The Ruling Sea (62 page)

Light is the purse that brimmed with deceit
Fierce are the hunters, and swift their feet
And the night so late and lonely
.

Bribe them you might, but what can you offer?
A curse, and a kick, and a black barren coffer,
And the taste of treason only
.

Dear have you cost us, but never so dear
That we’ll tender our souls to a peddler of fear.
Pride may be costly, but pain is free:
For thee, old deceiver, it comes for thee
.

On the last word he let go of the scarf, dropped to the deck, and became once more a mink. Arunis leaped back in terror. But the mink did not attack him. It fled.

“What’s this?” roared Arunis. “The great Ramachni, turning tail? Have you nothing but rhymes to fight with?”

A deafening roar filled the passage behind him.

Arunis whirled, and for one second he gaped at the bear, a huge brown boulder of a creature, looming over him, so tall its shoulder touched the roof of the passage.

“Stop, Felthrup!” he shrieked. “I
order
you—”

Then its weight was upon him, and its claws like mallet-driven spikes, and its teeth that ripped his dream-flesh like so much tissue paper, like the wrapping on a box that held no gift, nothing but emptiness and a voice that cursed and was gone.

27
The Ambush

24 Freala 941
133rd day from Etherhorde

By the time they reached the hill overlooking the
Chathrand
, Diadrelu was winded, and the man beside her was panting like a hound. Even at nine in the morning the heat was fierce—particularly at eight inches above the barren ground. Seabirds whirled over them, innumerable: the dry side of Sandplume was one great eyrie, where gull and plover and albatross and tern vied for every available inch of nesting space. The birds had no real stomach for fighting creatures who could take off one of their wings with the swipe of a blade, but their pecking and diving made it hard to attend to other matters. Their noises—outraged wails, honks, brays, screeches—made Diadrelu think of the torments of the damned.

“A fool’s errand,” grunted the man, whose name was Steldak.

Diadrelu shaded her eyes. Three hundred feet below them, the
Chathrand
and Sandor Ott’s single-masted ship lay at anchor, hidden on three sides by the horseshoe-shaped isle.

“Look there.”

She pointed. From behind the cutter the
Chathrand’s
skiff was gliding into view. Her sail was down already. Aboard the Great Ship men were running out the davit-chains to receive the little craft.

Diadrelu took a short monocular telescope from her pocket and raised it to her eye.
There was Pazel
. She heaved a great sigh of relief. The boy had survived another misadventure ashore. Rin only knew what they had done to him this time.

“Erthalon Ness is not aboard,” she said aloud.

Steldak hissed through his teeth. “It’s as I foretold, then,” he said. “They have given him to someone on Bramian, someone who will put him to evil use. How I wish you had stabbed them both!”

The rejoinder flashed through Dri’s mind:
How I wish I’d stabbed you
. She closed her eyes, deeply shamed by the thought. Steldak was gaunt, despite the food and nursing lavished on him these past two months. He had spent years in a cage in Rose’s desk, lifted out only at mealtimes, to test the captain’s food for poison. His rescue had been a triumph of cunning on her brother’s part. But Steldak’s disobedience—he had tried to assassinate Rose on the spot—had cost Lord Talag his life.

He was delirious
, Dri reminded herself.
He’d believed for years that he would die in that cage. And he has done his penance, and sworn an oath to the clan
.

Still, she was glad she’d remembered the little scope, if only to give her something besides Steldak to focus on. The very sound of his breathing set her teeth on edge. Hate (so her people’s adage went) was the place where death entered the living, the blind mote in the eye of the soul. Dri had always liked the adage, although she could not remember the last time she heard it on any tongue but her own. It was wrong to hate Steldak. But she did.

“There was a death ashore—a military death.” She pointed at a black ribbon of canvas snapping in the breeze from the masthead. “I do not see Drellarek, the Turach commander. I wonder if it was he who fell.”

Steldak shrugged. “It was not Rose, more’s the pity. Beyond that I am not much interested.” He lunged at a gull, which sheered away with a ravenous wail. “Let us go, Diadrelu. There is nothing more to be learned here.”

“What of the winds?” she asked. Steldak, who claimed to have been born at sea, had also declared himself a fine judge of weather.

“A storm from the northeast,” he said, glancing vaguely at the sky. “These westerlies are not half what they were twelve hours ago. Some gale is sucking all the force from them. Soon they will turn back on themselves, and then we shall see.”

“How soon?”

Steldak’s eyes traveled the horizon. “After midday, if you force me to guess. But Bakru’s lions answer to no one but Bakru, and sometimes not even to him. Lady Dri, I would return to our commander’s side. He may have need of us.”

“Lord Taliktrum knows where we are.”

Nonetheless she relented, and the two ixchel started back down the hill. The footing was treacherous, and the birds, excited by movement, redoubled their attack. By the time they reached the island’s highest shrubs they were winded again.

They groped beneath a stand of spiny, wind-tortured thorbal trees, their legs sinking to the knees in a powder of dead moss and lichen, and then began an easier descent, under greener growth. The Black Shoulder that Ott had chosen as the Great Ship’s final harbor in the northern world had two faces: the parched east, scoured by the rising sun, and the lush west, doused by the fogs that drifted almost daily from the Bramian landmass. They had crossed from one side to the other, and soon were able to slake their thirst on beads of water clinging to leaf-tips. From below the sound of pipes grew stronger.

“There they are,” said Diadrelu.

Just ahead, the land fell away in a cleft, like a jagged pie-slice cut from the island, all the way to the sea. At the edge of the precipice stood Taliktrum and two other ixchel, gazing down at the bright rock walls. The cliffs, like the hilltop, were alive with nesting birds; but here the birds were shore-swallows: cousins to the common birds that dwelled in barns and outbuildings. They screeched and bickered; you could hardly call it song. Their nests dappled the cliffs, grass-woven, mud-mortared, dried to the harness of stone. Thousands of the birds came and went on wings like dark flames, bringing grubs and insects to their fledglings.

It was, thought Dri, like a scene out of legend: the wall of sacred birds (swallows alone were sacred to her people), the crashing surf, and above them the young master of a noble House, resplendent in a swallow-suit of his own. The suit was one of but two such feathered coats in the possession of the clan. They were treasures, cared for and mended over centuries. But their value was more than ceremonial: with hands thrust into the cloak’s wingbone gauntlets, any reasonably strong ixchel could fly.

Beside her nephew stood Ghali, the old Pachet seer, and his granddaughter, Myett, a wary, wide-eyed thing of twenty, whose first glance always seemed to anticipate a threat. Sensing their approach before the others, Myett recoiled into catlike fighting stance, and relaxed but slowly as Dri and Steldak emerged from the trees.

“How do we fare, my lord?” asked Steldak, hurrying to Taliktrum’s side.

The young commander of Ixphir House did not alter his gaze in the slightest, nor was his answer, when it came, directed at Steldak.

“It will not do,” he said. “No, Pachet, it will not do at all. Where does the problem lie, can you fathom that at least? With the pipes? With the swallows? With your playing, if you’ll pardon the question?”

The old man turned. He was stern and very dignified, with his combed gray beard and eyebrows thick as foxtails. In his hands was a splendid instrument: a set of black wooden pan pipes, joined with hoops of gold that sparkled in the sun.

“All three, to be sure,” said the Pachet. “Every colony of swallows has its own music, its own signature and key. The pipes, too, have not seen use in a generation.” He lowered his eyes. “And I, perhaps, cannot call on—”

“The skill you once were known for?”

The old man looked up sharply. “The lungs of my youth,” he said calmly. “That is all I meant to say.”

“Very honest of you, Pachet. But don’t forget my title.”

“Your pardon, Lord Taliktrum.”

Once again Dri felt scalded by shame—this time for the conduct of her nephew.
In front of the Pachet’s granddaughter! That man played at your birth-feast, you little tyrant, not to mention your father’s, and my own
.

“Master Ghali,” she said, stepping forward, “do you have it in you to play once more?”

“It is no use,” said Taliktrum. “The birds are deaf to him. We must think about our return to the ship.”

“You’re quite right, my lord,” said Steldak. “The weather is changing, and if thunderheads roll out of Bramian we shall not gain the ship at all.”

Dri took a step nearer, pointing. “If we but walk a little along the southern cliff, there is an outcropping. The sound may carry better there.”

An awkward silence followed. Dri had been sprung from her house arrest and brought ashore precisely because she knew something of the old lore of the swallow-pipes. But Taliktrum did not want it forgotten for an instant that she was no longer in command. She had only made a suggestion, but to accept it—that was to play the younger nephew, not the lord.

“Come, Grandfather,” said the young woman, casting a distrustful eye on Dri. “Let us put your instrument away.”

But Taliktrum raised a staying hand. “We will do as my aunt recommends. Take the Pachet’s arm, Myett, and guide him carefully.”

They made their way single-file along the cliff’s edge.
He’s learning
, thought Diadrelu.
As am I
.

When they reached the rock outcropping the plain sense of her suggestion was clear to all. The rock was nearer to the nests, and the wind did not gust back in the Pachet’s face. Taliktrum grew animated. He beckoned to the old man, waved Dri and Myett impatiently away. “You’ll startle the birds, blast you, fall back!” Then he spread his hands wide, froze there for an instant, and swept them toward the old musician. He was, Dri realized with sudden heartache, mimicking her brother’s gesture: that pompous double wave that told a singer or a poet that he might proceed. She had never imagined it was something she could miss.

Pachet Ghali knelt, and filled his lungs, and played. The music was like nothing else in ixchel tradition. It was not a melody as such, and yet there was a loud and lilting refrain. It was no attempt at birdsong, and yet it was a summons to the creatures. It was spellcraft: one of the last shards of magic in the collective memory of her people. Among the ixchel, only artists retained any link to the ancient disciplines whereby (it was said) miracles had once been performed. It was part of her brother’s genius and audacity that he had planned to wed ixchel magic, for the first time in centuries, to a practical use.

But her brother was dead, and the Pachet was old, and the birds did not seem to hear him.

They all stood listening, hoping. The sound contended with the wind, the surf, the noise of the swallows themselves. At last Taliktrum sliced the air with a despairing hand.

“Enough,” he said. “Save your breath, old man.”

The Pachet did not cease playing, however. Instead he rose slowly to his feet. His eyes were wide. Taliktrum looked from the player to the cliffs and back again. And then Dri realized that the birds had fallen silent.