The Red Wolf Conspiracy (13 page)

But she had a knack for strategy that unsettled him at times.

The admiral reached unsteadily for the wine. “The wolves and the trailing elk. I remember telling you that parable. How a wolf pack drives and harries a herd until it identifies the slowest, the weakest, then cuts it off from the rest and devours it. I do remember, Thasha. And I know what you're thinking: that the old man knows how to fight wars, but not make peace. You forget that my life did not begin when I joined the Imperial navy. And perhaps you also forget that I have hung up my sword. When I sail west it will be in a merchant ship, not a man-o'-war.”

“Of course,” said Thasha. “I've spoken foolishly. Silly ideas come to me, sometimes.”

“More than silly, in this case. Did you not hear what I said about the Pact? If we move against any Crownless State all the rest will turn against us, and the White Fleet of the Mzithrin will join them.”

“Eat your salad, Thasha,” whispered Syrarys.

“War on that scale would make the Second Maritime look like two brats squabbling in a bathtub,” said the admiral, his voice rising. “Do you think I would be party to such madness? I am not a spy or a military messenger, girl! I am an ambassador!”

“I'm sorry, Father.”

The admiral looked at his plate and said nothing. Thasha found her heart pounding. She had rarely seen him so upset.

Syrarys gave a consoling sigh, and poured them each a cup of coffee. “I know so little of the world,” she said, “but it occurs to me, Thasha darling, that such a remark—it's very clever, of course—”

Ah, here it comes
, thought Thasha.

“—but at the wrong moment, it might just … worry people.”

“It might be a disaster!” said Eberzam.

“Surely not, dear,” Syrarys countered sweetly. “When you're careful, misunderstandings can be sorted out. Don't you think so, Thasha?”

“Yes, I do,” said Thasha tonelessly. Beneath the table her hands made fists.

“An hour ago, for instance,” Syrarys said, laying a hand on the admiral's own, “Thasha and I were recalling that summer party in Maj District. Fancy, I had the idea she had thrown her cousin into a hedge. When in fact he merely fell.”

Eberzam Isiq's face clouded even further. He had been at the party, too. He took his hand from Syrarys' grasp and touched his head behind one ear, the site of the old wound. Thasha shot a glance of blazing rage at Syrarys.

“They are such an
excitable
bunch, those cousins,” said the consort. “I believe there's still a rift between our households.”

Another pause. The admiral cleared his throat, but did not look up. “Thasha, morning star,” he said. “We live in an evil time.”

“Prahba—”

“If Arqual and the Mzithrin come to blows,” the admiral said, “it will not be like other wars. It will be the ruin of both. Death will stalk the nations, from Besq to Gurishal. Innocents will die alongside warriors. Cities will be sacked.”

Now he raised his eyes, and the forlorn look Thasha saw in the garden was stronger than ever.

“I saw such a city. A lovely city. Bright above the sea—” His voice sounded ready to break, but he checked himself.

Syrarys laid her hand on the table. “This can wait until morning,” she said firmly.

“No, it cannot,” said the admiral.

“Dr. Chadfallow says you mustn't exhaust yourself.”

“Chadfallow be damned!”

The consort's eyes widened, but she held her tongue.

Thasha said, “What I said was awful, Prahba, but it won't happen again. Forgive me! I've spoken to no one but the Sisters for two years. It was just a careless moment.”

“Such moments can be lethal,” he said.

Thasha bit her lips. She was thinking of Hercól.

“A darkness follows the death of cities,” said the admiral. “A darkness of hunger and cold, and a darkness of ignorance, and a darkness of savage despair. Each darkness speeds the others, like the currents of a whirlpool. We must do everything we can to stay out of the whirlpool.”

“I'm older now,” Thasha said, feeling the jaws of Syrarys' trap closing on her. “I have better sense. Please—”

He held up a hand for silence: a soft gesture, but one that allowed for no contradiction. Thasha was trembling. Syrarys wore a tiny smile.

“In six days I board
Chathrand,”
said the admiral. “His Supremacy has just given me the heaviest burden of my life. Believe me, Thasha: if I saw some other path I should take it. But there is none. That is why I must tell you—”

“You can't send me back to that school!”

“—that you will be sailing with us to Simja, a journey often weeks or more—”

“What!” Thasha leaped out of her chair. “Oh, thank you, thank you, my darling Prahba! You won't regret it, never, I promise!”

“And there,” said the admiral, fending off her kisses, “you will be married to Prince Falmurqat Adin, Commander of the Fourth Legion of the Mzithrin Kings.”

The Scaffold in the Square

1 Vaqrin 941

8:02 a.m
.

All along the waterfront men were peering into hatches and holds. Pazel watched with indifference: the crawlies had escaped, it seemed. They were exceedingly dangerous, men claimed, and could even send a ship to the bottom of the sea. Yet Pazel had never learned to hate them like a true Arquali: he sometimes felt like an ixchel himself. A tiny, unwelcome being, hiding in the cracks and crevices of the Empire.

But what was going on beside the
Chathrand?
Two enormous gangways had been drawn up beside her, looking for all the world like a pair of siege towers beside a fortress wall. At the farther the scene was familiar: sailors and stevedores bustled up and down the zigzagging ramps, with casks and crates and other provision containers, in that state of organized frenzy that preceded the launch of any ship. But something odd was happening at the nearer ramp.

A crowd had gathered, in this first hour of dawn: a crowd of the poor and almost-poor, young men with their sweethearts, old men all bristle and bone, grandmothers in faded smocks. But most numerous were the boys: ragged, hungry boys, eyes flickering between the ship and a certain street at the back of the Plaza.

The whole crowd stood behind a newly made wooden fence, which carved out a wide semicircle before the gangway. No one was using the ramp, but inside the fence Imperial marines stood guard with lowered spears. Next to the gangway stood a wooden scaffold upon which three sailing officers stood at attention, white uniforms gleaming, hats in hand. Despite their stillness, Pazel saw that they too were stealing glances at the street. Everyone was, in fact.

When he reached the foot of the pier, Pazel approached a group of older men standing apart.

“Your pardon, sirs. What's it all about?”

They glanced back over their shoulders, and Pazel recognized the very fishermen who had consoled him earlier that morning. Now they looked from him to one another, and their eyes twinkled with mischief. All at once they began to laugh.

“What's it all about! He he!”

One of the men raised Pazel's hand, inspecting. “Rough as hide! He's a tarboy, sure.”

“Shoul' we? Shoul' we?”

“Oh, I shoul' say so. He he
he!”

Another man—it was the old salt who had offered him breakfast—bent down and looked Pazel in the face. “You wan' we shoul' help you, then?”

“Help me?” said Pazel uneasily. “How?”

All at once the crowd stirred and a murmuring arose:
“Captain's come! The new captain!”
All eyes locked on the street, from which came a distant sound of hooves. The fishermen, still grinning, clapped their hands on Pazel's arms and pressed him forward.

“Make way, gents, ladies! Club spons'r, this one! Club spons'r!”

The fishermen had some influence, it seemed: grudgingly, the crowd let them pass. When they reached the fence they shouted to the marines.

“Here, tinshirts! Take this one! Solid tarboy, he is! Club's honor!”

Pazel started, began to struggle. “What … where—”

“Sss, fool!” they hissed at him. “Want a ship or don't ye?”

A marine stalked irritably toward them, pointing at Pazel. “Is he trained?” he shouted over the din.

“Trained, seasoned, sound!” The fisherman patted Pazel like a favorite dog.

“Fetch him over, then! Quick!”

Before Pazel could protest, the fishermen heaved him over the fence. He struck the ground on the far side with a thump, and the soldier pulled him instantly to his feet. As he was dragged across the square, Pazel saw the boys behind the fence glaring at him, as if he were cheating at something. And Pazel had to grin, for he knew what was happening now, and it was like a dream. This was the muster of the
Chathrand
, where gaps in the crew would be filled before the voyage out. The old men had passed him off as one of their own.

Chadfallow had wanted to strand him ashore—why, Pazel couldn't imagine—but Pazel was going to thwart his plans. He would be back on a ship before the day was out. And not just any ship!

From the other side of the fence boys poked at him, hissing:
“Not fair! Not fair!”

At that moment a gate in the fence began to open. The soldier hauled Pazel up against the planks and ordered him to be still. As Pazel watched, a red two-horse carriage rounded the street corner. Marines walked before it, bellowing, driving a wedge through the mob. From the deck of the
Chathrand
six trumpets gave a mournful blast. As the carriage reached the fence the marines had to jab the crowd back at spear-point, and lock the gate behind them. But when the coach stopped at the scaffold, the horns and voices died as if by mutual consent. Silently the driver climbed down and opened the door.

First to emerge was an old, old woman. Pazel gaped: it was the duchess, Lady Oggosk, who had laughed at him and tasted his tears. The driver helped the old woman down, then reached into the carriage—and jerked back with a cry of pain. In the sunshine the onlookers saw bright blood on his hand. The woman cackled. Then she herself reached in and lifted a huge red cat from the floor of the coach. The thief! Pazel thought. For there could be no doubt: Lady Oggosk's cat was the very animal that had stolen his fritter. Without a glance at the crowd, Lady Oggosk moved to the scaffold and crept laboriously up the stairs.

Next came a black man in a smart blue vest. There were puzzled looks. A Noonfirther? Some other, stranger race? No one quite knew what to say. The black man too ignored them, and ascended the scaffold behind the old woman.

Then they saw the hand. Heavy, scarred, strong, it gripped the carriage door, and from the black sleeve and gold cufflinks they knew that this at last was the captain of the Great Ship.

But the man who emerged stamped the crowd with the deepest silence yet. He was a large, slow-moving mariner, his red beard neatly combed, his eyes studying the crowd from pale, leathery sockets, the line of his mouth frozen in an expression of anger: deferred anger, perhaps, or merely contained.

Rose
.

The name broke the silence, racing through the crowd in a frightened whisper.
Rose! Rose!
Pazel turned, bewildered. The name was melting into a moan. Wives and husbands traded glances; even the marines looked taken aback. By the fence, the crowd of boys gaped at the red-bearded man, who was now rounding the carriage with a limp.

Then the whole mob of boys turned and ran. Women screamed, high-pitched; men bellowed at one another:
“You said it would be Fiffengurt!” “Ay, and you guessed Frix!”
One of the bolder men threw a melon in the direction of the carriage.
“Back to the islands, Rose! Leave our boys alone!”

But Rose, moving calmly to the scaffold, paid no attention, and the boys were not left alone. While all eyes were on the carriage, groups of short, thick-chested beings had taken up positions in the streets and alleys, blocking all exits from the square. They wore thick hoods over their heads. Their arms seemed too long for their bodies.

“Flikkermen!”
went the cry. What were they doing in the port?

The answer came soon enough. One after another the creatures ran down the fleeing boys, tore them away from their parents and friends, dragged them squealing and kicking to the scaffold. There a blond officer gave each boy a casual inspection (four limbs, two eyes, teeth), scribbled something in a ledger and tossed the Flikkerman a single gold coin.

The families in the crowd were outraged. They had already paid a fee just to enter the square, on the off-chance of finding work for their boys. Even the orphans who came alone had paid a copper whelk.

“Flikkermen! Who hired them? That rancid Company?”

“The marines shouldn't work with them bloodworms!”

“Ehe, tinshirt! Bring that Ormali cub back! Changed our minds!”

The latter shouts were from the fishermen, but the marine ignored them. He seized Pazel again and dragged him to the scaffold.

The blond officer looked him over, then scowled at the guard. “An Ormali! Are you a soldier or a junk peddler, sir?”