The Red wolf conspiracy

The Uses of the Dead

12 Vaqrin 941

The men of two battle-scarred warships, anchored farther out than the rest of the Imperial fleet, were the only witnesses as Chathrand sailed out of Etherhorde Bay. Pennants went up their masts in salute: the green-star signal that meant nothing more complicated than "safe travel, speedy return."

A miracle if either happens, thought Sandor Ott, sealing his cabin's porthole. More likely they would be slaughtered en masse. Not he himself, perhaps, nor that lethal captain. Rose had cunning in his very pores. No doubt he had planned his own escape down to the last lie or knife-thrust or spot of blackmail. But these sailors, soldiers, boys-they could never be trusted with what they would come to know.

Eighteen million gold cockles! Four chests of bloodstone! If his own men did not betray him, surely their western partners would. The minute that prize becomes more than a rumor, a hope in their vile hearts, we are fair game. The minute we place it in their hands, they'll wish us dead.

Before a tall mirror, he pinned on his breast the medals that turned him into Shtel Nagan, commander of the ambassador's honor guard. He took a moment to consider his hands: brutalized, rock-steady. Then he left the cabin and climbed to the topdeck.

A fine summer's evening, the sun still whole and red above the Emperor's mountain. He could just make out Castle Maag at the summit, and his own tower, waving a wry farewell.

In fair weather the first-class passengers could meander as they pleased about the topdeck (never the quarterdeck: that was officers' territory), and a dozen or so were at it now. Smoke Hour was past, so they chewed sapwort or sweetpine. Children galloped about, pretending to be tarboys. Men nipped whiskey from flasks.

Just one lady was on deck, but she was the only woman Sandor Ott took any interest in. Syrarys Isiq's skin glowed like polished amber in the evening light. She stood holding the arm of Eberzam Isiq, the old fool. Sandor Ott approached, but not too near; he was a bodyguard and not an equal. But when Syrarys turned her head halfway in his direcion there was a gleam in her eye.

"Commander Nagan?" said a voice behind him.

Ott turned sharply. It was Bolutu, Brother Bolutu, the veterinarian. They shook hands, and Ott gave the black man a formal smile.

"You have a ravishing friend," said Bolutu.

Ott said nothing, but his heart quickened in his chest.

"I mean the bird, of course. Your moon falcon. Extraordinary."

Damn him to the Pits! thought Ott, recovering. But he said, "Ah, Niriviel! A friend indeed. He may catch us a grouse from the Dremland hills, if we pass near enough."

This one could prove a nuisance, he thought. Never a threat: no black man could be that powerful in an empire ruled by the porcelain-pale Magads. Yet Bolutu's star was rising. This very spring he had met the Queen Mother, and cured her pig of something dreadful: hiccups, maybe. He was also a longtime friend to the Trading Family. Lady Lapadolma herself had wanted him aboard the Chathrand: she had a soft spot for animals, if little else, and no doubt shed tears at the thought that Mr. Latzlo's cargo might suffer on the journey, before being sold for pelts and potions in the west.

Ott also needed a skilled veterinarian aboard-the best, in fact. How was it that the best was this reformed nomad, this Slevran born in some warren or wattle-house, educated by monks in an outpost temple, and seeing great Etherhorde for the first time only as a grown man? Why were there no true Arqualis fit for the job?

"Does he travel with you everywhere?" Bolutu was asking.

Ott shook his head. "The captain indulges me greatly, allowing him aboard. Have you seen him already, then?"

"I have just come from the coop. Your bird is unhappy with the darkness, but he lives in a mansion compared with the rest. He can spread his wings, and move about, and smell the chickens if not taste them. Commander, have we not met before?"

"Indeed, sir," said Ott smoothly. "As a bodyguard I have had the privilege of serving many of the Empire's finest gentlemen of trade. You I remember from the Midwinter Ball at Lord Sween's."

"And not from Castle Maag?"

"I have served in the castle, too. It is not impossible."

"Certainly it was there. Tell me, why have we taken so many soldiers aboard?"

"Only six answer to me, sir."

"Exactly," said Bolutu. "The rest are not here to guard the ambassador, as you do. And Chathrand is no longer a warship. What is the use of carrying a hundred soldiers on a merchant ship? Especially one on a mission of peace?"

"Mr. Bolutu," said Ott mildly-he would not be unsettled again, no matter how prying the man became-"you should direct your inquiry to their commanding officer. But I can offer a guess if you like. In a word, pirates. The Emperor's dominion stops at Ormael. The next six hundred miles are a chaos. No outright wars, but no peace, either. Sea-banditry is already common, and growing more so. The Crownless Lands do not wish our protection-"

"Curious, that." Bolutu smiled slightly.

"— and yet they cannot guard their own seas. There is no order, sir. Except the savage order of the Mzithrin, in the distant west."

"Does Simja know that His Supremacy is sending not just an ambassador and a child bride, but a vessel packed with Imperial marines? And such marines! They make the Emperor's regular forces look like milksops."

"Dear sir, you exaggerate," said Ott. "Perhaps you have not been quartered so close to His Supremacy's infantry before?"

Bolutu hesitated. "I have not. That is true."

"In any event, to leave our home waters prepared for the worst is but common sense-although I hope that will not be demonstrated."

Ott bowed to Bolutu and excused himself. Moving toward the center, or waist, of the ship, he thought: Yes, definitely a nuisance. I do not like your tone, pig doctor.

Two of Ott's own men watched Ambassador Isiq from a respectful distance: the old man would never be left on deck unattended. One of these was Zirfet, and when he looked at Ott his very stillness sent a message: a twitch at wrist or elbow meant all's well, and his men never forgot.

He nodded, giving the big fighter permission to approach. When they stood alone at the portside rail, he said, "Let's hear it, quickly."

Zirfet was trying to appear professional and bored; in fact he looked rather seasick. "Master," he whispered, "Hercуl Stanapeth is aboard!"

Ott's face froze. He had served three generations of Magad Emperors, but never had he needed to hide such total surprise twice in an evening. He succeeded, of course: Zirfet had no inkling of the turmoil inside him.

"Tell me everything," said Ott.

"He came aboard with the servants," said Zirfet, "but he has a cabin-a tiny berth-next to the ambassador's own. I saw him just minutes ago, Master: I knew him at once from the Book of Faces."

Ott nodded. Anyone of the least possible interest to the crown-foreigners, nobles, rabble-rousers, soldiers who grumbled about their pay-had a portrait in the Book of Faces. His spies learned to pick them out of a crowd at a glance.

"He does not know me, of course-nor any of the others," Zirfet went on. "But you-"

"Me he knows," said Ott, nodding grimly. Hercуl was his great failure: an expert fighter when Ott recruited him to join the Secret Fist. A far better fighter-admit it: his best-when the training was done. But Hercуl never had the stomach for spy work. Idleness and wealth had not poisoned him, as they had these youngsters. Hercуl was simply unwilling to kill. Tholjassans revere life, he had told Ott years ago, possibly the last time they had spoken. So do we, Ott had answered. But sometimes a knife in the dark is the only way to prove it.

He strolled aft, Zirfet at his side. He was perfectly calm now: twisting bad luck to his advantage was as familiar as putting on his shoes. "Tell me what steps you have taken, Zirfet," he said.

"I stationed Jasani at a speaking-tube. They're remarkable, Master, these hide-wrapped pipes: you can hear most anything the ambassador says from his reading chair, for instance. Last night Jasani heard Hercуl say that a man whose sword is rarely sheathed will one day trip and fall upon the blade. Isiq said nothing to this, but another spoke up-an elder and a foreigner, by his voice. 'Indeed, friend,' he said. 'Many are the kingdoms reduced to dust by their own fears, and the folly fear inspires, when no power on earth could break them else. Let Arqual beware Arqual.'"

"Who is this foreigner, who speaks thus?" Ott demanded.

"The others called him Ramachni. We are making inquiries even now."

"See that you do. What is Hercуl's position aboard?"

"He is Ambassador Isiq's private servant, Master. His valet, as it were. And he is the girl's… dance tutor."

"Thasha Isiq's tutor? Lucky girl; she'll have learned a great deal more than dance. But Hercуl must never see me, lad."

"No, Master."

"And yet we cannot kill him-yet. If he should die on my watch, this ship would be flooded with talk of my incompetence as protector of the Isiq household. They might even wish to replace me."

He fell silent, feeling the wheels within his mind, the old, flawless mechanisms of deceit.

"A fever," he said at last. "I will develop a slight fever tonight. And out of concern for others I shall keep to my cabin until we touch land in Ulsprit. There I shall disembark and make my own way west, rejoining you at Tressek Tarn. Before that time, you personally will rid us of Hercуl. The task is essential. Can I trust you with it?"

"You can," said Zirfet.

Too quick, Ott decided: the lad's bravado masked fear. He raised a warning finger.

"Bloodstains will not do. Use your head before you use that knife I gave you. Consider: Hercуl is not listed among the servants. Isiq must have recruited him quite late. But by the Emperor's decree every sailor, servant and marine has to meet with my approval. He is illegal, technically-a stowaway."

"Of course, sir!" whispered Zirfet. "I'll see him put off the ship!"

"Fool," said Ott. "You'll see him drowned."

As darkness fell the captain sent word to Elkstem to turn the ship south, out into the Nelu Peren. The east wind that had borne them quickly to Etherhorde now forced them to cut sharply away from the city to avoid the great peril of drifting sidelong against the shore. The lamps of a fishing village dimmed, then vanished altogether. Minutes later the coastline melted into the gray-black seam where sky and water met.

Dinner that night was a grand affair, with the captain and the ambassador joining the wealthy passengers in the first-class dining hall, which had the largest table aboard. Lamb and roast partridge, pepper vodka, mints. After drinking rather more than she was allowed at home, Lady Lapadolma's niece stood up and belted out one of her aunt's poems:

Regal traveler on the waves, over heroes' watery graves,

Peaceful palace of old wood, whither sails thy country's brood?

No answer gives she, yet we hear, as in a shell against the ear,

A thousand voices, living, lost, whispering their only trust:

"Over sea and under stars, noble Chathrand's fate is ours!"

"Drivel!" escaped from someone, but he was elbowed sharply and drowned out by claps and cheers.

In a box-like room on the orlop deck, the steerage passengers lined up for soup and bread. The soup had generous salt, if little else; the bread was hard but wormless. They ate with quiet concentration and left not a crumb.

The bells rang on the half hour, the watches changed, the cries of "Steady-on-the-fore" and "Two-points-off-the-lee" ricocheted from mast to mast. By midnight the last gentlemen in the smoking salon departed, surrendering their pipes and matches as they went-fire was such a danger that open flames were not permitted outside that room-and bit by bit the Chathrand fell asleep.

Only then did Sandor Ott leave his cabin. He moved silently along the row of officers' berths (Mr. Fiffengurt snored like a laboring cow), climbed the aft ladderway and crossed the main deck. A moment later he knocked softly at the captain's door.

The door opened a crack, and a nervous, bloodshot eye peered out. Swellows, the bosun. His breath stank of garlic and rum. Ott disliked the man, Rose's most loyal bootlicker, a partner in the old rogue's career of swindling and lies. Swellows (his spies informed him) wore a necklace of ixchel skulls: fifteen or twenty little bird-sized bones, strung through the eye sockets on a greasy string. Good luck, some said-but luck was a thing Ott disdained. He put his shoulder to the door.

Swellows fell back with a whimper: "Quietly, sir, quietly!"

Rose's cabin was dark: black curtains shut out the stars. No one sat at the desk or dining table; but along the port wall, as far from the door as possible, figures huddled around a dim red lamp on a smaller table. Swellows beckoned, but Ott did not wait to be led: he crossed the dark cabin in four strides and rested his hands on the back of the one empty chair.

"You're late, Commander Nagan," said Rose, looking him over.

"I think you may call me Ott here, Captain," said the spy. "Men have killed to learn my true name, others to help me hide it. But in this room it is the least of the secrets we must swear to guard."

"You're still late."

Ott smiled, offering no explanation. He took in the others at a glance: Oggosk the witch, smirking and mumbling as ever. First Mate Uskins, terrified, sweating profusely at the captain's elbow. Beside him, a savage-looking man with small, cruel eyes, his white hair pulled back in a braid. Ott knew him well: Sergeant Drellarek, "the Throatcutter" in military circles, head of the elite Turach warriors brought aboard to guard the Emperor's gold. Drellarek nodded to him: the slow nod of a pit viper coiled to strike. Ott took pleasure in the man as he would in a fine blade or hammer, any tool worn by use to smooth perfection.

There were two others: Aken and Thyne. Neat little men with the soft skin of children and the nervous twitches of a pair of squirrels. Loose paper before them on the table, quill pens in their hands. They were agents of the Trading Family.

"Put those away," said Ott, pointing at the quills. "We want no records here."

Aken, the quieter of the two, wrapped his pen hastily and hid it away. Thyne merely set his on the table, beside a jar of ink.

"We do want answers, however, Mr. Ott," he said. "Now that you've deigned to join us, perhaps we'll get a few. Won't you be seated?"

Ott remained standing, hands on the back of his chair. "We have not met, Mr. Thyne, Mr. Aken," he said. "Still, I believe you know the essence of our plan. The Mzithrinis have a rebellion on their hands, and we shall profit by it. The followers of the Mad King, the Shaggat Ness, have risen on Gurishal, where they were driven by the other Kings forty years ago, after the Shaggat died at sea.

"I say followers, but worshippers is closer to the truth, for the Shaggat took the Old Faith of the Mzithrin and hammered it into a weapon. The Five Mzithrin Kings, as you know, each guard a fragment of the Black Casket: the stone coffin wherein, ages ago, devils from the Nine Pits were burned to ashes, cleansing the people of their darkest sins. The Book of the Old Faith tells how those devils had to be lured into the Casket, and how at last the Great Devil guessed the trick and fought to escape, and the Casket broke asunder in his death-throes.

"The Kings took the shards of the Casket to their palaces and set them in high towers, to keep the remaining devils from their lands. Under their shadow the five dynasties have ruled together for a thousand years.

"But forty years ago something changed. One of the Kings went mad-or became a God, if you ask his believers. He named himself Shaggat, God-King, and declared that the hour had come to drive all devils from the hearts of the Mzithrini people-to make them perfect, as it were. He alone could do it, he said, for in a vision he had come upon a rope ladder dropped from heaven, and he climbed it and learned the tongues of the Gods, and many secrets, including how the Black Casket might be rebuilt."

"Nonsense! Lunacy!" hissed Thyne.

"But of course, sir," said Ott dryly.

Rose leaned back in his chair, frowning. Oggosk twisted her rings.

"And a history lecture, to boot," Thyne went on irritably. "The dead history of a lunatic cult. What of it? I find it hard to believe that we have gathered here, gentlemen, for this review of the heathen myths and squabbles of our enemies."

"But we are here," said Drellarek, glancing sidelong at Thyne. "Let him speak."

Thyne looked at the sergeant and decided to close his mouth.

Ott continued, "Lunacy or not, the Shaggat persuaded tens of thousands to his cause. The other Kings named him Enemy of the Faith, but he had already vowed to sweep them aside. And now I will tell you something that does not appear in the history books: Arqual owes its very survival to that madman. Do you understand, Mr. Thyne? We were losing the Second Sea War. The bulk of the Nelu Peren was already under the Mzithrini flag. The whole Empire might have been conquered within the year, and Etherhorde burned, and Magad's head hoisted on a stake, if the Shaggat Ness had not appeared. Soon the Kings were too busy fighting him to win the war against us. That is why His Supremacy rules the greatest spread of territories on earth. Because of one holy madman in the west."

Thyne snorted, as if he did not believe a word.

Rose stood up from the table. "I will bring wine," he said.

"The Mzithrin," Ott went on, "could not win two wars at once. Wisely, they chose to defeat the Shaggat, but to do so they had to pull all their forces back from the Inner Lands. We chased them west, island by island, ship by ship. And meanwhile the Four Faithful Kings crushed the army of the Shaggat in a terrible battle that laid waste to the Mang-Mzn and the Cities of the Jomm. But the Shaggat escaped."

"We know all this," said Aken, the other Company man. "He fled the Mzithrin in a fast ship-he and his sons, and the sorcerer Arunis. The so-called Horrid Four. But their flight from the Mzithrin brought them straight into the path of our fleet. We cut that ship to ribbons-the Lythra, wasn't it? — and she sank with all hands."

"Not all," said Sandor Ott.

Silence: the low slap of waves suddenly audible, and the oil lamp sputtering. Thyne looked startled, even afraid; Uskins gaped like a fish. Motionless between them, Aken looked like a man who has just realized, very soberly, that he is seated among ghouls and vampires.

A grin spread over Drellarek's face.

Thyne rose from his chair, steadying himself with a hand on the table. "What are you saying?" he whispered.

"He did not drown, Mr. Thyne," said Ott. "We plucked him from the wreckage. And he awaits us on His Supremacy's prison isle of Licherog."

"Awaits us?" cried Thyne suddenly. "The Shaggat Ness, that murdering thing, that… creature, alive?"

"And his sons."

"But we told the world they drowned!"

"Lower your voice, Thyne," rumbled Rose, closing the wine cabinet.

Thyne did not seem to hear him. "Mr. Ott! Mr. Ott!" he cried. "The Shaggat was an animal, a beast!"

"He is that," said Ott. "And much more. In the eyes of ninety thousand rebel Mzithrini, he is a God, descended to Alifros to lead them to glory. They have never believed him dead. Forty years they have fought the other Kings, and prayed for his return. Exactly when they expect that miracle to occur is a great secret, and one still unknown to the Mzithrin Kings. Shall I tell you, gentlemen? Oh yes, I know their prophecy. I wrote it, you see. My spies have whispered it in Gurishal these four decades, spread it like a sweet pox of the mind. He shall return, they all now believe, when a Mzithrin lord marries his enemy."

"Rin's blood!" blurted Uskins. "You arranged it! The admiral's daughter and the Sizzy prince! You set the whole thing up!"

"Very good, Mr. Uskins," said Ott. "And now you will appreciate just how vital it is that word of our plans never reaches Lady Thasha's father. For when the Mzithrin Kings grasp that young bride's place in the prophecy, they will kill her in a heartbeat. Of course, by then it will be too late. Is it not beautiful, gentlemen? Ninety thousand rebels still worship the Shaggat as a God. And we have a chance to prove them right. We shall raise him from the dead."

"This is monstrous!" said Thyne.

"It is genius," said Drellarek. He rose and bowed to Sandor Ott. "A weapon forty years in the smithing. My compliments, sir, on the tactic of a lifetime."

"Except," said Aken, "that the entire White Fleet lies between us and the Shaggat's worshippers. How do you mean to get him to Gurishal, on the far side of the Mzithrin lands?"

"Wait and see," said Ott.

"They put a new King on the Shaggat's throne, didn't they?" asked Drellarek.

"Right after the war," said Ott with a nod. "But the fanatics of Gurishal made so many attempts on his life that the Pentarchy changed the seat of that kingdom to North Urlanx. Both moves only served to deepen the hatred of the Nessarim for the rest of the Mzithrini peoples. Gurishal may be contained by the armies of the Five Kings, but it is primed to explode."

"And what of the Shaggat's mage, Arunis?" demanded Thyne. "Did he too escape the wreck of the Lythra? Is he imprisoned on Licherog?"

"No longer," said Ott. "Arunis was indeed pulled from the Gulf of Thуl and imprisoned, but he met a curious fate. It appears he tried sorcery on his guards and nearly escaped the island. But one guard regained his senses and shot an arrow into the arm of the fleeing mage. It was but a scratch, but it bled, and by the spoor of blood Arunis was tracked down by dogs, recaptured-and hanged. The guard paid a high price for his valor, though. Arunis flung a curse at him with his last breath, and within weeks the guard began to lose his mind, convinced that he was the one dangling from a rope. He ended up in a madhouse on Opalt."

Rose limped back across the floor. Mr. Uskins, rigid with fear but with a new gleam in his eye, leaned forward. "And the gold we're carrying? What are we to do with all that gold?"

"Can't you guess?" snapped Ott. "The Shaggat is the blood enemy of the remaining Mzithrin Kings. We're sending him into battle, and battles require soldiers and horses, catapults and cannon and ships. Thanks to us he will have them. We are financing his war.

"But this war will be different. This time Arqual will be innocent, a spectator-and not a war-crippled spectator, either. As the Mzithrinis retreat, fighting themselves once again, we shall move in force to take their place-permanently. And why not? Why should men of the Crownless Lands buy their boots and coal and weapons from savages who drink one another's blood? Our boots fit. Our coal burns as hot. That business, those millions in profits, should be Arqual's-will be Arqual's, in due time. And naturally, ships full of valuable goods must be protected."

Drellarek looked at him sharply. "You're speaking of the Imperial navy," he said. "But would the Crownless Lands ever agree to let our ships back in their waters?"

"Dear sergeant!" said Ott. "With the Shaggat returned, and civil war to the west? They will beg us on bended knees."

"But Sizzies are Pit-fiends in a fight!" whispered Swellows, over Ott's shoulder. "Tough, and cruel, and wicked-even to their own kind."

"We need them to be wicked, fool," said Ott. "Every misery the other Kings inflict on their people makes the Shaggat that much dearer to his followers, and costly to destroy."

"What if they can't destroy him?" Swellows pressed. "Will he turn on us?"

A silence. "They'll destroy him," said Ott finally. "No doubt about that. But oh, gentlemen-how it will cost them! They will be Kings of rubble when it's done! In five years' time, Arqual will own the Quiet Sea."

"And in ten years?" asked Aken. "What of your further plans, Mr. Ott?"

For the briefest instant Ott looked surprised. Then he said, smoothly: "Nothing further. I am sworn to defend Arqual from the Mzithrin horde. That is enough."

Thyne gathered up his papers. "Defend it with another ship, Spy-master," he said. "You have exceeded your mandate. The Lady La-padolma never authorized such a mission for the Chathrand, nor would she. We are businessfolk, not butchers."

Suddenly Oggosk laughed. The others jumped: they had all but forgotten her.

"What's the difference?" she said gleefully. "Your darling Lady buys the bones of six thousand men and horses a year from the old Ipulia battlefields, grinds and sells them to eastern farmers to enrich their soils. She takes furs by the shipload from Idhe barons who set fire to trappers who don't catch enough mink. She buys ore mined by Ulluprid slaves, sells it to Etherhorde ironsmiths and sails back to the Ulluprids with spears and arrows for the slavemasters."

"That is different," said Thyne. "That is buying and selling, commerce among free men."

"Well then, so is our plan," said Ott. "We are buying a little room for Arqual and her manufacturers, and selling a God."

"Madness!" repeated Thyne. "There will be no profit in this for the Company, only the loss of her good reputation-"

Oggosk cackled again.

"— and this very ship, her flagship, the pride of the seas." He looked at his companion, and his voice grew shrill. "Aken, why do you just sit there? Speak up, man!"

"I can't think what to say," said Aken.

"Well, I can," said Thyne. "Take your war games elsewhere, Ott. As Company Overseer for this trading voyage, I hereby revoke your lease on the Chathrand. You all know I have that power under the Sailing Code, section nine, article four: Gross Misstatement of Mission."

As Thyne finished speaking, the spymaster turned to Drellarek and gave a small nod. Thyne saw the look and grasped its meaning instantly. "Wait, wait!" he cried, springing backward. But Drellarek's eyes had glazed over, and a knife had appeared in his hand.

Then Rose moved. With one lurch he seized Aken by the lapels, wrenched him from the chair and clubbed him brutally across the face. The small man fell like a sack of grain at Drellarek's feet.

Thyne stumbled back from the table, his mouth agape. Rose waved Drellarek off.

"Don't harm him," said the captain. "He will see reason yet. Aken here is the dangerous one, who would have betrayed us at the first chance. He sat quiet while that ninny prattled and whined. But I could hear the wheels turning in his head."

Speechless, the others watched Rose drag the unconscious man to the gallery windows. "Shutter that lamp, Uskins," he said.

Uskins closed the lamp's iron shade, plunging the cabin into darkness. The men at the table heard curtains rustle, and the squeak of a hinge. A cold finger of sea wind probed the room. Then, far away, so faint they could deny it to themselves, they heard a splash. "Leave my cabin, all of you," said Rose in the darkness. "We shall talk again in Uturphe, weather permitting."