The Rats and the Ruling sea

6

7 Teala 941

The horses were strong, and the driver whipped them without mercy, so that the carriage flew heaving and rattling down the cobbled streets. Eberzam Isiq set his back against the wall and kicked until his bare feet bled. The door held. He shouted, but no one answered his cries.

Soon the voices in the street began to fade, as if they were leaving the city centre behind. Stone became wood under the horse's hooves: they were crossing a bridge. He tried to recall the king's chatter, where the river lay, how many crossing-points. Isiq could not even recall its name. Then blackness fell. A tunnel, the driver's shout echoing along its length, the crash of an iron gate closing behind them.

The carriage door opened. Isiq looked out into a large stone chamber. The light was dim; the clammy air was like depths of a hold. Before him stood a trio of young men. They were neatly but not elegantly clothed, and apparently unarmed. Bowing, they apologised for the rough ride. But Isiq knew military manners when he saw them, and military eyes. These men watched his hands as he climbed stiffly to the ground.

'You're Arqualis,' he said.

It was not a question, and they made no denials, but merely turned and led him across the hay-strewn chamber. He passed an open doorway, heard the flutter of some large bird in the shadows. He wondered vaguely if he could ask for shoes.

'Mind the step, Admiral.'

'Am I to be killed?'

The men looked at him, and one of them shrugged. 'We're not given to waste,' he said.

Then something caught his eye. Quick as a snake, he plunged a hand into Isiq's waistcoat vest and removed the bronze flask.

'Not much of a weapon, that,' said Isiq.

The man smiled slightly, opening the flask. 'The Westfirth,' he said, sniffing. 'Fine brandy, that.'

'Stay in the service long enough and you'll be able to afford it. Ah, no. Your kind don't live that long, do you?'

A change came over the young man's face. It was Isiq's last memory, for a time.

'Wake up, Admiral.'

'Kill you… damn and blast.'

He was slouched against a grimy wall. Searing pain, like the worst moments of brain fever induced by Syrays' poisons. His hair stank of spirits and blood. The lad had clubbed him down with his own flask.

'There is shaved ice in the bucket beside you, and a rag.'

His mind was clearing. He knew that voice, and loathed it like no other. He raised his eyes.

Sandor Ott stood before him. The spymaster's arms were crossed; his gaze was calm, but he looked even worse than Isiq felt. The tapestry of old scars that was his face was overlaid by fresh ones: the raking claw-cuts of Sniraga, Lady Oggosk's cat, who had mauled Ott two days before in Ormael. There were other gashes, made perhaps by the stained-glass window through which he had hurled himself to escape arrest. The wounds were field-dressed, but ugly all the same.

'When you became a spy,' said Isiq, fumbling at the bucket, 'did you seduce many powerful women? For I'd say those days are through.'

'When I became a spy I found I could murder any number of people who displeased me a tenth as much as you have over the years.'

'What I mean is that you're an ugly dog.'

Ott shook his head. 'Displeasure and anger are not the same thing, Isiq. You cannot anger me. I hope, however, that you will not waste my time.'

'I was tortured during the Sugar War,' said Isiq. 'I revealed nothing. And I have less reason to fear you than I did those rebels with their whips and scorpions.'

Ott sighed. 'More reason, in fact. You simply haven't been briefed.'

He sat down beside the admiral, hands on knees. Only then did Isiq realise that they were completely alone. A few yards away stood a mean little table, two chairs and a candle, the only source of light. Beyond the table he saw a vague metallic gleam, possibly a hinge or doornob. He could not see the other walls.

'Before the Oshirams came to power in Simja,' said Ott suddenly, 'there were eight King Ombroths, who were in turn preceded by a century of rule by the Trothe of Chereste. And before the Trothe this island was ruled by a demonic queen, a madwoman with a crab's claw where her left hand should have been. She had congress with spirits, and unnatural long life: one hundred and twenty years she sat on the throne. An age the Simjans would rather forget.'

Isiq looked at the man on his right. He was close enough to touch. One of his eyes was grotesquely bloodshot: the cat must have sunk a claw there. He had no visible weapon. Not that it mattered. Sandor Ott was the most notorious killer in the Empire. He could kill Isiq in seconds, any number of ways.

'She outlawed funerals, this queen.'

'Did she.'

The spymaster nodded. 'When a citizen died she sent men for the bodies at once. She injected them with preservatives, bandaged them, soaked them in sesame oil, and lastly encased them in clay. Before the clay dried she would arrange the corpse in some lifelike position — the farmer with his hoe, the smith at his anvil, the child bent to tie a shoe — in a specially built dungeon beneath her chambers. Quite creative: the dungeon was constructed around a coal furnace, so that it might be heated like a kiln. In this way she baked the corpses hard as stone. Not as quickly as young Pathkendle dispatched the Shaggat, but effective nonetheless.'

He knows what happened yesterday, thought Isiq. He still has spies aboard!

'The queen had the idea that the ghosts of the dead made her powerful, and that they would linger so long as the bodies themselves did not perish. She became known as Queen Mirkitj of the Statues. She was hated and feared beyond description — even before she modified the practice for use on the living.'

'You will be remembered as her soul's kindred,' said Isiq.

'I will not be remembered at all. Oh, there will be rumours — for a generation at the most — rumours of an old spy who was behind Arqual's triumph. But no histories shall name or describe him. My own disciples will see to that. Your memoirs, for instance, will not be published, or archived, or even left in private hands. Your letters will be retrieved and burned.'

'Why have you kidnapped me, Ott?'

The spymaster ignored the question. 'When Queen Mirkitj died at last, the palace was razed, and the upper levels of the dungeon with it. But the queen had made thousands of these statues, and the dungeon ran nine levels deep — one for each Pit of the Underworld. In any case, only the first three levels were discovered, until rather recently. We are in the seventh.'

'Now I see,' said the admiral. 'You will subject me to this ancient torture unless I do your bidding. What can be left for you to want, though? What but your bidding have I done these many years, although I knew it not?'

'Not the least thing,' agreed Ott, smiling. 'But you're wrong again. I will inflict no pain on you if I can avoid it. For many years it was necessary to poison you — necessary, not especially pleasant — but that time is done. I merely intend to prepare you for the next phase in your service to the Emperor.

'Your daughter is dead. My cause is defeated. Gloat if you will. You are retired, and need not show a soldier's dignity any longer.'

'You lie. You haven't given up at all.'

'I never give up — that is true. But my great plan is thwarted. The Shaggat Ness is a block of stone, and the wedding cancelled, and the prophecy I spread in Gurishal among his worshippers cannot come true.

'Gloat then, but listen: you have some years of service left in you, Isiq. But they cannot be spent here. You have insulted the king of Simja. It is unthinkable that you should serve as ambassador.'

Isiq pressed ice to his temple. He studied Ott. A corner of the iris of the man's wounded eye was clouded by blood. Opaque, as of yesterday. Blind.

'In the drawer of that table,' Ott was saying, 'is a letter of writ from the lord admiral, countersigned by the Emperor himself. It appoints you to a lectureship in the naval academy at two hundred cockles a year.'

Isiq snorted. 'Does it come with directions to the almshouse?'

'What nonsense. That mansion on Maj Hill should fetch you enough to live out your days in comfort, albeit in tighter quarters.'

'I still own, it then? Free and clear?'

Ott was silent a moment. 'There may be certain duties owing, taxes-'

'Ha!' said Isiq. 'Who have you promised it to, Ott? Have you plucked another girl out of the slave school on Nurth? One who just happens to have reason, like Syrarys, to take a dried-up old murderer like you to bed now and then — as part of her service to the Emperor, of course.'

To Isiq's infinite satisfaction he saw Ott's mouth betray a certain tightening. He was getting through to the man.

'We should trade stories, don't you think?' Isiq pressed. 'Did she give you the same sort of massage I was used to, starting at the nape of the neck? Did she whisper the same words to both of us, in the same intimate moments?'

'You are reckless,' said Ott quietly.

Blary right I am.

'Which of your men was she grooming to kill you?' he pressed. 'You must have some idea. Why should she stay with you? A broken-down, gap-toothed butcher with rhinoceros skin and nothing to live for but conspiracies and lies. You must have guessed she'd try to dispose of you soon. Did you kill her yourself yesterday, before she could admit that she hated you?'

'I would dodge it,' said Ott.

'What?'

'Your fist. When you think me entirely distracted by rage, you are, I suspect, planning to strike out with your right fist as hard as possible, hoping to smash my head back against the wall, leaving me stunned. Then you would lift me by the shirt and slam me down over and over, perhaps pausing first to stuff that rag into my throat. You noticed my eye. But I have never let that arm of yours slide into my blind spot, Admiral, and I should merely have dodged it, and dealt with you.'

Isiq felt naked. Ott had described his intentions almost perfectly.

'Anger, like fear, hones the senses to a razor's edge,' the spymaster went on. 'You'd have done better to raise some intellectual point. Abstract thought slows our defences. Even I am not entirely immune.'

He arched his back against the wall, at his ease once more. 'Shall I tell you what fascinates me at present? The Nilstone. I did not believe it existed, and I laughed at Dr Chadfallow, who did. But as we both know, the Stone is terribly real. And it seems that long before Arunis took the Red Wolf from the depths, and melted it to reveal the artefact, someone else aboard the Chathrand knew as well.'

Ott took a scrap of parchment from his vest pocket, unrolled it, and passed it casually to Isiq. 'That came from the ship's hold. My man took it from the jaws of a rat, if you can believe it. Probably getting set to make it his dinner.'

Isiq tilted the parchment towards the candlelight. The scrap was crumbling, and burned on two sides, but he could still make out a spidery hand.

'-call't it DROTH'S EYE, or en Arqual fe NIL-STONE, a cursed fing t'be sure, es it slays whoms'ever shel touch it, with a swiftnef hideous to bihold, all save fe littlest vermin, who furst suffer grotesqueries of change.

Fis stone yur Wizardess hath entombed in fe WOLF OF SCARLET IRON, lately taken by fe arch-heretic NESS, and lost in fe havoc of his fall.

'The language is a mystery,' said Ott. 'Almost Arquali, but not quite. One might think it simply an antique variant, except that it speaks plainly of the Shaggat's theft of the Red Wolf, just forty years ago. It is not Arunis' hand: we have samples of that in the purchase-orders he wrote out as Mr Ket; nor is it like the sorcerer to commit any of his secrets to writing.

'Here we have the strangest of circumstances, no? Someone aboard the Chathrand knew what was to come — not only that we were bound to find such a thing as the Red Wolf, but also that said Wolf contained a horror called the Nilstone.' Ott gave him a sudden direct look. 'You wouldn't have any thoughts as to who such a person might be, would you?'

Isiq returned the parchment. 'Now you wish me to bargain for the liberty you will never grant.'

'Ah, but can you be certain?' said Ott. 'I discard nothing that is of use to our Emperor. Help me see you again in that light, as I have these several decades, and anything is possible.'

'Really?' said Isiq. 'Can you bring my daughter back to life?'

Ott gave a noncommittal shrug. 'Close your mind to nothing, Admiral. But for today let us speak no more of women. What of Ramachni? Who or what is he?'

There it is, thought Isiq. Your real blind spot, the one that scares you.

'A woken mink, wouldn't you say?'

Ott just looked at him. The question clearly did not merit a reply.

'Well,' said Isiq after a moment, 'perhaps he's a mage at that. The wizard who served the Becturian Viceroys could turn himself into a golden eagle, if you believe the-'

'Is he comatose, or just deeply asleep? Can he be relied upon to kill the sorcerer?'

Isiq felt his heart sink. Ramachni had answered that question clearly enough. Arunis was the stronger, at least in this world; Ramachni was a visitor, forced to crawl back to his own world in exhaustion. Isiq thought of the mage's departure, of the melancholy that had settled over them all. Ramachni had trusted them to find a way to keep Thasha alive, and they had failed. And now Ott was trying to play him again.

'Ramachni is an angel,' he heard himself say, 'one of Rin's golden angels, like my Thasha and her mother. Go ahead, recruit him if you can. But he may prove harder to deceive than I was.'

Ott shrugged again, then rose lightly to his feet. 'As you will. But don't look so morose, Admiral. You did anger me, and that is not easily done. You're not one to give up — in that sense we're very much alike. Perhaps that is why we are among the last men of our generation left fighting for His Supremacy's cause.'

'What cause? Dominion over the whole of Alifros? That is no cause of mine.'

Ott's eyes grew cold; he turned and walked to the table, where his face glowed ghastly in the candlelight. Then he opened the drawer and removed a pen, an inkstand and a sheet of linen paper.

'Speak no words of treason in my hearing,' he said. 'Tell me, does anyone have a cause you believe in? The group who meet in your stateroom, for example?'

Isiq looked up at the spymaster. In his mind's eye he saw the scars etched on the skin of his daughter and her friends: the mark of the Wolf that had safely hidden the Nilstone for a millennium.

'Yes,' he said, 'they do.'

'Then come here and write them a letter. It will be delivered, I assure you.'

He slid the blank page across the table. For a moment Isiq did not move. Then, slowly, he got to his feet and approached the table.

'Anything I want?'

'Once you've explained that you will not be returning to Etherhorde on the Chathrand — yes, anything you want. You may give such reasons as occur to you. But if you tell them that you are being held, you should expect a rescue attempt. Of course they could not find this tomb with a thousand men, but how are they to know? They will try to leave the ship, and will die with arrows in their backs. There will be no one to watch over Thasha's body on the journey home, or to see that she is buried honourably beside her mother.'

'If I'm really to go to Etherhorde, why not let me return on the Great Ship?'

Ott smiled. 'There is no hurry to assume your new post. Besides, I can't guarantee that you're ready to shape the minds of future officers, just yet.'

'You never mean to let me go, do you?'

Ott tapped the paper. 'Come, sir. If you wish to write, you must do so now. I am to meet Drellarek within the hour.'

He sat back, waiting. After another pause Isiq lowered himself in the opposite chair. He stared at Ott, his body rigid with hate. Then he took up the pen and began to write very quickly. He wrote in a kind of fever, filling the page in minutes, and signed his name with a last earnest stroke.

Ott lifted the sheet and waved it gently, drying the ink. Then he gave a sharp whistle. Light from a doorway gleamed suddenly, fifty feet or so away, and the same men who had taken Isiq from the carriage walked into the room.

This time they did not hide their contempt. They took hold of Isiq and roughly pulled him to his feet. Ott looked at the page again.

'"Comrades fall, but the mission endures,"' he read, and nodded. 'I couldn't agree with you more. Indeed your letter is quite satisfactory' — he looked up at Isiq and smiled — 'except that you neglected the star.'

Isiq grew very still.

'The star,' Ott repeated. 'That tiny, seemingly accidental ink blot that you always, without fail, let fall on the third line of your letters, and tease vaguely into a star with the tip of your pen. A sign that you are safe, and not being forced to write against your will. Leave out the star, however, and Hercol Stanapeth will know at a glance that you're a prisoner.'

Isiq felt the hope that had supported him dissolve. He was falling into darkness, and who could say where the fall would end? Ott pressed the nib of the pen to the letter, leaving a droplet, and with great care scratched it into a star. Then he looked up at Isiq and smiled.

'Years ago the Emperor commanded all his high officers to take such precautions. At my insistence. Syrarys made it a point to learn your method, of course.

'Now then: the eighth and ninth levels of Queen Mirkitj's prison are intact, along with their statues. I wish you to spend some time there, among the dead. You will have water and food but no light. Get to know them by feel; I assure you they are fascinating. Only, if you find a broken limb, move quickly away. The rats nibble at them, you see. The dry marrow, the powdery flesh. They are quite territorial, and vicious in the dark.

'When the time is right, we will return and present you with a choice. You can die at once, painlessly. Or you can return to public service, doing the Emperor's work. But know that you will forever be observed. And should you dream of mentioning what you like to call a conspiracy, then Hercol and those two tarboys and Nama your cook and any other you esteem will die by the queen's technique. And I will see you obtain souvenirs that prove it.'

His smile was gone. He nodded to his men, and they began to drag Isiq away. But then with a quick gesture Ott detained them again.

'I did not kill Syrarys, nor would I ever harm her. The years she spent with you were a misery, but she endured them out of love.'

'Love — for you?'

'And duty, Isiq.' The edge of rage was back in Ott's voice. 'To Arqual, our mother- and fatherland, the one hope of order left to this world. But this is useless talk. Some, like you, can never be enlightened. For them the darkness is best.'

'You're not enlightened, Ott,' said Isiq. 'You're enthralled. It's not remotely the same.'

'Syrarys understood,' said Ott through his teeth. 'Every kiss she gave you was necessary. Like Thasha's death. Like the death of your wife — I sawed through that balcony rail myself, Isiq — which allowed Syrarys to take her place at your side.

'I leave nothing to chance, you see. That is a way in which we are not alike.'