of course. Not that he's raving any longer. That incubus tore him open like a pomegranate; I watched it all from the shadows.' He lowered his voice, leaned close to Alyash. 'Tell, me, has Fulbreech been exposed?'

'Not a bit of it,' murmured Alyash with a smile. 'He has even claimed a little territory in the heart of Thasha Isiq.'

'Has he, now? Fine work; but let him understand that I will tolerate no scandal. Young fathers make useless spies; if he gets her with child I will toss him from the quarterdeck myself. Here, have a look at this.'

Ott freed the top button of his coat, and from an inner pocket drew out a strange device of wood, bronze and iron. On one end was a handle, somewhat like that of a saw; on the other a dark metal tube.

'What is it?' said Alyash. 'It looks like a toy cannon, except for the handle.'

'That is no toy,' said Sandor Ott. 'It is a pistol. All the mechanics of a ship's gun are right there in miniature.'

Alyash's jaw gradually slid open. 'By the iron kiss of the Arch-Devil,' he said, turning the instrument gingerly in his hands.

'You heretics amaze me,' said Ott, his tone a blend of scorn and affection. 'You're obsessed with purity, yet you invoke only the corruptors — the Pit fiends, the devils you detest. Where do you hide your god?'

Alyash shook his head. 'We've been over this ground for years, Ott — like two old nags. We of the Old Faith do not speak of that which you call "god." We do not cage the infinite in the small mind of man; that vanity we leave to others. Tell me, what is this lever for?'

'That is the serpentine; it lowers a burning match onto the powder charge. The explosion tends to ruin the serpentine, and sometimes the pistol itself. In truth it is not yet a practical tool. An arrow is swifter to fire, and much more accurate; a vasctha is deadlier if it strikes. But there can be only so much power in bent wood and stretched sinew, while the potential latent in this-' He gazed rapturously at the weapon '-is infinite. You are looking at the invention of our age. In time it will bring an end to all wars, for the alternative — can you imagine it, Alyash? A world equipped with these, and using them? — would simply be too ruinous for everyone.'

Alyash shook his head grimly. 'No, I can't imagine such a world.'

'When that day comes, the world will have no more need of us,' said Ott, sliding the pistol back into his coat. 'Enough, where's the captain? We must bear north immediately.'

Alyash led the spymaster forward, past rows of gaping sailors. When he caught their whispers ('Nagan, it's Commander Nagan!') Ott chuckled softly. They knew him — or rather, they knew the captain of Eberzam Isiq's honour guard. That costume, that papier-mache man, one of the myriad counterfeit selves he had lived within.

Sandor Ott had lately come up with an image for his life. A solitary man on a desert road, the sun at perpetual noon, the road vanishing straight as an arrow behind him, and littered with bodies to the edge of sight. Usually he thought of these bodies as his aliases, the soldiers and merchants and monks he had not just impersonated but become, so completely that he suffered confusion when his fellow spies addressed him by his real name. Sandor Ott: what was that, anyway, but an earlier invention? Not a talisman, not a family name, for he had known no family but the Arquali Children's Militia, outlawed now, and slowly being rubbed out of the Empire's official histories. He did not know who in the militia had named him. He did not even know the name of his first language, or where in the Empire it was spoken, or quite when Arquali had replaced it for ever as the language of his thought.

At other times the bodies on the road were simply those who had stood in his way.

He and Alyash walked the length of the topdeck. Ott's eyes darted everywhere, studying the ship he had departed six weeks ago in Ormael. He asked questions in a sharp military style: 'How many tons of grain have you left? When did the men last eat vegetables? Has anyone been murdered? How in the Nine Pits did you damage your shrouds?'

At the mizzen they went below, and continued forward along the upper gun deck. Halfway down the portside battery, Alyash paused and looked the spymaster in the face.

'They sent me, Ott. They ordered me to seek a position.'

'Aboard an Arquali ship?'

The bosun shook his head. 'Aboard Chathrand. Specifically.'

Sandor Ott held very still. His eyes slid away from Alyash, darting again — but this time they were studying abstractions, facts arrayed before him, words and signs and evidence.

'They suspect us,' he said at last.

'Yes,' said Alyash.

'They cannot know of what. But they do suspect us. That's interesting.'

The bosun turned and spat. 'I suppose that's one word for it. Another would be "disastrous." '

Still Ott did not move. He might have been blind to the ship about him.

'The Babqri Father,' he said. 'Your orders came from him, didn't they?'

Alyash nodded. 'We answered to him, you realise: the Zithmoloch put their spies under his command for the duration of the wedding. And do you know who that girl was — the one the demon killed alongside the old priest?'

'A sfvantskor trainee — fully trained, almost, by the way she fought.'

'Ott, she was also the daughter of the Mzithrini admiral, Kuminzat.'

Sandor Ott's eyes refocused on the bosun, and a fascinated smile took possession of his face. Alyash squirmed at the sight of it. He had known Ott for decades, and that smile came to him only when the spymaster sensed an assault or an ambush, violence approaching like a predator from the woods. No, not like a predator. Not in your case, Ott. More like a loved one, his cherished intimate, whose absence he could bear only so long.

By midday they had rounded the little isle of Sandplume. On the north shore, two headlands like swollen knuckles bulged northwards, forming a dark, cliff-mantled cove. The reef, as Ott had promised, had been reduced to scattered rubble on the sea-bed, and the Chathrand glided easily into the sheltered waters. Inside, she was hidden from any possibility of view from south, east or west; and unless a ship was running between the isles, the next Black Shoulder to the north would hide them from that direction as well. The spymaster's cutter had arrived before them; her anchor was already down.

Captain Rose had not emerged that morning. He had Uskins greet Sandor Ott, to both men's displeasure. But once the Great Ship lay at ease beside the cutter he sat at his desk, uncapped a speaking-tube that rose like a beheaded snake from the corner, and began to issue commands.

Thirty minutes later Ott and Alyash arrived at his door, and the steward waved them in. Rose's cabin was bright, the air close and steamy: hot midday sun poured through the skylight and glittered on the silver service. Rose stood at the head of the table, carving a slab of salt-cured ham on a platter garnished with potatoes and turnips and slices of withered orange. There was also a cold crab stew in a gyroscopic cauldron, its feet screwed into the tabletop, the bowl itself on ball-bearings that kept it level against the rolling of the ship. Lady Oggosk and Drellarek were seated. Uskins was at the sideboard, pouring snifters of brandy.

Drellarek rose and gave Ott a precise military bow.

'Sergeant,' said Ott amiably.

'A great pleasure to have you back, sir,' said Drellarek.

Something hissed. Captain Rose gave a violent start. Ten feet away on his desktop, Sniraga stood with bristled fur, baring her fangs at the spymaster.

Ott's eyes travelled to the far end of the cabin. There, looking out through the gallery windows, stood Dr Chadfallow. He was drawn and dour, and clearly did not mean to offer any greetings of his own.

'He will not kill you, Doctor,' said Rose, whose eyes had not left the ham. 'You may join us at table.'

'I am not hungry,' said Chadfallow.

'Well I certainly am,' said Ott. 'Your hospitality arrives at a crawl, Captain.'

'This is not a social occasion,' said Rose.

'Indeed not,' said the spymaster. 'Come, Doctor, the captain speaks the truth. We all know of how you've broken faith with His Supremacy, and while it might be enough to condemn you in a court of law — well, we are a long way from the nearest courtroom, aren't we? Nor shall I seek vengeance for what passed between us in Ormael, any more than I shall against the duchess here. You were not to know why Syrarys and I were poisoning your old friend Isiq. A case could even be made that you acted out of loyalty to the crown.'

Chadfallow turned from the window and looked across the wide cabin at Ott.

'A false case,' he said.

Ott shrugged. 'This ship requires a doctor, and no one disputes that you are the finest. Indeed, we'll have need of your special skills within the hour. Where is our guest of honour, Sergeant?'

'The Shaggat's son?' said Drellarek. 'He is not fit company, Master Ott. Since his brother died, Erthalon Ness raves like never before. I thought you would prefer to deal with him later.'

'Quite right,' said Ott, 'but that is not who I meant.'

'The other will be delivered as soon as we lay hands on him,' said Drellarek. 'My men face a new complication in that regard.'

'So Alyash tells me,' said Ott. 'A magical wall about the stateroom, astonishing! Your arts are no match for it, then, Lady Oggosk?'

Lady Oggosk was sucking an orange wedge. 'My arts,' she said wetly, 'are at the service of the captain, not the Imperial butcher-boy.'

Ott smiled, but no one imagined he was pleased.

Rose was looking sharply at Alyash. 'Why have you brought him to this meeting, Ott?'

'I'm glad you ask,' said the spymaster, taking Alyash by the arm. 'Gentlemen, Lady Oggosk. You've met your new bosun, but I dare say you were not properly introduced. As well as being a first-class sailor, he happens to be an agent of my western rivals in the field of clandestine security.'

Silence. Drellarek studied the bosun inscrutably. Uskins, bewildered, looked from face to face. At last Ott's meaning dawned on him.

'A spy? A spy for the Black Rags?'

'You watch your mouth,' growled Alyash. 'I'm a son of the Holy Mzithrin, no matter what I'd like to see happen to her five criminal kings.' He surveyed the room. 'You Arqualis mean to conquer and cannibalise the Pentarchy. I know that; I'm not a blary fool. I help you because I realised long ago that domination by Arqual, however great an evil, was the only way to save my homeland from gory suicide. The Shaggat Ness was the worst of the Mzithrin's open sores, but he would not have been the last. I am not a traitor. I am simply a man who faces the truth.'

'Facing the truth is easier with twelve thousand gold a year,' muttered Oggosk.

'Yes, Mr Uskins, a spy,' said Ott quickly. 'What is more, the first spy ever to penetrate the ranks of the Shaggat's faithful on Gurishal. Which is to say, the first man placed on that island who was not quickly discovered, and shipped in pieces back to Babqri. His four predecessors lasted an average of a week before the Shaggat's worshippers found them out. Alyash lasted thirteen years. And even when the doubts began he managed to escape.'

'With a few souvenirs,' said Oggosk, picking at her teeth.

Alyash regarded her coldly. 'The Lady Oggosk makes reference to my scars,' he said at last. 'Would you like to know how I earned them, Duchess?'

'Not if it delays our meal.'

'When the Nessarim suspect a man of treason they hand him a knife and a mug of seawater. In the water floats a sarcophagus jellyfish — a creature so deadly that merely to touch one's lips after handling it means certain death. The suspect is given a choice: to open his veins then and there with the knife, or to swallow the whole mug of water at a gulp, jellyfish and all, and pray that the divine Shaggat neutralises the poison. They believe him capable of such miracles, even before he returns from the dead. They believe he waits in heaven, watching everything they do.

'I was accused of being a sfvantskor informant. I struck my chest three times, swore allegiance to the Shaggat, and demanded the mug. As they filled it I went to a corner to pray, and swallowed all the antitoxins I kept on my person. The fanatics knew quite well that no Mzithrini drug could protect against a sarcophagus jelly. But I had drugs from Arqual. That was my sixteenth year in Ott's service.'

'In the service of the Emperor,' Ott corrected.

'To swallow a sarcophagus jelly is to die in seconds,' said Alyash. 'I lay writhing for six minutes, burning inside. Then the believers decided I was one of them, and shoved a goad into my mouth, and I vomited onto my chin and chest, where the dissolved jellyfish burned deep into my skin. I lost consciousness, and they were afraid even to wash me clean. That, Lady Oggosk, is how I earned my souvenirs.'

Lady Oggosk's eyes were downcast. Then all at once she glanced up, realised he had finished, and waved at Rose impatiently. 'Serve the ham, Nilus, the ham!'

Ott and Alyash took their seats. Chadfallow walked to the threshold of Rose's day cabin, and leaned on the doorframe, watching the others attack their meal.

Rose pointed at Ott with his serving fork. 'You have robbed me of a bosun, Spymaster.'

'Not at all,' said the spymaster. 'Alyash has always worked from the deck of a ship — albeit a Mzithrini ship. There's more of worth in this officer than you realised, that's all.'

Chadfallow asked a clipped question in Mzithrini. Alyash glanced up at him, then lifted his bowl of crab stew and slurped.

'The doctor wishes to know how I came to be in Simja,' he said as he finished.

'That is the best part of it,' said Ott. 'The madmen on Gurishal were close to the truth, of course: Mr Alyash was not the Shaggat-worshipper he claimed. But they guessed that he was a sfvantskor, rather than what he was: a member of the Zithmoloch, the Pentarchy's formidable, if rather outmatched and archaic, guild of spies. But neither the Shaggat's men nor the Zithmoloch itself suspected the deeper truth: that he was our man from the start. Alyash told the Five Kings what we wished them to believe concerning Gurishal: that the Nessarim were weak and divided, that the Shaggat's return was a fading dream. Of course quite the opposite is true. And Alyash, meanwhile, propagated a myth among those zealots, those people starving for hope.'

'Ah!' said Drellarek. 'Then it was you who spread the prophecy of the Shaggat's return!'

'I lay the tinder, and struck the match,' said Alyash. 'But the prophecy spread of its own accord, like a blaze in dry grass. And when word reaches Gurishal that the daughter of an Arquali general has wed into a Mzithrin royal family, every man, woman and child on Gurishal will know that the hour of their God-King's return is at hand.'

'To complete the story,' said Ott. 'The Mzithrinis had never seen such an effective spy — of course they hadn't; I trained Alyash myself — and they were not about to let his service end with Gurishal. So they extended his scars to the back of his neck, obliterating his Mzithrini tattoos, and sent him to a place they wished desperately to infiltrate: Simjalla City, where the Great Peace would begin.'

'It was a natural choice,' said Alyash. 'My father traces his family line back to the Crownless Lands. At least a part of me is Simjan.'

Ott smiled, giving his brandy an interrogatory sniff. 'You might not think so,' he said, 'but most of the best spies in history are mongrels. Transplants, half-bloods, children of vagabond fathers or women taken in war.'

'Is that so for you, Mr Ott?' said Uskins, through a mouthful of ham. 'You're His Supremacy's best, of course, so-'

'Uskins,' said Rose, 'finish your meal in silence.'

'Oppo, sir.'

'And chew your food as befits a man.'

Sandor Ott was looking at Uskins as one might a horsefly whose buzzing one has resolved to suffer no more. Under his gaze the first mate became quickly unnerved. His knife squeaked. He chewed with great concentration.

'Stukey,' muttered Alyash in disgust.

Rose shot him a dark look. 'Alyash, is it the Mzithrini in you that thinks it well to visit your captain's table with a rag knotted at your neck?'

Alyash whipped the sweaty bandanna from his throat. 'Your pardon, sir.'

'I sent ashore for a bosun, not a spy. And I do not require a bosun of divided loyalties. Tell me, whom do you serve?'

'By the will of His Supremacy, sir, you are Captain and Final Offshore Authority. That means the mission is in your hands.'

'I know exactly how far my authority extends,' said Rose, 'but do you?'

'Sir, I am a true servant of Magad the Fifth. My loyalties are as clear to me now as they have been since I boarded.'

Rose looked at the man, visibly displeased with the answer. Then Lady Oggosk cleared her throat. Scraping at a patch of flaking skin on her hand, she said, 'Nilus, you should not give them leave to walk into Bramian. The island is an eater of men, and I'm not just speaking of the savages. The Lorg has a prayer-history for the husbands of its graduates who died in unwise excursions there, and the prayer takes days to chant.' She raised her milky eyes and looked squarely at Ott. 'Dreamers fare the worst,' she said.

Ott met her gaze, unblinking. 'It might surprise you to know, Duchess, that my men have been at work inside Bramian for over a year.'

'Fifty yards inside,' said Oggosk. 'And mostly underground. Not exactly the work of heroes, is it?'

There came a knock at the door. The steward answered, and whispered with someone on the threshold. Then he walked to the captain and bent to his ear.

'Let him be brought in at once,' said Rose. 'Dr Chadfallow, you will hold your tongue, or I shall have you removed.'

The steward returned to the door and swung it wide. There stood Pazel Pathkendle, held roughly by a gargantuan Turach. The youth's hands were tied behind his back, and a gag pulled his lips back severely. Fitted around his neck was a broad leather collar with iron studs, a bit like those worn by fighting dogs, except that this collar had an odd, ratchet-like device on one side.

The Turach dragged Pazel forward, into the sunlight. It was clear now that the collar was very tight, and that the rag in the boy's mouth was dark with blood. Pazel turned wild and furious eyes from one face to another. When at last they fell on Dr Chadfallow the rage that burned in them grew even stronger.

'I didn't hit him, Sergeant Drellarek,' said the soldier defensively. 'He just bit his tongue.'

'And then bit you?'

The Turach glanced sheepishly at his own bandaged forearm. He shook his head. 'That were the Treaty Bride,' he said. 'She had a blade.'

Rose was livid. 'My orders were not clear, then?'

'Sir, they were very clear; you wanted her brought as well. It mortifies me to tell you that she slipped away. I think she was expecting us, sir — she was that wary. And the Tholjassan and the Undrabust brat got in our way, and next thing we knew she was back in her blary luxury suite. But we have the Tholjassan in chains.'

Sandor Ott looked at him with amusement. 'You captured Hercol of Tholjassa? How many Turachs did that require?'

The soldier glanced rather stiffly at Ott. 'We gave him a knock to remember, sir, I promise you that. Captain Rose, I-'

Rose waved a hand for silence. 'Tie Pathkendle to the stanchion. Then go.'

The man did as he was told. Pazel, bound hand and foot to the wooden post, looked again at Chadfallow. He tried to speak: just one word through the bloody cloth. It might have been traitor. Chadfallow was very still, but his eyes were full of thought, fear, calculation. He looked like a man resigned to being hated.

Ott dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, then stood up. 'My good Niriviel overheard a fascinating confession from this boy,' he said, approaching Pazel. 'To wit, he is not the keeper of the Shaggat's spell, although he cast it. That explains why Arunis dared try to kill him. And why we may do so, if necessary.'

He laid a hand on the back of the collar around Pazel's neck. Then he looked deliberately at Chadfallow. 'Objections, Doctor? Now would be a fine time to share them.'

Chadfallow did not even look at the spy. His eyes were locked on Pazel, and they were bright and beseeching.

Ott's hand yanked at the buckle. There was a loud click, and Pazel gave a strangled moan. The collar had visibly tightened.

'Another two clicks, and I crush his windpipe. Not a very good interrogation tool, as one of my men pointed out: Mr Pathkendle is already deprived of speech. But marvellous for extracting signatures and the like. Would you really shed no tears, Chadfallow, after sponsoring the lad for so long? Come, we all know you loved his mother. Surely you can't be indifferent to the fate of her son?'

Slowly the doctor raised his eyes to Ott's face. 'Entirely,' he said. Then he turned and walked back towards the window.

Click.

Chadfallow whirled about. Pazel was writhing in his bonds; a pink froth was on his lips.

Drellarek sat up, professionaly interested. Uskins gaped in horror. A faint sound escaped Pazel's throat, like the squelch of a deck-rag being twisted dry.

'For Rin's sake, Nilus, we're eating,' grumbled Oggosk.

Rose gestured at the collar. 'Remove that thing,' he said. 'Chadfallow, if you do not intend to dine I suggest you make preparations.'

Ott touched something on the buckle. The collar sprang loose, and Pazel fell forward with an agonised gasp. The spymaster returned to his meal.

'What I still cannot fathom,' said Drellarek, passing his plate, 'is the nature of the uprising you have engineered. Let us presume for a moment that the mage is mad — that he cannot grant the Shaggat the power to wield this Nilstone, however great or small a weapon it may be.'

'We presume nothing in this campaign,' said Ott. 'We will take the Nilstone for ourselves, and tame or kill the sorcerer, long before we arrive at Gurishal. Indeed it will be the first order of business, once the Shaggat is restored to life.'

'All the better,' said Drellarek. 'But how is the Shaggat's horde to threaten the Mzithrin? They have no navy, surely?'

Alyash shook his head. 'Fishing boats, near-shore vessels, a few brokendown brigs.'

'Why then,' said Drellarek, 'how are they even to engage the White Fleet — let alone threaten it? Have they any hope of a general breakout from Gurishal?'

'They have hope in their prophecy,' said Ott. 'And their faith is ferocious, while that of the Five Kings is weak. Remember that the Mzithrin nearly conquered the world, only to be defeated from within by the splintering of their own religion. The Nessarim, by contrast, have belief in a god who walked among them: a god who defied the greatest empire in Alifros, and who may yet return to rule it. Nothing will turn them from that dream.

'They have useful delusions; we have specific tactics. And tomorrow's excursion will play a part in both.'

Ott sat back, and Rose leaned his massive elbows on the table. In the silence Pazel raised his head and found all of them looking at him.

'Are you quite finished, Duchess?' Rose inquired.

Oggosk pushed away her soup bowl. 'Glah.'

'Very well,' said Rose.

Pazel tensed. His tormentors' eyes shifted. Pazel turned his head and saw Chadfallow coming towards him with what looked like a small, swan-necked watering pail. The doctor was very quick. He grabbed Pazel's hair in his left hand and wrenched his head back, then forced the pail's spout through the boy's lips and past the bloody rag. Before Pazel knew what was happening he had swallowed a mouthful of something bitter and warm. Chadfallow removed the spout and caught Pazel's chin in his hand, making sure the rest of the liquid went down his throat. His look was fierce and dangerous, but unlike Ott he showed no sign of enjoying what he did. A moment later he released Pazel and stepped back.

'You may proceed,' he said to the spymaster.

'So soon?'

'It will have happened already, if it is going to happen at all.'

Sandor Ott moved in front of Pazel, who was coughing and shaking. 'Calm yourself,' he said. 'It is no poison. Where that's concerned I scarcely need a doctor's help. Now listen to me carefully, Pathkendle. Urtale preda nusali ch'ulthanon.'

The words were like a kick to the stomach. Pazel stared up into Ott's cold eyes. The spymaster nodded. And Pazel slammed his head back against the stanchion with a wail of grief that wracked his body more terribly than the pain of a few minutes before.

'Great Rin above!' said Drellarek. 'He understood!'

'Peace, boy!' laughed Ott. 'I was citing ancient literature, not telling you of my actual deeds. Urtale preda nusali ch'ulthanon: 'I sent your mother to an early death.' The confession of the doomed hero of the Song of Itash, written nineteen centuries ago by an anonymous whore in the court of the Amber Kings.'

Pazel's heart was hammering. His eyes were wide with terror and confusion.

'And yet you scarcely noticed me switching tongues,' Ott went on. 'Your Gift is working, lad. Chadfallow's drug has just induced it. And to you, Doctor, my hearty congratulations. If we can truly access his Gift whenever the need arises, Mr Pathkendle may yet prove as beneficial as once you claimed.'

Pazel twisted around to look at the doctor. Whatever mix of emotions he had felt before was gone. There was nothing in his eyes but hate.

Chadfallow did not meet his gaze. 'The drug is not perfect,' he said. 'The boy may suffer some disorientation, some loss of bearings, until the process ends in the normal manner.'

'Normal,' said Drellarek with a smirk. 'You mean with jabbering fits.'

'Just look at that face!' laughed Uskins. 'It's the muketch you should be afraid of, Doctor. He hates you. Give him half a chance and he'll put a knife in your belly.'

'Mr Uskins,' said Rose, 'you will escort Pathkendle to the brig. Have his dinner brought there, and his foul-weather clothes. And instruct the cobbler to make him a pair of shoes by evening. Shoes, not sandals.'

'Oppo, Captain, shoes it is.'

Oggosk squinted at Pazel. 'What are you staring at, boy?'

Pazel started. He felt as if they had beaten him with clubs. But it was true, he had been staring, mute and amazed — at Captain Rose. The man's sleeve had ridden up towards the elbow. Seeing it now, Rose hastily pulled the sleeve down again. But it was too late, and he knew it. Pazel had seen what Rose wished no one to see: a wolf-shaped scar above his wrist.

'Get the boy out of here,' said Rose. 'And let us conclude our business swiftly. The day is waning, and tomorrow we shall all be tested.'

'The tarboy's passed a test already,' said Drellarek, smirking again.

'Just one,' said Sandor Ott, 'the easiest.'