The Red Wolf Conspiracy (23 page)

Uskins could not quite suppress his smile. He bowed low. As he turned to leave, a thought seemed to strike him. “His clothes were burned, sir. Verminous. Of course, we shall wish to repossess his uniform, barely used as it is, but I'm sure some rag or other can be—”

In one violent motion Rose pushed to his feet. “We will not repossess his uniform, but supplement it with a cap and greatcoat. The boy will not be put ashore. I did not witness what occurred on deck, Uskins, but Ambassador Isiq had a clear view, and saw his actions not as madness but exceptional courage. He wishes to congratulate the boy in person, and to pay for the cap and coat himself. His Excellency's opinion of
your
conduct we will discuss another time. You are dismissed.”

Abashed and fuming, Uskins left. Rose stood looking fixedly at Pazel, and Pazel stared back, wide-eyed and disbelieving. He was to meet the ambassador? What should he say? What would Rose expect of him?

The captain's steward brought in a plate of kulberries and almonds, and set it on the desk with a bow. “No tea,” said Rose before the man could speak, and waved him out. Then Rose took a key from his pocket and sat down again behind his desk. Without once taking his eyes from Pazel, he unlocked a deep drawer on the right-hand side and lifted out something so horrible Pazel had to stifle a cry.

It was a cage. Very much like a birdcage, but stronger, with a small, solid padlock. Inside the cage lay what appeared to be a wound-up knot of rags, hair and dead skin. But then it moved, and groaned. Pazel felt suddenly ill. The thing was an ixchel—old, starved and indescribably dirty. His eyes were vacant, his white beard matted with grease; the arms wrapped protectively about his head were raw with open sores. A scrap of cloth at his waist, half rotted, was all he had for clothing. As Rose set the cage on his desk, the old ixchel uncurled his shaking body, groaned again most terribly and cursed them both to the Nine Pits.

Rose, of course, heard nothing. He chose a kulberry and two almonds and slid them through the bars of the cage.

“Pathkendle,” he said musingly. “You're the right age, the right color. Are ye Captain Gregory's boy, then?”

Pazel nodded, still in shock. On hands and knees, the ixchel dragged himself through the filth at the bottom of his cage and fell ravenously upon the kulberry.

“Well, well,” said Rose. “The traitor's son. A fine sailor, Gregory—and bold at that. Faced down Simja pirates, slipped away from warships through the Talturi reefs. Few cleverer on the quarterdeck than Gregory Pathkendle. Clever with the friends he made, too. Wasn't he tight with old Chadfallow?”

Despite himself, Pazel gave a start. Rose nodded, satisfied.

“You see? Your father was ahead of his time—playing one empire off the other. But even he made mistakes. He thought the Mzithrin would strike before we did, and so he joined them. Who knows? If he'd guessed right he might be a citizen of Arqual today. But never a sailor. His Supremacy doesn't allow traitors to sail under his flag.”

“My father's no traitor, sir,” said Pazel, clenching his fists behind his back.

“Lad, he's the blary definition. You're just lucky he had no one better than Ormael to betray. If Gregory had been an officer in the Imperial fleet his every son, daughter, nephew and cousin would have been crucified.”

“He was taken prisoner,” said Pazel, trying not to glare.

“’Course he was. And then sailed back with his captors to make war on his own countrymen.”

“The Mzithrin didn't make war on my country, sir. Arqual did.”

“Wrong,” said Rose. “The Empire never did make war on Ormael. It devoured her at one sitting, like a lamb chop.”

Pazel said nothing. At that moment he hated Rose more than Uskins, more than Swellows or Jervik or even the soldiers who had stormed his house. The old ixchel was listening intently, now, although he did not stop eating the kulberry.

“You've done well for yourself, eh?” said Rose. “Most Ormali boys are dead in the Chereste silver mines, or cutting cane in Simja, or sold to Urnsfich privateers. And you're to be received by old Isiq himself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you see what my crawly's doing? Do you know why I keep him?”

(
“Your crawly's name is Steldak, you fat pustule,”
muttered the ixchel man.)

Pazel struggled not to look at the cage. “No, sir, I don't.”

“Poison,” said Rose. “Oh, I have enemies, boy, many enemies. The crawly tastes my food. A crawly's heart beats six times as fast as a man's, so his blood moves six times as fast about his body. And so does any poison, you see? What would kill me in twelve minutes will kill him in two.”

(
“Your heart stopped beating long ago,”
said the ixchel.)

“Now, I don't have a crawly to spare for His Excellency,” Rose went on, “but I do have tarboys. The old man's taken a shine to you. That's earned you new orders from me.

“Usually he will dine at the head of the first-class table, or here in my quarters, with me. But some meals he will take in privacy, in his rooms. You will take him those meals, Pathkendle. And you will taste every dish before you do so. In the galley, in the presence of our cook. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Someone will be sent for you on every occasion. If his daughter or consort asks for food you will do exactly the same. It will not do for him to be killed, Pathkendle. But you: I suppose we can agree that you have been living on borrowed time?”

He glared suddenly at the cage. “Taste that almond, damn your eyes! I'm hungry!”

The ixchel looked up and drew his lips back in what looked like a grimace of pain. But then a strange, low voice came out of him—a voice any normal man could hear, and Pazel guessed this was what Diadrelu had called
bending
.

“Captain,” the old man said, “I beg to tell you that my teeth have grown weak. I cannot bite into this nut, sir. If you could but crack it with a hammer …”

The captain snarled, but he climbed to his feet and lurched across the room. For the second time that day, Pazel knew that he had come to a moment when he must
instantly
do something dangerous, or else regret it for the rest of his life—and once again, he did it. Leaning close to the cage, he whispered:
“I'll help you, Steldak.”

Instantly, Rose stiffened.

Pazel just had time to raise his head before the captain swiveled about. His eyes were wild with suspicion as he thumped back across the room. He grabbed Pazel's hand and squeezed with agonizing force. He leaned close to Pazel's face. His breath stank of garlic and tobacco.

“You hear spirits.”

“N-n-no, sir!”

“I know that you do. I saw your face. There's not many of us can hear 'em, boy. One passed through this room just now, spoke to my crawly in its own tongue. You heard it, didn't you? Tell the truth!”

“Captain, I don't—Ahh!”

Rose's hand tightened again. His furious eyes roamed the cabin walls.

“Watch out,” he hissed, very low. “The world's changed 'neath our feet, when brutes like me get the hearing, pick up voices dissolved in the wind. Animals always could, then mages, spell weavers, freaks. Today, here and there, a natural man like Nilus Rose. This old unsinkable hulk, now—it's clogged with spirits. In storms they snag on the topgallants, slither down to deck, crawl in our ears. You hear 'em, too! Deny it!”

Rose was mad—but mad or not, his astonishing grip threatened to break Pazel's hand. What to say? If he gave Rose the answer he wanted, the captain would never leave Pazel alone, would expect reports on the “spirits” Pazel overheard. And what would the stowaway ixchel do to him then, when half their number already thought him a spy?

“Captain!”

The voice came from the ixchel man, bowing so low that his last remaining strands of hair dragged the floor.

“Allow me to inform Your Honor that he is but half correct. I heard a voice wish me well—a spirit-voice, certainly!—but this boy heard it not. If he looked startled it is only because I jumped suddenly to my feet.”

Rose looked from the prisoner to Pazel and back again. His eyes narrowed, but slowly the pressure on Pazel's hand decreased, and he let it go. Pazel stepped backward, cradling his hand, and for just an instant his eyes met those of the ixchel prisoner. The man who had lied with such skill an instant before now gave Pazel a look full of wonder, and even—dreadful in that ruined face—hope.

Another knock. The ship's clerk was at the door, with Pazel's new coat and hat. Rose shoved the cage back into his desk, suddenly business-like. He made Pazel try on the coat, corrected his posture, even drilled him on how to address the noble family.

“Your Excellency
is all you need say to Ambassador Isiq. For his consort,
my lady
or
Lady Syrarys
will do. And the girl is to be called
Young Mistress
—or if she should insist,
Lady Thasha
. When he compliments you for what he believes you did today, thank him. Do not chatter on. If I learn that you have been familiar or clever with His Excellency I'll make you wish I'd left you in Uskins' hands.”

Pazel was barely listening.
Thasha
, he thought.
Her name is Thasha
.

Rose put the cap on his head. “These clothes are Ambassador Isiq's gift. Wear them at all times. Go and scrub your face, boy, and then report to his stateroom.”

Pazel made to leave, but at the door Rose's voice stopped him cold. “A strange turn, isn't it, Pathkendle?—that of all the lords and nobles of this Empire, the one who favors you should be the conqueror of Ormael.”

On the main deck, Elkstem called for topgallants. The winching was done, the miles of kedging-line were hauled slithering back into the
Chathrand
. Somewhere out on the bay a warship saluted with a cannon-shot, and all the Great Ship's poultry began to squawk. Pazel had to find Neeps. If he didn't tell someone about his morning he would simply explode. But did he dare mention Steldak? Would Diadrelu see even that as a betrayal?

He had heard Swellows order Neeps to the tailor's nook, to help with mending the reserve sails. But Neeps was not there. Pazel bent down beside Reyast, the shy tarboy with the stutter, and asked after his friend. Reyast looked up from his lapful of sailcloth and blinked.

“P-P-P-Paz-zel. You have a n-n-n-ew c-c—”

“I'll tell you about the coat later, Reyast. Where's Neeps gone off to?”

“S-s-s-s-sickbay.”

“Sickbay! Why? What's wrong with him?”

Some minutes later, Reyast had succeeded in telling Pazel that Neeps was badly bruised. He had been pushed down a hatch by a new tarboy, brought aboard just yesterday. The newcomer was “a b-b-b-baddy,” Reyast declared: older and stronger than any of them, except Peytr and Dastu perhaps, and he acted as though he were in charge of the smaller tarboys. He was enraged with Fiffengurt, who had given him no special rank, and was taking it out on the younger boys. When Neeps passed through the berth deck to retrieve his turban, the new boy had ordered him to trade shipboxes—his own had a lid that fastened poorly. Neeps laughed in his face. There were too many sailors about for a fight (which Reyast considered lucky for Neeps), but when the bigger tarboy saw the chance he had shoved Neeps from behind, sending him crashing through a hatch into the steerage compartment below—where Neeps had almost landed on a baby.

Pazel, who had seen enough cruelty for one day, found himself livid. “What's this pig's name?” he asked.

Reyast screwed up his face with effort.
“D-f-dj-d-Jervik!”
“Jervik!” cried Pazel, aghast. “A big lout with a hole in his ear?” Reyast nodded. Pazel questioned him no more, but ran straight for the sickbay. Jervik aboard! Had Captain Nestef finally caught him at his cruelty and sent him packing? No matter how it had occurred it was terrible news, and he hoped that somehow Reyast was mistaken. Pazel flew across the lower gun deck to the sickbay. Over the clinic's door he saw a curious sign:

SICKBAY

DR. CLAUDIUS RAIN

The first name was neatly painted in red. The second, like the line through Chadfallow's name, was a messy blue scrawl. Pazel had to steady himself on the doorjamb. Chadfallow had meant to serve on the
Chathrand
. But why had he changed his mind, and told Pazel to jump ship?
I intend to see them
, he had said of Pazel's mother and sister. Was that the reason he had planned to be aboard—or the reason he wasn't?

In the sickbay he found Neeps, slung in a hammock, with a split lip and an oilskin bag of cool water over one eye. The small boy was furious, grinding his teeth, swearing he'd teach Jervik to keep his distance.

Pazel hushed him: the new doctor, Rain, was bustling by, white eyebrows knitted. As he passed they heard him muttering to himself: “Undrabust, Neeps Undrabust, ha ha, almost broke his neck, you boys shouldn't fool about the hatches …”

“Let him come near me again,” said Neeps when the doctor was out of earshot. “Jervik, I mean—the cowardly rat.”

“But how did he end up on
Chathrand?”
said Pazel miserably.