The Ruling Sea (49 page)

“I saw you and Undrabust watchin’ Miss Thasha. No girl’s worth losin’ a friend over—not even a sweet puff-pastry like her. Take it from an old lady’s man: play the game calm and collected. Let Undrabust make a fool of himself. He’s got a knack for it, and when he does you’ll look all the better in her eyes.”

“Mr. Druffle,” Pazel broke in. “I appreciate your—guidance, really. But you’re digging for clams in an oyster bed.”

Druffle laughed. “By the sweet Tree, you make me miss Ormael! Haven’t heard
that
one in years.” Then he looked sharply at Pazel, and a twinkle came to his eye. “‘Digging for clams in an oyster bed.’ D’ye know who used to say that? Captain Gregory Pathkendle, that’s who.”

Pazel jumped upright. “You did know my father! You weren’t just spinning yarns back on the
Prince Rupin!
Mr. Druffle, tell me about him, please! When did you see him last?”

Druffle’s face darkened. “On the Haunted Coast, lad. When he and Mr. Hercól led the charge against the Volpeks. ’Course I wasn’t free to speak with him—that adder-tongued mage had me in thrall. But I saw Gregory fight his way onto that Volpek cruiser, side by side with Mr. Hercól. A truly fearless man, Gregory. He took down the
Hemeddrin
’
s
captain with one thrust.”

“He seems to be afraid of me,” said Pazel.

Druffle looked at him quizzically. “Afraid? That’s not what I’d call it.”

Before Pazel could ask what Druffle
would
call it, a hand fell heavily on his shoulder. Ignus Chadfallow was there, frowning.

“Pazel,” he said, “come with me. I need to speak with you right now.”

Pazel shrugged off his hand and stepped away. “What do you want? Mr. Druffle and I—”

“You can trade stories with this rum-runner on your own time.”

“This
is
my own time.”

“Rum-runner, is it?” Druffle assumed an air of dignity. “As a man of business, I’ll have you know I take abjectness to that remark.”

Chadfallow turned Druffle a withering look. “When I have need of your areas of expertise, such as the best means of passing off muskrat pelts as mink, I shall send for you. Come along, Pazel.”

Suddenly Druffle reached out and seized Chadfallow by the arm. “You can’t talk to me that way no more, Doctor sir,” he snarled. “We’re outside the Empire, and from what I hear you’re no more right with the law than Dollywilliams Druffle, maybe less so.”

“This ship
is
the Empire, you fool,” said Chadfallow, “and its laws apply here as they would in Etherhorde. Now unhand me before I have you caged like a beast.”

Druffle released him, but his eyes sparked with malice. “Such
good
stock, the Chadfallows. Judges and ministers, doctors and dukes. Such a noble pedicure. But you’re not above nicking another man’s pastry now and then, are you?”

Chadfallow froze. Druffle eyed him with wicked delight. He turned back to Pazel.

“Aye, lad. Here’s a question what’s preyed on
your
mind: Why did Gregory run off and leave you? Was he afraid of the Arqualis, afraid to fight for his country? No, sir, not a bit of it. Fear never got the better of good Captain G. Why, he didn’t even know the invasion was coming, because his
dear friend
Chadfallow didn’t tell him.”

“What are you talking about?” said Pazel, as Chadfallow tried once more to draw him away.

“I heard it from his own mouth,” said Druffle, “late one night, by a fire in the fens. Your dad left Ormael when he learned that his beloved wife had taken up with his fine Arquali
friend
. That they’d been lovers for years. Because Gregory knew that if he didn’t get away for a while he’d put a knife through the doctor’s treacherous heart—or hers. You want to know why you grew up without a father, Pathkendle? The answer’s standing right next to you.”

Pazel turned slowly to face Chadfallow.

“He’s … lying, right? Tell me he’s lying.”

Chadfallow managed a laugh. “When is he not? If lies were wine, they’d name vineyards after this man.”

At that Druffle’s face turned red as a tuna steak, and his hands clenched in fists. “I was brought up to respect men of letters,” he growled, “but you’re no gentleman. You’re a dressed-up Bilsburra ape, and you’d die of shame if you had any.”

Pazel stared at the freebooter, then looked at Chadfallow again.

“I used to compare my father with you,” he said slowly. “I used to wish he was as fine and cultured as you.”

Chadfallow seemed to grope for a reply. “This cur makes it sound—”

“You were already aboard, after the battle with the Volpeks. That was why he didn’t wait to talk to me, isn’t it? Because he couldn’t stand being near you.”

“Pazel—”

“I’d started to hate him,” said Pazel, cutting him off. “To hate him, for not caring more about us. But he left
because
he cared, didn’t he?”

“Let me explain.”

“I don’t want you to explain anymore, Ignus. I want you to say it isn’t true.”

Chadfallow stood still, gazing at him, and a terrible struggle raged in his eyes. He looked like an animal caught in a trap, waiting for the hunter to return and take his life. But he made no denial. Instead he took two steps toward Druffle, struck the man across the face, and fled the deck.

Later that evening Neeps sat across the table from Hercól and Marila, fuming, while Jorl and Suzyt watched the stateroom door with melancholy eyes and Felthrup ran worriedly around the tabletop, urging them to eat. Neeps picked at his food. He could not bring himself to tell the others what had happened between him and his friends. He had called Pazel a pig, but he was the one plagued by an embarrassing, swinish sort of question: what if Thasha did not come back tonight?

He felt rotten to the core, even to be visited by the thought. And when Thasha did at last appear, just as the watch-captain struck two bells past midnight, he exploded from his chair.

“There you are! Rin’s blood, Thasha, you can’t just storm off at night! I say, have you had anything to—”

Her cabin door slammed behind her. They heard her kicked-off boots strike the wall.

“I don’t think she’s hungry,” said Marila, expressionless as ever.

Hercól rose and walked swiftly to her cabin. When his knock received no answer, he sighed. “I am glad she is back,” he said. “Remember what Arunis told Pazel, concerning Rose’s desire to be rid of her. It may well be a lie, but we must take no chances. Try to keep her in the stateroom; if she insists on venturing out, say I order her to carry a sword. I have my own appointment to keep with Diadrelu. Afterward I think I shall try to learn who else may be awake and busy on the
Chathrand
in the dead of night. Besides, of course, Mr. Pathkendle.”

“He’ll be along,” grunted Neeps.

But an hour later there was still no sign of Pazel, and a newly irritated Neeps set off in search of him. By this time Marila was asleep on the bearskin rug, and the dogs were snoring in a call-and-refrain. Felthrup stood on the edge of the dining table, gazing at the strip of lamplight shining under Thasha’s door, and leaning out in such a way that he would lose his balance if he began to doze. It was a cheerless game: each time he began to drift off, the near-fall would wake him. Then he would drag himself once around the table and return to his spot. He had done this for two nights already, unnoticed by anyone. He was terrified of sleep.

A time came when his trick failed: he was so exhausted that he slept through the vertigo, experienced an instant of weightless bliss, and landed with a thump and a whimper upon the floor. Suzyt yipped without quite waking; Marila sighed and turned over on the rug. A moment later Thasha opened her door an inch.

She was still in her deck clothes. Her face wore a distracted look. He was not sure her eyes really saw him.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said.

“Not sleepy,” mumbled Felthrup.

Thasha paused, staring at him like a ghost. “What did you do back in Noonfirth, when you couldn’t sleep?” she asked.

Felthrup’s ears pricked up instantly. “In the good times, when I wasn’t starving? Read, m’lady, always. Learning to read was the first task I set myself after the miracle of tears—after my waking, you understand. I lived above a bakery, a choice spot for a scavenger, and the baker’s daughter was learning to read, and I would listen from the top of the stair. And one day the girl read aloud to her mother from a storybook. It was a profound tale, about a jackal captured on the Samopol Veld. The hunters planned to skin him—he was just the right size to make four jackal-fur hats—but he talked his way to freedom. He told the hunters that he was a murth in disguise, and would plague them with four years of warts and spots and piles and shingles if they harmed him. A year for each hat, you see? And they didn’t dare! It was a brilliant story, m’lady. And when the girl finished I told myself that by reading I might learn almost anything, and even answer the riddle of my own existence. I’ve failed in that last endeavor, so far. Still, I became an addict, and read everything I could. Old books, newsbills stuffed in crates, soap wrappers, lists for the greengrocer, orders of execution, ledgers forgotten in city warehouses—anything.”

“You’d read.”

“In a word, yes.”

Slowly Thasha’s eyes found him, and focused. “Why don’t you come in?” she said. “I think you can help me.”

Glad to be wanted, Felthrup went to her. But in the doorway, by long and almost involuntary habit, he stopped and sniffed. Her cabin smelled of dust, sweat, a dozen kinds of food crumbs, and very slightly of blood. He looked at her with concern. “Are you wounded, m’lady?”

Thasha did not answer him. She shut and locked her cabin door, bent down and gently raised the lame rat onto her desk. There was something in her expression that Felthrup had never seen before. One could almost mistake it for fear; but no, she was not afraid, at least not for herself. Thasha moved around her bed to a spot by the wall, reached high, and ran her fingers along a plank. After eight or ten inches her fingers stopped. The rat found nothing special about the spot, but he could tell her fingers had. Thasha pushed, and Felthrup gave a chirp of surprise, for he could suddenly see the outline of a small door, less than two feet square. Thasha clawed it open; old hinges squeaked.

“Mr. Fiffengurt showed this to me,” she said. “The stateroom used to be the fleet admiral’s cabin, when
Chathrand
was a navy flagship. The admiral hid the code-books in here, and his secret orders.”

In the hidden cabinet lay a book bound in fine leather. “That’s Fiffengurt’s new journal; I’m hiding it for him,” Thasha explained. “And have a look at this.”

She removed the book, and the rat saw a thick metal plate mounted on the wall, and within the plate the outline of a drawer. The latter was about five inches tall and ten wide, with a small handle at the center. “Solid iron, and locked fast,” said Thasha. “And there’s no proper keyhole, just a tiny round hole behind the handle. Fiffengurt has no idea what might be in there. He couldn’t remember there
being
any inner drawer. But that’s not what I wanted to show you.”

There were, Felthrup saw now, two books in her hand. The second book was much older and heftier than the quartermaster’s journal. Thasha looked at him. “I think you know what this one is.”

“Of course,” said Felthrup. “Your special
Polylex.”

“I haven’t been able to make myself open it for weeks,” she said, laying the book beside him on the desk. “It’s not that the book’s cursed or poisoned or anything vile like that. But ever since the Nilstone came aboard something’s been happening when I sit down to read.”

“What happens?”

Thasha paused. “Ramachni didn’t want me to talk about it. But he also told me I’d have to decide when to give my trust. And I’d trust you with my life, Felthrup dear.”

The black rat looked suddenly nervous. “If Ramachni told you to keep it secret, then you must,” he said.

But Thasha went on. “I don’t understand it myself. Sometimes I barely notice it happening; at other times it feels as if I’ll never be the same, as if I’m burning inside, or dying.”

At once Felthrup leaped onto the book and raised his paws. “Then read it no more!” he cried. “Ramachni cannot see down every path. Surely he was wrong in this case—or perhaps Arunis has flung a curse on the book after all. Let it be, Thasha!”

“I don’t understand what happens,” Thasha said again, “but I have felt it before—or something like it. Just after my mother died, it was. Her family took care of my father, since his own family lived far off in the Westfirth. One day my father and uncle sat smoking for hours in the garden, and I got curious and crept through the bushes to listen. ‘No,’ I heard Daddy say, ‘we didn’t have the heart to go through it again. She lost two children before Thasha, you know.’ They were talking about my mother, Felthrup. My uncle said, ‘Thasha’s was an easy birth, wasn’t it?’ And my father answered, ‘It was when the time came. But we almost lost her too, Carlan—early on, just like the others. It was the damndest thing. Clorisuela began to bleed, and weep, and I thought the worst had come again. And then—nothing. The blood stopped, her pain vanished. And she never suffered any but the expected pains from that moment on.’

“You see? I almost died before I was born. And when I understood what I’d heard—that’s when I felt it. The ache. Like being tied with ropes that are shrinking, cutting me. I never felt it again until I started reading that book.”

“No more,” said Felthrup. “We have seen enough black magic, and some of the worst has been hurled at you.”

Thasha went to her porthole window and freed the latch. The lamplight flickered as a cool wind passed through the room. She looked out over the now-moonless sea, and the haunted expression stole over her again.

“I let Fulbreech kiss me tonight,” she said. “He wanted to do more than that. And I was tempted to let him. What if I die on this ship?”

“Lady Thasha,” said Felthrup, “I hope you will not soon mate with anyone. It would complicate matters indescribably. And it is most, most unpleasant.”