The Ruling Sea (32 page)

Soldiers and sailors alike did their best to look satisfied with this reasoning, and to a certain extent they were. None had ever dreamed of being part of such a grand effort—the triumph of Arqual, the remaking of the very order of the world! Part of the crew breathed easier, thinking of Mzithrini atrocities. Most at least felt they understood what the journey was all about.

But not all were comforted. Many recalled what Captain Rose had said the day Peytr Bourjon ate his gumfruit.
Strip that rind away
, he’d said. Go on without dreaming of hope. On slow watches, over breakfast biscuit, or high on the topgallant yards, they began to murmur, to frown. In their hammocks, blind to one another in the dark, they whispered: We don’t exist, boys. We wiped the slate clean at Talturi. Our girls will cry, but not too long. Don’t kid yourselves. They’ll dry their eyes and paint ’em pretty, women are faithless useless calculating gossipy gone-with-a-sob-and-a-hankie. And what about us, eh, what about us on this ship? Memories. Names mumbled by an old aunt, a quick prayer in the Temple, a list on page ten of the
Mariner
, used to wrap someone’s pound of halibut. That’s all we are, by Rin.

For the three youths it was a time of anxiety. Thasha could tell that Pazel was struggling with some new fear: he walked about as though under a storm cloud, waiting for lightning to strike. But she never could find a chance to ask him about it, for he seemed to go out of his way not to be caught with her alone.

Their allies were troubled as well. Fiffengurt raged and sulked; he had not forgiven himself for getting his Annabel with child (“like a common rascal on shore leave”), and he was half out of his mind at the thought of Rose, or worse yet Uskins, going through his private journal. Felthrup still cried out in his sleep.

Hercól, for his part, expected an attack: some midnight assault by one of Ott’s men, or a siege by Rose and Drellarek, or worst of all an attack by the sorcerer. “Why Rose allows us to come and go from these chambers is a mystery,” he said. “But of this I am certain: nothing could be more dangerous than coming to depend on that magic wall.”

He abandoned his valet’s cabin in favor of a small chamber that Pacu Lapadolma and several other first-class passengers had used for storage. The room was still crammed with footlockers and crates and swinging garment bags, but it had the advantage of being just outside the stateroom door. He refused to sleep in the stateroom itself, saying that if some enemy should find a way through the wall he intended to be the first one they met. His own door he never closed.

He strongly embraced the idea of training the tarboys, and quickly carved two blunt-edged practice swords. But he was dismayed at the anger in the youths.

“Anger is a fire,” he told them. “And that fire is your servant—
potentially
. But right now all I see is two fools trying to grab it bare-handed. That may get you burned, but it won’t get you through a swordfight.” When this warning failed to cure the boys of recklessness, he made them recite the first apothegm of Tholjassan battle-dance at the start of every lesson—not just in Arquali, but also in their individual birth-tongues:

A fight is won or lost in the mind, not the body. The mind is present in the fingertips, the eyelash, the leaping forward and the holding back, the side-spring, the death-blow, the choice not to fight at all. The mind discerns the needle-narrow path to victory among the thickets of defeat
.

His melees with Thasha were bruising affairs, which Pazel and Neeps watched in awe. Thasha had a good sword of her own, but Hercól had Ildraquin, and decades of skill and cunning. He was merciless and calculating. He mocked and insulted her, trying to break her concentration. He hurled bricks and staves and chairs at her, shouldered over the crates they’d stacked up as obstacles. He drove her in circles around the stateroom, kicked and beat and even cut her if she gave him a clumsy opening. After watching the first such lesson the boys realized they had been treated like children.

Pazel and Neeps found her breathtaking, but Thasha felt slow and awkward in her lessons. She had no idea why it was happening: Hercól had not actually injured her, and the chill of the
blanë
was a fading memory. But though she held her own the fights were more taxing than they should have been, and her mind felt clouded with vague fears and phantoms. A similar feeling had lately come at night, just after she blew out the candle by her bedside—a sudden rush of doubts about her choices, the tasks before them, herself. Then she would fall asleep and dream of whirlpools, as she had been doing for months.

She knew Hercól was aware of her distraction—you could not hide that sort of thing from your martial tutor, not when he was coming at you with a blade—and knew as well that he was holding back out of concern. It was only a slight handicap, but it flew in the face of his code as a teacher. He had sternly forbidden her ever to ask for lenience, and to do so had never crossed her mind. Now she was deeply shamed. Hercól was not even reprimanding her when the lessons ended. He didn’t think she could take it.

Her agitation reached a new pitch some three weeks after the Talturi affair, when she awoke with an irrepressible desire to eat an onion. She had never felt such a weird craving—an onion, for Rin’s sake—but it swept over her like the onset of fever, and before she knew it she was back in the main cabin, poking about in the food cupboards, popping open tins.

It was past midnight; the sounds of the ship were at their lowest ebb. Felthrup, who had yet to lose his battle against sleep, poked his weary nose out from her cabin door. Neeps groaned from his spot under the windows. “Dogs,” he said.

Pazel sat up. “No, it’s Thasha. What in the Nine Pits are you up to?”

“I want an onion.”

“Well you’re as loud as a pig in a pantry—did you say
onion?”

Thasha turned to look at him. The sharpness in his tone caught her quite off-guard.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Yes,” she said, “onion. Didn’t we have one? A big red thing.”

“What do you think we could do with a big red onion? Eat it raw?”

That was exactly what she had in mind. “I know how crazy this sounds, Pazel, but—”

“No you don’t,” he said. “Go away and let me sleep.”

Thasha returned to her cabin without a word. But moments later she was back, fully dressed, and making for the stateroom door. “Oh, stop,
stop,”
Pazel groaned. “Wake up, Neeps, Thasha’s gone mad.”

They pleaded with her to forget the onion. Thasha began to scratch nervously at her arms.

“I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Sounds like Arunis’ handiwork to me,” said Neeps, rubbing his eyes.

“Maybe,” said Thasha. “I’ve been feeling a little strange for days. Not sick. Just … strange. But this is a different feeling. How late does Mr. Teggatz work in the galley?”

“Depends on what’s for breakfast tomorrow,” said Neeps, who’d often worked the galley shift.

“I will fetch my lady an onion,” Felthrup volunteered.

“That’s blary good of you, Felthrup,” said Neeps. “We accept.”

“No, we don’t,” said Pazel. “Rin’s chin, mate, you want him killed? Teggatz brags he can skewer a rat with a cleaver at thirty feet.”

The boys pulled on their clothes, surly as grave-diggers at dawn. Outside the cabin door they found Hercól in a chair, sleeping with his back to the door and his hand on the pommel of Ildraquin. As Thasha opened the door he surged to his feet, unsheathing the great sword even as he leaped sidelong into fighting stance.

“What’s the matter?” he said. “Where are you going at this time of night?”

“Onions,” grumbled Neeps.

“Just one,” Thasha protested, still scratching at her arms.

Hercól also failed to turn Thasha from her goal, and so he sheathed Ildraquin and joined the march to the galley. The heat of the day was gone, and Thasha wished she had brought a coat. She wished even more that she had slipped out of the cabin without waking the boys. Neeps might groan and fuss, but then he was always groaning and fussing. There was nothing mean about it, ultimately. Pazel, on the other hand, had sounded furious, and his anger stung all the worse for being so unexpected.

But as they neared the galley she could think of little but her thirst for the vegetable.
Let it be open, let it be open
—

“Closed,” said Mr. Teggatz, rounding the corner, wiping his water-pruned hands on his apron. His soft mouth gave its usual smile, one that apologized for the incoherent words that usually came from it. “All closed, cleaned, locked. How terrible, Master Hercól. Hello.”

“We don’t need food, exactly,” said Pazel.

“Of course you don’t,” said Teggatz. “So be it. Good night.”

“Mr. Teggatz,” said Hercól. “The lady requires an onion.”

Teggatz looked mortified. “Impossible. There’s a directive. Punishments, too! If I lie Rin can squash me like a
roach.”
He stomped in violent demonstration, eliciting groans from the berth deck.

Neeps sighed. “He’s right, you know. Rose is a monster when it comes to galley privileges. No badgering the cook, no requests to be honored once the galley’s closed, no arguments, on pain of who-knows-what.”

Thasha scratched as if her arms were covered with biting ants. Teggatz balled up his apron in a knot. Four enemies of the crown were trying to get an onion out of him at midnight. It was more than he could bear. He bolted for the passage.

“Five bells,” he said over his shoulder. “That’s when we light the stove. Not before. Captain’s rules.”

They stood staring at the locked galley door. “Five bells is
hours
from now,” said Thasha, her voice desperate.

“You’ll just have to survive until then,” said Neeps.

“Maybe we should tie her up,” said Pazel.

The others looked at him, stunned. Pazel shoved his hands into his pockets. “To keep her from scratching herself raw, that’s all I meant.”

Hercól struck a match, then whisked a candle from his pocket and held the wick to the flame. “Pazel,” he said quietly, “go to the next compartment and keep watch. Neeps, be so good as to do the same at the ladderway.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Pazel.

“Get Thasha her onion, what do you think?”

Astonished, the tarboys did as they were told. When they were alone Hercól took Thasha’s hand.

“This is an unnatural hunger,” he said. “You must not give in to it as soon as your hands close on an onion. It could very well be a trap.”

Thasha nodded. “I know. But Hercól, you can’t break down that door. You’ll bring people running from all over the ship.”

Hercól smiled at her. With a quick glance along the passage, he put a hand through the neck of his shirt and drew out a leather strap. On it hung a tarnished brass key.

“This is one of the ship’s master keys,” he said. “Diadrelu found it on the berth deck.”

“You’ve seen Dri!” whispered Thasha.

“Alas, no. One of her
sophisters
appeared two nights ago in my cabin. I gather Mr. Frix used the key to confiscate Fiffengurt’s journal, and lost it in the scuffle that followed. As for Dri, I begin to worry. The ix-girl who brought that key looked troubled when I asked after her mistress, though she would tell me nothing. But hurry, now—” He lifted the key around his shoulders and gave it to Thasha. “Get your onion, and get back out here, and whatever you do,
don’t take a bite.”

Thasha put the key in the lock. The door protested, and Thasha had to shake it up and down in its frame, but at last the key turned and the door sprang open.

Hercól passed her the candle, and when she was safely inside he pulled the door shut behind her. The galley was long and narrow, and stank of coal and scrubbing lye. Its centerpiece was the
Chathrand’s great
stove, an iron behemoth about the size of a cottage, with twelve burners, four baking ovens (one large enough for a whole boar), a firebox for coal and another for fuelwood, various warming, smoking and steaming chambers, and a hot-water boiler. Heat throbbed from it still, although the fire had been snuffed; Thasha couldn’t imagine what the galley was like when the stove was roaring. Down the starboard wall ran a long cooking counter, with drawers, cabinets, and storm-safe racks of cooking implements above and below. Along the opposite wall ran the sinks and the racks of plates, bowls and cutlery.

Onion
. Thasha tiptoed forward, squinting. The counters were spotless, the dishracks empty, the towels knotted on their hangers. There were garlands of dry chilies like spiny red snakes nailed up on the beams, and hanging baskets of garlic, and (Thasha caught her breath) a skinless, salt-cured deer dangling from its antlers and dotted with flies. But no onions.

Thasha rounded the stove. There had to be another storage area. Where was the flour, the rice, the biscuit soaking for tomorrow’s meals? She scratched at her arms, thinking
I can smell the damn thing
.

Turn around
.

Thasha froze. Had someone spoken? No, no: she was talking to herself. She turned around, raising the candle as she did so.

Between the third and fourth sink, which she had passed just moments ago, stood a little waist-high door. Amazed that she had failed to notice it the first time, Thasha approached. The door was cracked and pitted, its green paint flaking away; it was clearly very old. Could that be the pantry? What an odd piece of junk, she thought, in a place that was otherwise as neat as Chadfallow’s surgery.

She took hold of the iron knob—corroded, rough against her palm—and hesitated. For some reason she was apprehensive about the door and what might lie beyond it. Absurd, she told herself. What could possibly threaten her in an empty galley?
But this is the
Chathrand,
and that door’s blary strange. No, it’s not quite absurd to be
—

Twang. Thump. She whirled about, drawing her knife from her belt in a flash. Dangling into the passage was a wicker basket. It was strung beneath the first and second sinks, on short cords, but one of the cords had just snapped, tipping the basket on its side. Potatoes and cabbages rolled across the floor—and yes, there was an onion, huge and red and perfect, the very specimen she had been craving for an hour.